XXXIX
Dianeawoke 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 truthto 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 ofopposition, 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 tendernessso 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!”
In the days that followed, days in which the expedition was briefly delayed while Faunce resumed his duties, he wrote to Gerry. Much as he wanted Diane to go with him, he began to fear the hardships for her. This new phase of their lives which was unfolding gradually before their vision, made him anxious for her. Would it bewell with her if the child was born in that land of mist and snow? Could she face the cold and the terrors, the possible hardships, even the chance of privations? He said nothing of this to her, he knew her longing to go, but he wrote to Gerry. Two days before the ship sailed he received a letter from the doctor, and Diane received one from her father.
The sight of his handwriting gave her a shock of mingled fear and pleasure. Had he written to quarrel with her? It was not like him, there was always too much finality about his rages. Or had he relented? She remembered Overton’s words, that the judge would forgive her. Did this mean that Overton had again intervened? Her cheek reddened, but her eyes softened, after all, it was her father’s way to do violent things violently. She opened the letter.
“Dear Diane,” the judge wrote; “Gerry has told me all that your husband has written to him about you. Gerry and I are of one mind, we can’t bear to have you face those hardships now. I said I’d disown you. I’ve tried it, I can’t, you’re all I’ve got! I know how you feel. Very well, I’ll forgive him, too. I’m down, I’m an old beggar alone in the world. If I’m to have a grandchild I want it born in my house. Will you come now, Diane, come to your old father?”
The letter rustled in her hands, she stood holding it and looking out into the street. It was twilight,and one by one the lamps sprang up, here and there and everywhere they twinkled and flashed and danced, while long tiers of them on either side of the seemingly endless street flashed and receded, light by light, until they converged into a glow and brightness that made the hazy distance seem like a spangled veil.
Diane was still standing there when Faunce rose from the table, where he had read his letter, and came over to her side.
“Diane,” he said gently, “I wrote to Gerry, I told him. I’ve been afraid the hardships were too great for you. Here’s his answer. He admits the hardships, but he says you can face them if you will. You’re young and strong. But still he wants you to stay, he wants to take care of you himself.”
Diane turned quietly and gave him her father’s letter. She did not look at him while he read it, for she knew he had suffered much at her father’s hands, that she had been guilty of setting her father against him. For the first time since that moment of confidence, of complete reunion, she dreaded to look at him. Presently, however, he handed it back to her and she met his eyes. They were calm, they had, indeed, that new look of strength in them that nothing seemed to dash. She knew the chloral habit had been absolutely broken, that with a strength of will which amazed his doctor, he had let the drug go. Now she sawthat the moral change had been as great as the physical.
“Will you stay?” he asked gently, his eyes holding hers.
She did not answer at once. It seemed as if she took that moment to think, to concentrate all her powers of mind and heart on the one supreme choice that was so vital to them both, the choice between the risks and the hardships of the frozen pole and the safety of her father’s house—without her husband. There was no question of a quarrel now, the judge had forgiven him, he would stand by his word. In his brusque way, Herford was holding out his hand to Faunce. To go to him would not be an insult to her husband, but, if she left him now, he must face the struggle alone and she had pledged herself to face it with him. She had pledged herself, and she desired it more than anything else in the world—except the safety of that little life which might come in peril and cold and mist, like a pledge of their faith to each other, and her belief that her husband would redeem himself!
It seemed a long moment before she answered, and then, with a mute, adorable gesture, she laid her cheek against his sleeve.
“I’m not afraid,” she said in her low, vibrating, beautiful voice, “I’m going with you, Arthur.”
He made no answer in words, an inarticulate murmur was all that escaped him. But he heldher close and she seemed to feel the thrill that her assurance gave him. She was no longer an outsider, no longer a hostile critic at his fireside, they were united, their marriage was no longer merely a physical, it was a spiritual union. Henceforth she must share not only his victories, but his defeats, and in both, in one as much as in the other, he would be dear to her, for she no longer doubted him, she knew the worst that he had done, and she knew, too, that he had repented and that now, purged by his long spiritual conflict, he was in reality stronger than she was.
In the days which followed, days in which she wrote fully and lovingly to her father, she was again conscious of a new and great tranquillity. She had passed through the fiery furnace of her trial, she had drained the cup of doubt to its dregs, and now she looked calmly into that future that held for her the greatest of all trials, and the most tender of all hopes.
The same thought was with her the day the ship sailed. It had been a day of conflict for Faunce, a day of trial, for he had had to face the publicity and the questions, but he had shown a strength and composure that amazed himself. As he had told Diane, his confession had freed him, he was no man’s slave, he had nothing to fear, and he faced the future with a courage so high that it transformed him. Diane saw it. She stood beside him as the ship, slipping its moorings inthe North River, dropped down the bay. It was a day of clouds, and a light fog hung like a veil about the great city, it made the distant streets appear like deep incisions between the towering sky-scrapers, and the crowded battery was lightly touched with mist. Above the gray clouds drifted, below the dark water lapped, but Diane lifted her eyes to the face of her husband. Faunce was calm; he was very pale but his eyes glowed and his lips closed firmly. There was power in the face and conflict and hope.
Suddenly, the gray clouds parted and showed a rift of exquisite blue, like a window in heaven, and a shaft of sunlight shot across the sky, it touched the clouds with gold and it glinted on the towering figure of Liberty bearing aloft her torch to light the world.
In the far distance the mists over the narrows grew soft and luminous as Diane looked into them. She did not look back, she looked forward. Out of that future, out of those clouds and that golden glory, she seemed to see the form of her husband—no longer fallen and defeated, but coming back to her in the semblance that she had dreamed, clothed with powers at once mortal and spiritual, and wearing the laurels of victory.
THE END