“And if I were to do what you ask—if I told Mr. Meredith that it was I last night—should I have to tell him anything else?”
“No, no,” cried Fanny, with eyes sparkling through her tears. “That is all. Leave the rest to me. I don’t ask you to say a thing which is untrue.”
“It is all the same if I let it be understood,” said Aimée, dejectedly. “But I suppose I must do it—if Mr. Meredith has not gone.”
“Oh, I don’t think he has gone,” said Fanny, forgetting her contrary statement of a moment back. “I told him that you had not risen this morning because you were awake nearly all night. So, if you will dress quickly, he will not think we have been long.”
Thus animated, Aimée rose, dressed as quickly as her trembling hands would permit, and followed Fanny—who dried her tears with wonderful celerity—down-stairs. When they reached the parlor door Miss Berrien took her companion’s hand in an encouraging pressure. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “I will not let him annoy you.”
At a more auspicious moment Aimée might have resented this offer of protection from the person who was dragging her into the lion’s jaws; but she had no opportunity to do so, for the next instant they were in Mr. Meredith’s presence.
It had never occurred to Aimée before that this was at all an awe-inspiring presence; but now she felt herself trembling from head to foot before the rotund, genial gentleman, who looked unusually pale and grave, and whom she was going to aid in deceiving. It was this last consideration which made a coward of her, and fastened her eyes to the floor as she entered the room.
“Here is my cousin, Mr. Meredith,” said Fanny, whose conscience did not apparently make a coward of her. “She has kindly come to satisfy you as to who it was that you saw leave this house, go to the sea wall, and return last night.”
Aimée lifted her glance and looked at Mr. Meredith then—who, in turn, looked at her. More than ever her eyes were at this moment the eyes of a startled fawn, and as they gazed at him full of wistful appeal and fright and pain, he said to himself that with such eyes deception was not possible. He had thought only of Fanny before, but now he felt a sudden thrill of pity and compunction for this girl whom his suspicions had placed in such a position.
“I am very sorry,” he stammered. “I had no desire to interfere in anything which did not concern me; but I thought—I believed—It was you, then, whom I saw last night?”