Chapter III: Part 3

“He wasn’t conscious--I know he wasn’t conscious; he didn’t know when I went!” Faunce protested, as if the fact of Overton’s numbness to his desertion established an excuse. “When that terrible storm broke, there wasn’t a hope of saving him. We barely saved ourselves. I told the others to come with me to find the body. We found no trace!”

Faunce’s voice broke at last, and he hid his face in his hands. Without comment, the doctor leaned back in his chair again and gazed at him.

There was another pause, and then Gerry rose hastily and left the room, apparently on some urgent errand. When he returned, after an interval of several minutes, he brought a large, flat book with him. He found his visitor as he had expected, still sitting before the fire. Faunce had picked up the poker, and was idly adjusting a fallen log, as if he had at least partially recovered from his emotion; but the vacant expression in his eyes betrayed his total self-absorption. The doctor came to a chair opposite, and, opening the book he had brought, pointed to a rough map or diagram showing the progress of the Overton expedition.

“Now, tell me where you left him.”

Dropping the poker, Faunce leaned over and put his finger on the page.

“About there, as near as I can tell you.”

“Beyond hope of rescue?”

“Absolutely.”

The doctor closed the book.

“You knew he loved Diane Herford?”

“I had supposed so; he never told me.”

“Well, he did; and it’s fair to assume that she cared for him. He was the kind of a man a woman would care for. But you left him there and came back to ask her to marry you?”

Faunce flushed, and then broke out resentfully:

“I love her!”

The old man leaned back in his chair with a strange grimace, as if a nauseous draft had been offered to him and he had refused to taste it. Faunce, turning at the moment, saw the doctor’s expression, and it kindled his anger again.

“I told you that I love her, that I wouldn’t give her up if Overton came back from the dead!”

“You knew he couldn’t come back,” retorted the doctor. “You saw to that!”

Faunce stared at him in blank dismay.

“My God, do you think I killed him? Do you imagine that?”

“There are some fine shades, then, between abandoning him to die and actually killing him?”

“I’m not a murderer!”

Dr. Gerry laughed bitterly.

“I may be a coward,” Faunce pursued with rising passion, “but I’m no murderer! I swear to you, on my soul, that I never thought of Diane there. I never thought of anything but flight. It was a kind of madness. If it had been my brother, I should have had to do the same thing. I was mad, mad with fear!”

The doctor uttered an inarticulate sound, stooped, and, seizing the tongs, picked up a smoking log that had rolled out to the fender and pitched it back into the fire. The physical action seemed to relieve the tension of his feelings. He settled back in his chair and waited for Faunce to go on with his confession.

Dr. Gerry’s view of the tragedy seemed to have destroyed some remaining stronghold in the younger man’s mind. Faunce kept reiterating his protest in one form or another.

“Listen--I’m not a murderer! If I had killed him, I never should have returned here.”

“Oh, yes, you would! Ninety-nine men out of a hundred return to the scene of their crimes.”

“But I tell you I didn’t hurt a hair of his head! It was a choice between his life and mine, and I left him. It might not even have been a choice, for we should both have perished. If I had stayed, I should have died with him. It would have been heroic--but I didn’t. How many men would?”

“Did he leave Rayburn?”

Faunce reddened.

“No. He had a kind of bull-headed obstinacy--he would stay.”

“Ah! You tried to dissuade him?”

“I told him that we were risking all three lives, instead of one, by staying.”

“But he stayed?”

“He offered to stay alone. I stayed with him.”

“Had you the means to leave him? How about the dog-train?”

“We were short--one of the dogs had died; but the madness hadn’t seized me then. I helped him to the last. We were together when we buried Rayburn.”

“I remember you paid a tribute to his friendship when we were talking with Judge Herford. Do you think he would have left you?”

Faunce lifted his head at that, staring off into space with an unseeing look, his hands twitching nervously.

