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LAS RUINAS DEL INVIERNO
Kamilla Oresvärd
Traducción de Osvaldo Rocha
 © Kamilla Oresvärd, 2020
Título original: Vinterströmmen
Traducido por: Osvaldo Rocha
Diseño de cubierta: Anders Timrén
ISBN 978-91-80348-33-1
© de esta edición: Word Audio Publishing International/Gyldendal A/S,
Copenhague 2023
Klareboderne 3, DK-1115
Copenhague K
www.gyldendal.dk
www.wordaudio.se
Esta es una obra de ficción. Todos los personajes, organizaciones y eventos
retratados en esta novela son productos de la imaginación del autor o se utilizan
ficticiamente.
Todos los derechos reservados. Queda prohibida, salvo excepción prevista en la ley,
cualquier forma de reproducción, distribución, comunicación pública y
transformación de esta obra sin contar con autorización de los titulares de la
propiedad intelectual. La infracción de los derechos mencionados puede ser
constitutiva de delito contra la propiedad intelectual (Art. 270 y siguientes del
Código Penal).
 1
El viento helado flagela sus ojos, haciendo que se recubran de
lágrimas. Tiene las piernas entumecidas de cansancio y se
resbala al pisar un trozo de hielo. Consigue recuperar el
equilibrio y sigue corriendo mientras los coches rugen y
patinan para luego detenerse detrás de él. Las puertas
metálicas se cierran de golpe con un ruido sordo y nefasto, al
cual le siguen los ladridos exaltados de los perros. Las voces,
jadeantes a causa del frío y la agitación, se llaman entre sí
mientras emprenden la persecución.
Le duelen los pulmones después de estar a la intemperie
durante tanto tiempo, a merced del frío y de sus perseguidores.
Pasa por delante de muros resquebrajados donde se ven figuras
pintadas de esqueletos con cuencas vacías e insectos gigantes
y acelera sus pasos aún más. Evita pisar alguno de los agujeros
ocultos bajo la nieve, pero entonces resbala y está a punto de
caerse de nuevo.
Se acerca al agua, y se da cuenta de su error. Trata de
frenar, pero la velocidad lo hace precipitarse por el suelo
resbaladizo. Aunque se esfuerza por controlar las piernas, solo
consigue detenerse cuando alcanza el escarpado borde del
muelle junto a las oscuras aguas del río.
Ni siquiera el miedo o el instinto de huida le permiten
seguir. Ha agotado sus últimas fuerzas. Se queda quieto,
intentado recuperar el aliento, y se gira despacio. Oye el
sonido del agua del río y ve un rayo de sol que penetra en la
bruma gris, iluminando las ruinas de la vieja fábrica. Da unos
pasos hacia un lado y mira el puente en ruinas. No podrá
sostener su peso. Se gira y da unos pasos en la otra dirección.
Se detiene al fin. Su aliento pesado y caliente forma un espeso
vapor blanco en el aire helado. La sangre le corre por las
piernas, manchando de rojo el hormigón escarchado debajo de
sus pies.
Ve que se acercan y luego se detienen y lo observan en
silencio. Uno de ellos da unos pasos hacia delante y se pone de
rodillas. Levanta su fusil y se lo apoya firmemente contra el
hombro. Sus miradas se encuentran y nota un ligero
movimiento en sus ojos cuando su dedo aprieta lentamente el
gatillo.
La bala golpea su cuerpo con tanta fuerza que se tambalea
y cae por el borde.
Cuando cae a las aguas gélidas del río y la corriente
invernal se arremolina alrededor de su cuerpo, ya está muerto.
 2
Una estrella brilla en la ventana mientras las velas Voluspa
desprenden un aroma a canela y mandarina. El fuego crepita
en el hogar, y al otro lado de la habitación, en una alfombra de
piel de oveja junto al sofá, está Coco respirando de manera
ruidosa. De pronto, una de sus patas traseras da un respingo, y
Mona Schiller se pone en cuclillas frente a la perra y le pasa
los dedos por el pelaje ambarino. El amor que siente por ella
después de haberla rescatado el verano pasado es más fuerte
de lo que jamás imaginó que era posible sentir por un animal.
Deja a Coco y se levanta para ir a la cocina. Una vez allí,
se sienta a la mesa, coge un bollo aún tibio de la cesta y lo
pone en el plato.
—¿Te acuerdas? —pregunta con una sonrisa.
