“You?”
“Yes. And I could not make him believe otherwise except by telling him that it was you. Even then he seemed to doubt; so I said I would bring you to tell him yourself. O Aimée, it is mean beyond words to ask such a thing of you; and yet there will be no good in what you did last night, if you refuse to do this!”
“But—I do not understand,” said Aimée. “How will it make any difference? I went for you.”
“But he does not know that,” said Fanny. “He thinks—oh, my dear, you must forgive me!—that you went for yourself.”
“You told him so?” said Aimée, in a voice that did not sound like her own.
“How could I help it?” answered Fanny. “He had been nursing his anger and jealousy all night, and when he came this morning I hardly knew him. He was ready to leave me at a word, and I should never have seen him again. So what could I do but tell him that the person he saw was you?”
“You could have told him the truth,” said Aimée. “I am sure he ought to have been satisfied to hear that you sent Mr. Kyrle away.”
Fanny shook her head. “You don’t know men,” she said. “And I did not know Mr. Meredith before this morning. He was so angry, that I saw at once he would never forgive me if he knew the truth; so there was nothing to do but deny the whole thing. I suppose it was cowardly; but I am a coward. There is no doubt of that.”
Aimée agreed that there could be no doubt of it; but the frankly admitted fact did not make her own position better. As far as she could understand, Fanny had boldly transferred the whole matter—intended elopement, broken promise, midnight tryst—to her shoulders, and asked her to acknowledge it. She could hardly realize all that was demanded of her.