A candle in the wind

by Mary Imlay Taylor

But that could not be true, the inner voice cried; for though she loved Faunce, she had left him because she had found him to be a creature so unworthy, so cowardly, so cruel, that her soul had risen up and driven her from him. Overton had had nothing to do with it. It was Faunce himself who had torn away the thin veil that had obscured her idol’s feet of clay.

As she tried to force herself to think of her husband, to recall him in his better aspect, she could only remember his face as he had lifted it, haggard and ashamed, to confess that he had left a brave man, his friend and his commander, to die, that he might be sure to save himself, be sure to reap the profit and the glory of the fallen leader’s labor and sacrifice. She could never forget it. It had slain her love for him so completely that not even a spark lingered in the ashes.

It was not that she loved Overton now. It was her remembrance of the fact that she had loved him. The thought of what he was, compared with the man she had married, had plunged her into deeper self-abasement.

It was a fine distinction, a spiritual difference between the grosser facts of life and the old, sweet memories that were dead. She understood it; she would not forget it, but would her father understand it? She knew that he could not.

He had the hard legal acumen, the keen discernment, but his strength had the quality of granite and not of crystal. It was tremendous and solid, but not transparent enough to reflect the more exquisite emotions. He had not understood her, and he would not understand if she tried to explain away that broken and inarticulate cry of regret for the past. He would believe not only that he was doing what was just and right for his daughter, but that he was seeking her happiness, when there could be no happiness for her at all.

She could never set him straight, never convince him that she had not meant every word she said. He could not know about the invisible wrestler who still held her from the temptation of that distant happiness, who even now had made her feel that she must forego it. No one knew this but herself!

It was the feeling of helplessness, of the futility of argument, that made her unwilling to face her father again. It was with her during the long night, in her troubled snatches of sleep; it was the motive that made her plead headache in the morning, and thus escape the ordeal of another tête-à-tête breakfast by having hers brought up to her room; and later it drove her out of doors for a long and solitary walk.

It was a relief to be out in the open air again, to tramp down the familiar road to the seminary, to notice the rapidity with which the leaves were changing even on the late trees and shrubs, and how many of the early autumn blossoms had thrust their way up through the earth, which was moist and dark with recent rains. A storm had come up before daybreak, and the sky was still softly clouded, while fitful bursts of rain and wind drove through the narrow lane. Diane had a moment of exhilaration, of the joy of conflict, as the boughs swayed and creaked overhead and the leaves rained down at her feet.

This feeling was still with her, stiffening her power of resistance, when she finally turned into the seminary gates and made her way to the dean’s house, with no stronger motive than a vague longing to feel that some one understood.

A little later, however, sitting in Fanny’s room, she was not sure that even another girl did quite understand the perplexity of her situation, its hopelessness and its futility. Fanny had been ready enough in her expressions of sympathy, but there was something between them that hushed confidence. There was a shy reluctance on the younger girl’s part that reminded Diane of a similar restraint when Fanny had been her bridesmaid. They talked a while in meaningless commonplaces. Then, as Fanny looked up suddenly, Diane caught the quiver of the girl’s lip and leaned forward, laying her ungloved hand on her friend’s knee.