Part 18

“Never mind about it now,” he said. “I’ve thought better of it. I’ve decided I can do without it.”

She turned completely around, facing him.

“Of course I should be glad to help you, Arthur.”

He thanked her, turning toward her with a look that suddenly softened her mood, for his smile was tender and sad.

“I don’t want it,” he repeated. “I--I’ve just made up my mind. I’m going out but I’ll be back as soon as I can. If Overton comes here, tell him to go down to the pier; he’ll probably find me on the ship.”

She tried to stop him, to tell him that she would not be there to see Overton, that she must go out on some errands; but apparently he did not hear her. He left the room, and she heard some sharp talk outside before he went out with his visitor and left her alone.

It was some time before she got control of herself and decided what to do. The thought that she must face Overton again so soon was almost intolerable; at the moment her sensation was one of sheer panic, and she determined to escape it at any cost.

There had been no time since her return to secure a maid, and she had been putting the apartment in order and setting aside the breakfast things before the caretaker came to wash the dishes; but she did not stop now even for such simple tasks as these. She hurried back to her room and put on an outdoor dress and hat. Having picked up her parasol and gloves, she was on her way to the outer door when it opened suddenly and Overton himself stood on the threshold.

They stood speechless for a moment, looking at each other. Strange as it seemed to her then, she was the first to recover her self-command.

“Arthur had to go out, but he wanted me to tell you that he’d gone to the ship, and you might find him by going at once to the pier.”

His face changed and flushed deeply.

“I’ll go there immediately. I understand that I’m wanted, though I don’t know why. But”--he hesitated--“before I go I want to ask--your forgiveness.”

She was aware of a strange sensation, as if the universe moved under her feet and the room was darkening before her eyes; but she rallied all her strength as she tried to answer him.

“There’s--there’s nothing to forgive.”

“There’s so much to forgive that I feel--and I want you to know that I feel--that the score between us, between your husband and myself, is wiped out--or, rather, that it’s against me. I did him an injury greater than his injury to me, and I was more cowardly--I tried to take you away from him!”

“When you say that, you accuse me, too!” she replied, her voice breaking a little. “I--it was worse for me than for you and----”

“No, no--not worse for you! I was the man, and I saw more plainly the consequences to you, the ruin of your high purpose, of that beautiful soul that I had worshiped in you. I tried”--he drew a long breath, his eyes dark with emotion--“I tried to drag you down to my level, to play upon your tenderness and your memories of our youth together. But when your father told me--after I’d got over some of the anguish of losing you, I--I thanked God that I’d done nothing worse, that I could come here still and beg your pardon!”

“Don’t speak to me like that!” she exclaimed. “Don’t bring it back. Let’s forget it, let’s forget there was ever a moment when we seemed so--so near to each other, because it couldn’t be! There’s nothing for me to forgive that I oughtn’t to ask you to forgive, too. And for me--it was worse than for you. Besides that, we, my husband and I, feel that we’re bound to you, that you’ve given up so much to shelter him. I suppose I ought to thank you for that, too, but I can’t--I can’t now!”

“There’s nothing to thank me for, nothing that I haven’t been glad to do for your sake.”

As she spoke, he turned back toward the door. The edge of emotion was worn so thin that a touch might break through, and he dared not stay longer. But to Diane the moment had come with a revelation; she felt her strength coming back to her with almost a feeling of relief. She had passed through a great crisis, and she had returned to her husband. It seemed to her that that bare fact suddenly armed her with a power of resistance which she had never suspected she possessed, and her voice was almost tranquil when she answered him.

“Whether it’s for my sake or for his, I do thank you! And there’s one thing more I want to ask you. You’ve seen my father--do you think he’ll ever be willing to forgive me?”

“I’m sure he will; he must. For the moment--you know how violently he feels at first; but you’re all he’s got!”

Her eyes filled with tears, and Overton saw them.

“I must go,” he said gently. “For the last time--Diane, good-by!”

She held out her hand, and he clasped it warmly. There was a moment of deep emotion, and she stood watching him as he turned and went slowly out of the room.

XXXVIII

IT was late in the afternoon before Diane returned to the apartment. After Overton’s departure she had found it impossible to stay there alone all through the hours that must pass while she waited her husband’s return. The crowd and hurry and noise in the streets had helped her to pass through that inward crisis which had meant so much to her. Silence and solitude would have beaten down upon her like rain and drenched her with misery; but out in the open air, with that upward glimpse of the sun which is all that the narrow streets permit to a New Yorker, she began to rouse herself to face the days and weeks that would lengthen out into years before her, if she lived, and would bring no material uplift, unless--the thought shot through her mind as a ray of sunshine sometimes penetrates a black forest--unless her husband suffered some change of heart.

