Aline’s return to her home created quite a little stir of pleasant
excitement in the town of Chester.
The friends of the Rodneys vied with one another in the speediness of
their calls upon the young lady.
They found her pale, calm, and more beautiful than ever, for she had
gained a certain quietness and repose of manner that became her to a
charm. There was a softer tone in her voice, a gentler light in her
eyes. She seemed eager to please and divert all who came.
The good townspeople came all agog with curiosity. They expected to
hear all manner of romantic stories from the returned girl. They plied
her with all sorts of curious, not to say impertinent, questions.
They were astonished and indignant when they heard that they were not
to learn anything. To each and all Aline returned the same reply:
“I prefer not to discuss the subject with any one.”
This refusal, spoken so gently yet firmly, and not without a certain
wistfulness, silenced further curiosity with her. Indeed, it would have
been the height of rudeness to have persisted.
But, baffled with Aline, they turned to Aline’s family. Every one felt
that her strange story belonged most naturally to the public. They were
astounded when they found the Rodneys uncommunicative on the subject.
No one could understand such strange reserve. Every question, every
hint was met by a quiet evasion that effectually silenced curiosity.
The social world of Chester woke up gradually to the fact that the
Rodneys meant to keep the cause of Aline’s absence a dead secret.
Popular indignation was roused to fury. Mr. Rodney’s prophecy did not
prove itself a dead letter by any means, for the loud tongue of scandal
was not lacking to add its quota to the tumult. The worst things
possible were hinted and then spoken outright in the circles of Mme.
Rumor.
The whole family were socially ostracized in less than a month. Each
member came in for a share of the obloquy that had fallen on Aline’s
head. The silence each was compelled to maintain was held in the light
of crime. From being prominent members of the most select circles in
Chester they were coolly dropped by all. No one left cards, no one sent
invitations.
Every one turned the cold shoulder.
There was only one friend who remained faithful to the Rodneys in their
troublous time.
This was Effie’s noble and handsome lover, Dr. Anthony.
While the town gossiped and sneered, his neat buggy was seen before
the Rodneys’ door more frequently than ever. Effie, Aline, or Mrs.
Rodney were often seen driving with him through the wide, pretty
streets, and people were fain to acknowledge that “that girl,” as they
contemptuously called her, was prettier than ever in spite of the cloud
of mysterious disgrace that clung about her. She and Dr. Anthony had
become great friends. He could not help admiring his betrothed’s young
sister even while he deprecated the silence she maintained at so bitter
a cost to herself and her friends.
And while the weary days waned and faded, Aline was waiting with a
breaking heart for some sign or token from Oran Delaney.
It was many days now since the little white-winged prayer for mercy had
fluttered from her hands down into the garden of Delaney House.
She had watched and waited, she had hoped and prayed, but no answer had
come to her frantic appeal. Yet she knew that he had found it and read
it.
She had been watching through a tiny rent in her curtain which she had
made expressly for that purpose. She saw him tear it open and read it,
then slowly walk away without even glancing up at her window.
Days went and came. There was no day in which Aline did not watch
that tall form pacing up and down, though sensitively shrinking from
observation herself. She spent many hours alone in her room, and it
became insensibly a fascinating occupation to watch for his appearance
as he came out for his daily walk, which he did whether it was gloomy
or bright.
There was one thing which inspired her with a feeling of pique. It was
that he never turned his eyes up to her window, never by any chance
gave a sign or token that he was conscious of the wistful blue eyes
watching him behind the white lace-bordered curtain.
Of what was he thinking? Why did he so persistently ignore her prayer?
Had he really forgotten her? She asked herself these questions over and
over, but no answer came from the silent lips of Oran Delaney as he
walked up and down his lonely garden.
Aline grew half frantic sometimes watching him thus. A bitter rebellion
grew up within her heart. Why did he not speak--why did he treat her
with such silent contempt, for she interpreted his silence to mean
nothing less!
One day her father came home to dinner with a rather excited look upon
his face.
He glanced across at the beloved daughter whose willfulness had brought
such sorrow upon them all. She sat in her place as usual, but she
scarcely tasted her food, only toyed with it while her thoughts seemed
far away, and her long lashes drooped against her pale cheeks.
“Aline!” he said, abruptly.
She started like one in a dream, and dropped her fork. The blue eyes
looked quickly at him with a startled expression.
“Yes, papa,” she answered, in the low, sad voice that had grown
habitual with her since her return.
“Mr. Linton called upon me to-day,” he said.
“Mr. Linton?” she repeated, blankly.
Mr. Linton was a banker, and quite an important personage in the social
element of Chester.
“He brought me something for you,” continued Mr. Rodney, and he reached
across the table and laid a small folded package by Aline’s plate.
She looked at it in wonder, without touching it.
“What is it, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Rodney, with womanly curiosity.
“Open it, Aline!” said her father.
“Is it a letter, papa?” she asked, and the note of keen eagerness in
her voice did not escape his alert hearing.
“Were you expecting a letter from any one, my dear?” he asked,
pointedly.
“Yes--no,” she answered, dejectedly, and a scarlet flame leaped up into
her cheeks, then faded out into deathly white.
“Why don’t you open your package, Aline?” said her sister.
“Yes, why don’t you?” echoed Max, in a voice of lively curiosity.
She did not touch it still--only looked at her father.
“Do you say it is not a letter, papa?” she asked.
“It is not a letter,” he replied.