the old gate, which had an annoying habit of coming off one hinge--a
habit that had clung to it ever since his boyhood--and to feel that
it was admitting him again into the commonplace existence that he had
left behind him when he started out. There were the same old piazza,
the same old dog still asleep on the door-mat, the two porcelain
jardinières, with the same straggling begonias that he had seen there
spring after spring. There, too, was the parrot that Overton had
brought from South America.
He went in, and was half-way up-stairs when a messenger-boy’s sudden
arrival on the front porch aroused the dog and the parrot. The boy had
brought a telegram, and wanted fifteen cents for carrying it over from
the station. Overton paid the money and tore open the yellow envelope.
The message was from Faunce.
You are needed to see party about expedition. Can you come at once?
Overton stared at the telegram in some amazement. He had purposely
concluded his own connection with the expedition to give Faunce a free
hand; he could not imagine what had occurred to bring such a summons.
He had arranged with Asher to silence all questions about his own
rescue. The English accounts had been too vague, so far, to arouse
active suspicions, and the very fact that he had given over the command
to Faunce had silenced all rumors. What, then, was the necessity for
his immediate presence--a necessity so great that Faunce had summoned
him? Undoubtedly there was something unexpected.
He thrust the despatch into his pocket and looked at his watch. He
could easily catch an evening train; but, if he did, he might have to
see Faunce at his apartment, and he could scarcely hope to avoid seeing
Diane also. It was more than he felt able to do at the moment. It would
be better for both of them if they did not meet, he thought--at least
not now.
He decided to wait until morning, and wrote a reply to the telegram,
sending it back by the boy, after paying a further subsidy. Thus fate,
playing strange havoc with the affairs of mice and men, held him back
a moment when his very presence might have turned the scale, when the
flame of that candle in the wind which has been likened unto the life
of a man might have been shielded a little longer in the hollow of his
hand.
XXXVII
EVERY time Diane tried to pour out a cup of coffee for Arthur Faunce
she experienced a feeling of awkwardness. It seemed as if she had
thrust herself back into a place that was closed to her. She could
not recover the habitude of the _tête-à-tête_ breakfast-table. The
man sitting opposite to her did not seem so much her husband as some
specter of the man she had married.
Perhaps, she reflected, it was because she had never really known
him, because his revelation of himself had destroyed the old order of
things, and she had not yet had time to accustom herself to the new.
She kept viewing him from a new standpoint all the time, as if she had
discovered a stranger. No matter how hard she tried she could not get
back to the old angle, the angle that had showed him as a hero and her
lover. She was not even sure that he loved her any more, for she saw
that the old confidence could not be reestablished.
He, in turn, regarded her as an outsider, a hostile critic at his own
fireside, not his helpmeet and his best friend. As she realized this,
she felt the shock of it--felt that he, too, had reason to complain.
It was harder because they could not speak out and get it over, and
find some common ground on which to build up their lives. It was always
a relief when they could get away from each other. She felt it so, and
she was sure that he did.
If it went on like this, either it would grow to be intolerable, or
they would sink into the kind of apathy that she had seen so often--the
apathy of a badly mated pair, when neither of them has the courage to
find a way of escape. She tried to avoid it, she tried to throw into
her manner something of her repentance, her will to do better; but he
did not meet her half-way. After the first burst of feeling, the relief
of getting her back, he had relapsed into a kind of sullen reserve. He
had had a terrible experience in confessing to her, and she felt sure
that he had determined never to risk it again; but she ventured, now
and then, on commonplace questions, if only for the sake of keeping up
conversation.
“I suppose you’re about ready now?” she asked politely, retiring behind
the coffee-urn and pretending to be busy with her own cup. “I saw that
you and Captain Asher seemed to be quite sure of your arrangements.”
He nodded without looking up from his plate.
“We’ve been ready almost a week. There are only one or two things to
delay us now--some changes in the crew at the last minute.”
“You don’t have to see to that, surely?”
She spoke idly, for something to say, and she was surprised when he
raised his eyes quickly to hers and she caught a look of furtive alarm
in them.
“No, I don’t have to see to that; but some of the old men have been
troublesome. They wanted their berths back with more pay; and then
we’ve lost two we tried to get. It’s hard to get tried men to volunteer
for the sort of trip we’re making.”