Something in him, something vague and elusive, but still tantalizing her with a fleeting vista of change, had perplexed her. But his attitude had been the same; it had been the same up to the moment when he had decided that he would not use the loan.

The remembrance of that stung her with apprehension. Was there still to be something to hide, something to fear? It would be intolerable if it went on like that! She tried not to think of it, she tried to think only of Overton’s reassurance about her father, and of the one thing that gave her comfort--the fact that she had returned to her husband. Her duty in that was now so clear to her that she wondered that she had ever faltered, and the very fact that she had done so shamed her. Yet she had been strong enough at last to see the right way and return to it, and that was a reassurance.

It carried her through the day, and brought her back at last without the shiver of dread that had shaken her the first time she found her way to her husband’s quarters--a dread that she had never been able to shake off after his confession. But now she came quietly back, stopping for a moment where Overton had stood, and looking about her.

She was surprised that she felt none of the tumult and storm of the day when he had held her hands in the golden mist, the day when she had almost yielded, almost followed the call of her old love for him. She was aware of a new quietude, an aloofness of spirit, and a great throb of relief shot through her. She knew that her task would be easier, that the way was smoothing before her feet.

She began to long keenly for the moment that she had dreaded--the moment when they would embark for the antarctic, when she could plunge into the dangers and fascinations of that perilous trail. By her very presence she could lift and inspire the soul of Faunce until it rose at last above that awful moment when he had fallen--a coward in the face of death. The thrill of that thought made her turn quickly when she heard his step outside. When he entered, she was standing by a table, where she had just laid her hat and gloves.

But the sight of his face dashed all her newly acquired serenity to the ground. She gave a strange little cry.

“Arthur, what is it?”

He did not reply for a moment, but, opening a couple of evening papers that he had brought in his hand, he laid them down on the table in front of her, sweeping his hand across some big headlines on the first columns.

“It has all come out, Diane,” he said in a voice that was strangely self-contained and emotionless. “See, it’s in the papers--you can read it yourself.”

She gave one glance downward, caught the drift of the announcement, and thrust the papers away. She was trembling now, but she spoke quietly.

“Please tell me how it all happened.”

He stood in front of her, his haggard face showing its wasted lines, and his eyes still peculiarly brilliant.

“It didn’t happen; I told them.”

She made an inarticulate sound, which he supposed to be an expression of horror and dismay, and the lines of his face hardened a little as he went on, like a man forcing himself to a repugnant but necessary task.

“You remember the man who came here this morning?” She nodded without speaking, and he went on: “I saw you thought he was trying to levy blackmail, and you were right, he was. He’s one of the sailors who belonged to the last expedition--one of those who met me on my return--and he found out, in some way, more than the others. He felt that I was a coward, and he built on it. He’s been bleeding me now for nearly two months--ever since Overton returned. But this morning I made up my mind, and, before he could use the little he did know, I went to the men who have financed this expedition and told them exactly what I did. I didn’t try to palliate it, and I don’t mean to; I’ve got to suffer for it. I told them the truth, resigned my command, and saw that it was given to Overton. He’s been made to accept it. The evening papers got the story--you’ll find it there in all its details.”

As he finished speaking, he called her attention again to the papers, pointing out the flaring headlines, which magnified the facts. Then, as she made no reply, and he became convinced that her horror of his deed had returned to reenforce the shame she must feel at his disgrace, he went on steadily, without looking at her.

“Of course, I know how you feel--that I hadn’t the right to disgrace you. That’s been Overton’s argument. When he came back, I thought that the misery I’d endured was over, that the whole thing would come out, and--since he was alive--I had only to face the humiliation and begin life again. But he shackled me; he insisted on silence to save you, he gave up his command to me, he yoked me until I felt that I was no better than his slave, subject to his dictates, and--I knew he loved you! It was intolerable. It’s best for a man to suffer his punishment, and I’m going to take mine. For months I haven’t slept without a drug. I’ve been a slave to chloral; but to-night I shall sleep, I’ve nothing to hide, I’m no man’s slave, I can suffer, and I can stand up again. But you”--his voice broke suddenly--“I’ve thought of you all day, and I’ve come here to-night, Diane, to tell you that I can’t ask you to bear my shame. There’s been a time when I felt you wouldn’t have to bear it long, and I couldn’t help remembering what your father said long ago about a man’s life being like a candle in the wind. I thought mine might go out and free you, but it may not. I’m young and strong--it may not!”

He paused, but still she did not speak. He looked around into her face, his own twitching with pain.

“I couldn’t endure to see you unhappy. I’d--I’d rather set you free!”

She lifted her head then and met his eyes, and hers were beautiful.

“But--suppose I won’t take it, suppose I wouldn’t take it if I could?”

