“Do you mean to say,” she asked, “that you told Mr. Meredith that I had promised to go away with Mr. Kyrle?”
“What else could I tell him?” replied Fanny, desperately. “O Aimée, don’t you see: what is the good of what was done last night, if I acknowledge it this morning? I should lose Mr. Meredith just as much as if I had gone with Lennox. So I thought I might trust you. I thought you would help me. It is only to say it was you last night; the rest will be understood.”
“The rest—that is, the falsehood!” cried Aimée, indignantly. “O Fanny, how can you ask it—how can you? I did not mind what I did last night, though it was hard enough. I would do that, or anything else of the kind, over again. But this I can not, I will not, do!”
“Then,” said Fanny, sitting down with a gesture of despair, “there is simply no hope, and I wish I had gone with Lennox. It is useless for me to face Mr. Meredith again. If I told him that you refused to come, he would never believe that it was not me last night. Well,” with a long-drawn sigh, “I suppose it serves me right. But I am sorry for poor mamma.”
Sobs followed, while Aimée sat staring at the wall before her. Fanny’s grief did not touch her as much as it should have done, perhaps, for she understood exactly the degree and quality of the regard which that young lady entertained for Mr. Meredith, and she did not yet realize that disappointment over the loss of possible diamonds might be as acute as that over the loss of a lover. But the allusion to Mrs. Berrien had more effect. Aimée knew that her aunt’s heart was set upon Fanny’s marrying Mr. Meredith, and for her aunt Aimée felt that she was bound to do much—for was she not the only person in the world who had ever given a thought to her sad girlhood, or attempted to throw a little sunshine upon it? There was not much in common between Mrs. Berrien and her niece; but on the side of the latter there was a deep sense of gratitude. “Should I hesitate to do anything for Aunt Alice, who has done so much for me?” she asked herself. It was this she was thinking while Fanny sobbed.
Presently she said abruptly, “Is Mr. Meredith downstairs yet?”
“I don’t know,” replied Miss Berrien. “I told him to wait for me, but he may have gone. I hope he has. I can never face him again.”
“I am sure,” said Aimée, tremulously, “if you would only make up your mind to tell him the truth—”
Fanny interrupted her by a petulant motion. “Pray talk of something that you understand,” she said. “If you will not help me, of course I can not force you to do so, but allow me to be the best judge of my own conduct.”
Poor Aimée! Her own eyes filled with tears—tears far more genuine than Fanny’s. How, after all, could she refuse this service which was asked of her? It was hard, infinitely harder than the one of the night before, but it seemed to her that she was bound to do it—to immolate herself and the truthfulness which was one of the strongest instincts of her nature—in order that her aunt’s desire might be accomplished. With an effort she said, at length: