V
Inthe weeks that followed Faunce drifted restlessly from Mapleton to New York, from New York to Washington, and then, assured of Diane’s continued presence there, back to Mapleton.
Meanwhile he had been signally honored, as the surviving leader of the successful expedition, both at home and abroad. A medal had been voted to him by Congress for his distinguished services, and he had been notified of his election, in London, as a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. Praise and emolument poured in upon the young and handsome explorer, while only one man—the chief financier of Overton’s two expeditions—devoted any large sum to a memorial tablet for the lost leader.
Like the proverbial candle in the wind, Overton’s life and his reputation had been extinguished together in the eternal snows; but they had not been exiled from the mind of Faunce. He was fully aware that his honors rightfully belonged to his friend, that he was in much the same position as the mythical jay in the peacock’s plumes. He could think of no simile less trite to express his misery.
If Overton had lived, Faunce might have been envious—he knew that he was not free from that taint; but he could at least have accepted any tribute that came his way with a light heart. As it was, his honors were so many millstones about his neck. He grew pale and thin, and the dark shadows under his eyes made their expression take on a haunted look; but his very modesty, his evident hesitation to accept the full measure of applause, and the growing melancholy in his handsome face, only served to increase the interest in a personality so attractive and so reserved.
It appealed most keenly, perhaps, to the imagination of Fanny Price. Her girlish fancy clothed the handsome explorer in all the attributes of the favorite heroes of romance. The fact that she perceived, only too clearly, his infatuation for Diane Herford whetted her admiration by removing its object from the proximity of her own possible adorers.
A pretty young thing and a great favorite, she had no lack of “beans,” to use the familiar language of the inhabitants of Mapleton; but none of them, in Fanny’s mind, could be compared to the hero of two antarctic expeditions and the probable commander of a third. Talk was already current that the same great financier who had furnished the sinews of the Overton expeditions was about to equip another and more perfect ship to be placed at the command of Arthur Faunce.
There was another reason, too, which caused a little flutter in Fanny’s innocent breast. She was well aware that a heart is often caught on the rebound, and she knew that, next to Diane, she was an object of interest to Faunce. The question therefore resolved itself into the more complex problem of the state of Diane Herford’s heart. Did she, or did she not, care for Faunce?
If, as Fanny suspected, Diane had loved Overton, she might be unable to reconcile herself to a man who must inevitably recall a dead lover. On the other hand, this might also be Faunce’s strongest appeal—the fact that he was Overton’s chosen comrade, his closest friend, and the man who had last seen him alive.
The two girls were fairly intimate, but the younger had never dared to encroach on the quiet reserve with which the elder screened her inmost thoughts; and she could draw no positive conclusions from the vague glimpses that Diane’s rare moments of deep emotion gave her. Those moments indicated a strong but hidden feeling which might, at any moment, find an outlet in some fresh channel; and what could be more likely than the awakening of a new and living love? The probability of this termination of the affair chilled Fanny’s joy in her hero’s frequent reappearances in the quiet neighborhood of Mapleton.
“He would never come here at all,” she reasoned shrewdly, “if he wasn’t in love with somebody.He isn’t in love with me—that’s certain—so it must be Diane!”
This conclusion, which seemed to overlook all the other charming girls in the suburb, was less self-centered than it appeared. Fanny knew that Faunce had practically ignored the rest of the world, and had concentrated his attentions upon the Herford house, when an occasional invitation did not divert him to the seminary. But those occasional moments when either an actual invitation, or the courtesy of a visit after one, brought him into the Prices’ dingy drawing-room were always fraught with a tremor of excitement for Fanny, not unpleasantly mingled with the refined tortures of hope deferred.
It was just about that agreeable hour which is devoted to drinking a sociable cup of afternoon tea that she actually saw Faunce coming up the broad driveway which led from the seminary gates to the dean’s modest Queen Anne cottage. She had thought him in Washington, and his sudden appearance, pale and tall and graceful, on his way to her own door, sent a thrill to her heart.
