THE FROZEN DEEP

by Wilkie Collins




First Scene--The Ball-room

Chapter 1.

The date is between twenty and thirty years ago. The place is an
English sea-port. The time is night. And the business of the
moment is--dancing.

The Mayor and Corporation of the town are giving a grand ball, in
celebration of the departure of an Arctic expedition from their
port. The ships of the expedition are two in number--the
_Wanderer_ and the _Sea-mew_. They are to sail (in search of the
Northwest Passage) on the next day, with the morning tide.

Honor to the Mayor and Corporation! It is a brilliant ball. The
band is complete. The room is spacious. The large conservatory
opening out of it is pleasantly lighted with Chinese lanterns,
and beautifully decorated with shrubs and flowers. All officers
of the army and navy who are present wear their uniforms in honor
of the occasion. Among the ladies, the display of dresses (a
subject which the men don't understand) is bewildering--and the
average of beauty (a subject which the men do understand) is the
highest average attainable, in all parts of the room.

For the moment, the dance which is in progress is a quadrille.
General admiration selects two of the ladies who are dancing as
its favorite objects. One is a dark beauty in the prime of
womanhood--the wife of First Lieutenant Crayford, of the
_Wanderer_. The other is a young girl, pale and delicate; dressed
simply in white; with no ornament on her head but her own lovely
brown hair. This is Miss Clara Burnham--an orphan. She is Mrs.
Crayford's dearest friend, and she is to stay with Mrs. Crayford
during the lieutenant's absence in the Arctic regions. She is now
dancing, with the lieutenant himself for partner, and with Mrs.
Crayford and Captain Helding (commanding officer of the
_Wanderer_) for vis-a-vis--in plain English, for opposite couple.

The conversation between Captain Helding and Mrs. Crayford, in
one of the intervals of the dance, turns on Miss Burnham. The
captain is greatly interested in Clara. He admires her beauty;
but he thinks her manner--for a young girl--strangely serious and
subdued. Is she in delicate health?

Mrs. Crayford shakes her head; sighs mysteriously; and answers,

"In _very_ delicate health, Captain Helding."

"Consumptive?"

"Not in the least."

"I am glad to hear that. She is a charming creature, Mrs.
Crayford. She interests me indescribably. If I was only twenty
years younger--perhaps (as I am not twenty years younger) I had
better not finish the sentence? Is it indiscreet, my dear lady,
to inquire what _is_ the matter with her?"

"It might be indiscreet, on the part of a stranger," said Mrs.
Crayford. "An old friend like you may make any inquiries. I wish
I could tell you what is the matter with Clara. It is a mystery
to the doctors themselves. Some of the mischief is due, in my
humble opinion, to the manner in which she has been brought up."

"Ay! ay! A bad school, I suppose."

"Very bad, Captain Helding. But not the sort of school which you
have in your mind at this moment. Clara's early years were spent
in a lonely old house in the Highlands of Scotland. The ignorant
people about her were the people who did the mischief which I
have just been speaking of. They filled her mind with the
superstitions which are still respected as truths in the wild
North--especially the superstition called the Second Sight."

"God bless me!" cried the captain, "you don't mean to say she
believes in such stuff as that? In these enlightened times too!"

Mrs. Crayford looked at her partner with a satirical smile.

"In these enlightened times, Captain Helding, we only believe in
dancing tables, and in messages sent from the other world by
spirits who can't spell! By comparison with such superstitions as
these, even the Second Sight has something--in the shape of
poetry--to recommend it, surely? Estimate for yourself," she
continued seriously, "the effect of such surroundings as I have
described on a delicate, sensitive young creature--a girl with a
naturally imaginative temperament leading a lonely, neglected
life. Is it so very surprising that she should catch the
infection of the superstition about her? And is it quite
incomprehensible that her nervous system should suffer
accordingly, at a very critical period of her life?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Crayford--not at all, ma'am, as you put it.
Still it is a little startling, to a commonplace man like me, to
meet a young lady at a ball who believes in the Second Sight.
Does she really profess to see into the future? Am I to
understand that she positively falls into a trance, and sees
people in distant countries, and foretells events to come? That
is the Second Sight, is it not?"

