in the midst of the tempest. You have the instinct and the prestige and
the great traditions that go to make a man safe in politics; but Arthur
has none of these things to give him a _raison d’être_ in your world.
I feel sure it would dwarf him and spoil him. I want him to go on, to
finish his own work.”
“And if he gets killed on the way, you’ll still have the glory, eh?”
She turned with a shocked face.
“As if I cared for anything more than Arthur’s life!”
The judge strummed on the table with his fingers. His lumbago was
rending him to the point of incivility.
“Exactly! But you’re sending him to the pole to die as Overton died,
without reaping any reward but--death.”
She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on his angry face, but her
mind seemed to be far away. In fact, she was again questioning herself.
This recurrent mention of Overton shocked her new sense of security,
and seemed like a return of the moment when Dr. Gerry’s question had
broken the spell of her joy. After all, was it meant that she should
not forget? Must she try out and search her heart yet further?
“I want you to drop this nonsense,” her father went on more composedly.
“Faunce will give up the idea if you will let him. I want him here. I
may not live long--I’m getting old, Diane, and I want you married and
settled.”
“Is that why you’re angry at the thought of the new expedition?”
He nodded.
“I want you to get married soon--before spring, anyway.”
She was startled.
“That would be too hurried, papa! You must give me more time than that.”
“Why do you need time? It’s settled, isn’t it? You’ve followed your own
heart, haven’t you?”
There it was again, the same question!
“I want you married,” the judge repeated with some force. “I like
Faunce; you like him--very good! I’m opposed to long engagements, and a
lot of fuss and feathers. Make it short and plain, my girl.”
Diane looked at her father a little reproachfully.
“I didn’t know you wanted to get rid of me so much, papa!”
“I don’t mean to get rid of you,” he retorted crustily. “I mean to
break up these polar follies and to keep Faunce here.”
She smiled faintly, a little flush on her face. Then she glanced out of
the window again.
“There’s Fanny Price. I’ll go and let her in. She has tramped over
through the snow.”
“Don’t bring her in here, then!” snapped the judge sharply. “My back
hurts like the devil. I want to finish my meal in peace.”
Diane reassured him and stepped out of the room, thankful enough to
be released. She began to see vaguely, and with some little alarm,
that her father had been quietly bending her to his will; that he had
purposely thrown Faunce in her way; that he was, in fact, making the
match. The thought of it, in this light, was so distasteful that she
was glad to go to the door to let in her visitor.
Fanny, muffled in furs and submerged under a big hat, was not as
visible to the eyes as usual. She seemed to evade observation by
withdrawing into the recesses of fur and felt; but she pounced upon
Diane with a swift, birdlike motion, and kissed her.
“I came right over,” she said in a rather high-pitched, nervous tone,
“to wish you joy, dear!”
Diane looked amazed.
“How in the world did you know?”
Fanny laughed softly.
“Your father phoned to papa last night--before the wires were
down--that you and Mr. Faunce were engaged.”
“Oh!”
There was a low note of surprise and dismay in the exclamation, but
Diane said no more. She drew Fanny into the sitting-room, where a fire
had been kindled on the hearth.
“Mama sent her love,” Fanny went on, trying to appear cordial, “and of
course papa must have said something over the phone; but, you know,
papa has to think twice before he says just the right thing.”
Diane was trying to remove Fanny’s hat and furs, but the latter
resisted.
“Oh, no, I can’t stay, really! I just ran over to--to wish you joy,
dear Diane!”
There was a suspicion of a quiver in the girlish voice which, at
another time, would not have failed to attract her friend’s attention;
but, at the moment, Diane’s mind was occupied with the vexatious
thought of her father’s haste. She knew him so well, knew how skilled
and subtle he was in his political manipulations, and she experienced
a new and unpleasant dread that he had used his skill and subtlety on
Arthur.
Was it possible that Arthur’s haste was due to her father? A deep blush
mounted to Diane’s hair, transforming and beautifying her face so much
that Fanny was startled.
“How beautiful you look, Di! Are you--is it because you’re so happy?”
“I don’t think that’s just what I feel, Fanny. It’s too new to think of
like that. It only seems to pervade everything, and to change my point
of view. I’m--I’m not used to it yet, and I can’t think why papa was in
such a hurry to announce it!”