For a moment she leaned forward, with both hands on the sill of the bay window, and watched his unconscious approach. She was quite composed when he entered the room, a few moments later, and found her rearranging her little tea-table with deft and graceful hands, while a sudden shaft of afternoon sunshine touched the littlefair curls that clustered about her small, pink ears and nestled on the white nape of her neck.
She was very glad to see him. Her large blue eyes would have told him so, if he had not been so preoccupied; but it was not Fanny of whom he was thinking. He dropped into a comfortable chair beside her tea-table, accepted a cup of her tea, and began at once to talk about Diane. The irony of this almost made the girl smile; but she controlled herself, and turned a sympathetic face toward him, glad that her back was to the light, and that he seemed more occupied with staring absently at the fire on the hearth than in looking at her.
“I just heard that the Herfords might go to Florida this winter,” he observed, balancing his cup in a way that would have wrung Mrs. Price’s housewifely heart with anxiety for her best rug.
“I suppose Dr. Gerry told you?”
He nodded.
“It’s on account of the judge’s rheumatism, isn’t it?”
“I think Di likes to play golf.”
“She doesn’t seem to care for it here. I asked her to go to the links the last time I was home, and she refused.”
Fanny elevated her delicate brows.
“Perhaps she had another engagement. You know Di’s the most popular person in Mapleton.”
He set the neglected cup down on the table and looked at her with preoccupied eyes.
“She’s perfectly charming, isn’t she? But—do you think—I mean, does she seem quite happy?”
Fanny temporized, aware of a sinking heart.
“She should be. She’s got everything, and the old judge adores her.”
He leaned back in his chair, toying with the spoons on the table.
“Has she got everything? That’s what I want to know. Do you think—you’re great pals, you and Diane—do you think she cared for Overton?”
Fanny was silent for a moment. Her hands were trembling a little, and she thrust them out of sight under the table.
“That’s not a fair question. I couldn’t answer it, could I, if I knew? And I don’t know. Diane never talks about herself like some other girls. She wraps herself up the way—I don’t know how to describe it, but you’ve seen some flowers, the more delicate ones, fold their petals together at nightfall and hide their golden hearts? I’ve always thought of them when—when I’ve tried to pry into Diane’s soul.”
He reflected, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
“That’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it?—that her heart’s like a delicate flower!”
The thought seemed to please him so much thathe remained silent, dwelling on it. Fanny, keenly aware of the cause of his preoccupation, poured out another cup of tea and tried to drink it. Then he returned to the subject.
“I know that Overton cared for her. I knew it before he went away. That’s why I—I——”
He stopped, the color mounting painfully to his hair.
“Why you didn’t speak?” she concluded gallantly.
He turned a flushed face toward her.
“I say, I didn’t mean to give myself away like that! Tea always makes me gossip like an old woman.”
“Old women aren’t always gossips,” Fanny corrected him, calmly looking at his full cup; “and, moreover, you’ve only just tasted your tea.”
“Then it’s your fault! You made me blurt out the truth. I felt your sympathy. Do you know, it’s a beautiful thing, the way you can sympathize? It’s a gift. You’ve made me feel that I have a real friend.”
Fanny lifted her cup firmly and drank a little tea before she managed to answer.
“That’s really a tremendous compliment,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m very proud of it!”
“Well, since I’ve let the cat out of the bag, I might as well tell you the whole truth, hadn’t I?” he exclaimed with that open and engaging manner that had so often won his way. “I’vebeen in love with her ever since I was a little shaver. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with her.”
“And you stood aside because you were loyal to Overton?” she ventured.
He paled as suddenly as he had reddened.
“Yes, I knew he loved her. I owed him a great deal, you know. I let him have his chance first.”
She lifted her eyes bravely to his.
“I think that was magnificent!” she said in a low voice with a tremor of emotion.