"That is the Second Sight, captain. And that is, really and
positively, what she does."

"The young lady who is dancing opposite to us?"

"The young lady who is dancing opposite to us."

The captain waited a little--letting the new flood of information
which had poured in on him settle itself steadily in his mind.
This process accomplished, the Arctic explorer proceeded
resolutely on his way to further discoveries.

"May I ask, ma'am, if you have ever seen her in a state of trance
with your own eyes?" he inquired.

"My sister and I both saw her in the trance, little more than a
month since," Mrs. Crayford replied. "She had been nervous and
irritable all the morning; and we took her out into the garden to
breathe the fresh air. Suddenly, without any reason for it, the
color left her face. She stood between us, insensible to touch,
insensible to sound; motionless as stone, and cold as death in a
moment. The first change we noticed came after a lapse of some
minutes. Her hands began to move slowly, as if she was groping in
the dark. Words dropped one by one from her lips, in a lost,
vacant tone, as if she was talking in her sleep. Whether what she
said referred to past or future I cannot tell you. She spoke of
persons in a foreign country--perfect strangers to my sister and
to me. After a little interval, she suddenly became silent. A
momentary color appeared in her face, and left it again. Her eyes
closed--her feet failed her--and she sank insensible into our
arms."

"Sank insensible into your arms," repeated the captain, absorbing
his new information. "Most extraordinary! And--in this state of
health--she goes out to parties, and dances. More extraordinary
still!"

"You are entirely mistaken," said Mrs. Crayford. "She is only
here to-night to please me; and she is only dancing to please my
husband. As a rule, she shuns all society. The doctor recommends
change and amusement for her. She won't listen to him. Except on
rare occasions like this, she persists in remaining at home."

Captain Helding brightened at the allusion to the doctor.
Something practical might be got out of the doctor. Scientific
man. Sure to see this very obscure subject under a new light.
"How does it strike the doctor now?" said the captain. "Viewed
simply as a Case, ma'am, how does it strike the doctor?"

"He will give no positive opinion," Mrs. Crayford answered. "He
told me that such cases as Clara's were by no means unfamiliar to
medical practice. 'We know,' he told me, 'that certain disordered
conditions of the brain and the nervous system produce results
quite as extraordinary as any that you have described--and there
our knowledge ends. Neither my science nor any man's science can
clear up the mystery in this case. It is an especially difficult
case to deal with, because Miss Burnham's early associations
dispose her to attach a superstitious importance to the
malady--the hysterical malady as some doctors would call it--from
which she suffers. I can give you instructions for preserving her
general health; and I can recommend you to try some change in her
life--provided you first relieve her mind of any secret anxieties
that may possibly be preying on it.'"

The captain smiled self-approvingly. The doctor had justified his
anticipations. The doctor had suggested a practical solution of
the difficulty.

"Ay! ay! At last we have hit the nail on the h ead! Secret
anxieties. Yes! yes! Plain enough now. A disappointment in
love--eh, Mrs. Crayford?"

"I don't know, Captain Helding; I am quite in the dark. Clara's
confidence in me--in other matters unbounded--is, in this matter
of her (supposed) anxieties, a confidence still withheld. In all
else we are like sisters. I sometimes fear there may indeed be
some trouble preying secretly on her mind. I sometimes feel a
little hurt at her incomprehensible silence."

Captain Helding was ready with his own practical remedy for this
difficulty.

"Encouragement is all she wants, ma'am. Take my word for it, this
matter rests entirely with you. It's all in a nutshell. Encourage
her to confide in you--and she _will_ confide."

"I am waiting to encourage her, captain, until she is left alone
with me--after you have all sailed for the Arctic seas. In the
meantime, will you consider what I have said to you as intended
for your ear only? And will you forgive me, if I own that the
turn the subject has taken does not tempt me to pursue it any
further?"

The captain took the hint. He instantly changed the subject;
choosing, on this occasion, safe professional topics. He spoke of
ships that were ordered on foreign service; and, finding that
these as subjects failed to interest Mrs. Crayford, he spoke next
of ships that were ordered home again. This last experiment
produced its effect--an effect which the captain had not
bargained for.

