After tea this young lady retired for some additions to her toilet, while Aimée—who felt as if she lived, moved, and had her being in a dream—went into the parlor and sat down ostensibly to read. She was usually a great bookworm, having been a devourer of all kinds of literature from her earliest childhood, and to-night she had a novel which at another time would have absorbed all her attention. But for once the letters danced before her eyes and conveyed no meaning to her mind. The romance of reality in which she was so soon to play a part engrossed all her thoughts. How would she acquit herself? What would she be called upon to do? How could Fanny possibly be so composed when her fate was hanging in the balance? These questions formed the burden of Aimée’s reflections, while her head was bent and her dark eyes rested on the open page of the book which she held.
Suddenly, however, she roused with a start, for some one said, “How are you, this evening, Mr. Meredith?” and looking up she saw Miss Berrien’s lover number two crossing the room.
A man with whom the world went well and easily was Mr. Meredith, evidently. Rather short, rather stout, rather rubicund, but not ill-looking, and apparently not cast by Nature for that villainous part which is assigned in melodramas to the obnoxious suitor, Aimée’s gaze followed him with a species of fascination. This man, commonplace as he appeared, was, unconsciously to himself, one of the dramatis personæ in the romance now proceeding. “If he could know!” thought the girl, with a thrill.
Exemplifying the proverb that ignorance is sometimes bliss, Mr. Meredith sank easily into a seat and began talking to one or two people, without observing the solemn young eyes regarding him from a shady corner. “If he could know!” Aimée thought again when Fanny entered, bright, sparkling, coquettish, and gave him her hand as he came eagerly forward to meet her. If there was a single weight on Miss Berrien’s mind, a single cloud on her spirit, no one could possibly have suspected it; and Aimée began to wonder somewhat if the whole thing was not a jest, when, in the midst of the lively banter which with Fanny generally did duty for conversation, she sent a sudden, swift glance across the room, which made the wondering girl understand that it was reality after all.
The glance conveyed a warning, and fearing lest she might unguardedly betray to Mrs. Berrien’s quick observation that something unusual was in the atmosphere, Aimée rose and with her book in her hand went quietly from the room. As her slender young figure passed, two ladies near the door looked up and nodded a kindly good-night.
“What a sweet girl that is!” said one of them. “She seems the embodiment of gentleness.”
“She is so pretty, too,” said the other. “At least, she promises to be pretty—and there is so much mind and soul in her face!”
“Poor child! I fancy it is doubtful what will become of her,” said the first speaker. “Her father is dead, and her mother has married again—married a certain Major Joscelyn, who is very much gone to pieces in all respects. I know the family well, and Mrs. Berrien was talking to me about the Joscelyns—whom she dislikes exceedingly—the other day. Aimée, you see, is her brother’s child, and for that reason she has her with her at present. ‘I found that the Joscelyns were simply making her a drudge,’ she said, ‘and her health was breaking down under it, so I decided to take her for a time at least. Perhaps, when Fanny is married, I may adopt her altogether.’”
“She can well afford to do so if Miss Fanny establishes herself in life as well as that,” responded the other, glancing significantly across the room.
Aimée meanwhile—altogether unconscious of being a subject of discussion—went to the chamber which she shared with her cousin, and, without striking a light, sat down by the open window through which even at night the air came with balmy softness. She felt strangely puzzled, and strongly averse to the service which she had pledged herself to perform; yet the idea of retreating did not for a moment occur to her. She had promised Fanny, and she must perform whatever was exacted from her in fulfillment of that promise. But how much she shrank from this fulfillment it is difficult to say. This impetuous lover, whom Fanny herself was afraid to face, what would he say, what would he do? Would he rage with passion, or be overwhelmed by despair? Aimée decided that she would prefer passion to despair, for she had a most tender heart, and the sight of distress always unnerved her. She pictured to herself the Ariel lying off the bar, with the eager lover pacing her deck, sure that happiness was within his grasp, fancying no doubt that Fanny, like himself, was counting the hours to their time of meeting; and then a picture of the scene in the parlor below—of Fanny gay and enchanting, of Mr. Meredith fascinated and amused—rose before her mental vision. “How can she?” the girl thought. “How can she? To bring a man here just to disappoint him! It is—yes, it is shameful!”