Hedda levanta la vista de su libro de Economía. Primero la
mira con una expresión inquisitiva, pero luego asiente y el
rostro se le ilumina con una sonrisa. Deja escapar una risa baja
y enigmática. Es uno de esos raros instantes en los que podría
parecer retraída, casi un poco tímida.
—Ya sé lo que estás pensando —contesta, dejando el libro
a un lado—. La primera vez que estuve aquí, ¿no?
Mona asiente sin más. Han pasado solo seis meses, pero
siente como si Hedda siempre hubiera vivido aquí, en su casa.
Recuerda cuando Anton le dijo que no tenía por qué cuidar de
Hedda de la misma manera que de la perra que había
rescatado. Pero no es así. En cierta manera, Hedda también
cuida de Mona.
—Me ofreciste té y bollos. ¡Té y bollos! —repite Hedda, y
se alisa el grueso nudo de pelo en la cabeza—. ¿Quién
demonios ofrece eso así sin más? Y, además, tuve que ayudarte
a hornearlos.
Mona asiente y pone una pizca de mantequilla, que se
derrite a causa del calor del pan.
 Hedda menea la cabeza y continúa:
—Nunca había conocido a nadie como tú. Joder… —Se
ríe de nuevo—. De hecho, aún no he conocido a nadie como
tú. —Pone los codos sobre la mesa—. Recuerdo que tomé
prestado el cacharro viejo de Carina, el Saab verde, para venir
aquí.
Mona da un mordisco al pan. Se conocieron cuando Mona
estaba investigando el caso de Lisa-Marie, una chica del
pueblo que fue asesinada en su noche de bodas. Una de las
pistas la llevó al club de striptease donde trabajaba Hedda, en
Gotemburgo. Hedda la vio desde el escenario y algo la
impulsó a ir a buscarla después. Aún no sabe qué la incitó a
hacerlo. ¿La curiosidad? ¿El deseo de ayudar? En todo caso, le
dijo a Mona que quería contarle la verdad sobre la difunta
Lisa-Marie, pero nunca ha estado del todo convencida de que
esa fuera la única razón.
Y tampoco hace falta saberlo. En realidad, hacen un buen
equipo. Tienen un acuerdo que las beneficia a ambas. Hedda la
ayuda en su pequeña firma de asesoría legal y cuida de la perra
cuando se necesita, y a cambio tiene un lugar donde alojarse.
El negocio de la asesoría legal parece estar yendo bien, pues
ya tiene varios clientes en su lista. Incluso podría decirse que
son demasiados.
Ya ha tenido que rechazar algunos encargos. Prefiere no
trabajar demasiado. No tiene pensado trabajar para grandes
empresas, sino que solo acepta encargos que le resultan
interesantes. No lo hace por el dinero. Tiene suficiente para
vivir bien y no tiene intención de montar un gran negocio. No
otra vez.
Pero no es solo por razones prácticas que permite a Hedda
vivir en su casa. Le agrada la chica. Además, es seguro tenerla
en casa. Es cierto que tiene una pistola escondida en el armario
por seguridad, pero no fue la pistola la que le salvó la vida
antes, sino Hedda.
Hedda coge un bollo, lo unta con mantequilla y añade una
gran porción de mermelada de arándanos. Se llena la boca y
mastica de manera ruidosa. Mona se queda mirándola.
—Ah, lo siento —dice Hedda, relamiéndose la comisura
de los labios.
Justo cuando comienza a creer que ha adquirido buenos
modales, vuelve a caer en sus viejos hábitos. Le da una
servilleta. No lo hace porque sea pretenciosa, sino porque
Hedda tendrá que ser capaz de desenvolverse bien en la vida a
la que aspira. Tiene veinticuatro años y acaba de empezar la
universidad. Si quiere cumplir su sueño de ser diplomática o
trabajar en la ONU, no puede seguir haciendo cosas como
maldecir, eructar y comer con los dedos.
Hedda vuelve a fijar los ojos en el libro de texto. A Mona
le gusta ayudar a personas desfavorecidas como ella para
hacerlas crecer. Ya lo ha hecho antes y siempre ha tenido éxito.
Muerde el pan y mastica despacio. Salvo esa vez en la que
cometió un catastrófico error de cálculo.
 3
Charles Backe se acerca al borde del muelle tan rápido como
puede. Avanza a través de la superficie resbaladiza para mirar
en el agua oscura del río. Las corrientes heladas y espumosas
se han apoderado del cuerpo ensangrentado, lanzándolo de un
lado a otro como si se tratase de un juego. El cauce del río
hace que el cadáver se sumerja bajo el agua y reaparezca de
repente a unos metros, alejándose del edificio de color beige
grisáceo que pertenece a la central hidroeléctrica.
