Oran Delaney drew a long breath of relief as the door closed behind the
slender form of Aline.
He had been face to face with a great temptation, and he had mastered
it by the strength of an indomitable will. But the great drops of sweat
beaded his white brow as he sunk into a chair and gazed blankly at the
carved oaken door that had shut Aline out from his sight.
“She thinks me cold, cruel, heartless,” he muttered. “But, oh, my God,
what if I had taken her at her word? Ah, no, no, better let her go pure
and innocent, though miserable, than such a fate as that, poor child.”
He remained silent a few moments, then rose from his chair and began to
pace restlessly up and down the floor.
“Ah, Heaven, if only I knew what to do!” he cried. “It is a shame that
her pure, sweet life should be sacrificed to the keeping of my bitter
secret. Ah, if only I could beat down my wretched pride and confess the
truth! Aline, Aline, I would give uncounted gold if only I had never
seen your face.”
His distracted thoughts received a sudden and startling interruption.
A sound he had not heard for years echoed loudly through the house.
It was the peal of the long-unused door-bell. Once, twice, thrice, it
echoed through the house, loudly and harshly, as if grasped by a hasty
and authoritative hand.
Mrs. Griffin came flying into the room and met her master coming out.
“Oh, sir, the door-bell,” she gasped, breathlessly.
“Go back and guard her,” he answered. “I will answer the bell myself.”
He went with slow steps along the hall. Something told him what was
coming. He was not surprised when he opened the door and saw his
neighbor on the threshold.
“Mr. Rodney!” he exclaimed.
“Mr. Delaney!” replied the other as he stepped deliberately into the
wide, dimly-lighted hall.
And then they stood gazing at each other in silence a moment. Mr.
Rodney spoke first in low, deep voice of concentrated bitterness and
repressed fury.
“I have come for my daughter,” he said.
“She is not here,” Mr. Delaney answered, steadily.
Mr. Rodney’s hand clinched itself as it hung by his side, until the
sharp nails were buried in the tender flesh.
“Do not answer me with falsehoods,” he said, fiercely. “She has fled
from her home, and I am quite sure that she is here.”
“I repeat that she is not here,” answered the master of Delaney House,
with a forced calmness. “She was here but a little while ago, but she
went away again.”
“Went away again,” repeated Mr. Rodney, with white lips. “Where did she
go?”
“Where should she go but to her home?” queried Oran Delaney, in amaze.
“Where, indeed?” echoed the distracted father. “You might better ask
yourself that question, Oran Delaney! You who have ruined her young
life, might know better how to answer it!”
“Come with me, Mr. Rodney. We have much to say to each other,” said
Oran Delaney.
He led his uninvited guest up to the quiet library where but a little
while ago Aline had stood, asking him to save her ruined life by making
her his wife. It was the father now instead of the daughter--quite a
difference, Oran Delaney said to himself, with grim pleasantry.
He placed a chair for Mr. Rodney, but the latter declined it and stood
up stiffly, with his arms folded over his breast. Their glances met,
and Mr. Delaney saw bitter hatred in the dark-blue eyes whose likeness
to Aline’s struck him with a strange pain.
“You have come to curse me, Mr. Rodney,” he said, drawing a long, deep
breath.
“I have come to do more than that,” the man answered, passionately. “I
have come to demand reparation for my daughter’s wrongs!”