might have suspected it when she forbore to question Faunce? The
thought, laying hold of him, added a fresh pang to his misery. He
turned with a gesture of disgust and plunged into the night. He could
not sleep, and here, in this quiet spot, he could walk until the day
broke, unseen and unsuspected.
V
IN the weeks that followed Faunce drifted restlessly from Mapleton to
New York, from New York to Washington, and then, assured of Diane’s
continued presence there, back to Mapleton.
Meanwhile he had been signally honored, as the surviving leader of
the successful expedition, both at home and abroad. A medal had been
voted to him by Congress for his distinguished services, and he had
been notified of his election, in London, as a fellow of the Royal
Geographical Society. Praise and emolument poured in upon the young and
handsome explorer, while only one man--the chief financier of Overton’s
two expeditions--devoted any large sum to a memorial tablet for the
lost leader.
Like the proverbial candle in the wind, Overton’s life and his
reputation had been extinguished together in the eternal snows; but
they had not been exiled from the mind of Faunce. He was fully aware
that his honors rightfully belonged to his friend, that he was in much
the same position as the mythical jay in the peacock’s plumes. He could
think of no simile less trite to express his misery.
If Overton had lived, Faunce might have been envious--he knew that he
was not free from that taint; but he could at least have accepted any
tribute that came his way with a light heart. As it was, his honors
were so many millstones about his neck. He grew pale and thin, and the
dark shadows under his eyes made their expression take on a haunted
look; but his very modesty, his evident hesitation to accept the full
measure of applause, and the growing melancholy in his handsome face,
only served to increase the interest in a personality so attractive and
so reserved.
It appealed most keenly, perhaps, to the imagination of Fanny Price.
Her girlish fancy clothed the handsome explorer in all the attributes
of the favorite heroes of romance. The fact that she perceived, only
too clearly, his infatuation for Diane Herford whetted her admiration
by removing its object from the proximity of her own possible adorers.
A pretty young thing and a great favorite, she had no lack of “beans,”
to use the familiar language of the inhabitants of Mapleton; but
none of them, in Fanny’s mind, could be compared to the hero of two
antarctic expeditions and the probable commander of a third. Talk was
already current that the same great financier who had furnished the
sinews of the Overton expeditions was about to equip another and more
perfect ship to be placed at the command of Arthur Faunce.
There was another reason, too, which caused a little flutter in Fanny’s
innocent breast. She was well aware that a heart is often caught on
the rebound, and she knew that, next to Diane, she was an object of
interest to Faunce. The question therefore resolved itself into the
more complex problem of the state of Diane Herford’s heart. Did she, or
did she not, care for Faunce?
If, as Fanny suspected, Diane had loved Overton, she might be unable to
reconcile herself to a man who must inevitably recall a dead lover. On
the other hand, this might also be Faunce’s strongest appeal--the fact
that he was Overton’s chosen comrade, his closest friend, and the man
who had last seen him alive.
The two girls were fairly intimate, but the younger had never dared
to encroach on the quiet reserve with which the elder screened her
inmost thoughts; and she could draw no positive conclusions from the
vague glimpses that Diane’s rare moments of deep emotion gave her.
Those moments indicated a strong but hidden feeling which might, at any
moment, find an outlet in some fresh channel; and what could be more
likely than the awakening of a new and living love? The probability
of this termination of the affair chilled Fanny’s joy in her hero’s
frequent reappearances in the quiet neighborhood of Mapleton.
“He would never come here at all,” she reasoned shrewdly, “if he wasn’t
in love with somebody. He isn’t in love with me--that’s certain--so it
must be Diane!”
This conclusion, which seemed to overlook all the other charming girls
in the suburb, was less self-centered than it appeared. Fanny knew
that Faunce had practically ignored the rest of the world, and had
concentrated his attentions upon the Herford house, when an occasional
invitation did not divert him to the seminary. But those occasional
moments when either an actual invitation, or the courtesy of a visit
after one, brought him into the Prices’ dingy drawing-room were always
fraught with a tremor of excitement for Fanny, not unpleasantly mingled
with the refined tortures of hope deferred.
It was just about that agreeable hour which is devoted to drinking a
sociable cup of afternoon tea that she actually saw Faunce coming up
the broad driveway which led from the seminary gates to the dean’s
modest Queen Anne cottage. She had thought him in Washington, and his
sudden appearance, pale and tall and graceful, on his way to her own
door, sent a thrill to her heart.