Siente el viento cortante en el rostro al mismo tiempo que
se echa el fusil al hombro y se mete las manos en los bolsillos.
El corzo está muerto. Su disparo entró justo detrás de la
espaldilla y está seguro de que dio directo en el corazón, de
modo que el sufrimiento del animal terminó al instante. Pero,
justo antes de que muriera, le pareció ver algo en la
profundidad de aquellos aterciopelados ojos marrones. Ya lo
ha visto antes, es como si el animal supiera que va a morir y
aceptara su destino.
—¡Joder, Backe! —grita uno de los gemelos Göransson,
quien se ha acercado a su lado y ahora tiene que hablar alto
para hacerse oír en medio del fuerte ruido del agua—. Podrías
haber esperado un poco para que no cayera al agua.
Charles se vuelve hacia él y supone que debe tratarse de
Pär, aunque no está seguro. También podría ser Ola. Son
demasiado parecidos. Tiene los ojos llorosos y sus orejas rojas
sobresalen por encima del ala negra de su sombrero. No sabe
si es a causa del frío o porque han entrado en calor después del
forcejeo con el perro que ha olido la sangre del corzo.
—Ahora va a costarnos trabajo sacarlo —continúa, tirando
de la correa para calmar al perro un momento.
«Pobre animal», piensa Charles. Ha visto muchos animales
heridos en su profesión de cazador, pero siempre le duele
igual. El corzo fue atropellado en Lilleskogsvägen y, a pesar
de tener el pecho destrozado y las dos patas delanteras heridas,
corrió para tratar de salvar la vida y escapar de su destino.
Levanta la cabeza y mira hacia el agua.
El conmocionado conductor hizo lo correcto. Llamó al
112. La operadora transfirió la llamada al centro de control
regional de la policía, que a su vez se puso en contacto con él.
Se llevó consigo a Wille Asplund y a los gemelos Göransson,
cuyos perros rastrearon el olor del animal y lo persiguieron
hasta la zona de la antigua fábrica. Fue en este sitio donde el
corzo pareció rendirse. Se volvió hacia Charles y lo observó en
silencio mientras este se arrodillaba. El frío del suelo penetró
la tela de su pantalón cuando levantó el rifle, se lo ajustó al
hombro y apuntó. Fue como si el mundo alrededor se hubiera
desvanecido y solo existieran ellos dos. Cuando el disparo
sonó e impactó contra su cuerpo, el animal cayó al río.
No podía esperar a que el corzo estuviera en un lugar más
adecuado. Tenía que acabar con su sufrimiento lo antes
posible.
Wille se acerca a Charles por el otro lado, le pone la mano
en el hombro y le da unas palmaditas, como si quisiera decirle
«bien hecho». Charles se vuelve hacia él y asiente. Al ver los
ojos de Wille, es como si viera a Mona. El joven de casi dos
metros de altura no se parece mucho a su menuda madre, pero
en este instante reconoce en Wille los mismos ojos azules
compasivos y amables.
Charles aparta la mirada. Nunca ha encontrado placer en
disparar a un animal como lo hacen otras personas. Por el
contrario, siente que lo invade una profunda tristeza, aunque
sabe que era necesario. El animal sufría y no era posible
salvarlo.
—¿Intentamos sacarlo? —grita el otro gemelo Göransson,
que ahora camina sobre los congelados bloques de hormigón.
—Sí —grita Charles, y camina hacia ellos—. Puede que la
corriente lo traiga antes de alejarlo de nuevo.
Se detienen al llegar a la orilla del río. Es posible bajar al
agua en esta parte, pero es poco probable que la corriente
traiga al corzo de vuelta. Charles vuelve a otear con la mirada.
Sus mejillas han dejado atrás el calor de hace un momento y se
han entumecido por el frío. Arruga la nariz para deshacerse de
la escarcha que se ha formado en los vellos de sus fosas
nasales.
—¿Qué demonios es eso? —Oye decir a Wille.
Parece que hay algo allí. Al entornar los ojos, ve que hay
algo negro y brillante en el montón de rocas junto al agua.
—Ah, es solo una bolsa de basura —dice Wille al
acercarse a la orilla del agua.
Charles suspira y menea la cabeza con disgusto. Está
cansado de ver que las personas tiran su mierda por doquier.