“I don’t understand. You know that this will ruin me. It’ll take years for me to wipe it out, if I can ever do it.” He turned with a poignant gesture and sank into a chair. “I’ve no right to pull you down. I know how you despise my--my cowardice!”

“Yes,” she replied steadily, “I did; but now, Arthur, can’t you see that you have done a very brave thing? You’ve paid--in your heart’s blood--for it; you’ve given him what’s more to you than your life--your hopes, your ambition, your reputation! When you said that about the candle in the wind you mustn’t think of it as if it meant all that. It’s a man’s life, not his soul--the flame of that may burn low and flicker, but when it springs up, as yours has sprung up, in on act of sacrifice and atonement, it lights the whole way upward and onward. It’s--it’s like a power of growth, of immortal life!”

She stopped for a moment; then she took a step nearer and stood looking at him, a light on her face that was clearer and purer than the light of the setting sun, which shone in through the windows opposite and was reflected on her slender figure and the soft, light color of her gown.

“I--I can’t tell you,” she went on, “how thankful I am--how thankful that you’ve done it, that you’ve atoned, and, as you say, that you’re free--free to begin again, to live it all down!”

As he turned his head slowly and looked up at her his face changed and flushed deeply.

“I--your coming back saved me,” he said in a voice that thrilled with feeling. “I wanted to kill myself, but you came back to me, and in some way--I can’t tell how, but as simply as the coming of daybreak, the change came into my heart. But I’ve had one thing to torture me, to drive me on--I’ve felt--Diane, do you love him still?”

She came slowly toward him and knelt beside his chair, lifting her eyes steadily to his.

“I thought I did, and there was once--when I was away from you--that I was tempted. I thought my happiness lay that way, but now----”

He bent over her, his hands clasped hers and held them, his eyes searched hers.

“But now, Diane?” he whispered hoarsely.

She smiled.

“Now I know that you’ve expiated it all, that you’ve come back to me in the semblance that I knew and----” she paused, and a beautiful look came into her face, a look of such tenderness, such faith, that it touched him to the soul, he would have drawn her closer, clasped her in his arms, but her eyes still held his and he waited until she went on softly, with infinite gentleness: “you’re my husband--it was that, Arthur, the bond that I couldn’t break. That, and the hope which has come to me, the hope that I’m not long to be the only one to love you--because--because there may be sometime, before very long now, a great change! Out of those beautiful vague clouds--that I seem to see at the horizon of our lives--coming as surely as the sun rises and the day dawns--a little child is coming to us, Arthur!”

XXXIX

DIANE awoke the next morning with a sensation that was so new to her that it seemed almost unreal. She felt at peace--at peace with herself and with the world. She was willing now to accept her share of the public disgrace, even her share of the unpleasant notoriety that was sure to come to Faunce. It was the price of his redemption, it was the earnest of his return to the semblance that she had loved, and she was willing to pay it. She was willing to face any sacrifice that meant that her husband, the man she loved, had completed his atonement, that he had had the supreme courage to tell the truth and bear his punishment.

As she lay there--unaware that it was late and that she had overslept--she thought of him with a new and beautiful tenderness. She had left him, she had treated him with scorn and cruelty, and he had borne no ill will toward her, he had continued to love and to trust her. Whether she had deserved it or not, he had trusted her! In their long talk the night before, in that moment when she had told him her secret, that the dawn of a deeper love in her heart had revealed the truth to her--that the bond between them was too strong for her to break--he had not failed her. It had seemed to her that his joy and his relief at the assurance of her love had crystallized into a sterner purpose, a resolution to wrest something still from the exigencies of his confession, to rise above it and, for her sake, and the sake of the child who was yet unborn--to reclaim his life, to win back the laurels he had lost, to come back to her, indeed, in the semblance that she had loved. She had seen the purpose rise in him, it had shone in his pale face and his kindling eyes, she had heard it in his voice, although he had given it no form in words. It was as if she had seen the soul of the man rise--at the call of her love and her faith--from the ashes of his despair. She had rekindled the flame of the candle, and her heart was thrilled with a new and exquisite tenderness. The instinct of maternity, the love that lies dormant in the heart of every good woman, was slowly but surely unfolding in hers, and it reached out toward her husband, it brooded over him in his sorrow and his suffering, it was ready to forgive him, to lift him up. It had kindled in her, too, the instinct of defense, the instinct to battle for those she loved--as the leopardess in the jungle will battle to save her young. The thought that the world was against him made him more than ever her own. It was her portion now, not to fly from him, as she had in the mountains, but to stand by him, to fight for him, to help him to that moment--which she no longer doubted--the moment when he should redeem himself, not only in her eyes, but in the eyes of the world.