For a moment she leaned forward, with both hands on the sill of the
bay window, and watched his unconscious approach. She was quite
composed when he entered the room, a few moments later, and found her
rearranging her little tea-table with deft and graceful hands, while a
sudden shaft of afternoon sunshine touched the little fair curls that
clustered about her small, pink ears and nestled on the white nape of
her neck.
She was very glad to see him. Her large blue eyes would have told him
so, if he had not been so preoccupied; but it was not Fanny of whom he
was thinking. He dropped into a comfortable chair beside her tea-table,
accepted a cup of her tea, and began at once to talk about Diane. The
irony of this almost made the girl smile; but she controlled herself,
and turned a sympathetic face toward him, glad that her back was to the
light, and that he seemed more occupied with staring absently at the
fire on the hearth than in looking at her.
“I just heard that the Herfords might go to Florida this winter,” he
observed, balancing his cup in a way that would have wrung Mrs. Price’s
housewifely heart with anxiety for her best rug.
“I suppose Dr. Gerry told you?”
He nodded.
“It’s on account of the judge’s rheumatism, isn’t it?”
“I think Di likes to play golf.”
“She doesn’t seem to care for it here. I asked her to go to the links
the last time I was home, and she refused.”
Fanny elevated her delicate brows.
“Perhaps she had another engagement. You know Di’s the most popular
person in Mapleton.”
He set the neglected cup down on the table and looked at her with
preoccupied eyes.
“She’s perfectly charming, isn’t she? But--do you think--I mean, does
she seem quite happy?”
Fanny temporized, aware of a sinking heart.
“She should be. She’s got everything, and the old judge adores her.”
He leaned back in his chair, toying with the spoons on the table.
“Has she got everything? That’s what I want to know. Do you
think--you’re great pals, you and Diane--do you think she cared for
Overton?”
Fanny was silent for a moment. Her hands were trembling a little, and
she thrust them out of sight under the table.
“That’s not a fair question. I couldn’t answer it, could I, if I knew?
And I don’t know. Diane never talks about herself like some other
girls. She wraps herself up the way--I don’t know how to describe it,
but you’ve seen some flowers, the more delicate ones, fold their petals
together at nightfall and hide their golden hearts? I’ve always thought
of them when--when I’ve tried to pry into Diane’s soul.”
He reflected, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
“That’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it?--that her heart’s like a delicate
flower!”
The thought seemed to please him so much that he remained silent,
dwelling on it. Fanny, keenly aware of the cause of his preoccupation,
poured out another cup of tea and tried to drink it. Then he returned
to the subject.
“I know that Overton cared for her. I knew it before he went away.
That’s why I--I----”
He stopped, the color mounting painfully to his hair.
“Why you didn’t speak?” she concluded gallantly.
He turned a flushed face toward her.
“I say, I didn’t mean to give myself away like that! Tea always makes
me gossip like an old woman.”
“Old women aren’t always gossips,” Fanny corrected him, calmly looking
at his full cup; “and, moreover, you’ve only just tasted your tea.”
“Then it’s your fault! You made me blurt out the truth. I felt your
sympathy. Do you know, it’s a beautiful thing, the way you can
sympathize? It’s a gift. You’ve made me feel that I have a real friend.”
Fanny lifted her cup firmly and drank a little tea before she managed
to answer.
“That’s really a tremendous compliment,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m
very proud of it!”
“Well, since I’ve let the cat out of the bag, I might as well tell you
the whole truth, hadn’t I?” he exclaimed with that open and engaging
manner that had so often won his way. “I’ve been in love with her ever
since I was a little shaver. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in
love with her.”
“And you stood aside because you were loyal to Overton?” she ventured.
He paled as suddenly as he had reddened.
“Yes, I knew he loved her. I owed him a great deal, you know. I let him
have his chance first.”
She lifted her eyes bravely to his.
“I think that was magnificent!” she said in a low voice with a tremor
of emotion.
VI
THE girl’s words had a strange effect on Faunce. They seemed to strike
like a goad into his flesh. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the
room with his head down. Fanny Price followed him with an astonished
gaze, but she was too much concerned with her own emotion, her own
folly in caring at all, to attempt to analyze his moods. It was enough
for her that he loved Diane. She did not want to go beyond that, for it
utterly crushed her hopes.
“Nothing I’ve ever done is magnificent!” he declared in a choked voice.