—Voy a sacarla —se ofrece Wille, volviéndose hacia
Charles, y salta sobre las piedras resbaladizas antes de que
pueda detenerlo.
—¡No, espera! —grita Charles, viendo que el cuerpo del
ciervo es arrastrado por la corriente. Es demasiado peligroso ir
allí. Un paso en falso y caerá al agua. Si eso sucede, es poco
probable que puedan sacarlo. Así que acabará uniéndose al
ciervo en su viaje por las corrientes del río. Todo por una bolsa
de basura.
—Déjala —grita—. Podemos sacarla otro día, cuando el
agua esté más tranquila.
Después de oírlo, Wille se ríe y se agacha. La bolsa de
basura está atrapada entre las afiladas piedras. Una ola de agua
helada salpica sus botas negras mientras coge la bolsa y la
sacude para intentar soltarla. Una fina capa de hielo se agrieta
cuando saca la bolsa del agua. La sujeta con una mano y se
balancea sobre la piedra brillante mientras se apoya en el
borde con la otra mano. Entonces coge impulso y arroja la
bolsa hacia arriba, haciendo que esta caiga en el suelo con un
ruido sordo delante de los pies de Charles. A continuación,
sube hasta donde está Charles.
La bolsa está bien atada con tres lazos negros. Una bolsa
de basura cerrada con tanto esmero es algo peculiar y despierta
la curiosidad de Charles. Da un paso para acercarse.
—¿Qué crees que hay dentro?
Wille menea la cabeza, acerca uno de sus pies y empuja la
bolsa con la punta de su bota.
—Ni idea. Parece… —hace una pausa—. No sé, pero no
parece basura normal.
Pär Göransson se une a ellos en compañía de su perro, y el
baboso animal se abalanza de inmediato sobre la bolsa.
—¡Espera! —le grita Wille, cogiendo la correa para alejar
al perro por sí mismo—. Mantenlo alejado.
Pär sujeta la correa con fuerza, se pasa el dorso de la mano
por debajo de la nariz y se vuelve hacia Wille.
—¿Por qué?
Wille se rasca la mejilla.
—No lo sé —dice, pensativo—. Hay algo raro en esa
bolsa.
—Ah. —Vuelve a tirar del perro—. Hay que abrirla,
entonces.
Wille se agacha y parece dudar un momento, pero después
saca la navaja de su funda, coge la bolsa con una mano y hace
un rápido corte en el brillante plástico negro con la otra. En
cuanto mira dentro, Charles ve que se pone rígido y echa la
cabeza hacia atrás.
—Pero ¡qué demonios…! —exclama Wille, girándose.
 4
Mona levanta la vista del libro de manera apresurada. Algo
parpadea en su interior, como la llama de la vela encendida en
la habitación, y mira a su alrededor como si estuviera en busca
de algo. Coco está tumbada en su lugar favorito, sobre la
alfombra de piel de oveja gris frente al fuego, tan quieta que
solo el movimiento de su pecho al respirar evidencia que está
viva. Hedda se ha ido a su habitación para estudiar para sus
exámenes y el sofá blanco está vacío.
Escucha un sonido rasposo que viene de la ventana. Se
trata de un camachuelo común que se ha posado en el alféizar
y ahora mira hacia dentro. Da unos pasos torpes hacia un lado
y su pecho rojo ilumina el blanco paisaje de invierno.
Entonces despliega sus alas y vuela entre los blancos copos de
nieve.
Pone el libro en su regazo y se reclina en el mullido sillón,
cerrando los ojos y escuchando los sonidos de la vieja casa. Se
oyen crujidos en las paredes recién pintadas, un golpeteo en
los tablones del suelo y algunos crujidos en las escaleras que
suben al segundo piso. Le parecen sonidos agradables y
normalmente disfruta de ellos, pero hoy no consigue estar en
paz. No puede evitar esa inexplicable sensación de
nerviosismo, como si algo estuviera a punto de suceder.
Es muy sensible a ese tipo de cosas. Y desde que se mudó
a Vargön hace nueve meses, su intuición se ha hecho todavía
más fuerte. Debe ser el efecto de las montañas. Como con su
abuela. Ella también presentía cosas. A veces la llamaban loca,
pero no puede negarse que a menudo tenía razón. Quizá no
sobre las criaturas que decía haber visto en el bosque, pero
más de una vez predijo cosas que sucedieron después.
Está contenta de haber vuelto a vivir en Vargön, aunque las
cosas no han ido del todo bien en el pueblo en estos meses.
