Marriages were not much in Mr. Lane’s line. He was forty and a
confirmed old bachelor--at least that was what his friends said and
what he said himself. He had never put his neck under the galling yoke
of matrimony. He rather pitied Dr. Anthony’s weak-mindedness in that
respect, but he considered that if there was any excuse for him it was
Effie Rodney’s grace and beauty. These were certainly tempting enough
to an ordinary, susceptible man.
But Mr. Lane did not feel sufficient romantic interest in the union of
the lovers to make a point of witnessing the marriage. He was about to
decline, on the plea of urgent business, when a sudden thought arrested
him with the ink yet wet on the pen. Why not make an opportunity for
seeing Aline Rodney by accepting Dr. Anthony’s cordial invitation?
He changed the contemplated No to Yes, adding a single proviso: he
would come if Dr. Anthony would guarantee that Aline should not know
that he was a detective, and that he had vainly tried to trace her in
her mysterious absence. He fancied that the young lady might conceive
an antipathy to him, and vaguely suspect ulterior designs from his
presence at Chester.
Dr. Anthony replied on the part of himself and the Rodneys, that Aline
should be kept in entire ignorance of Mr. Lane’s profession, and look
on him merely as the friend of the physician.
Receiving this assurance, the detective decided to attend the nuptials
of his friend, arriving in Chester on the day previous to the happy
event.
Dr. Anthony took him that evening to call on the Rodneys.
“I have told Aline that I expect a friend from New York,” he said. “She
is prepared to meet you and suspects nothing.”
Mr. Lane thanked his friend for respecting his scruples.
“I have a fancy to study the young lady, with the advantage on my side.
Perhaps I may get at the bottom of the mystery yet. It has become
more incomprehensible than ever since the story of the little fortune
offered and refused.”
“It is most romantic,” answered Dr. Anthony, “and the strangest part of
it all is that I believe Aline would be glad to confess the whole truth
were she not restrained by her vow of silence.”
“How does she bear the suspicion and scorn of those who were once her
friends?”
“She is crushed by it. One can see that she is almost heart-broken.
She is pale and sad. She shrinks sensitively from observation. She can
scarcely be persuaded to go outside the door.”
“Will she be present at the marriage ceremony in the church?”
“Yes, by Effie’s earnest wish and prayer. My darling has very solemn
ideas connected with marriage. She believes that the sacred rite should
always be celebrated in church wherever possible. Aline, by Effie’s
earnest wish, will accompany her to the altar.”
“I am most curious to meet the young lady,” said the detective.
“You will be quite sure to admire her,” said Aline’s prospective
brother-in-law. “She is very beautiful.”
Mr. Lane had heard this so often that he only smiled. It occurred to
him, however, that if she were prettier than Effie she would have to be
very pretty indeed.
“I shall take you to call at the cottage this evening,” said Dr.
Anthony. “You will then have an opportunity of meeting Aline. The rest
of the family you have met already.”
They went, and although Mr. Lane had expected to meet a very pretty
girl indeed, he was surprised and amazed when he saw Aline Rodney.
He saw a tall, graceful figure, exquisitely molded in the delicate,
symmetrical curves of early womanhood. She wore a simple dark-blue
cashmere dress, and the round, white throat rose from it with a
certain stately grace and pride that was very excusable, seeing what a
beautiful face shone above it like a peerless flower upon its stem. She
was pale, but her skin was like the cream-white petals of a tea-rose.
Her hair was darkest brown and loosely curling; her features were
exquisite; her eyes were large and of the rare violet tinge so much
admired, so seldom met; her brows were slender and black, and the long,
fringed lashes were black, too, and made her eyes appear black in their
shadow.
Mr. Lane was as much struck by Aline’s bearing and manner as he was by
her beauty. She had no ungraceful self-consciousness or awkwardness.
Her bearing was easy, graceful, and even distinguished. It was
natural, not acquired, for she had never mingled in society, and had
had but few advantages of travel and culture. He wondered at that even
more than at her beauty. It did not occur to him that the heavy cross
that had fallen on her life had had the effect to intensify her natural
grace into a grave, proud dignity, that in its silent way seemed like
a mute protest against the wrongs she had sustained. The girl had
budded into the woman, forced into untimely maturity and gravity by the
refining power of sorrow.
She was very quiet. She did not speak to Mr. Lane unless he pointedly
addressed her. She rarely met any strangers, and when she did, she
supposed that they knew her strange story, and despised her. She
remembered always that
“One venomed word,
That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low--
And yet the wide world heard.”
Mr. Lane could talk very well when he would. It pleased him to converse
with Aline Rodney. He was very gracious and affable with her, giving
her no smallest hint or sign that he knew her strange story. While
Effie touched the piano-keys with soft, lingering chords of music, and
her lover hung enraptured over her, the detective sat apart and bent
himself to the task of amusing Aline.
He did not find it very easy at first. She was shy and cold; she seemed
to take no interest in his words. She kept thinking, morbidly, to
herself:
“He knows my story, and he accordingly despises me.”
But, as he continued to talk to her pleasantly, unmindful of her quiet
reserve, a new thought came to her.
“This good-looking, agreeable friend of Dr. Anthony is from New York.
It is not possible that the story of my trouble has reached the great
city. Perhaps he does not _know_.”
There was inexpressible comfort and relief in the thought.
Unconsciously the tense bands about her heart began to loosen. It was
pleasant to meet any one, even a stranger, who did not distrust and
suspect her. She ventured to lift her frank, blue eyes to his face, and
when she saw how kindly he was regarding her with his attentive gray
eyes, she took heart of grace to talk to him, because she believed that
he did not know. Some of her old impulsiveness returned to her. She
began to take an interest in his conversation.
He on his part began to see what a charming girl she might have been
if this shadow of some unknown sin had not fallen on the whiteness of
her life. Once or twice she even laughed aloud, and he said to himself,
even though he was intensely practical and not in the least romantic,
that her laughter was as sweet as a chime of music.
He talked to her of the world, of the gay cities, of the people he
had met, of the places he had visited, and she listened with delight.
She had never met any one like Mr. Lane before--any one who had seen
the world and knew it thoroughly in both its good and bad phases. She
became so interested that she forgot momently the brooding shadow of
trouble that hung always over her. Her old love of life and the world
returned to her. A soft color glowed on her cheeks, her eyes beamed as
she cried out, vivaciously:
“Oh, how I envy you, Mr. Lane! You have traveled, you have seen the
world, you have enjoyed life! There is nothing I should like better!”
He looked at her with a smile. Her beautiful face was momently radiant.
She was full of eager anticipation and desire.
“You would like to travel?” he said.
“Oh, so much!” she cried, clasping her shapely white hands together
in the earnestness of her feelings, and carried out of herself by
excitement.
“Have you ever been in New York, Miss Rodney?” he inquired, with
apparent carelessness.
A little laugh that was half pity and half self-scorn rippled sweetly
over her lips. She was evidently amused at his entire ignorance of her
traveling record.
“New York!” she exclaimed. “Why, Mr. Lane, would you believe that I
have never been away from Chester in my life?”