She assented to that, and tried to finish her breakfast. Having no
appetite, the pretense of eating was difficult. She saw him looking
again at his watch--the third time since they had sat down at their
meal.
“Have you an appointment?” she asked gently. “You seem in a hurry.”
He thrust his watch back into his pocket. “I’m not in a hurry, I--can
you remember what time the trains are due from Mapleton, Di?”
She was startled. Her thoughts leaped to her father, and she felt a
queer tightening in her throat.
“There was one due at a quarter to eight, and”--she looked up at the
clock on the mantel--“if that’s right, there’s one due now.”
“Perhaps he’s coming on that!” he exclaimed, rising from his seat and
going to the window.
His tall figure and wide shoulders rather obscured the light as he
stood there, and she viewed him with a return of the feeling that she
did not know him.
“Are you expecting any one from home?” she asked weakly, laying down
her fork.
He answered without looking around.
“I wired for Overton last night--he’s up there.”
She gasped, but the sound was so slight and so soft that he did not
hear her. For a moment she was overwhelmed with a rush of feeling. It
seemed impossible that he could have sent for Overton on any business
that did not involve her, for her thoughts had been filled with
Overton. She had struggled against it, but it had been too strong for
her.
She kept contrasting the two, and always, in the end, she seemed to
vision that moment of terrible cowardice, the flight of a strong man
who was leaving an injured comrade to die. Now, as she looked at him,
she saw it again, and it overwhelmed her. She clutched at the edge of
the table and held herself erect in her place, but her face was ashen.
“What’s the matter?” she managed to ask at last. “I--I thought he’d
given over the command long ago.”
“So he has.” Faunce swung around from the window suddenly and looked
at her. He saw, at a glance, the struggle in her mind. “This is about
something else--something I thought he’d like to do--for your sake.”
The color came back into her face; she blushed up to her hair.
“What do you mean?”
He continued to regard her, his haggard eyes seemed to cling to her
face, but there was an expression of bitterness about his lips.
“Oh, you know! He’s been keeping this whole thing quiet to shelter you.
There’s something new come up--I’ve tried to deal with it, and perhaps
I’ve failed; I can’t tell yet. But I wasn’t willing to take any risk,
so I wired for him.”
“Do you mean you’re asking him to do something more--to sacrifice
something more for my sake?”
“My dear girl, don’t worry. He answered the telegram, but he hasn’t
come.”
She had risen from her seat, but now she sank back into it again with a
sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad!”
He began to walk about the room in his usual restless way.
“You won’t be later on!” he muttered.
She forced herself to speak then.
“If you mean it’s about that--about what happened down there--I think
I’d rather it were known. I’d rather pay for it in some way, Arthur,
than to feel that any one was protecting us, saving us as an act of
mercy.”
“You didn’t do it!” he retorted dryly.
“But it’s mine now--don’t you see?” she went on courageously. “It’s
mine, because I’ve taken it up. I’m your wife--I share it all.”
He gave her a strange look. She thought that he was going to break down
the barrier at last and speak, that there might yet be hope for them,
but he was interrupted. Some one rang the bell in the little outside
vestibule, and he started at once to answer it, believing that Overton
had come.
Diane thought so, too, and sprang from her chair, looking about for
a way to escape without crossing the room where she was sure to come
face to face with the visitor. As she reached the door that led into
her bedroom, she saw that the caller was a rough-looking man dressed
like a sailor, and that he and Faunce stood talking--apparently
bargaining--near the hall entrance. It was simpler for her to return to
her seat at the table and wait until the stranger was gone.
She went back with such a feeling of relief that she found courage to
pour out another cup of coffee, and to drink it slowly, while she was
trying to think. She was going to accompany Faunce on the expedition,
and she had already packed. There was little or nothing left for her
to do, except to write a last letter to her father, entreating him to
think of her while she was away, and to try to forgive her for doing
what she felt it was right for her to do--for returning to her husband.
She was thinking of this, trying to frame it in her mind, when Faunce
suddenly returned. She looked up as he entered, and saw that his
usually pale face was deeply flushed, and his eyes had the feverish
look that she had noticed when she first came back. Something in his
expression made her turn in her seat and exclaim:
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
He came over to the table and stood leaning on it with both hands, his
expression heavy with some pent-up emotion.
