Dr. Anthony was most anxious to meet Oran Delaney when they told him
the story of all that had transpired while he and Effie were absent
upon their bridal tour.
Mr. Rodney undertook to ask Mr. Delaney’s permission to present his
son-in-law to him. He felt rather dubious over it. He was not at all
sure that he would care to meet Dr. Anthony under the new conditions in
which he found himself.
To his surprise Mr. Delaney was willing and eager to meet the
young physician whom he had treated so cavalierly on that
long-to-be-remembered night. He declared that it would not excite him
at all. On the contrary, it would be a relief to see him and ask his
pardon for his rudeness.
Dr. Anthony was surprised when he entered the room and saw the man whom
he remembered so vividly, although he had never seen his face. He now
beheld one of the handsomest men he had ever seen in his life in spite
of the pallor and emaciation of illness and hopelessness. He thought he
had never seen such splendid, fathomless dark eyes as those that now
turned upon his face with something that was almost humility in their
sad gaze as he extended his hand.
“Dr. Anthony, I do not know how to ask you to forgive me for the way
I treated you,” he said. “But I was half maddened with fears for Miss
Rodney. That must be my excuse.”
“I am not at all angry with you,” said Dr. Anthony, with his frank
smile. “I can find it in my heart to excuse your rashness, considering
the circumstances of the case.”
And after that the two men were good friends always. The genial,
handsome young doctor, who was so happy with his fair young bride,
had a great fund of pity and sympathy for the man who, while but a
few years older than himself, had had his whole life blasted by the
treachery of one whom he believed his friend.
“You cannot know how I regret it all,” said Oran Delaney, unburdening
his heart to this new friend as men do sometimes on rare occasions to
one another. “If I could go back to that day and undo all the harm I
caused Miss Rodney by my stubborn pride, I would give all that I own,
my poor life into the bargain. I was mad and blind. I had brooded over
my secret until it assumed such gigantic proportions of shame and
sorrow that I grew morbid over it. I would have risked anything rather
than have it revealed to the world. I was frantic with fear when that
poor lunatic attempted Miss Rodney’s life. I believed that the poor
girl would surely betray my secret if I let her go free. So I bound her
by that cruel oath--how cruel I did not know; for I did not think of
the dreadful consequences to her.”
“Dreadful, indeed!” assented Dr. Anthony.
“And now, if by the sacrifice of my life I could bring her back to
her friends, I would most gladly die,” said Oran Delaney, with an
earnestness that carried conviction to the hearer’s heart. “I pray
daily to God that Mr. Lane will succeed in finding her.”
“I do not believe that he will ever do so,” said Dr. Anthony with
_empressement_.
“You do not surely believe that she is dead!” cried Oran Delaney, with
horror and despair in his face and voice.
Dr. Anthony looked pityingly at the pale, handsome face lying on the
white pillow with the ruddy blaze of the firelight casting a sort of
false glow on its deep pallor. He saw that Oran Delaney’s remorse and
despair and grief were most genuine.
“You do not surely believe that she is dead?” he cried in the utmost
despair, and Dr. Anthony answered, sadly:
“Why not? No tidings have come to you of her fate. Is it not most
probable that she has perished in the cruel snow-drifts even as poor
Julie Sanson did?”
Mr. Delaney shuddered, and put up his thin, white hands before his face.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, do not name Aline, in the same breath with that
creature!” he cried. “No, no, I cannot believe that she is dead! Heaven
would not be so cruel! She will come back, my beautiful darling, even
if it is not until the cold earth is heaped upon my breast!”
Then with a great effort he threw off the terrible agitation that
possessed him; he looked at Dr. Anthony and said, sadly:
“In my weakness I have revealed my secret to you, Doctor Anthony. I
love Aline--have loved her ever since she was an inmate of my home. My
shame and sorrow and remorse for all that I have done are killing me by
inches. If she does not come back soon I shall never see her. I shall
be dead--killed by my love and sorrow!”
“I am sorry for you!” cried Dr. Anthony, melted by the exceeding grief
of the other. “But indeed you must not agitate yourself like this. It
is very hurtful to you.”
He hastened to feel the patient’s pulse, and seeing that he was
considerably agitated, administered the composing draught that stood
ready upon the little table, and went out to seek his wife, who was
with her mother.