Fanny’s courage was of good metal that it did not fail altogether at this juncture. She felt for a moment as if it must, and if Mr. Kyrle had followed the servant into the room it is certain that she would have thrown up her game in despair. Thought is so quick that even in the midst of her consternation therewas a flash of keen regret that she had not followed Aimée’s advice and told Mr. Meredith the truth; but it was too late for candor now. What would have been graceful confidence an hour before, would now seem only the desperate resource of exposure. She looked at the door, fully expecting to see Lennox’s face; but when she understood that he would not enter without permission, her courage rose to the difficulty and her ready wit perceived a way of escape.
“It isyouwhom he wishes to see, Aimée,” she said, addressing that terror-stricken young person. “Go to him at once, and take him into Mrs. Shreve’s sitting-room. You can speak to him there quietly. But praymake him go awayas soon as possible. Remember, mamma may be down any moment.”
She fairly pushed Aimée from the room before the girl could utter a word or collect her thoughts, and then turned with great self-possession to Mr. Meredith.
“He is an impetuous young man, who will not take ‘No’ when it has been said to him,” she observed, “so it is best that Aimée shouldsay it over again herself. He thinks, no doubt, that I am influencing her.”
“You should influence her,” said Mr. Meredith. “You should see that there is an end to such folly at once.”
“Ihaveinfluenced her,” said Fanny, very truthfully. “But for me, she would not have sent him away last night. And so you were positive that it wasmewhom you saw!” she went on, with absolutely mirthful eyes. “It is true, Aimée is as tall as I am; but then she is so slight, and so unformed—”
“How could I tell that at night?” said Mr. Meredith. “And how could I think of her? She always seemed to me a mere child. I confess that I thought only of you—and a most miserable night I spent in consequence,” he added, feelingly.
“I am not at all sorry,” said Miss Berrien, with uncompromising decision. “You had no right to think such a thing for a moment, after all that I have said to you. It was shameful! It shows that you have no trust in me—no real regard and respect for me. If I did what was right, now that I have proved how youmisjudged me, I should never speak to you again!”
“Oh, you would not be so cruel as that, I hope!” said the now humbled and alarmed suitor. “Because, after all, I was hardly to blame—I forgot all about your cousin’s existence; and you know you have neverpromisedanything, so I had no right to feel certain of you.”
“You will never have the right if you can not trust me better than this,” said Fanny, perceiving her advantage and pressing it ruthlessly.
It was not difficult to foresee the state of subjection to which Mr. Meredith would soon be reduced in order to make amends for the mistake into which he had been betrayed. Miss Berrien was determined upon two things: first, to keep him well engaged until she was sure that Lennox Kyrle had left the house, and, secondly, to revenge herself for the fright she had suffered; but despite her self-command, her nerves were in a state of considerable tension, and it is to be feared that it was rather a bad quarter of an hour which he was called upon to endure.
Not so bad, however, as that of poor Aimée, who was sent forth to again encounter and overcome the ill-used Mr. Kyrle. She found him standing at the hall door—a slender, handsome young man, whose refined face and brilliant, eager eyes presented a type as widely different from Mr. Meredith as it is possible to conceive. He turned quickly at the sound of her footstep, and Aimée felt as if the glance which fell on her pierced to her trembling soul. But there was nothing which she desired or had need to conceal, so she came forward, the movement of her slight, shrinking figure reminding him of the night before, and her dark eyes full of an unconscious appeal.
“I am sent,” she said, in a low, hesitating voice, “to tell you—” And then she paused. What had she been sent to tell him?
“To tell me that Miss Berrien is engaged and declines to see me, I presume,” said Mr. Kyrle, quietly, coming to her assistance. “I anticipated some such message. But may I ask why Miss Berrien has developed this sudden fear of meeting me? She certainly can not think that I will proceed to extremitiesand carry her off by force. It is possible that she might have feared something of the kind last night, butnow—”
“Oh, pray don’t say such things here!” interrupted Aimée, finding her tongue in sheer dismay, as she glanced in apprehension from the staircase, down which her aunt might descend at any moment, to the parlor door out of which Mr. Meredith might issue. “Fanny told me to take you into this room, where we can speak quietly,” she went on quickly. “Will you come for a moment?”
She opened, as she spoke, a door which led into a small sitting-room. It was Mrs. Shreve’s private domain, but Fanny (who was her prime favorite) had obtained permission to use it in emergencies like the present, and when directing Aimée to go there she knew that Mrs. Shreve was at this time out of the house.
Mr. Kyrle hesitated an instant, then followed Aimée into the room, and when she had closed the door looked at her a little curiously.
“Why do you let your cousin put such aduty as this upon you?” he asked, abruptly. “Why do you not decline to aid her selfishness and duplicity? Then she would be forced to come and face the truth herself.”