Fanny hesitated, looking down at the fire so as to keep the brim of her
hat between her eyes and Diane’s.
“Well, you know they’re great gossips, papa and your father. I suppose
he called up for something else, and then added that. Men are awfully
casual about our dearest concerns! Papa’s been asking the judge’s
advice about the changes at the seminary, you see.”
“Perhaps that was it,” Diane admitted with a feeling of relief. “He’s
anxious to have me settled down, too. It seems I’ve been on his mind,”
she added with an odd little laugh.
There was a second of hesitation before Fanny answered, and this time
Diane noticed a strange tone in the girl’s voice.
“You’re going to be married soon, then?”
Diane busied herself rearranging two old bronze vases on the high
colonial mantel. The storks and the coiled dragons that surrounded them
in high relief had been among the wonders of her childhood.
“I don’t know--how should I? You see, Fanny, Mr. Faunce is going to be
made the head of the new expedition, but papa doesn’t want him to go.
He wants him to stay here and go into politics.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fanny, just above her breath.
“But I want him to go.”
“Oh!” her visitor gasped again. “Why, he might die, too! If I were you,
I’d never let him go!”
Diane’s eyes kindled with the look of one who visions far-off glories.
“I would gladly go with him!”
There was a little pause, and then Fanny spoke with an effort.
“I hadn’t thought of that. Of course you could, Di, you’re so heroic!
You measure up to all this great endeavor. That’s what I told him just
now.”
“You told him? Where did you see him, Fanny?”
“I met him as I came past the Gerry house. He and the doctor were just
coming out together, and I congratulated him.”
Diane stopped her play with the bric-à-brac and stood with one hand
still on the tallest vase, looking down on the top of Fanny’s big hat.
“Was he with Dr. Gerry this morning? How did he manage in the snow, I
wonder? Did they have the sleigh?”
Fanny looked up, and their eyes met.
“He said he knew very little about the storm. He spent the night with
Dr. Gerry.”
Diane made no reply. In the ensuing silence she turned to the mantel
and, lifting down the vase, began to wipe a little dust from the
elaborate design at its mouth. It was quite a long time before she
replaced it.
XIII
DIANE’S engagement created a stir of pleasure and pride in Mapleton,
but very little surprise. It was said on all sides that it had been
expected. New York and Washington would find it news, and it might do
to cable to London and Paris, where Faunce was already recognized; but
Mapleton had been anticipating it for weeks. Of course, both young
people were overwhelmed with felicitations. Faunce, flushed with a
new kind of pride and a joy that disguised his secret pain, appeared
even more winning than usual, while Diane, if her happiness was more
subdued, was equally charming.
As soon as Judge Herford’s lumbago relaxed its grip, he gave a little
dinner to announce his daughter’s engagement, and it proved a great
success. Even Fanny Price, pretty and studiously gay, helped to keep
the ball rolling, while Diane, in a simple gown that exactly suited
her, had never looked more lovely. No one could blame Faunce for the
infatuation that he was at no pains to conceal. Their happiness found
a response in nearly every heart, recalling the ancient apothegm that
“all the world loves a lover.”
Almost immediately after this occasion, too, there began to be a report
that the marriage would take place within a few weeks, for Arthur
Faunce, in spite of his recent engagement and Judge Herford’s political
dreams, had accepted the command of the new antarctic expedition. He
was to succeed not only to Overton’s work, but to Overton’s honors.
If it seemed strange that he should elect to leave his prospective
bride so soon, all gossip was silenced by Diane’s own enthusiasm. It
was her wish, she said, that Arthur should complete the great task that
he had undertaken, and should carry the expedition through to a final
triumph. She believed in it. Her soul seemed to rise above fear and
doubt, and her beautiful eyes were fixed on the visionary glory of a
finished achievement.
It was an open secret that her father had consistently opposed the
expedition, and had tried to induce his future son-in-law to enter
politics; but Diane had overruled him, people whispered, and it was her
inspiration that had fired Faunce to renewed effort. It was an open
secret, too, that she was planning to accompany him for at least part
of the journey. They would be married just before the ship sailed, and
she would go with her husband, sharing his hardships and his dangers as
far as a woman could follow in the perilous path of the explorers.
