A candle in the wind

by Mary Imlay Taylor

In a moment of mortal agony, in the stress of a terror that freezes men’s souls, Faunce had failed. He had sunk to the level of the veriest coward that shambled in the street below. By that one act, that one fall from the full stature of his manhood, he had slipped his neck under the yoke, he was Overton’s bondsman! It was intolerable.

As he reflected upon it, the alternative seemed almost merciful. What was shame compared to his present burden? He had suffered the worst, the mortal blow, when he had read his shame in his wife’s eyes. Diane’s abhorrence, her scorn, had shattered his last frail hold on hope. He could never retrieve himself, never come back absolved—not even by courage, by sacrifice, by self-denial. He doubted if death could wipe it out in her eyes, yet he loved her. The fact of his love for her had made him write to her, made him demand her own decision, not her father’s; but he was well aware what that decision would be. He had lost her!

There was a futility in his agony, a helplessness. There was nothing that he could do. Dr. Gerry was right—he should never have married Diane. He had never been happy with her, for he had felt always that this thing—his cowardice—lay between them, that he was trading upon her belief in him, taking a love from her that belonged, not to him, but to the man she imagined him to be.

Now, deeper than that, plunged the thought that it was Overton she had always loved, it was Overton who had taken her away, Overton whom she would marry in the end—if Faunce set her free.

It was in moments like this—moments of intolerable anguish and jealousy—that he vowed he would not give her up. Surely he had a right to demand her loyalty! There was nothing right or fine in what she had done; she was as bad as he was, if she left him for Overton. He even found some relief in the thought, in letting his jealousy loose, his pent-up rage, and in railing at her.

What kind of a wife had she been to him? How had she kept her vows? Overton had returned, the man who had been—she had confessed it—her first love; and at a word, a nod from him, she had left her husband!

Looked at in this light, it was black enough. Faunce felt that he had no need to feel so abased. He had not killed Overton—he had left him to return to steal his wife from him!

It was bitter, it was degrading! Diane deserved no mercy at his hands. A hundred times, since that night when she had left him, he had lashed himself to a fury like this, only to succumb at last to fresh misery, to fresh remorse. He loved her, he could not blame her, for she had done only what any brave woman would do—she had deserted a coward, left him to his shame, and he deserved it!

It was the old argument, and it brought the old answer.

Faunce stopped in his restless pacing to look at the clock. It was late, and he had not dined. He had long since ceased to heed meal-times, but to-night he had a curious feeling of faintness. Perhaps he had better go out for food, and then, when he returned, he would drug himself and get a night’s sleep.