XXIV
AsOverton went in and shut the door, Faunce found himself once more in the road, and turned mechanically to go back to the cottage. He had almost lost his mental bearings, and for the moment he was incapable of coherent thought. The march of events had been too swift, the revulsion of feeling too strong.
In his soul, at that instant, there was neither hatred, nor contempt, nor even shame. He was numb. He had passed through a long agony, and had paid—in his heart’s blood—for his craven act. He was still paying, doubtless he would pay until the day of his death; but a strange apathy had come over him. His emotion had spent itself in his attack upon Overton, and now shame had drowned him so completely that it had submerged even his resistance, and he was only intensely weary.
The physical man, worn down by want of sleep, racked by tortured nerves, keyed up to defend himself from discovery, to keep the place at which he had snatched with desperate hands, was ready to give up. He felt an intolerable longing forsleep; he could have thrown himself down by the way and slept like a dog.
Even about Diane he was troubled no longer. He believed that she had loved Overton best, he knew that she would side with Overton; but he had no more strength to battle for her. He was ready to surrender.
He stumbled blindly along with the drowsy feeling surging over him again and again, weighing down his heavy eyelids. He had only one desire—to get home, find a spot to lie down and to sleep at last in peace. Overton lived, and henceforth, if any one had to suffer, he would be the sufferer, not Overton. The shackles had fallen off, and he could sleep.
He found his way by instinct, ascended the steps, and unlocked the door. He knew it was late, and he hoped Diane had gone to bed; but, as he opened the door, he saw that the lamp still burned brightly on the table in the living-room.
He took off his coat and left it on the settle by the door, occupying himself with trifles in the vain hope of delaying, even for a little while, the moment when he must begin again to act a part; but he heard her rise from her seat by the fire. When he entered the room, she was standing near the door, swathed in a delicate pink-silk kimono, her soft, dark hair falling about her shoulders. Her eyes, feverishly bright, looked dark and almost wild in her pale face.
“I sat up for you,” she explained brokenly. “I couldn’t sleep. I can’t bear it any longer, Arthur. Tell me what it is! What are you hiding from me—about the south pole?”
He did not reply at once, for he was, in a measure, taken by surprise. He came slowly into the room and walked past her to the fire, his head bent. He was trying to rally his thoughts. She turned back with him and stood watching him, scarcely daring to breathe. At last he threw back his head.
“I think I’ll tell you,” he said deliberately. “Overton thinks it can be kept a secret, and perhaps he’s right, but I say that you have a right to know, to decide for yourself. Anyway, I can’t go on. I’ve got to a place where I can’t go on!”
She was breathing quickly, a horrible fear dragging at her heart.
“What do you mean by keeping a secret? What has Overton to do with it?”
He turned and looked at her. She thought she had never seen such a strange expression on any man’s face—a look as if he had let go of everything, as if he no longer cared. But he spoke collectedly, even coldly.
“You were wrong in marrying me, Diane. You married a coward. Overton’s a great man, a greater man than even you have thought. He’s willing to cloak your husband’s craven fear to save you—to hush it all up for your sake.”
She gasped.
“To hush it up? What—oh, Arthur, tell me, tell me what it is! I don’t know what you’re saying!”
Then he told her, slowly, deliberately, not sparing himself, as he had told Dr. Gerry months before.
“I left him to die,” he ended in a hard voice. “He was alive, I knew he was alive, but I was afraid to die like that. I didn’t see a hope of saving us both, so I saved myself.”
She drew away with a shudder, her large eyes fixed on his face. He saw the recoil, the outraged incredulity in her face.
“You—you couldn’t have done that, Arthur—it’s impossible! You’re ill, you’re not telling me the truth—it can’t be!”
He saw how she took it, saw that he had struck a death-blow at her love for him. Something seemed to give way in his heart. He turned and sank into a seat by the hearth with a groan.
“It’s true. You know it’s true, Diane. Overton’s here, isn’t he? You’ve seen him, and you remember that I told you myself that I was with him when he died? He isn’t dead. Don’t you see it was a lie? I tell you I’m a coward!” He seemed possessed to make a clean breast of it, to hide nothing, to get the relief of cauterizing the wound. “You married a coward.”
She put her hand out blindly and caught at thetable. She felt that she was falling, and she clung to the support.
“It’s incredible,” she said, almost in a whisper. “It’s incredible. How could you do such a thing and then endure the thought of it?”
“I haven’t endured the thought of it. It’s been torture; and now he wants it to go on, wants me to keep on—to hide it for your sake. But I see how you feel!”
She swept him a look in which scorn and horror mingled with a kind of fear.
“I don’t see how I could feel any other way! I—why, think of it, they’ve made a hero of you; you were going in his place to the south pole. I’ve—I’ve wanted you to go—I was so proud of you! But now—I don’t see how you could have even thought of going back. It—it would have driven me mad, if I’d done what—you did!”
He met her wild reproach with a hard look of endurance.
“It was driving me mad. I haven’t slept, you know that. But, Diane”—his voice suddenly thrilled with passion—“for God’s sake don’t look at me like that—I love you!”
“Oh!”
It was a cry not so much of surprise as of dismay—dismay that he should dare, being the craven that he admitted he was, to speak of love to her. It was unmistakable, he could not misunderstand it; her tone and her look destroyed his last hope.He recalled Overton’s insult—“the woman you dared to marry”—and he covered his face with his hands.
Diane stood looking at him, outraged and terrified by his confession. All her natural integrity in arms, she had no pity for him. Then, as he did not speak again or even look up, she turned slowly and walked to the door of her own room.
There she paused again, turned, looked at him with the same pitiless expression, and, unmoved by his stricken attitude, his evident repentance, she went in, shut the door behind her, and bolted it with hands that not only shook with dismay, but almost with fear.