“It is quite true. He adores you, and yet he is so afraid of your fortune that he dare not approach you. He does not believe that a poor man has any right to try to marry a rich woman.”
A flush that seemed borrowed from the sunset was now on Aimée’s face. She cast a glance of reproach at her cousin.
“If it is true,” she said, hurriedly, “why have you chosen such a time to speak of it?”
“Because I thought it only a matter of justice to let you know that he does not endure Lydia’s attentions because he likes them,” replied Fanny, coolly.
They were silent then, for steps were now heard inside the tower, ascending that inclined plane up which tradition tells that Napoleon rode his horse; and a little later Kyrle stepped on the platform.
The moment he appeared, Fanny Meredith saw that there was a change in him—a glow in his sunburned cheek, a light in his eye, and the air of a man who had burst some bond. She looked at him with surprise, and as he walked up to her—not seeing Aimée, who had retreated to the other side of the tower—she said, involuntarily:
“What is the matter? You look—unlike yourself.”
“Do I?” he said, with a thrill of excitement in his voice. “Well, that is not strange. I am not myself—that is, I am not the man you parted with this morning, but quite another. Allow me to introduce myself to you as a millionaire.”
She gave a cry, and clasped her hands. “Your uncle is dead, and has left you his money, after all!” she exclaimed. “O Lennox, I am so glad!” Then she turned swiftly and ran across the platform. “O Aimée!” she cried, “you must congratulate Mr. Kyrle. He has just come into a large fortune.”
When Aimée turned, she and Lennox were both pale—he, because he had not entertained the least expectation of finding her there; and she, on account of this unexpected sequel to those last words of Fanny’s, which were still ringing in her ears.