"Do you know," he began, "that the _Atalanta_ is expected back
from the West Coast of Africa every day? Have you any
acquaintances among the officers of that ship?"

As it so happened, he put those questions to Mrs. Crayford while
they were engaged in one of the figures of the dance which
brought them within hearing of the opposite couple. At the same
moment--to the astonishment of her friends and admirers--Miss
Clara Burnham threw the quadrille into confusion by making a
mistake! Everybody waited to see her set the mistake right. She
made no attempt to set it right--she turned deadly pale and
caught her partner by the arm.

"The heat!" she said, faintly. "Take me away--take me into the
air!"

Lieutenant Crayford instantly led her out of the dance, and took
her into the cool and empty conservatory, at the end of the room.
As a matter of course, Captain Helding and Mrs. Crayford left the
quadrille at the same time. The captain saw his way to a joke.

"Is this the trance coming on?" he whispered. "If it is, as
commander of the Arctic expedition, I have a particular request
to make. Will the Second Sight oblige me by seeing the shortest
way to the Northwest Passage, before we leave England?"

Mrs. Crayford declined to humor the joke. "If you will excuse my
leaving you," she said quietly, "I will try and find out what is
the matter with Miss Burnham."

At the entrance to the conservatory, Mrs. Crayford encountered
her husband. The lieutenant was of middle age, tall and comely. A
man with a winning simplicity and gentleness in his manner, and
an irresistible kindness in his brave blue eyes. In one word, a
man whom everybody loved--including his wife.

"Don't be alarmed," said the lieutenant. "The heat has overcome
her--that's all."

Mrs. Crayford shook her head, and looked at her husband, half
satirically, half fondly.

"You dear old innocent!" she exclaimed, "that excuse may do for
_you_. For my part, I don't believe a word of it. Go and get
another partner, and leave Clara to me."

She entered the conservatory and seated herself by Clara's side.



Chapter 2.


"Now, my dear!" Mrs. Crayford began, "what does this mean?"

"Nothing."

"That won't do, Clara. Try again."

"The heat of the room--"

"That won't do, either. Say that you choose to keep your own
secrets, and I shall understand what you mean."

Clara's sad, clear gray eyes looked up for the first time in Mrs.
Crayford's face, and suddenly became dimmed with tears.

"If I only dared tell you!" she murmured. "I hold so to your good
opinion of me, Lucy--and I am so afraid of losing it."

Mrs. Crayford's manner changed. Her eyes rested gravely and
anxiously on Clara's face.

"You know as well as I do that nothing can shake my affection for
you," she said. "Do justice, my child, to your old friend. There
is nobody here to listen to what we say. Open your heart, Clara.
I see you are in trouble, and I want to comfort you."

Clara began to yield. In other words, she began to make
conditions.

"Will you promise to keep what I tell you a secret from every
living creature?" she began.

Mrs. Crayford met that question, by putting a question on her
side.

"Does 'every living creature' include my husband?"

"Your husband more than anybody! I love him, I revere him. He is
so noble; he is so good! If I told him what I am going to tell
you, he would despise me. Own it plainly, Lucy, if I am asking
too much in asking you to keep a secret from your husband."

"Nonsense, child! When you are married, you will know that the
easiest of all secrets to keep is a secret from your husband. I
give you my promise. Now begin!"

Clara hesitated painfully.

"I don't know how to begin!" she exclaimed, with a burst of
despair. "The words won't come to me."

"Then I must help you. Do you feel ill tonight? Do you feel as
you felt that day when you were with my sister and me in the
garden?"

"Oh no."

"You are not ill, you are not really affected by the heat--and
yet you turn as pale as ashes, and you are obliged to leave the
quadrille! There must be some reason for this."

"There is a reason. Captain Helding--"

"Captain Helding! What in the name of wonder has the captain to
do with it?"

"He told you something about the _Atalanta_. He said the
_Atalanta_ was expected back from Africa immediately."

"Well, and what of that? Is there anybody in whom you are
interested coming home in the ship?"

