VI
Thegirl’s words had a strange effect on Faunce. They seemed to strike like a goad into his flesh. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the room with his head down. Fanny Price followed him with an astonished gaze, but she was too much concerned with her own emotion, her own folly in caring at all, to attempt to analyze his moods. It was enough for her that he loved Diane. She did not want to go beyond that, for it utterly crushed her hopes.
“Nothing I’ve ever done is magnificent!” he declared in a choked voice. “I’m not such a bounder as to let you think it. I would have tried as hard as Overton, I know I should, if I hadn’t been sure that she—she loved him!”
Fanny struggled with the last remnant of her self-love. Then she answered in a weak voice:
“Why does it matter to you so much if she did—then?”
He stopped short.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he’s dead now.”
There was a profound pause. He stood staring at her with a strange expression, his hands hangingclenched at his sides. Fanny had never seen him look so handsome, so tragically inspired; but she returned his gaze with a kind of defiance. She felt that she was at bay, and mast defend herself.
“You mean,” he said slowly, at length, “that his being dead opens the way for me? That perhaps she might care for me now—because of that?”
Fanny nodded.
“Good Heavens!” He drew a deep breath. “That—that would make it impossible. I couldn’t do that!”
“I don’t see why,” she said blankly.
He caught the amazement in her eyes, and was silent, but his face blanched, and his evident emotion was so unaccountable that it startled and puzzled her. She rose from her seat and went to the window, averting her face.
“It’s natural, isn’t it? I don’t think you should feel so dreadfully about it.”
But Faunce still seemed unable to master himself.
“I can’t help it. I—I——” he stammered again, relapsing into silence as he began to walk to and fro.
Fanny did not turn her head, but continued to look out of the window with unseeing eyes, which did not even recognize the boys who were playing football on the campus, not fifty yards away. She was aware of their plunging, dodging figures, ofa blur of multicolored sweaters and brown corduroys; but she was not thinking of them, and even their shouts came to dull ears.
Before her the long driveway to the gate was arched with naked elms, and even the hedgerows began to take on the somber hues of early winter. Far in the west a heavy cloud had broken, the widening rift showing a space of translucent light that shot out oblique shafts of glory, like a shower of golden arrows darting through the leaden sky. A sudden gust of wind sent the brown leaves scampering wildly across the lawn, and swept them at last into a frantic dance below the window.
Fanny’s mind remained absorbed in the exhibition of emotion that she had just witnessed. Her heart swelled with grief and mortification as she realized how little she mattered to Arthur Faunce, how useless it was for her to try to console him, when he cared only for Diane.
“I can’t tell you,” he managed to say at length, “how I feel about that terrific end to the expedition.” He threw out his arms with an almost frantic gesture. “I’d give not only my life, but the hope of her love, to bring him back!”
Fanny turned from the window with a strange look on her face.
“Hush!” she said in a low voice. “Here she is—here’s Diane.”
She gave him time to recover his composure;then, going swiftly into the hall, she opened the door for her visitor.
“Papa has been out all day, and I was lonely,” Diane explained. “I thought I’d come in for a cup of your tea, Fanny.”
The two girls kissed each other, and Fanny whispered:
“Arthur Faunce is here.”
She thought Diane colored, but she was not sure. A moment later they entered the room together. Faunce was standing by the fire with his back to the door, but he turned as they came in. Fanny saw that he had entirely mastered his emotion, and his handsome face lit up with a ready smile as Diane greeted him.
“I was sorry to miss you this morning,” she said gravely; “but papa gave me the package. I—well, I haven’t tried to read it yet. I couldn’t!”
He gave her an eloquent look.
“I wanted you to read it first.”
She bent her head in graceful acknowledgment, and moved slowly across to the fire, drawing off her long, soft gloves. She was thin, but the long lines of her slight figure had the slender grace and delicate suppleness of the Reynolds portrait that haunted his memory. Her head, small and spirited and covered with a shadowy mass of soft, brown hair, was set on a slender, white throat which carried it proudly, with an air ofstateliness and pride that became her, even in the simple, dark dress she wore.
Faunce followed her with a glance that neglected Fanny as she bent over her little table again. Even Diane seemed for the moment to forget the younger girl. Her clear eyes turned on Faunce, and she made an evident effort to speak with ease.
“You kept his diary, too?”
He assented.
“A part of it. He gave it to me when we left the ship. The rest was lost with him.”
Diane turned sharply away, averting her face as she pretended to look into the fire.
“It’s wonderful that you—preserved so much! As soon as I can, I’ll read it.”
“Yours is the first copy—the author’s; the publishers sent it to me last night, and I took it over as soon as possible.”
She thanked him simply. Then, looking up, she saw Fanny’s flushed face as she bent over her table. Diane sat down beside her.
“Mr. Faunce brought me a copy of his diary,” she explained, “and I—can’t read it yet!”
The other girl put out her hand involuntarily, and Diane clasped it under the table. They looked at each other, and Fanny saw that Diane’s eyes were full of tears. She withdrew her fingers and turned to Faunce with a gay little smile.
“I wonder if you’ll drink that cup of tea now?”she said lightly. “I’ve made another hot one. There are three cold ones standing around in different localities—one on the mantel, one on the cabinet, and the third somewhere beside the fender—I saw you put it there. Mr. Faunce is devoted to tea, Diane!”
They all laughed. Fanny bravely opened her little tea-caddy and began to measure out a fresh supply. She had a feeling that, having reached the last ditch, she was prepared to defend it with the courage of despair.