“No!” he said at last, hoarsely. “No, I can’t say so. He was a brave man, and I--is there any way of escaping a seizure like that? I’m ashamed of it. I’ve suffered horribly; but I--I have a horrible feeling that I might do it again, if I had to face it like that. I couldn’t have stood up to a fight. You--did you suspect me when you told that story of the soldier in the Philippines?”

The doctor was sitting with the tips of his fingers nicely fitted together. He seemed, at the moment, to be deeply engaged with them.

“I can’t say I did. I don’t think I had ever imagined just your situation, though I saw that you had something weighing on your mind.”

“It has nearly driven me mad! I can’t tell you why I did it. I obeyed an impulse, a madness. If I hadn’t we should both be down there now. My staying wouldn’t have saved him. You see how it was? You understand?”

“I understand that you obeyed a pretty universal instinct of self-preservation.”

“That was it!” cried Faunce eagerly. “It was an impulse. I wanted to live--God knows I wanted to live! I was willing to fight to live!”

The doctor nodded, silently watching him with a kind of curiosity that suggested a naturalist’s minute interest in a noisome insect.

“I wanted to live,” Faunce repeated. “It didn’t seem to be wrong to want to save myself.”

“Does it seem so now?”

Faunce raised a haggard face.

“It’s no longer a question of right or wrong with me. It’s no longer a question of life or death. I’m haunted!”

Gerry gave him a keen glance.

“I see--it has reached a point that’s worse than staying behind to die?”

Faunce rose and began to walk the floor again. The lamp on the table had nearly burned out, and the corners of the room were gloomy. The odd bits of pottery and an old skull--brought from some ancient excavations--gleamed uncannily in the shadows. The doctor, before the fire, refused to look in his direction now, and Faunce came back at last with a cry of desperation.

“It haunts me!” he repeated with a smothered groan. “I’ve told you in hope that I could exorcise the demon. I had to tell you! When I sleep I dream of it; when I’m awake I can still see it--that frozen waste and--Overton!”

Gerry nodded his head thoughtfully.

“It’s killing me!” Faunce went on. “I can’t sleep naturally. I’ve increased the dose, but I can’t sleep long. Look at my hands now!”

As he held them out, they were shaking like the hands of a palsy patient. Dr. Gerry eyed them; then he looked up keenly into the haggard face and wild eyes.

“And you’ve just asked a young girl to marry you!”

Faunce was silent. The older man’s tone was tinged with a contempt that stung him. He seemed to rally his forces, to pull himself together.

“I was a fool to tell you all this--a fool! It got hold of me--I don’t know what I’m doing when it gets hold of me. I came here to ask for something to make me sleep, and I’ve--I’ve stripped my soul naked!”

He was shaking again. The doctor rose and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Go over there and lie down on the lounge. I’ll give you something. If you don’t sleep, you’ll presently go to a madhouse. Lie down!”

Faunce stared, at first unyieldingly; but he was exhausted, and long hours of sleeplessness had wrecked his nerves. He turned without a word and threw himself on the lounge, burying his head in his arms. A smothered sob shook him from head to foot.

The doctor, measuring out a dose and approaching him, touched his shoulder sharply. Faunce groaned.

“My God!” he cried wildly. “Why did I do it? Why did I do it?”

The doctor bent down and held the glass to his lips.

“Drink this!” he commanded sharply.

Faunce looked up with glazed eyes, took the cup, and swallowed the narcotic. For a long while afterward he lay there, tossing restlessly. Once or twice he uttered a hoarse exclamation, of which Gerry took no notice.

The doctor sat by the fire, feeding it and listening. After a while he heard the sound of heavy and measured breathing. The narcotic had done its work--the tortured man slept.

Gerry rose quietly, extinguished the lamp, and pulled aside the curtains. It was morning. The storm had passed, and the earth lay under a white mantle. Every tree and every branch bore its feathery burden of snow. Through an exquisite lacework of sparkling ice he could see the wonder of a magnificent sky, still pink with sunrise.

He turned back and looked at the sleeper on the lounge. Faunce lay with one arm above his head, the other across his breast, an elaborate seal-ring on one of the white fingers. His face was slightly flushed, and the beauty of his regular features and fine head had never been more keenly revealed. He might easily pose as a hero of romance. He had all the outer attributes--physical strength, unusual beauty of features, and grace of manner--and he had won distinction by his service in the antarctic.