"Somebody whom I am afraid of is coming home in the ship."

Mrs. Crayford's magnificent black eyes opened wide in amazement.

"My dear Clara! do you really mean what you say?"

"Wait a little, Lucy, and you shall judge for yourself. We must
go back--if I am to make you understand me--to the year before we
knew each other--to the last year of my father's life. Did I ever
tell you that my father moved southward, for the sake of his
health, to a house in Kent that was lent to him by a friend?"

"No, my dear; I don't remember ever hearing of the house in Kent.
Tell me about it."

"There is nothing to tell, except this: the new house was near a
fine country-seat standing in its own park. The owner of the
place was a gentleman named Wardour. He, too, was one of my
father's Kentish friends. He had an only son."

She paused, and played nervously with her fan. Mrs. Crayford
looked at her attentively. Clara's eyes remained fixed on her
fan--Clara said no more. "What was the son's name?" asked Mrs.
Crayford, quietly.

"Richard."

"Am I right, Clara, in suspecting that Mr. Richard Wardour
admired you?"

The question produced its intended effect. The question helped
Clara to go on.

"I hardly knew at first," she said, "whether he admired me or
not. He was very strange in his ways--headstrong, terribly
headstrong and passionate; but generous and affectionate in spite
of his faults of temper. Can you understand such a character?"

"Such characters exist by thousands. I have my faults of temper.
I begin to like Richard already. Go on."

"The days went by, Lucy, and the weeks went by. We were thrown
very much together. I began, little by little, to have some
suspicion of the truth."

"And Richard helped to confirm your suspicions, of course?

"No. He was not--unhappily for me--he was not that sort of man.
He never spoke of the feeling with which he regarded me. It was I
who saw it. I couldn't help seeing it. I did all I could to show
that I was willing to be a sister to him, and that I could never
be anything else. He did not understand me, or he would not, I
can't say which."

"'Would not,' is the most likely, my dear. Go on."

"It might have been as you say. There was a strange, rough
bashfulness about him. He confused and puzzled me. He never spoke
out. He seemed to treat me as if our future lives had been
provided for while we were
 children. What could I do, Lucy?"

"Do? You could have asked your father to end the difficulty for
you."

"Impossible! You forget what I have just told you. My father was
suffering at that time under the illness which afterward caused
his death. He was quite unfit to interfere."

"Was there no one else who could help you?"

"No one."

"No lady in whom you could confide?"

"I had acquaintances among the ladies in the neighborhood. I had
no friends."

"What did you do, then?"

"Nothing. I hesitated; I put off coming to an explanation with
him, unfortunately, until it was too late."

"What do you mean by too late?"

"You shall hear. I ought to have told you that Richard Wardour is
in the navy--"

"Indeed! I am more interested in him than ever. Well?"

"One spring day Richard came to our house to take leave of us
before he joined his ship. I thought he was gone, and I went into
the next room. It was my own sitting-room, and it opened on to
the garden."--

"Yes?"

"Richard must have been watching me. He suddenly appeared in the
garden. Without waiting for me to invite him, he walked into the
room. I was a little startled as well as surprised, but I managed
to hide it. I said, 'What is it, Mr. Wardour?' He stepped close
up to me; he said, in his quick, rough way: 'Clara! I am going to
the African coast. If I live, I shall come back promoted; and we
both know what will happen then.' He kissed me. I was half
frightened, half angry. Before I could compose myself to say a
word, he was out in the garden again--he was gone! I ought to
have spoken, I know. It was not honorable, not kind toward him.
You can't reproach me for my want of courage and frankness more
bitterly than I reproach myself!"

"My dear child, I don't reproach you. I only think you might have
written to him."

"I did write."

"Plainly?"

"Yes. I told him in so many words that he was deceiving himself,
and that I could never marry him."

"Plain enough, in all conscience! Having said that, surely you
are not to blame. What are you fretting about now?"

"Suppose my letter has never reached him?"

"Why should you suppose anything of the sort?"

