Chapter XLIV

Again a disappointed and baffled expression crossed Mr. Rodney’s fine face. He was cruelly tortured by this dreadful secret that lay, like a great, inky blot, on the fair fame of his beautiful, beloved daughter.

“Aline, did you know that it was wrong for you to take such an oath?” he inquired.

A piteous look came over the sweet, pale face.

“It was hard for me to do so, but I did not know that it was wrong,” she replied. “I was perfectly ignorant, papa, of the dreadful consequences that would follow upon my silence.”

“I wish to Heaven that you had never suffered any one to bind you to such a promise,” he cried.

“But, papa, he--I mean, I could never have come home unless I had taken the solemn vow asked of me. At first I refused. I was determined to reveal all when I reached home. I was stubborn in my refusal to submit. But--when I found that I would never be permitted to come back unless I gave way, I yielded. I was so homesick and wretched, papa, that I could not hold out.”

He crossed the room to her and took one of the cold, nerveless hands in his.

“Aline, forgive me for asking you so hard a question,” he said, “for sometimes I am tempted to believe in your innocence still, in spite of all the circumstantial evidences to the contrary. My daughter, will you swear that you are as innocent and pure as when you left your home that dreadful day?”

She lifted her white hand to Heaven and looked at him fearlessly with her bright, clear gaze.

“Yes, papa, I swear before Heaven that I am as pure as when I went away,” she replied.

Then there was silence for a moment. Mrs. Rodney had fallen down upon the bed, weeping bitter, but quiet tears. Mr. Rodney walked over to the window, and stood looking out again at the gloomy outlines of his neighbor’s house. It had acquired a strange fascination for him since he had learned that his daughter had been hidden there so long

“I wonder,” he broke out, abruptly, “what I have ever done to Oran Delaney that he should have done this thing to me?”

Aline had sunk wearily into her chair again. She looked around at him now, earnestly.

“Papa, I am sure you have done nothing,” she said. “There are reasons relating to himself that compel him to wish the story of my presence in his house unknown.”

“One thing I must know, Aline. This man who has so cruelly blighted all your prospects in life, does he love you?”

“No, papa,” she replied, with something like wonder at his question.

“Yet yesterday he risked his life to save yours.”

“I think he meant that in some sort as a reparation,” she said, timidly.

“Then it was he that sent you the ten thousand dollars?” interrogated her father, quickly.

“It was he,” she replied.

“Then you were right not to accept it,” he exclaimed. “Oran Delaney must make you a greater reparation than that for the ill you have sustained at his hands.”

“He will not reveal the secret--we need not hope for it,” Aline said, despondently.

“A thousand revealed secrets could not clear the stain from your name, my poor child,” he answered “You are irretrievably compromised by your stay in his house. There is but one atonement he can make you, and I, as the guardian of your honor, shall force him to that if it be at the point of the sword.”

“Would you murder Mr. Delaney?” she exclaimed, in horror.

“I will meet him on the field of honor and fight him until one or both of us be dead,” Mr. Rodney answered, so resolutely that Aline shuddered. A vision of the scene he threatened rushed over her mind. Oh, what a terrible price she was paying for the willful folly of that summer day long past!

“Papa, you said there was one atonement he could make,” she said, timidly. “Will you tell me what you meant?”

“He must make you his wife, Aline. He must give you the shelter of his proud, honorable name to wash away the stain he has cast upon your own. In no other way can he make atonement for his fault,” Mr. Rodney exclaimed.