“I can’t bear to let her go,” the irate judge told Dr. Gerry; “but
she’s set her heart on it, and I’ve told Arthur that it’s up to him to
see that she’s kept out of danger. We can do that without her finding
us out until the last moment. When he comes back”--the judge smiled
grimly--“then comes my turn--politics and a safe road to fame!”
Dr. Gerry refrained from comment. He was the only one who had not
expressed enthusiastic approval. All the other neighbors and old
friends seemed to consider it an occasion for great rejoicing, an honor
and distinction to Mapleton, since Faunce was already an international
character, and was so soon to lead another important expedition.
It remained for the dean, however, to disturb Mrs. Price’s satisfaction
in an engagement so poetic and distinguished, as she herself described
it.
Dr. Price, called to New York on various occasions, returned by late
trains, and one night, delayed beyond reason, he arrived after the
household had retired. His entrance roused Mrs. Price from her dreams,
and, while the dean was preparing to go to bed, they carried on a
disjointed conversation through the open door of his dressing-room,
made up of questions on her part and abstracted answers on his. But he
had something on his mind, and finally emerged to plunge into the topic
that had so recently absorbed the village.
“My dear, I’m not sure that Diane’s making such a fine match,” he
remarked. “It’s the second or third time that I’ve met Faunce prancing
around in lonely places at all hours.”
Mrs. Price sat up in bed.
“My dear Edward, do you suppose he drinks?”
The dean shook his head thoughtfully.
“I spoke to him, and I don’t think he knew me at first. His wits seemed
to be wool-gathering.”
“Perhaps, Edward, he’s--he’s seeking a light!” she whispered in an awed
tone.
The dean looked unconvinced.
“He’s a young man, Julia, and not religious. There’s something odd
about it. You remember Overton? You could feel his strength--he seemed
fairly to give it out. If he’d been a professing Christian, I believe
he could have led a host; but Faunce----” Dr. Price stopped and stared
meditatively into space.
“But he’s so handsome, Edward, and so much in love! I’ve often thought
he looked inspired, like that picture--you remember it?--Andrea del
Sarto’s young St. John. I think it’s very touching if his grief for
Overton has unbalanced his mind. It’s such a perfect instance of
friendship, I suppose the judge would call it a case of Orestes and
Pylades, but I can only think of David and Jonathan. I hate heathen
analogies! You take my word for it, he’s grieving for Overton.”
The dean was skeptical.
“I’ve lived a long time, Julia,” he remarked dryly, “and I’ve never
known a young man to die of grief for his friend--or to lose his
reason, either.”
“Oh, Edward, you remember what is said about ‘greater love’?”
“Julia, Faunce didn’t lay down his life for his friend, and”--the dean
put out the light with a jerk, and his wife heard a decisive note in
his voice, as if his idea had gained momentum in the darkness--“I don’t
believe he’s got the courage to, either!”
“Edward!” she exclaimed with indignation.
The dean, however, refused to modify his opinion, and cut short the
conversation by promptly falling asleep.
Dr. Price had not been the only one to observe these nocturnal
wanderings of Arthur Faunce. They began to appear in certain vague
rumors that were afloat on the countryside. Two or three other belated
wayfarers had encountered the young explorer on his midnight rambles,
and his haggard looks attracted attention. That he was not well showed
in his brilliant eyes and the habitual pallor of his face, which was
flushed only in moments of excitement or pleasure.
Recently he had been forced to frame excuses to Diane, who had observed
the change in him, his forced gaiety, his frequent fits of abstraction.
He had attributed all this to the difficulties he was encountering in
his preparations for the new expedition, and he had succeeded in so
far enlisting her interest in his description of his plans that her
anxiety had apparently been disarmed.
He was aware, too--and the thought stung him--that Diane’s love
had none of that intimate tenderness which enables one mind almost
intuitively to understand the other, and one soul to feel the
overshadowing of its mate. He tried to comfort himself with the
assurance that it was best so, that he would not have it otherwise,
since he must keep his own secrets. Yet it cost him a pang to feel
that here, as everywhere else, the shade of Overton came between him
and perfect happiness. Even the triumph of his successful love was
chilled by the thought that in Diane’s heart he was second, and that
her girlish imagination clung to the memory of the lost leader who had
fallen, like the hero he was, on the road to glory.
