Anthony Dexter did not know that he asked the question aloud. From the silence vibrated the answer in Thorpe's low, resonant tones: The honour of the spoken word still holds him . . . he was never released . . . he slunk away like a cur . . . in the sight of God he is bound to her by his own word still.
Bound to her! In every fibre of his being he felt the bitter truth. He was bound to her--had been bound for twenty-five years--was bound now. And "Father always does the square thing."
Once in a man's life, perhaps, he sees himself as he is. In a blinding flash of insight, he saw what he must do. Confession must be made, but not to any pallid priest in a confessional, not to Thorpe, nor to Ralph, but to Evelina, herself.
He should go to her and either fulfil his promise, or ask for release. The tardy fulfilment of his promise would be the only atonement he could make.
Then again, still in Thorpe's voice: If the woman is here and you can find your friend, we may help him to wash the stain of cowardice off his soul.
"The stain is deep," muttered Anthony Dexter. "God knows it is deep."
Once again came Thorpe's voice, shrilling at him, now, out of the vibrant silence: Sometimes I think there is no sin but shirking. I can excuse a liar, I can pardon a thief, I can pity a murderer, but a shirk--no!
"Father always does the square thing."
Evidently, Ralph would like to have his father bring him a stepmother--a woman whose face had been destroyed by fire--and place her at the head of his table, veiled or not, as Ralph chose. Terribly burned, hopelessly disfigured, she must live with them always--because she had saved him from the same thing, if she had not actually saved his life.
The walls of the room swayed, the furniture moved dizzily, the floor undulated. Anthony Dexter reeled and fell--in a dead faint.
"Are you all right now, Father?" It was Ralph's voice, anxious, yet cheery. "Who'd have thought I'd get another patient so soon!"
Doctor Dexter sat up and rubbed his eyes. Memory returned slowly; strength more slowly still.
"Can't have my Father fainting all over the place without a permit," resumed Ralph. "You've been doing too much. I take the night work from this time on."
The day wore into late afternoon. Doctor Dexter lay on the couch in the library, the phantom Evelina persistently at his side. His body had failed, but his mind still fought, feebly.
"There is no one here," he said aloud. "I am all alone. I can see nothing because there is nothing here."