The doctor turned with a gesture of bewilderment and started to go up-stairs. As he did so, he heard some one at the door. Concluding that it must be an early patient, or perhaps a more or less urgent call, he went back, and, shutting the door of his study, locked Faunce in. Then he went himself to answer the ring.

On his door-step, muffled in furs, radiant and sparkling, stood Diane Herford. The doctor was guilty of a start of surprise. She saw it and smiled.

“The storm has torn down the wires, and I couldn’t phone,” she explained. “I want you to come over to breakfast. Papa’s not so well.”

He was aware of a feeling that was almost panic. Nothing on earth could be worse than that she should suspect Arthur Faunce’s state at that moment.

“I can’t come over to breakfast, Di,” he replied gruffly, drawing her out of the frosty air into the little entry. “What’s wrong with the judge? He was better yesterday.”

“He got excited and tried to do too much. He’s all bent over, and you know how he hates that. You’ve really got to come!”

She was standing in the hall, almost leaning against the study door, her dark furs enhancing the beauty of her bright skin and the charm of her eyes.

“I’ll come over presently. Put a hot-water bag on his back,” advised the doctor, with a haunting subconsciousness of the man on the lounge.

“Oh, but I want you to come to breakfast!” she argued. “Why can’t you come?”

He pretended to be angry.

“Why can’t I? I’ve been up all night, my girl, and I want my own way this morning?”

She commiserated him.

“I’m so sorry--what a shame! Of course you must rest. Papa isn’t really so ill, only I--I”--she hesitated with a charming smile--“I’ve got something to tell you!”

He turned a searching look on her.

“Yes?”

“I’m engaged to be married.”

She paused, waiting for him to guess her _fiancé_; but he remained obstinately silent.

“To Arthur Faunce,” she told him.

The doctor forced himself to hold out both hands to meet hers.

“You want me to congratulate you?” he demanded bruskly. “I sha’n’t! I’m going to congratulate him, instead. That’s the way to look at it.”

She laughed.

“Papa’s pleased, and I’m so glad that he is! But I won’t keep you from your rest now. Come over to lunch, instead of breakfast.”

She moved toward the door, her eyes smiling at him. There was something about her that seemed, to the doctor, not wholly happy. There was a tremulous note in her voice, and her eyes were too bright. They were at the door, and he suddenly laid his fatherly hand on her shoulder.

“Diane, do you love him? Are you following your heart?”

She did not answer immediately. Her gaze dwelt on the wide, snowy landscape before them. Then she looked up, and an exquisite blush softened her face.

“Yes,” she replied slowly, but with an engaging candor. “I couldn’t marry for any reason but that. I--I’m following my heart.”

XI

DIANE left Dr. Gerry’s house with a feeling that something had happened there--something apart from the commonplace fact that the overworked physician had been up all night. There had been a hint of it in the doctor’s face as he stood in the doorway watching her departure, his shrewd old eyes peering at her from behind his spectacles, while his close-shut lips seemed to be withholding something.

She wished that he had spoken out, that he had said a little more than the usual things that are said to a newly engaged girl. She did not know that if he could have told her anything, if it had not been part of the code of his profession to keep silence, her very admission of love for Faunce would have made it an impossibility for him to speak. His lips could never have framed the words that must destroy her happiness. To him she was still a child, and he could never have wilfully wounded a child.

The mysterious something in his face, however, had arrested her flow of spirits and checked the joy with which she had set out. As she turned to make her way back in an almost untrodden sheet of snow, the brilliant sparkle of sunshine on the frozen crust dazzled her sight so much that she stopped for a moment and pressed her gloved hands over her eyes to shut it out. Then she walked on rapidly, feeling the crisp cold, and aware that nothing had traveled that road before her but the milk-wagon, which had left deep ruts in the snow.