His confession to Dr. Gerry, and the doctor’s subsequent efforts to
break the chloral habit, had effected only a temporary relief. He was
face to face with the shame of having laid bare his soul to another, of
having disclosed the mortal secret that ground his heart, to see only
contempt and condemnation in the eyes of his father confessor.
Nor had the doctor been content with secret adjurations. He had
tried his utmost to make Faunce release Diane, and, by some act of
self-immolation, to offer a kind of spiritual expiation for his
crime. To the sturdy old man the whole matter was intolerable. He
had no sympathy with complex natures like that of Faunce. He would
have declared that the possibilities of such a soul had to bear some
proportionate relation to the general economies of value; that to
try to expand Arthur’s spiritual horizon would be attended with the
difficulties encountered by the frog of the ancient story, which
lost its life in trying to expand its dimensions to the size of the
neighboring cow.
As for Faunce, the frantic impulse that had carried him to the
height--or the depth--of confession had expired almost as soon as the
words were uttered. It had seemed to him that confession would ease
his conscience, that the mere act of telling of his cowardice would
wipe out some of the score against him; but it had not proved so. He
was still haunted, and he had the added humiliation of the doctor’s
knowledge, the uneasy fear that an accident might lead to betrayal.
All these months his silence--so easy and so secure, since there was
no living man to contradict him--had covered his error. That was what
he called it to himself--an error. He could not call it a crime. Dr.
Gerry’s idea that it was like murder was inexpressibly shocking.
Faunce told himself that he was incapable of murder, that Overton had
been as good as dead, and that he left him--sorely against his own
will--to save himself from the same fate. Was it necessary that both
should die when one could be saved? Was it right that a young, strong
man should lay down his life rather than desert a frozen comrade, who
had barely enough vigor left in him to keep his heart beating an hour?
The idea seemed monstrous, when he thought of it. At the time he had
not thought of it; he had merely obeyed an overwhelming instinct and
fled for his life.
It was not his fault that Overton’s honors had fallen upon him like
a mantle of glory, that he had succeeded to Overton’s command. He
knew that old Dr. Gerry condemned him still more for grasping these
honors--which would never have come his way if he had returned with
the bare story of his flight; but he was not strong enough to decline
them. He knew that he would have been ruined forever had the truth been
known, but he had succeeded in saving himself. He had chosen to let the
snow and ice cover his desertion, and out of the wreck of his peace of
mind he had snatched at the mundane honors that came to him. They were
all he had, for his conscience was in agony, and the face of Overton
haunted him.
Sometimes, when he wandered at night, unable to sleep, he recalled the
torments of _Macbeth_. There were moments, dark and secret ones, when
the chloral was slow in taking effect, and his mind was clouded with
lurid visions. He felt himself one with the company of those who have
followed, through all the ages, in the bloody footprints of Judas
Iscariot. It was after such moments as these that he nearly yielded to
Dr. Gerry’s admonition.
“Go break off your engagement!” the doctor thundered in his ear. “What
right have you to marry a girl like Diane? If she knew, she’d never
forgive you. I tell you you’ve got to break it--you shall!”
But he did not. Instead, he pursued his course with a peculiar
obstinacy, a tenacity of purpose that amazed his counselor. He loved
Diane. It was the strongest passion he had left in the wreck of his
moral consciousness. He meant to snatch at happiness as he snatched at
honors and high repute, and to hold them almost by force.
He was tortured, too, by the thought that delay might in some
inexplicable way result in disaster, and he urged on Judge Herford’s
inclination toward an early marriage. They had planned, at first, that
it should take place just before the new expedition sailed. It was
welcome news when he was informed that the ship would be ready a month
earlier than had been expected, and that it remained for him either to
change the date of departure or to wait until the time originally set.
The message sent the blood to his heart with a mad rush of joy.
He would make Diane consent to an earlier wedding. Then he would
feel secure--secure of her at last--and he could set out as soon
as possible. Alone, he would dread the frozen wastes, but with
her--courage and high endeavor must be inspired by a love like his.
He would rise to the height of achievement, would expiate his past
failures in brilliant success. Then his conscience would surely absolve
him for not having uselessly laid down his own life because another man
had to die!
XIV
FAUNCE hurried to Diane at once with his tidings. As he approached the
house, he let his eyes rest on it with almost a feeling of ownership,
not unpardonable in a man who was soon to be united to the only child
of the owner. It might be said that after that he, too, would have a
claim upon it.