“I do not think it would do her any good,” replied Aimée, simply, “and I am sure it would not do you any at all. I have come because she asked me—that is all. I do not approve of the way she is acting”—with a grave shake of the head—“but I could not refuse to help her, for she is in a difficulty.”
“I can very well imagine what it is,” said Mr. Kyrle, grimly, “and I assure you that I have no desire to add to the embarrassment of her position. I am simply here to end in a definite manner what I have been foolish enough to regard as a tie between us. I believe I told you last night that I would make no effort to see her, and had I followed my inclination I should have adhered to that resolve. But a little reflection showed me that to leave our relations as she desired them to be left was impossible on my part. It is necessary”—he spoke with emphasis, drawing together his straight, black brows in an unconsciousfrown—“that she shall clearly understand that by her own act she has ended all between us. I have a right to demand that she will see me in order to hear this.”
“Of course you have a right,” agreed Aimée, thinking the while how different this was to the pleadings Fanny had anticipated; “but just now it isimpossiblefor her to see you, so the best thing you can do is to go away. I promise you that I will tell Fanny whatever you wish.”
“I have no doubt of that,” he said. “Any one who would undertake for another what you have already undertaken in this matter can be trusted, I am sure, to make a truthful report. But there are some things which should be said face to face; so I must beg you again to request Miss Berrien to see me. I will not detain her more than a few minutes.”
“But—” said Aimée, and then she paused, asking herself what she could possibly urge that would be likely to influence this very determined young man, and save Fanny from the Nemesis that seemed about to overtakeher. The absolute self-forgetfulness of her wistful gaze, as she stood with her hands clasped tightly together, struck Kyrle in the midst of his own preoccupation; but before he could speak she went on hurriedly: “If it were possible, Fanny would see you, I am sure. But she is placed in a very trying position just now, and she can not help herself—shecan notsee you. If you would only believe this and go away, perhaps some other time—”
“I believe it because you say it,” answered Kyrle, moved by a sudden impulse of compassion for the distress on her face, “and for your sake I will go. But there will be no other time, so far as any attempt of mine to see Miss Berrien is concerned. Her refusal to receive me, coming after her conduct of last night, makes it impossible that I shall ever again approach her. May I ask you to be my embassador, as you have been hers, and tell her that I disregarded her wishes and attempted to see her, not because I desired in the least to change her resolution, but because I wished to bring matters between us to apositive and definite conclusion. I did not want to leave any loophole for misunderstanding. Be kind enough to make this clear.”
“I will,” said Aimée, in feverish haste to be rid of him. “I promise you that I will make it perfectly clear. And shall I tell her that you are going away at once?”
“At once,” he replied, with decision. “She need fear no further annoyance of any kind from me; and you need not fear being sent again on such an errand as that of last night. At least there is no possibility of your being sent tome, and I strongly advise you to decline to serve Miss Berrien in that manner again.”
“She is not likely to ask me to serve her in that manner again,” said Aimée. “But though it was not pleasant, I would rather do that than—some other things,” she added, with a keen recollection of the service she had lately been called upon to render.
“It was simply unpardonable to have sent you on such an errand,” said the young man, his indignation growing with his interest in the childlike creature. “What if you hadbeen seen and recognized! She should have known, if you did not, the grave risk you ran.”
Aimée was too loyal to acknowledge that she had been seen, so she only repeated her former statement: “It would not have mattered. I am of no importance at all; nobody thinks of me.”
“Apparently not,” said Lennox Kyrle dryly. To his credit it may be said that nothing had so completely disillusioned him with regard to Fanny Berrien, not even her perfidy toward himself, as her selfishness toward her young cousin. To take advantage of a child’s ignorance and generosity, to put her into a position that might have seriously compromised her, seemed to him an act so unworthy, that he could not entertain a shade of respect for the woman who was capable of it. “But it does not follow that, because nobody thinks of you, nobodyshouldthink of you,” he went on with energy. “You should think of yourself, and not allow your cousin to make use of you in this manner.”
“I am quite willing to be made use of, if Iam not asked to do anything wrong,” said Aimée, simply; “and it seemed to me that it would have been worse in Fanny to go away with you, than to send me to tell you that she could not go.”
“Perhaps so,” said he, unable to resist smiling, “and I am quite willing to acknowledge that it was better she did not keep her appointment—better to break faith than keep it with an unwilling heart; but she might have had courage enough to own the truth herself.”
“She was afraid of you,” said Aimée, candidly. “And then there was the danger of her being seen. If Mr. Meredith had seenher—”
She stopped short—confusion and alarm painted on her face—conscious how far her tongue had betrayed her. There was an instant’s hope that Lennox Kyrle would not observe the name which had slipped out, but the next moment proved that hope vain.
