Above half a century ago, Dr. Heidegger has been on the point of marriage with this young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions and died on the bridal evening.

This quote therefore provides us with crucial information regarding Dr. Heidegger as a character. He is clearly a tragic figure, living with the guilt of having killed the one he loved, perhaps not through his own fault, but clearly feeling some kind of responsibility. I don't necessarily think that this quote suggests Dr. Heidegger is incompetent, but it definitely does present us with an incredibly tragic man - how would you live with yourself if on your advice your lover had taken a medicine which ended up killing them? It presents us with a thoughtful, sombre and reflective character who has been driven to explore ways to conquer death and time, but who, following his experiment, is able to recognise the benefits of age.

About fifty years before the story begins, Dr. Heidegger has been about to marry a young lady named Sylvia Ward. Just before their wedding, Sylvia fell ill with some slight disorder, took medicine prescribed by Dr. Heidegger, and promptly died on the bridal evening. Dr. Heidegger keeps a full-length picture of her in his study, in which she appears "arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress."

Dr. Heidegger’s feelings for Sylvia, and perhaps his remorse over the manner of her death, are displayed by his keeping a rose that she once gave him for fifty-five years. He had intended to wear it on their wedding day. This rose is the first thing Dr. Heidegger chooses to revive with the water from the fountain of youth. When it withers and dies again, this is a sign that the same thing is about to happen to Dr. Heidegger’s four friends:

Even while the party were looking at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals.

"I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips.

This shows that the doctor, who never wanted to try the water himself, has come to terms with his own old age and perhaps even with Sylvia’s death, since she would now either be dead anyway or as withered as the rose and the lips that kiss it.