The house was old; it had been in the Herford family for two hundred
years. Looking at it, Faunce could distinguish the older portions,
the slant of the wide gables from the high ridge-pole, the small,
diamond-paned windows, and the stoop, which suggested a Dutch origin.
One of the ancient chimneys still towered high between the main
building and the sprawling extension; but modern taste and increased
family fortunes had added a bay window or two, and a wide Southern
veranda had increased the dignity and importance of Judge Herford’s
“mansion,” as it was called among the townspeople when they remembered
to drop the more familiar synonym--“the old Herford house on Broad
Street.”
Faunce liked it He liked its air of dignity behind trim hedgerows, its
embowered vines, and the wide-spread branches of the elm before the
door. He went up the path with the feeling that here, at last, there
were peace and security for him.
He found Diane in the library, bending over some sewing, which she put
away as he entered. She laughed softly as he bent to kiss her.
“You mustn’t come so often,” she chided, “if you want me to be ready
two months from now!”
He held her, looking down into her eyes.
“I want it sooner! Diane, the ship is ready. Can’t we be married in two
weeks?”
She did not reply. Instead, her eyes sank under his, and he felt a
quiver run through her. He thought of Overton again, with a pang of
jealousy, and tightened his hold.
“Diane, you’ll say yes? I must go, but I can’t go without you.
You--you’re not going to refuse?” he pleaded urgently, clasping her
with one arm, while with his other hand he lifted one of hers and
pressed it fervently against his cheek.
She did not withdraw her hand, but he felt that it lay cold and still
in his clasp. She was a long time in replying.
“Of course you’ll go, Arthur, but--not so soon! I couldn’t go so soon!
It seems too horribly hasty, as if I were in such a hurry to get
married that I couldn’t wait for any kind of dignity and ceremony!”
“It’s I who am in a hurry,” he rejoined quickly. “My darling, I can’t
feel secure! I keep thinking that you don’t really love me, and that
you’ll slip off and leave me at the eleventh hour.”
She laughed softly, a little tenderly. The warmth of his affection
seemed to enfold her in such a new security that she could not
understand what seemed to be, on his part, a haunting fear.
“I’m not like that, Arthur. I’ve always tried to be rather a loyal
person, dear; but I don’t like haste--in weddings!”
“But you must in ours,” he pleaded. “The ship can sail so much sooner.
I mean that it shall never sail without you, Diane! You don’t want to
make me more unhappy than I am?”
She withdrew herself a little from his embrace, looking up into his
face with serious eyes.
“Are you unhappy?” Then something that she saw there moved her deeply.
“Arthur, you’re not well! What’s wrong? Tell me!”
He hesitated; then he thought of using her evident anxiety to further
his purpose.
“I’m sick for the sea, dear, and to be off again--finishing the work.
Every day of delay tells on me; but I vow I sha’n’t go without you!”
She looked at him then, a light in her eyes, the charm of her face, so
delicate, so elusive, lending it a peculiar softness and glow.
“I don’t want you to go without me; but you must give me a little time.
Why, Arthur, I was working on wedding-finery when you came in!” she
admitted with a shy little laugh, glancing at the mass of fluff and
lace in the basket beside her.
“You don’t need it. You’re too charming for finery. Diane”--he caught
her hands again and drew her, half resisting, toward him--“make it
Wednesday at the latest!”
She shook her head.
“Shocking! I couldn’t!”
Then something in his look, in the troubled, handsome face bending
toward her, swept away her scruples. If she meant to marry him at all,
why quibble for delay, why beg off? She softened, and he read her
yielding in her eyes.
“Wednesday?” he repeated eagerly.
“Wednesday week,” she corrected.
Nor could he coax her to advance that day. She declared that she was
ashamed of such haste. They might as well run away and be done with it!
“That would be heavenly--no fuss, no feathers! I’m ready. Will you
come, Diane? There’s a parson across the road!”
She smiled absently, her eyes still on his face.
“Arthur, you’re not well, or you’re worried,” she declared
irrelevantly. “Won’t you tell me? I can see that there’s something on
your mind.”
He was startled, and reddened under her look.
“There’s nothing on my mind now, except Wednesday week!” he protested
steadily. “That’s far enough off to weigh upon me, isn’t it?”