Los asesinatos que se han producido en la zona han sido
resueltos con éxito, pero se han perdido vidas humanas. El mal
engendra el mal, y tal vez eso es lo que está pasando fuera de
su casa. No tiene explicación para los desagradables
acontecimientos de este verano. Primero fue el sapo muerto,
cuyos restos aparecieron esparcidos por el sendero del jardín;
luego, el profundo arañazo que apareció de manera misteriosa
en el lateral de su coche y que el mecánico asegura que debe
haber sido hecho a propósito con ayuda de una herramienta; y,
por encima de todo. la alarmante sensación de ser observada.
Todavía recuerda las palabras de Anton cuando estaban frente
al coche: «¿Has hecho algún enemigo?».
Es posible que el culpable sea Johnny Landström. El viejo
mujeriego del pueblo y autoproclamado seductor, un estafador
egoísta que la culpa de haberlo perdido todo. Un tipo sin
sentido de la responsabilidad que la odia con todo su ser y la
mira siempre con recelo.
Coco ronca y cambia de posición, y Mona abre los ojos.
Deja el libro para levantarse del sillón y acercarse a la
chimenea. Saca un leño de la cesta y lo arroja hacia el fuego
moribundo, provocando que salten algunas chispas. Las llamas
se apoderan de la madera de abedul blanco y pronto vuelven a
arder con fuerza.
Se endereza, coge la taza de té que está en la mesa y la
sostiene entre sus manos mientras se acerca a la ventana y
mira hacia fuera. Es una vista hermosa. Los ligerísimos copos
de nieve caen despacio, formando una fina capa sobre el
césped. Pronto será Navidad y va a celebrarla por primera vez
en Villa Björkås, su nuevo hogar. Tiene que sacudirse la
melancolía. No es propia de ella. Pondrá un maravilloso árbol
de Navidad y preparará arenques, mejillones almendrados,
albóndigas y jamón para la cena.
Se lleva la taza a la boca y huele el té rooibos, especiado y
rojo, mientras se detiene. Entonces frunce el ceño, da un paso
hacia delante y entorna los ojos. La nieve cubre el suelo del
jardín casi por completo, y sobre ella puede distinguir unas
huellas que se alejan de su casa y se adentran en el bosque.
 5
Charles mira a Wille. Ha retrocedido de manera tan
vertiginosa que por poco se cae de espaldas sobre el borde de
hormigón roto, pero Charles ha conseguido que mantuviese el
equilibrio poniendo un brazo detrás de él. El olor llega ahora
también a la nariz de Charles y este se vuelve hacia la bolsa de
plástico. No es muy intenso, pero aun así puede percibir un
olor metálico de carne cruda con un matiz dulce y rancio. Da
un paso hacia la bolsa y ve algo que brilla a través del hueco
creado por el corte de Wille. Es algo blanco que contrasta con
el negro de la bolsa. Frunce el ceño mientras se acerca y se
queda petrificado.
Es un brazo humano. Puede verse el dorso de la mano, la
muñeca doblada y parte del antebrazo. No debe llevar allí
mucho tiempo. De lo contrario, el olor sería mucho peor. El
agua está bastante fría, pero no lo suficiente como para detener
el proceso de putrefacción. Recorre la zona con la vista, como
si esperara ver algo en la superficie nevada, pero lo único que
ve es la silueta de la antigua fábrica de papel y los coches que
ellos mismos han aparcado junto a ella.
Los gemelos intentan controlar a sus perros, puesto que los
ladridos y los aullidos han cobrado mayor fuerza ante el deseo
de llegar a la bolsa. Charles se vuelve hacia ellos.
—Sacadlos de aquí y metedlos en el coche si no pueden
estar tranquilos.
Pär y Ola lo miran con idénticos ojos y bocas abiertas.
—¡Ahora! —grita, y por una vez hacen lo que se les dice
sin rechistar. Se dan la vuelta y se alejan del lugar, arrastrando
a los renuentes perros tras ellos. Sus chalecos reflectantes
amarillos brillan en el paisaje gris, pero la nevada difumina sus
contornos cada vez más a medida que se alejan.
—Joder… —dice Wille, y tose y se ajusta el gorro que se
le ha resbalado en la cabeza—. Es un brazo de verdad, un
brazo de una persona. —Se acerca un paso—. No puede ser —
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
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 of opposition, 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 tenderness so 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 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.
“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 held her 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 in the 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
 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been
standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CANDLE IN
THE WIND ***

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