A candle in the wind

by Mary Imlay Taylor

Nor had the doctor been content with secret adjurations. He had tried his utmost to make Faunce release Diane, and, by some act of self-immolation, to offer a kind of spiritual expiation for his crime. To the sturdy old man the whole matter was intolerable. He had no sympathy with complex natures like that of Faunce. He would have declared that the possibilities of such a soul had to bear some proportionate relation to the general economies of value; that to try to expand Arthur’s spiritual horizon would be attended with the difficulties encountered by the frog of the ancient story, which lost its life in trying to expand its dimensions to the size of the neighboring cow.

As for Faunce, the frantic impulse that had carried him to the height—or the depth—of confession had expired almost as soon as the words were uttered. It had seemed to him that confession would ease his conscience, that the mere act of telling of his cowardice would wipe out some of the score against him; but it had not proved so. He was still haunted, and he had the added humiliation of the doctor’s knowledge, the uneasy fear that an accident might lead to betrayal.

All these months his silence—so easy and so secure, since there was no living man to contradict him—had covered his error. That was what he called it to himself—an error. He could not call it a crime. Dr. Gerry’s idea that it was like murder was inexpressibly shocking.

Faunce told himself that he was incapable of murder, that Overton had been as good as dead, and that he left him—sorely against his own will—to save himself from the same fate. Was it necessary that both should die when one could be saved? Was it right that a young, strong man should lay down his life rather than desert a frozen comrade, who had barely enough vigor left in him to keep his heart beating an hour? The idea seemed monstrous, when he thought of it. At the time he had not thought of it; he had merely obeyed an overwhelming instinct and fled for his life.

It was not his fault that Overton’s honors had fallen upon him like a mantle of glory, that he had succeeded to Overton’s command. He knew that old Dr. Gerry condemned him still more for grasping these honors—which would never have come his way if he had returned with the bare story of his flight; but he was not strong enough to decline them. He knew that he would have been ruined forever had the truth been known, but he had succeeded in saving himself. He had chosen to let the snow and ice cover his desertion, and out of the wreck of his peace of mind he had snatched at the mundane honors that came to him. They were all he had, for his conscience was in agony, and the face of Overton haunted him.

Sometimes, when he wandered at night, unable to sleep, he recalled the torments of Macbeth. There were moments, dark and secret ones, when the chloral was slow in taking effect, and his mind was clouded with lurid visions. He felt himself one with the company of those who have followed, through all the ages, in the bloody footprints of Judas Iscariot. It was after such moments as these that he nearly yielded to Dr. Gerry’s admonition.

“Go break off your engagement!” the doctor thundered in his ear. “What right have you to marry a girl like Diane? If she knew, she’d never forgive you. I tell you you’ve got to break it—you shall!”

But he did not. Instead, he pursued his course with a peculiar obstinacy, a tenacity of purpose that amazed his counselor. He loved Diane. It was the strongest passion he had left in the wreck of his moral consciousness. He meant to snatch at happiness as he snatched at honors and high repute, and to hold them almost by force.

He was tortured, too, by the thought that delay might in some inexplicable way result in disaster, and he urged on Judge Herford’s inclination toward an early marriage. They had planned, at first, that it should take place just before the new expedition sailed. It was welcome news when he was informed that the ship would be ready a month earlier than had been expected, and that it remained for him either to change the date of departure or to wait until the time originally set.

The message sent the blood to his heart with a mad rush of joy. He would make Diane consent to an earlier wedding. Then he would feel secure—secure of her at last—and he could set out as soon as possible. Alone, he would dread the frozen wastes, but with her—courage and high endeavor must be inspired by a love like his. He would rise to the height of achievement, would expiate his past failures in brilliant success. Then his conscience would surely absolve him for not having uselessly laid down his own life because another man had to die!