Part 7

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?”

She shook her head, not altogether reassured. She began to feel vaguely that there was something between them, an impenetrable veil which seemed to screen his inner self, and that not even the love which he protested with such passion could dispel that impalpable reserve; but a certain pride in her kept her from pursuing her questions, and she let the matter drop.

XV

IN the hastened preparations for the wedding, Fanny Price came over to give her help. She and Diane directed the cards of invitation, and sorted out and arranged the presents that were to be displayed to the few intimates who could now witness the ceremony.

“You certainly have some lovely things,” was Fanny’s comment; “but it’s strange, isn’t it, the way people’s minds seem to run to oyster-forks? You’ve got eighteen dozen.”

Diane laughed.

“At least I can serve oysters! Here’s a beautiful fish-knife and fork, too. Perhaps they connect us with things from the sea because Arthur’s going to sail so soon!”

“I should think you were going to marry Neptune. Here are some fish-plates!”

“They ought to have added something especially for the expedition!”

Fanny occupied herself in arranging the silver.

“Aren’t you a little afraid of it, Diane? The thought of that frozen solitude frightens me. I’ve no courage!”

Diane made no immediate reply, and Fanny, giving her a sidelong look, discovered that she had stopped work and was looking out of the window with an absent air, her face quite colorless. The girl’s heart beat fast with a sensation almost of anger. She was sure, with her keen, girlish insight into such things, that at the moment Diane was thinking, not of Faunce, but of Overton.

Fanny’s heart leaped up in defense of her hero. She remembered him at her own fireside, with no eyes, no thought, for any one except Diane. She made a deliberate tinkle in spreading out more spoons and ladles.

“I should think he would hate to go. I’m sure he does, at heart--because of Overton,” she said a little sharply. “He loved Overton so much that I know he’ll feel it when he follows again in the same trail. He can’t help it!”

Diane turned slowly and resumed her own task of undoing endless packages.

“I thought, at first, he wouldn’t go,” she admitted quietly in a colorless voice; “but then something seemed to draw him back. I suppose it’s the lure of the pole. And I--I felt he had to go to finish the work.”

“But it wasn’t his work!”

“You mean----”

“It’s Overton’s. When he’s done it, he won’t get the credit of it. It’ll be finishing the work of Overton’s expedition, won’t it?”

“I--I suppose it will, in a way.”

Fanny laid down some teaspoons.

“You’ve got thirty-six dozen spoons and two soup-ladles. Yes, it’ll be finishing Overton’s work.” She looked up and met Diane’s eyes squarely. “Is that why you wanted him to go?”

Diane colored deeply, working hard at the knotted ribbon on another bundle.

“I hadn’t thought of it in that way, Fanny. I wanted Arthur Faunce to be something more than a--a second in the expedition. When a man is as great as Overton was, he overshadows everything.”

“I don’t see how you can feel that way when Mr. Faunce is so great himself. I don’t believe you really see it as it is, Di!”

“Oh, yes, I do! But then it wouldn’t do for me to say so much, would it?”

Fanny reflected.

“I think I should, if I were you,” she replied stubbornly.

Diane smiled.

“There’s one thing I’ve always loved in you, Fanny, and that’s your loyalty to your friends.”

“Oh, I get that from papa. It’s inherited, and hasn’t any original virtue. I’ve always said that papa would stick up for Satan himself if he happened to be an old acquaintance!”

It gave Diane a feeling of relief to laugh.

“I’m so glad,” she remarked, after a pause, which they spent in arranging the gifts, “that it’s your father who is going to marry us, Fan! I should hate to have a stranger do it. It seems to bring us all so close together, because I know your father loves us.”

“He loves you,” retorted Fanny with unconscious emphasis. “Diane, do you ever think about your father? What will he do when you’re away? Sometimes it seems so strange that we younger ones go off and make our lives as if they hadn’t mothered and fathered us so long.”

“It’s like birds going out of the nest, isn’t it, Fanny? I suppose it’s the law of life--what the scientists call evolution. But I do think of father. I hate to leave him. I shouldn’t leave him, if I didn’t know he would be well cared for. You know old Martha understands just how to cook for him. She knows what he likes better than I do--better, I think, than mama used to know; and old Henry takes care of him as faithfully as Dr. Gerry does. Besides, you’re all so near. It seems to me as if he would be better off. Arthur and I are going into a new land--a land of mist and mirage. I feel”--she was looking across at Fanny without seeming to see her--“that I am indeed setting out on a long journey. I’m taking with me the man who loves me; but I’m not sure--I’m not at all sure what’s beyond the soft, impalpable cloud that hangs like a veil just above the open sea of my dreams!”

Fanny was silent. After a moment Diane turned and went on with her work; but, as she picked up another package, she added in a more natural tone:

“Why don’t you answer me, Fan? Don’t you understand?”

“Yes, I think I do; but if I were you, I’m certain that I should know. I mean, if I were going to marry the man I loved, I’d be sure that the sun was shining behind that cloud!”

Diane slowly and carefully unwrapped the tissue that enclosed an ancient Venetian vase. It was a beautiful thing in design and workmanship, but she made no comment on its perfection as she set it carefully down on the table.

“But I’m not sure,” she confessed softly.

Fanny had now reached the limit of her endurance, and her silence left Diane free to pursue her own train of thought. It was this, perhaps, which led her, later on, to her talk with her father.

XVI

IT was the night before her wedding, and the judge, after a long day of busy arrangements, which had included a settlement of business matters with Faunce, at last found himself at rest in the old armchair beside his study fire. He had been too occupied and too ambitious to forward the fortunes of his future son-in-law to feel that the moment was drawing nearer and nearer when he must give up his daughter; but now, alone at his own fireside, he remembered that, and was amazed at the rush of keen regret that softened his mood.