The atmosphere was translucently brilliant. It sparkled and scintillated, cutting out clear outlines and sharp shadows. Beyond the wide slope of the snow a long, dark line of woodland formed a background against the intense blue of the sky. On either hand the houses, large and old, were set well back from the road, with an independent detachment that gave an impression of stately indifference to the passer-by. But Diane knew that they had never been indifferent to her. She was Judge Herford’s daughter, and she had shown herself more than worthy of certain social traditions that had made her family an important one in the county and the State.

Some members of it, indeed, had achieved international distinction, and it had been rather expected that the beautiful daughter of a distinguished lawyer would make a brilliant marriage. It could scarcely be said that she was doing this in marrying Arthur Faunce; but there was a glamour about the young explorer, a prophecy of still greater achievement, that made him perhaps the most picturesque figure of the day. It was not this notoriety, however, nor even the promise of his success, that had won Diane. It was some subtler, more complex influence that had swayed her mind, while her heart had been touched at first by the very bond that had made him Overton’s comrade and the heir of Overton’s greatness.

As she walked homeward along the frozen road, she was trying to collect her thoughts, to bring herself fairly face to face with this new crisis in her life, to find the real key to that sudden emotion which had swept her into the arms of Faunce.

As she had looked about her in the brilliant morning, on her way to Dr. Gerry’s, she had felt so sure of her love that she could allow herself to dwell on the memory of Overton as something at once beautiful and sacred, but remote. She had told herself that he had never been an actual lover, only a figure that her girlish imagination had clothed in those attributes. He had left her free, and she had a right to suppose that he would not have greatly cared if she married a man who loved her so much that he had told her he could never be happy without her. She knew, of course, that such a declaration was exaggerated; yet she could feel the positiveness of Faunce’s actual devotion, as she had felt the charm of his good looks and his winning ways.

But now, as she slowly and soberly returned, with the chilly memory of Dr. Gerry’s face, she began to question herself a little. She wondered if she had indeed followed her heart so faithfully, or had only yielded to a love that had touched her very deeply at a moment when she felt solitary and bereaved.

Her eyes followed the long, unbroken reaches of snow until they rested on the dark-blue line of the distant water. As she sensed the intense cold and saw the sparkle of ice, her mind went back to the polar wastes, and she found her eyes filling with tears as she thought of the man who had fallen exhausted and alone. The face of Overton, so unlike the face of Faunce, rose before her. The strong, irregular features, the clear, dark-blue eyes under the straight, slightly frowning brows, the decisive mouth and chin--how well she remembered them! Though they lacked Faunce’s classic beauty, they possessed an absolute assurance of strength and repose.

Where the more facile and graceful Faunce would break or yield, Overton had exemplified those granite qualities of soul and body that belong by right to the leaders of men. He would always be that to her, Diane thought pensively as she walked more slowly, prolonging her return journey. He would always be a splendid figure at the horizon of her imagination.

If he had not loved her--and perhaps he had not, after all--she could think of him more openly, sure that Faunce would understand. For Faunce had loved him, too. It was that, she remembered with a thrill of relief; it was that which had drawn them together. She could still hear the touching tone in Arthur’s fine voice when he paid his tribute to Overton that first night at the dinner, which seemed now so long ago.

“The best friend man ever had!”

How it had touched her sore heart then; how it touched her now! How beautifully he had accepted the fact that she had cared for Overton first; how splendidly he had shown himself above the meanness of jealousy of the dead!

She was glad that she had told him. Some girls would have been silent when there had been no actual engagement; but she could not deceive a man who loved her as Arthur Faunce did. When she gave him her heart, she gave him the right to know that she had loved Overton first. Yet did he, could he, really understand how much--how very much--it had mattered to her? In the midst of her walk Diane stopped short.

“What am I doing?” she cried to herself. “What am I doing? I’ve just promised to marry one man, and--and I’m crying out here in broad daylight over another!”

“But you told him, you warned him!” replied an inner voice. “You have a right to go on feeling just the same as you did before.”

“But I’ve no right to marry Faunce if I love another man more!” she cried again, arguing with the unseen ego.

