While Aline sat gazing drearily into the fire that winter eve, the
grave, taciturn master of Delaney House lay languidly on a silken couch
in his quiet library.
The dark, handsome face had a worn and weary expression. It was pale,
too, and the dark eyes were dim and heavy. His head rested wearily on a
crimson satin cushion, and one hand was pressed against his brow, as if
in pain.
There was a light tap at the door, and then Mrs. Griffin entered and
replenished the fire, that had commenced to burn low behind the steel
bars of the grate. Then she stood looking at him anxiously a moment.
“Your head aches?” she asked, questioningly.
“Slightly,” he replied, indifferently.
“Can I do nothing for you?” the old woman questioned, kindly.
“No; it does not matter. The pain will wear itself out by and by.”
She looked at him wistfully a moment, then went out quietly, leaving
him to silence and repose again.
The fire crackled merrily in the grate, the clock ticked softly on
the marble mantel. Outside, the noiseless flakes of snow fell lightly
against the window-pane. Gradually the twilight began to fall, and
shadows gathered in the room.
Mr. Delaney lay very still and quiet, with half-closed eyes shaded by
his hand, his fine features grave even to sadness. In the gathering
obscurity a heavy sigh drifted over his lips.
Mrs. Griffin came back, lighted the library lamp, then paused and
regarded him with a strange expression.
He removed his hand and looked at her with his heavy eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Oh, Mr. Delaney, there’s some one to see you!” she exclaimed.
He started up, all his gravity and calmness stirred by angry
displeasure.
“Some one to see me? Have you forgotten my orders to admit no one?” he
exclaimed.
“No, sir, I have not forgotten,” she answered. “But she did not knock.
She came slipping in so softly, like a ghost, that I was frightened.”
“She? Whom?” he exclaimed, hoarsely.
“Miss Rodney, sir.”
“Miss Rodney--Aline--here in this house? My God!” he cried, abruptly.
“Yes, sir, down in the kitchen, waiting to see you,” said Mrs. Griffin.
“You see, I forgot to lock the door, and just at dark the knob turned
soft like, and she came gliding in, still as a ghost and pale as one,
too, sir. And she says to me, weak and nervous-like, ‘I _must_ see Mr.
Delaney, quick. Go and ask him to give me an interview.’”
He could only stare at her in blank astonishment.
“I was so surprised and frightened, sir, that I did not speak one word
to her, but just left her standing there shivering in the middle of the
room, and came away to do her bidding. Now, what answer shall I take
back? Will you see her, Mr. Delaney?”
He hesitated a moment, and Mrs. Griffin added, respectfully:
“I think she’s in a hurry, sir, and perhaps she’s afraid to stay down
there alone.”
He drew a long breath and answered:
“Very well. You may show her up here.”
Mrs. Griffin turned the dim lamp up to a brighter flame and hastened
away to do his bidding.
Oran Delaney remained standing in the center of the beautiful, lofty
room, gazing expectantly at the door.
In a minute he heard Mrs. Griffin’s heavy footsteps in the hall, with
light, quick ones pattering beside them. The door opened quickly, and
Aline entered alone.
She was wrapped from head to foot in a long, dark cloak, from which
her pale face gleamed like some beautiful white flower. Her dark blue
eyes were black with excitement, her parted, panting lips, from which
the breath came in quick little gasps, showed the haste with which she
had sought his presence. She stood just inside the door, a dark, chilly
little figure from which the melting snow-drops ran down in little
rills upon the velvet carpet.
Mr. Delaney shook off the trance of wonder that held him and went
forward to meet her.
“Miss Rodney, what has brought you back to this ill fated house?” he
exclaimed.
“I knew you would be surprised,” she answered quickly. “Mr. Delaney, I
came here to ask you to marry me!”