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 be well 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 saw that the moral change had been as great as the physical.