After that one cry of surprise and wonder, Oran Delaney could not
utter another word. He stared speechlessly at the fair vision that had
arisen, as it were, between him and the flickering firelight.
Until this moment he had had an abiding conviction that Aline Rodney
was not dead. His conviction was staggered now. How else had she come
there, a silent shadow in his room, save from the world of shadows?
“She is not of us, as I divine;
She comes from another stiller world of the dead.”
He lay still and awe-stricken, gazing at the fair young face that shone
so white in the dim light. It was turned fully toward him, and the
large blue eyes were fixed upon his face in an intent gaze. He quivered
under it, and keen arrows of pain shot along his nerves, but he could
not turn his eyes from the vision. Not a feature, not a curve, not an
outline escaped him. He noted how soft and long were the dark, curling
tresses that fell in loose waves upon her shoulders, how gracefully the
plain dark robe was fitted to the slender figure, how proudly her white
throat rose from the dark folds.
Death had not robbed her of that superlative beauty that charmed the
eyes of all beholders. The frank, violet eyes, the arch red mouth, the
adorable little nose, the cream-white skin, the dark waving hair all
were here as of yore, and thrilled his heart again with a passion of
love and despair.
He gazed and gazed, his nerves strained to their utmost tension, and
she stood there moveless, stirless, breathless, it almost seemed, for
his own tense, heavy breathing drowned all other sounds in the room.
At length with a great effort of will, he broke the bonds that held
him, and cried out, hoarsely:
“Aline, Aline, have you come back from the dead to reproach me?”
It was like an electric shock galvanizing the seeming ghost into life.
The girl started and made a step forward. She came nearer and nearer
until she was leaning toward him, and her sweet, warm breath floating
over his cheek. This was no ghost, but a living, breathing, sentient
woman!
“Oh, Mr. Delaney,” she cried, with something like awe in her voice, “is
it possible that you take me for a ghost?”
He could not speak for joy. His brain reeled deliriously. Could it be
Aline Rodney in the flesh? Aline Rodney, come back to him before he
died, looking at him kindly, speaking to him gently? Should he not
awaken presently and find it all a delusive dream?
He put out his wasted hand and touched her warm, white wrist.
“Let me touch you, for I cannot believe my eyes,” he said, wistfully.
“Is it really you, Aline, or only the blessedest dream that ever dazed
a man’s senses?”
She did not repulse him. She let him hold her hand in his a moment that
he might assure himself of the reality of this vision.
“Yes, it is really I,” she said, reassuringly, and then she added,
curiously, “Why did you take me for a ghost? Did any one tell you I was
dead?”
“No, no, it was only my fancy. I was dazed when I opened my eyes and
saw you there. I had not heard a sound except the cinders falling from
the grate. What could I think but that you were a ghostly visitant from
another world?”
She stood gazing down at him, seeming to forget that her hand still lay
lightly in the clasp of his.
“They told me to come in softly,” she said. “They thought that you
might be asleep. So I turned the knob softly and came in. But when I
saw that your eyes were closed I was just going away quietly again when
you awakened.”
“It was very good of you to come,” he said, softly pressing the warm,
white hand that lay passive in his. “I did not deserve it. I thought
that you would hate and scorn me too bitterly ever to speak to me
again. Thank you a thousand times for coming.”
Something came into the wistful face into which he was anxiously
gazing--kindness, pity, almost sadness.
“Yes, I have been very angry with you,” she said, with a curious catch
in her breath. “I meant that you should never, never see my face again.
But they told me that you were--were ill, and then I came. You know we
forgive all things to the dying.”