“I’m not such a bounder as to let you think it. I would have tried as
hard as Overton, I know I should, if I hadn’t been sure that she--she
loved him!”
Fanny struggled with the last remnant of her self-love. Then she
answered in a weak voice:
“Why does it matter to you so much if she did--then?”
He stopped short.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he’s dead now.”
There was a profound pause. He stood staring at her with a strange
expression, his hands hanging clenched at his sides. Fanny had never
seen him look so handsome, so tragically inspired; but she returned his
gaze with a kind of defiance. She felt that she was at bay, and mast
defend herself.
“You mean,” he said slowly, at length, “that his being dead opens the
way for me? That perhaps she might care for me now--because of that?”
Fanny nodded.
“Good Heavens!” He drew a deep breath. “That--that would make it
impossible. I couldn’t do that!”
“I don’t see why,” she said blankly.
He caught the amazement in her eyes, and was silent, but his face
blanched, and his evident emotion was so unaccountable that it startled
and puzzled her. She rose from her seat and went to the window,
averting her face.
“It’s natural, isn’t it? I don’t think you should feel so dreadfully
about it.”
But Faunce still seemed unable to master himself.
“I can’t help it. I--I----” he stammered again, relapsing into silence
as he began to walk to and fro.
Fanny did not turn her head, but continued to look out of the window
with unseeing eyes, which did not even recognize the boys who were
playing football on the campus, not fifty yards away. She was aware of
their plunging, dodging figures, of a blur of multicolored sweaters
and brown corduroys; but she was not thinking of them, and even their
shouts came to dull ears.
Before her the long driveway to the gate was arched with naked elms,
and even the hedgerows began to take on the somber hues of early
winter. Far in the west a heavy cloud had broken, the widening rift
showing a space of translucent light that shot out oblique shafts of
glory, like a shower of golden arrows darting through the leaden sky. A
sudden gust of wind sent the brown leaves scampering wildly across the
lawn, and swept them at last into a frantic dance below the window.
Fanny’s mind remained absorbed in the exhibition of emotion that she
had just witnessed. Her heart swelled with grief and mortification as
she realized how little she mattered to Arthur Faunce, how useless it
was for her to try to console him, when he cared only for Diane.
“I can’t tell you,” he managed to say at length, “how I feel about that
terrific end to the expedition.” He threw out his arms with an almost
frantic gesture. “I’d give not only my life, but the hope of her love,
to bring him back!”
Fanny turned from the window with a strange look on her face.
“Hush!” she said in a low voice. “Here she is--here’s Diane.”
She gave him time to recover his composure; then, going swiftly into
the hall, she opened the door for her visitor.
“Papa has been out all day, and I was lonely,” Diane explained. “I
thought I’d come in for a cup of your tea, Fanny.”
The two girls kissed each other, and Fanny whispered:
“Arthur Faunce is here.”
She thought Diane colored, but she was not sure. A moment later they
entered the room together. Faunce was standing by the fire with his
back to the door, but he turned as they came in. Fanny saw that he had
entirely mastered his emotion, and his handsome face lit up with a
ready smile as Diane greeted him.
“I was sorry to miss you this morning,” she said gravely; “but papa
gave me the package. I--well, I haven’t tried to read it yet. I
couldn’t!”
He gave her an eloquent look.
“I wanted you to read it first.”
She bent her head in graceful acknowledgment, and moved slowly across
to the fire, drawing off her long, soft gloves. She was thin, but the
long lines of her slight figure had the slender grace and delicate
suppleness of the Reynolds portrait that haunted his memory. Her head,
small and spirited and covered with a shadowy mass of soft, brown hair,
was set on a slender, white throat which carried it proudly, with an
air of stateliness and pride that became her, even in the simple, dark
dress she wore.
Faunce followed her with a glance that neglected Fanny as she bent over
her little table again. Even Diane seemed for the moment to forget the
younger girl. Her clear eyes turned on Faunce, and she made an evident
effort to speak with ease.
“You kept his diary, too?”
He assented.
“A part of it. He gave it to me when we left the ship. The rest was
lost with him.”
Diane turned sharply away, averting her face as she pretended to look
into the fire.
“It’s wonderful that you--preserved so much! As soon as I can, I’ll
read it.”
“Yours is the first copy--the author’s; the publishers sent it to me
last night, and I took it over as soon as possible.”
She thanked him simply. Then, looking up, she saw Fanny’s flushed face
as she bent over her table. Diane sat down beside her.
