Part 3

In the interval between the two expeditions much had happened. Overton had become an acknowledged force in the world of adventure, and Faunce was aware that he had set his heart on the one girl who had remained to both of them the sweetest and most charming reminder of their young days at Mapleton. That Diane, too, had outgrown their early environment and matured into a gracious and accomplished woman of the world seemed only fitting and natural; and Faunce knew, long before the ill-fated ship sailed from New York, that the young leader had left his heart behind him.

Faunce had felt a thrill of satisfaction, too, that under that supreme test he had not failed to keep his faith with his comrade and benefactor. Loving Diane himself, he had stood aside and left the field free to his rival. Whatever misunderstanding had obscured their parting, he had not been at fault. He had found some consolation, in the midst of his discomfiture, in the fact that he had demonstrated his own spiritual growth, and had proved to himself that he was now above those mean devices which, in his boyhood, had sometimes won for him immunity from punishment, or a reward that was not rightfully his.

The expedition had sailed amid the thunder of salutes from the war-ships in the harbor, and for the second time Overton followed the ill-omened star that led him toward the south pole. All these things came back to Faunce with fatal clarity as he leaned there, under the pallid October sky, his hand on the worn railing of the old bridge that he had crossed many a day on his way to school.

But at this point in his recollections--when the fated ship, brilliant with flags, receded slowly, like a fantom, into the mists which on that day had shrouded the Narrows--Faunce shuddered and passed his hand over his eyes. His reverie was broken. He could no longer recall the past without seeing the wraith that seemed to rise from the very mist over the brook and to shape itself before him, as it had shaped itself hundreds of times already, into a vision of Overton as he had seen him last.

There, in that secluded spot, under the fitful moon, that face--rugged, strong, beautiful with spiritual power--rose from the vapors. Faunce saw it as he had seen it last, stricken with the awful look of death, pallid and calm, a smile on the lips, the eyes closed. Solitudes, vast, white, inexorable, the peaks of blue ice, the mirage that mocked and deluded, only the shriek of the wind to break the silence that drove men mad.

That drove men mad! That was it! That must be what possessed him now, Faunce thought--madness!

He could never escape that vision, never quite cast it out. All the laurels he had won, the applause, the eager friendships that seemed to await him, were but empty mockery when he had only to close his eyes to find himself in the presence of that terrible vision, to feel the deadly chill strike again to his heart, to hear the howl of the wind on those polar wastes.

What had tempted him to go there a second time? What infatuation had led him to follow Overton? Faunce had never shared his leader’s enthusiasm, had never had his courage; but he had followed him like a little dog at the heels of a big St. Bernard, led by admiration rather than love, held by fear rather than zeal.

He remembered what he had just said to Diane--his assurance of his devotion to Overton; and it seemed to him now like an attempt on his part further to imperil his own salvation by deliberately deceiving her. Yet he had really loved Overton. It was his love for the dead man, the remembrance of his boyish gratitude, that was driving him on, goading him to misery.

Of what avail was the rescue that had brought him and his surviving comrades out of that frozen inferno, and had crowned him with the laurels that Overton had sought, if he could reap no reward, not even grasp the triumph of their success, their victory over a rival English expedition, without paying the price in a mortal agony that had all but extinguished the light in his soul? He had returned to find himself a hero, to be fêted and honored in New York and in Washington, to be mentioned with mingled envy and praise in London and Paris--and he could not sleep!

At first he had thought that he could conquer his weakness, that there was courage enough left in him to force forgetfulness; but there was not. The thing possessed him, pursued him, harried him, and he had come to the end of his endurance. He began to dread night as a condemned man must dread the final summons. In the daytime, and among his fellows, he believed that he bore himself almost with the air of a hero. He had, indeed, thought his performance perfect, but Dr. Gerry had discovered a cleft in the armor, had put his finger on a sore spot.

Was it possible, then, that others saw it, too? That Diane herself 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!”