“It would have been awkward, certainly, if Mr.—Meredith, did you say?—had seen her,” he replied quietly. “But how if he had seenyou? Perhaps he did!” (with a suddenflash of comprehension). “I remember now that after you left, as I stood watching to see you safely home, I noticed a man on the sea wall who seemed watching you also. If that is the case, he shall understand the truth. I will go to him myself.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Aimée, in an agony of apprehension. “You must not think of such a thing! You would only do harm to Fanny, and no good to me—for how does it matter what Mr. Meredith thinks of me? I am of no importance.”
“You have said that several times,” answered Kyrle, “but I beg to differ with you. Because you are a child now, it does not follow that you will always be a child, and the time must come when you will understand that it is of great importance that you should not be suspected of making midnight appointments like that of last night. It was in a measure my fault that you were sent on such an errand, so I am bound in honor to let the truth be known.”
“And ruin Fanny’s prospects?” said Aimée, who felt that the situation was critical, and thatsomething must be done at once to restrain the impetuosity of this young man. It was characteristic of her that the first idea which occurred to her was of an appeal to his generosity. “You can do that,” she went on, fixing him with her dark, earnest eyes, “but it will seem like a revenge—and a very mean one. You will injure Fanny, you will make a scandal that will almost kill my aunt, and you will do me no good—for nobody knows anything now except Mr. Meredith, and he cares nothing about me. But if you go to him, everybody will soon know something, though not the truth.”
Lennox did not answer immediately. He simply stared at her, so much was he struck by her decision and good sense. It was true what she said. By interfering he could do no good, and it would certainly look like a revenge—“and a very mean one.” Aimée had instinctively struck the right key. While a man of different nature might have stretched out eager hands for any form of revenge, this man drew back from the chance put into his hand as if from a viper.
“You are right,” he said, after a moment. “I should place myself in a false position by interfering, and perhaps do more harm than good. But, all the same, it is a shame that the truth should not be known, and a greater shame that your cousin should trade upon your generosity. However, you will say that is no affair of mine. It is true. And since I can do no good to any one except by going away, I will go without loss of time. Only one thing more: besides my message, will you deliver this into your cousin’s hand? I have no longer the right to retain it—nor the inclination.”
He drew from his pocket as he spoke, and gave to her, a small golden locket which contained, Aimée afterward discovered, a picture of Fanny and a curl of her sunny hair. As she received it, a voice suddenly sounded in the hall which brought dismay to her soul, for it was the voice of Mrs. Shreve, and this is what Mrs. Shreve was saying:
“Come in, if you please, sir. I will send and let Mrs. Berrien and Miss Vincent know that you are here.”
“Miss Vincent!” said Aimée, in a frightened whisper. “That isme—and nobody ever comes to see me! Who can it be?”
Meanwhile Mrs. Shreve’s voice went on amiably: “You wish to see them in private? Then step into my sitting-room, where you will be altogether private, and—Oh!Miss Aimée!”
It was a tableau for a moment—the open door in which stood Mrs. Shreve, bonneted and shawled; Aimée a picture of confusion, with the locket in her hand; and Lennox Kyrle, tall, straight, and handsome, standing before her. The scene, to all appearances, told a story evident to the dullest comprehension; and it was not alone to Mrs. Shreve’s eyes that it was revealed. Behind her was a young man whose glance over her shoulder took it all in.
The tableau lasted only a moment; for Aimée, seeing the face over Mrs. Shreve’s shoulder, uttered an exclamation of surprise, in which pleasure evidently bore no part. “Percy,” she cried, “is it you?”
“Yes, it is I,” answered the young man,coming forward as Mrs. Shreve moved aside. He cast a look of angry suspicion at Kyrle, then, taking Aimée’s hand—which she made no movement to offer—bent and kissed her cheek: “You did not expect to see me,” he said.
“No; why should I?” she answered, blushing so furiously that it was evident his salute was not a customary matter. “Why have you come?”
“To see you—and to take you home,” he answered, with another suspicious glance at Kyrle.
This the latter returned with one of coldly careless scrutiny, and then held out his hand to Aimée.
“I will not intrude longer,” he said. “You will wish mebon voyage? I am leaving St. Augustine immediately.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Aimée, eagerly. “I wish youbon voyagewith all my heart, and I shall not forget—”
She paused abruptly—remembering that she must not say, “I shall not forget to give your message to Fanny”—and of course thesudden pause and blush which accompanied it could bear but one interpretation to the looker-on.
“I shall not forget your kindness,” said Kyrle, conscious of the false position in which she was placed, and angry at his inability to right it. But, fearing to do harm and complicate matters further by any attempt in that direction, he felt that the best thing he could do was to go. So with a parting bow he left the room, hearing, as he went, an angry voice saying:
“Who is that man, Aimée?—and what is the meaning of this?”