Then, in the rustle of the wind in the bare trees, and the crash of ice falling from their boughs, she seemed to hear an answer--a sublime voice that reassured her. Overton was dead. He was only a dim and glorious presence now. He had entered that sphere where they neither marry nor are given in marriage; how could it matter to him what she did?

She went on, quickening her steps, trying to reassure herself. She recalled Faunce, the warm certainty of his affection, the nearness of his presence. She told herself that she was happy, that she was right, that she had followed her heart.

XII

THAT assurance remained with her later on, when she and the judge sat down to a slightly belated breakfast. It had so far tranquilized her mood that she could chat with him across the table about Dr. Gerry’s sleepless night and the storm, while she poured out his coffee and put in the requisite amount of sugar and cream with a firm and graceful hand.

“I saw two telegraph-poles down,” she said. “The drifts have completely filled the hollow below Skerry’s Hill.”

The judge looked up sharply from his breakfast.

“Faunce had to cross that bridge. I wonder if he got home all right!”

She was a little startled, and then she smiled reassuringly.

“Why, of course, papa! It was early when he left. It was only snowing a little then; don’t you remember?”

“How did I know?” her father retorted with something like a growl. “This lumbago keeps me doubled up like a jack-in-the-box!”

“It’s too bad! I did hope Dr. Gerry had got the better of it, or had helped you to get the better of it; but I suppose this dreadful weather is sure to retard the case.”

“There isn’t any cure for it. I’ve told Gerry so a dozen times. If it stayed continuously, I should only be fit for a menagerie; but it’s intermittent, thank Heaven! By the way, Di, where’s the newspaper?”

“It hasn’t come; I suppose the trains are stalled. They said something about trouble on the line between here and New York. When I was passing Sidney’s, on my way this morning, I heard the men talking at the door. You had last night’s paper, papa, didn’t you?”

“As if I wanted stale news!” he retorted, going on with his breakfast. “I saw something about the English expedition returning from the antarctic. They must have had some delays, but they’ll crow over the venture, I suppose. They seem to have made good. If only Overton had lived!”

She pushed her plate aside, though she had scarcely tasted her food, and clasped her hands on the edge of the table, suddenly aware that her fingers were not quite steady.

“I didn’t notice the article. What did it say? I’m sure, quite sure, that Arthur did all he could to finish the work, even after--their fearful loss.”

“Very likely he did, my dear; but if these Englishmen got ahead of him--steal a march on him, as it were--he hasn’t won much. Besides, they’ve saved their ship. I saw there would be a great reception for them in London. There’s nothing but disappointment in that polar business. I want Faunce to give it up. I’ll put him in politics here.”

She looked thoughtfully across the table at her father’s gray head, his massive face, and his keen eyes bent on the table, while his strong hands plied his knife and fork. The stooping of his big frame suggested nothing of the weakness of age. His personality, dominant and resourceful, seemed as immovable as rock.

“I’d rather you didn’t, papa,” she said quietly. “I want him to go on--to finish the work he’s begun. He’s put his hand to the plow, as it were, and he mustn’t turn back.”

Herford again looked up sharply.

“That’s a strange sentiment from a girl who’s supposed to be in love! Don’t you know it’s a terrible risk for a man? Have you forgotten Overton so soon?”

She rose from the table and went to the window, standing there, looking out. He could see only the slender grace of her young figure and the slight droop of her brown head.

“I shall never forget him,” she replied without looking at her father. “I remember so well what he was, what he did, what he surely would have become had he lived, that I don’t want Arthur to remain in his shadow, to be so much less than he was. If there’s anything great in a man’s soul, I think it’s wrong to choke it with weeds, and--and----”

“You think the political weed is very suffocating?” her father commented dryly. “As far as that goes, you’re right, my dear; but I’ve managed to keep a little above the worst growth all these years, and it’s possible that Arthur might do some weeding out. Reform is not only a fad--it’s a fact.”

“You’re made for that kind of a life, papa; you can stand like a rock 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?”

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.