“Mr. Faunce brought me a copy of his diary,” she explained, “and
I--can’t read it yet!”
The other girl put out her hand involuntarily, and Diane clasped it
under the table. They looked at each other, and Fanny saw that Diane’s
eyes were full of tears. She withdrew her fingers and turned to Faunce
with a gay little smile.
“I wonder if you’ll drink that cup of tea now?” she said lightly.
“I’ve made another hot one. There are three cold ones standing around
in different localities--one on the mantel, one on the cabinet, and the
third somewhere beside the fender--I saw you put it there. Mr. Faunce
is devoted to tea, Diane!”
They all laughed. Fanny bravely opened her little tea-caddy and began
to measure out a fresh supply. She had a feeling that, having reached
the last ditch, she was prepared to defend it with the courage of
despair.
VII
IT was toward the end of the following month, when the winter had
set in, that Judge Herford was seized with one of his bad attacks of
lumbago.
Dr. Gerry, summoned by Diane, found his patient in the library. The
judge’s figure, which had the habit of appearing so massive when
seated, still retained its large dignity of pose, for the deep cushions
of his chair concealed the humiliating twist which the disease had not
failed to inflict on its victim’s aristocratic muscles; but his temper,
never of an amiable turn, had gained nothing under the visitation. He
did not hesitate to scowl openly as his old friend appeared carrying,
as usual, the small black bag with which the rural practitioner arms
himself for the worst emergencies.
“No pills for me!” he growled. “I’ve got a hot-water bag and a
plaster--enough for any poor devil. I suppose Diane sent for you!”
“Diane has more sense than you have,” replied the doctor, taking off
his greatcoat with the utmost composure.
“What are you staying for?” demanded the judge savagely. “I tell you I
won’t be pilled for a muscular twist!”
“Put out your tongue, Hadley,” responded his visitor, mounting his
spectacles. “The color of it is more important just now than the way it
wags.”
In spite of himself the judge laughed in a sour way. Then a twinge
overtook him, and he swore under his breath.
“If you could cure this infernal disease, I’d give you ten thousand
dollars!”
“Keep it for Diane. She’ll need the money about the time you kill
yourself with hard work.”
The judge eyed him.
“Trying to intimidate me into taking your drugs, eh?”
“That’s my business,” replied the doctor, drawing his chair to the fire
and looking over his open case for an appropriate dose.
The other man lay back in his cushioned chair, free for a moment of the
teasing ache, and regarded Gerry in silence. His appearance of great
strength, the florid flush on his skin, and his iron-gray hair, defied
both age and weakness; but the doctor’s words had set him thinking, and
he strummed on his chair-arms with angry fingers. A bright fire was
burning on the hearth, and the flames made fitful shadows in the small,
comfortable, book-lined room--a room that had an intimate air of having
associated long with a man of affairs, and of having acquired, even in
its old, dilapidated bindings and its well-worn rug, the full measure
of dignity and reserve which befitted a judge.
“I’ve got a great deal to do before I’m ready to go,” he remarked at
length, in his deep voice. “They’ve mussed up the political situation
in this State. If I died or resigned, they’d put in that fool, Henry
Runes, as judge!”
Gerry selected a glass bottle, and, opening it deliberately, shook some
pink pills into an envelope.
“Henry Runes? Isn’t he a cousin of Overton’s?” the doctor asked.
“Is there any one who isn’t a cousin of Overton’s, since he got
famous?” snapped the judge.
“Has he got famous? I thought he had only died. It’s Faunce who’s
famous.”
“That’s the way of the world. A man’s got to be very much alive
nowadays to be famous overnight.”
“I hear that you have undertaken to be his political sponsor. They say
he’s nursing a boom for Congress.”
“He’d better do that than go to his death like Overton, hadn’t he?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever confused him with Overton. He isn’t of the
same mental caliber. What’s the idea, Hadley?”
The judge twisted in his chair with a wry face.
“If he doesn’t take up a career here, they’ll put him in command of
the new expedition. He’s booked for it, I believe. I’d rather have him
settle down and go into politics here. There’s good stuff in him, and
he’s got what the newspapers call personal magnetism.”
“He’s got a good many things besides that!” retorted the doctor dryly,
adjusting his glasses as he started to write directions on three sets
of envelopes. “You seem to take his affairs to heart. Got any special
interest in the boy, Hadley?”