“I want to borrow some money immediately,” he said slowly. “I’ve put
about all my spare cash in--can you lend me anything, Diane?”
She saw his embarrassment and rose quickly.
“I’ll get my check-book. I haven’t got much, Arthur. You know papa’s
angry, and he’ll give me nothing but my mother’s; but I can spare you
five hundred dollars, I think.”
He hesitated.
“That’ll do,” he said after a moment.
She left him, and returned almost immediately with her check-book.
There was a desk in the corner, and she went to it and sat down,
looking hastily over her accounts. Her heart sank, for she had a
sudden swift intuition that the man in the next room wanted it. Was it
blackmail? She dared not ask, but she looked up.
“I can spare you six hundred.”
Faunce did not reply and she turned in her chair, looking back at him
over her shoulder. He was standing erect beside the table, his arms
folded on his breast and his head bent. She could not make out the
expression of his face, and she thought that he had not heard her.
She repeated her statement. He roused himself and raised his head.
“Never mind about it now,” he said. “I’ve thought better of it. I’ve
decided I can do without it.”
She turned completely around, facing him.
“Of course I should be glad to help you, Arthur.”
He thanked her, turning toward her with a look that suddenly softened
her mood, for his smile was tender and sad.
“I don’t want it,” he repeated. “I--I’ve just made up my mind. I’m
going out but I’ll be back as soon as I can. If Overton comes here,
tell him to go down to the pier; he’ll probably find me on the ship.”
She tried to stop him, to tell him that she would not be there to see
Overton, that she must go out on some errands; but apparently he did
not hear her. He left the room, and she heard some sharp talk outside
before he went out with his visitor and left her alone.
It was some time before she got control of herself and decided what
to do. The thought that she must face Overton again so soon was almost
intolerable; at the moment her sensation was one of sheer panic, and
she determined to escape it at any cost.
There had been no time since her return to secure a maid, and she had
been putting the apartment in order and setting aside the breakfast
things before the caretaker came to wash the dishes; but she did not
stop now even for such simple tasks as these. She hurried back to
her room and put on an outdoor dress and hat. Having picked up her
parasol and gloves, she was on her way to the outer door when it opened
suddenly and Overton himself stood on the threshold.
They stood speechless for a moment, looking at each other. Strange as
it seemed to her then, she was the first to recover her self-command.
“Arthur had to go out, but he wanted me to tell you that he’d gone to
the ship, and you might find him by going at once to the pier.”
His face changed and flushed deeply.
“I’ll go there immediately. I understand that I’m wanted, though I
don’t know why. But”--he hesitated--“before I go I want to ask--your
forgiveness.”
She was aware of a strange sensation, as if the universe moved under
her feet and the room was darkening before her eyes; but she rallied
all her strength as she tried to answer him.
“There’s--there’s nothing to forgive.”
“There’s so much to forgive that I feel--and I want you to know that
I feel--that the score between us, between your husband and myself,
is wiped out--or, rather, that it’s against me. I did him an injury
greater than his injury to me, and I was more cowardly--I tried to take
you away from him!”
“When you say that, you accuse me, too!” she replied, her voice
breaking a little. “I--it was worse for me than for you and----”
“No, no--not worse for you! I was the man, and I saw more plainly the
consequences to you, the ruin of your high purpose, of that beautiful
soul that I had worshiped in you. I tried”--he drew a long breath, his
eyes dark with emotion--“I tried to drag you down to my level, to play
upon your tenderness and your memories of our youth together. But when
your father told me--after I’d got over some of the anguish of losing
you, I--I thanked God that I’d done nothing worse, that I could come
here still and beg your pardon!”
“Don’t speak to me like that!” she exclaimed. “Don’t bring it back.
Let’s forget it, let’s forget there was ever a moment when we seemed
so--so near to each other, because it couldn’t be! There’s nothing
for me to forgive that I oughtn’t to ask you to forgive, too. And for
me--it was worse than for you. Besides that, we, my husband and I,
feel that we’re bound to you, that you’ve given up so much to shelter
him. I suppose I ought to thank you for that, too, but I can’t--I can’t
now!”
“There’s nothing to thank me for, nothing that I haven’t been glad to
do for your sake.”