It seemed to her now, as she lay there, that these thoughts had been with her through the night, that they had, indeed, possessed her with a new gift, a kind of clairvoyance. She seemed to see into the mists of the future and behold there--not the man who had failed at the supreme test in the desert of ice and snow--but the soul of her husband, purified by suffering and lifted to a courage greater than death.

The room was shaded. The curtains, drawn the night before, still shut out that feeble gleam of sunrise that shot down into the well-like court of the city building. Diane turned her head on her pillow and looked toward it, she could see a gleam of the sunlight striking, like the golden head of an arrow, upon the dull wall opposite. It was the herald of a new day--not only in the world, but in her life, the day that she was to begin with her husband the greatest task of all, the task of building up, of making his life over, of snatching back from defeat and disgrace the career that he had chosen. That was the thing she most keenly desired; he must not give up, he would not now, she knew that. In the face of opposition, in the very teeth of scandal, he would make good.

She rose slowly and went to the window. Looking up through the half-drawn shutters she saw the sky, perfect and radiant and ineffable. It lifted her heart, it reassured her. She began to dress hastily, suddenly aware that she was late. Then she heard voices, Arthur must have an early caller, she had been caught napping. She hurried, half aware that the voices drew nearer, as if the speakers had entered the room next her own. Then she was startled, she recognized the voice which answered her husband--it was Overton’s!

For a moment it gave her a shock, it was still impossible to ignore that instant of emotion when they had stood together in the golden mist of the rain, and her heart throbbed at the thought that Overton must have believed that she had left her husband only for him. He had a right to believe it! A deep blush rose to Diane’s brow and she stood, wholly dressed now and ready to go to breakfast, but unable to move. After last night it seemed strange to her that she could ever have ignored the natural and spiritual law which bound her to Arthur. Something had changed in her heart, or a new and deeper emotion, an instinct as old as the world, had stirred within her. Was it that, was it because--for the first time--she began to realize the dawn of a new experience, of a tenderness so deep and so vital that it had sanctified the bond between them, that she could no longer even imagine the thought of deserting her husband? It might be that she no longer tried to fathom it, but it was strong enough to steady her now, she could go and meet Overton again without the emotion of yesterday. To-day she was Arthur’s wife--beyond that there was nothing!

She had taken a step toward the door and stopped, arrested by the thought that the two men might have something to say to each other about Arthur’s confession that they would not want her to hear. She hesitated; there was nothing that she could not hear now, for her husband had told her all. Yet----?

She was still standing there, when there was a soft knock at the door and Faunce entered. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes shone, but there was behind that a certain new strength that reassured her. He came in quietly, and closed the door behind him.

“Diane,” he said in a low voice, “Overton is here. He’s come to tell me something which seems--well, it seems almost unbelievable after yesterday----” he paused and his flush deepened, but his eyes held hers steadily. “He’s been sent--by the very men to whom I confessed yesterday--to offer me the supreme command of the expedition. He has finally refused it.”

For a moment Diane was unable to speak. The thought that the chance had come to him--come at the moment when she had seemed to foresee it--sent a thrill of joy through her. It was, indeed, almost unbelievable. In the visions of the night, in her half waking dreams, her very soul had cried out for this chance for him--and that supreme but invisible Power who orders the fates of men had answered her! She did not move, she stood still. With a half groping gesture she put out her hand and Faunce took it, holding it close. They said nothing, but he understood her, he knew that this, this chance of redemption, had been the one desire of her heart.

“There’s one thing more, Diane,” he said softly, “Overton has told the newspapers that he asked me to go, that he’s not strong enough yet to assume command of an expedition. He wants to convince them that my conduct wasn’t criminal, he has faced the terrors of ice and snow and he knows--as I do--the terrible chance that both might be lost when only one could be saved. He wants them to understand that we still stand as friends, that he--he hasn’t condemned me as the papers did last night! He’s done again the noble thing, the expedition is to be mine, the chance is to be mine--to show you----” his voice broke a little, but he smiled--“that your husband is no longer a coward, that he’d rather die than to fail you again!”

Still she said nothing, but her hand quivered in his and he saw that her dark lashes were wet with tears. There was no longer even a shadow of doubt between them, he drew her slightly toward him, watching her beautiful downcast face.

“I came to ask you,” he said quietly. “I’ll do nothing now that can make you feel that I’m not willing to expiate, to make good. I came to ask you, then, if I should take the command--after I gave up, take it in the teeth of the clamor and the scandal? Take it--not as Overton’s gift, but as my right, my right to earn my own chance to live or to die doing my duty? Or would it nullify my expiation--must I suffer more?”

Again her hand quivered in his, but this time she lifted her eyes to his, and he saw in them that new and exquisite tenderness, that tranquillity which not even her tears could veil.

“I want you to go,” she replied softly. “I want it--because I have faith in you, Arthur, I know that this time there is no power on earth that can make you fail!”

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