Herford was silent for a moment. In his large and more judicial aspect
he seemed to be weighing an important question, and his eyes dwelt
moodily on the fire. The doctor, without apparently observing him,
finished his hieroglyphics, put back his little glass bottles, and
closed his case with a snap. As he did it, he heard the judge’s voice
in an unwonted key.
“The truth is he’s taken me into his confidence--not a word of this to
Diane, Sam--and I know he wants to marry my daughter. I’ll admit that
at first it was rather a shock. I’m selfish enough to want to keep
her; but gradually I’ve reconciled my mind. I suppose it’s inevitable.
Besides, if anything happened to me, she’d be alone, and--well, I
haven’t any objection. I’ve been considering, instead, some way to
keep him out of that infernal south pole business.”
“Does Diane know?”
“That he’s in love with her? I suppose she does; girls do, as a rule, I
think. But he hasn’t spoken to her yet--I know that--and I’ve held my
tongue about it. He made me promise.”
The doctor whistled softly. His patient turned a suspicious eye on him.
“What’s your objection?” the judge asked.
“Why don’t you ask Diane if she has any? She’s the important person.”
“I think she likes him.”
The doctor laughed dryly.
“Take it from me that she has a mind of her own!”
The judge threw back his head haughtily.
“I’m not trying to push her.”
“Better not! She won’t stand for it. How did Faunce come to tell you?”
The doctor’s large mouth crinkled at the corners. “Did he ask your
consent?”
“Not quite. That’s not the fashion these days, is it? It was an
accident. I found out a good deal, and he admitted it handsomely. Upon
my word, I never liked a young man better than I did Faunce just then.
I’ve never thought any man quite good enough for Di, but he’s won me
over. I sha’n’t oppose it--if she wants him.”
“Hope she doesn’t!”
“Why?”
The doctor rose and pulled himself into his greatcoat.
“He isn’t fit to tie her shoe!”
“You’re prejudiced. You didn’t like his father.”
Gerry grinned.
“I remember you did like his mother!”
“Lily Blake?” The judge smiled reminiscently. “We were young
sweethearts, but she threw me over to marry Henry Faunce.”
“Just so! Now you follow my advice and throw her son over. Diane can do
better than that.”
The judge, taken with another twinge of lumbago, growled.
“It’s up to her; but I like Faunce.”
The doctor’s response was an inarticulate grunt. Then he pushed his
medicine envelopes into a little row on the library table.
“I’ll send Diane in to dose you,” he remarked, moving toward the door.
“You can’t. She’s gone out with Faunce.”
The two old men looked at each other. Then they both laughed, the
doctor without merriment.
“Hadley, if you weren’t a judge, I’d say you were----”
“An old fool!” concluded the judge grimly.
The doctor nodded and went out, shutting the door rather sharply
behind him. On the front steps he encountered Diane and Faunce, just
returned from a long walk. It was a cold day, and the wind had brought
a brightness into Diane’s face. Her eyes sparkled with something of the
latent fire of her father’s, and her cheeks were aglow. Faunce, on the
other hand, looked like a ghost of himself.
“How’s father?” Diane questioned as she came up.
“Cross as two sticks,” replied the doctor, and gave her some directions
about his patient.
Her face sobered.
“You don’t think he’s really ill?”
The doctor shook his head grimly.
“I’d like to make him sick enough to keep still for six weeks. He’s
overworked, Di, and the machinery needs oiling up.”
“I can’t make him mind,” she objected. “I wanted to take him to Florida
for three months.”
“We may get him there yet. Don’t worry! Hello, Faunce; coming my way?”
Faunce shook his head smilingly.
“I’m going to see the judge,” he said.
For a moment Dr. Gerry stood staring at him. The young man winced.
“You won’t find the judge in a good humor,” the doctor warned him.
“You’d better come along with me and test my cigars. Di’s got her hands
full taking care of her father.”
Faunce turned involuntarily and looked at Diane, who stood in the
vestibule, listening, and smiling in an absent way, her eyes on the
gloves that she was slowly unfastening. As Faunce turned, however, she
looked up, and her face softened and glowed with a new and delicate
embarrassment. She had never looked more charming, more desirable in
his eyes, than at that moment. Dr. Gerry, following his glance, caught
the look on her face, too, and his hand tightened its grip on his
little black bag.
“I think I’ll stay for a while and risk the judge’s lumbago,” Faunce
said without turning his head.