As she spoke, he turned back toward the door. The edge of emotion was
worn so thin that a touch might break through, and he dared not stay
longer. But to Diane the moment had come with a revelation; she felt
her strength coming back to her with almost a feeling of relief. She
had passed through a great crisis, and she had returned to her husband.
It seemed to her that that bare fact suddenly armed her with a power of
resistance which she had never suspected she possessed, and her voice
was almost tranquil when she answered him.
“Whether it’s for my sake or for his, I do thank you! And there’s one
thing more I want to ask you. You’ve seen my father--do you think he’ll
ever be willing to forgive me?”
“I’m sure he will; he must. For the moment--you know how violently he
feels at first; but you’re all he’s got!”
Her eyes filled with tears, and Overton saw them.
“I must go,” he said gently. “For the last time--Diane, good-by!”
She held out her hand, and he clasped it warmly. There was a moment of
deep emotion, and she stood watching him as he turned and went slowly
out of the room.
XXXVIII
IT was late in the afternoon before Diane returned to the apartment.
After Overton’s departure she had found it impossible to stay there
alone all through the hours that must pass while she waited her
husband’s return. The crowd and hurry and noise in the streets had
helped her to pass through that inward crisis which had meant so much
to her. Silence and solitude would have beaten down upon her like rain
and drenched her with misery; but out in the open air, with that upward
glimpse of the sun which is all that the narrow streets permit to a
New Yorker, she began to rouse herself to face the days and weeks that
would lengthen out into years before her, if she lived, and would bring
no material uplift, unless--the thought shot through her mind as a ray
of sunshine sometimes penetrates a black forest--unless her husband
suffered some change of heart.
Something in him, something vague and elusive, but still tantalizing
her with a fleeting vista of change, had perplexed her. But his
attitude had been the same; it had been the same up to the moment when
he had decided that he would not use the loan.
The remembrance of that stung her with apprehension. Was there still
to be something to hide, something to fear? It would be intolerable if
it went on like that! She tried not to think of it, she tried to think
only of Overton’s reassurance about her father, and of the one thing
that gave her comfort--the fact that she had returned to her husband.
Her duty in that was now so clear to her that she wondered that she had
ever faltered, and the very fact that she had done so shamed her. Yet
she had been strong enough at last to see the right way and return to
it, and that was a reassurance.
It carried her through the day, and brought her back at last without
the shiver of dread that had shaken her the first time she found her
way to her husband’s quarters--a dread that she had never been able to
shake off after his confession. But now she came quietly back, stopping
for a moment where Overton had stood, and looking about her.
She was surprised that she felt none of the tumult and storm of the day
when he had held her hands in the golden mist, the day when she had
almost yielded, almost followed the call of her old love for him. She
was aware of a new quietude, an aloofness of spirit, and a great throb
of relief shot through her. She knew that her task would be easier,
that the way was smoothing before her feet.
She began to long keenly for the moment that she had dreaded--the
moment when they would embark for the antarctic, when she could plunge
into the dangers and fascinations of that perilous trail. By her very
presence she could lift and inspire the soul of Faunce until it rose at
last above that awful moment when he had fallen--a coward in the face
of death. The thrill of that thought made her turn quickly when she
heard his step outside. When he entered, she was standing by a table,
where she had just laid her hat and gloves.
But the sight of his face dashed all her newly acquired serenity to the
ground. She gave a strange little cry.
“Arthur, what is it?”
He did not reply for a moment, but, opening a couple of evening papers
that he had brought in his hand, he laid them down on the table in
front of her, sweeping his hand across some big headlines on the first
columns.
“It has all come out, Diane,” he said in a voice that was strangely
self-contained and emotionless. “See, it’s in the papers--you can read
it yourself.”
She gave one glance downward, caught the drift of the announcement, and
thrust the papers away. She was trembling now, but she spoke quietly.
“Please tell me how it all happened.”
He stood in front of her, his haggard face showing its wasted lines,
and his eyes still peculiarly brilliant.
“It didn’t happen; I told them.”
She made an inarticulate sound, which he supposed to be an expression
of horror and dismay, and the lines of his face hardened a little as he
went on, like a man forcing himself to a repugnant but necessary task.
“You remember the man who came here this morning?” She nodded without
speaking, and he went on: “I saw you thought he was trying to levy
blackmail, and you were right, he was. He’s one of the sailors who
belonged to the last expedition--one of those who met me on my
return--and he found out, in some way, more than the others. He felt
that I was a coward, and he built on it. He’s been bleeding me now
for nearly two months--ever since Overton returned. But this morning
I made up my mind, and, before he could use the little he did know, I
went to the men who have financed this expedition and told them exactly
what I did. I didn’t try to palliate it, and I don’t mean to; I’ve got
to suffer for it. I told them the truth, resigned my command, and saw
that it was given to Overton. He’s been made to accept it. The evening
papers got the story--you’ll find it there in all its details.”
As he finished speaking, he called her attention again to the papers,
pointing out the flaring headlines, which magnified the facts. Then,
as she made no reply, and he became convinced that her horror of his
deed had returned to reenforce the shame she must feel at his disgrace,
he went on steadily, without looking at her.
“Of course, I know how you feel--that I hadn’t the right to disgrace
you. That’s been Overton’s argument. When he came back, I thought that
the misery I’d endured was over, that the whole thing would come out,
and--since he was alive--I had only to face the humiliation and begin
life again. But he shackled me; he insisted on silence to save you,
he gave up his command to me, he yoked me until I felt that I was no
better than his slave, subject to his dictates, and--I knew he loved
you! It was intolerable. It’s best for a man to suffer his punishment,
and I’m going to take mine. For months I haven’t slept without a drug.
I’ve been a slave to chloral; but to-night I shall sleep, I’ve nothing
to hide, I’m no man’s slave, I can suffer, and I can stand up again.
But you”--his voice broke suddenly--“I’ve thought of you all day,
and I’ve come here to-night, Diane, to tell you that I can’t ask you
to bear my shame. There’s been a time when I felt you wouldn’t have
to bear it long, and I couldn’t help remembering what your father
said long ago about a man’s life being like a candle in the wind. I
thought mine might go out and free you, but it may not. I’m young and
strong--it may not!”
He paused, but still she did not speak. He looked around into her face,
his own twitching with pain.
“I couldn’t endure to see you unhappy. I’d--I’d rather set you free!”
She lifted her head then and met his eyes, and hers were beautiful.
“But--suppose I won’t take it, suppose I wouldn’t take it if I could?”
“I don’t understand. You know that this will ruin me. It’ll take years
for me to wipe it out, if I can ever do it.” He turned with a poignant
gesture and sank into a chair. “I’ve no right to pull you down. I know
how you despise my--my cowardice!”
“Yes,” she replied steadily, “I did; but now, Arthur, can’t you see
that you have done a very brave thing? You’ve paid--in your heart’s
blood--for it; you’ve given him what’s more to you than your life--your
hopes, your ambition, your reputation! When you said that about the
candle in the wind you mustn’t think of it as if it meant all that.
It’s a man’s life, not his soul--the flame of that may burn low and
flicker, but when it springs up, as yours has sprung up, in on act of
sacrifice and atonement, it lights the whole way upward and onward.
It’s--it’s like a power of growth, of immortal life!”
She stopped for a moment; then she took a step nearer and stood looking
at him, a light on her face that was clearer and purer than the light
of the setting sun, which shone in through the windows opposite and was
reflected on her slender figure and the soft, light color of her gown.
“I--I can’t tell you,” she went on, “how thankful I am--how thankful
that you’ve done it, that you’ve atoned, and, as you say, that you’re
free--free to begin again, to live it all down!”
As he turned his head slowly and looked up at her his face changed and
flushed deeply.
“I--your coming back saved me,” he said in a voice that thrilled with
feeling. “I wanted to kill myself, but you came back to me, and in some
way--I can’t tell how, but as simply as the coming of daybreak, the
change came into my heart. But I’ve had one thing to torture me, to
drive me on--I’ve felt--Diane, do you love him still?”
She came slowly toward him and knelt beside his chair, lifting her eyes
steadily to his.
“I thought I did, and there was once--when I was away from you--that I
was tempted. I thought my happiness lay that way, but now----”
He bent over her, his hands clasped hers and held them, his eyes
searched hers.
“But now, Diane?” he whispered hoarsely.
She smiled.