"What I wrote required an answer, Lucy--_asked_ for an answer.
The answer has never come. What is the plain conclusion? My
letter has never reached him. And the _Atalanta_ is expected
back! Richard Wardour is returning to England--Richard Wardour
will claim me as his wife! You wondered just now if I really
meant what I said. Do you doubt it still?"

Mrs. Crayford leaned back absently in her chair. For the first
time since the conversation had begun, she let a question pass
without making a reply. The truth is, Mrs. Crayford was thinking.

She saw Clara's position plainly; she understood the disturbing
effect of it on the mind of a young girl. Still, making all
allowances, she felt quite at a loss, so far, to account for
Clara's excessive agitation. Her quick observing faculty had just
detected that Clara's face showed no signs of relief, now that
she had unburdened herself of her secret. There was something
clearly under the surface here--something of importance that
still remained to be discovered. A shrewd doubt crossed Mrs.
Crayford's mind, and inspired the next words which she addressed
to her young friend.

"My dear," she said abruptly, "have you told me all?"

Clara started as if the question terrified her. Feeling sure that
she now had the clew in her hand, Mrs. Crayford deliberately
repeated her question, in another form of words. Instead of
answering, Clara suddenly looked up. At the same moment a faint
flush of color appeared in her face for the first time.

Looking up instinctively on her side, Mrs. Crayford became aware
of the presence, in the conservatory, of a young gentleman who
was claiming Clara as his partner in the coming waltz. Mrs.
Crayford fell into thinking once more. Had this young gentleman
(she asked herself) anything to do with the untold end of the
story? Was this the true secret of Clara Burnham's terror at the
impending return of Richard Wardour? Mrs. Crayford decided on
putting her doubts to the test.

"A friend of yours, my dear?" she asked, innocently. "Suppose you
introduce us to each other."

Clara confusedly introduced the young gentleman.

"Mr. Francis Aldersley, Lucy. Mr. Aldersley belongs to the Arctic
expedition."

"Attached to the expedition?" Mrs. Crayford repeated. "I am
attached to the expedition too--in my way. I had better introduce
myself, Mr. Aldersley, as Clara seems to have forgotten to do it
for me. I am Mrs. Crayford. My husband is Lieutenant Crayford, of
the _Wanderer_. Do you belong to that ship?"

"I have not the honor, Mrs. Crayford. I belong to the _Sea-mew_."

Mrs. Crayford's superb eyes looked shrewdly backward and forward
between Clara and Francis Aldersley, and saw the untold sequel to
Clara's story. The young officer was a bright, handsome,
gentleman-like lad. Just the person to seriously complicate the
difficulty with Richard Wardour! There was no time for making any
further inquiries. The band had begun the prelude to the waltz,
and Francis Aldersley was waiting for his partner. With a word of
apology to the young man, Mrs. Crayford drew Clara aside for a
moment, and spoke to her in a whisper.

"One word, my dear, before you return to the ball-room. It may
sound conceited, after the little you have told me; but I think I
understand your position _now_, better than you do yourself. Do
you want to hear my opinion?"

"I am longing to hear it, Lucy! I want your opinion; I want your
advice."

"You shall have both in the plainest and fewest words. First, my
opinion: You have no choice but to come to an explanation with
Mr. Wardour as soon as he returns. Second, my advice: If you wish
to make the explanation easy to both sides, take care that you
make it in the character of a free woman."

She laid a strong emphasis on the last three words, and looked
pointedly at Francis Aldersley as she pronounced them. "I won't
keep you from your partner any longer, Clara," she resumed, and
led the way back to the ball-room.



Chapter 3.


The burden on Clara's mind weighs on it more heavily than ever,
after what Mrs. Crayford has said to her. She is too unhappy to
feel the inspiriting influence of the dance. After a turn round
the room, she complains of fatigue. Mr. Francis Aldersley looks
at the conservatory (still as invitingly cool and empty as ever);
leads her back to it; and places her on a seat among the shrubs.
She tries--very feebly--to dismiss him.

"Don't let me keep you from dancing, Mr. Aldersley."

He seats himself by her side, and feasts his eyes on the lovely
downcast face that dares not turn toward him. He whispers to her:

"Call me Frank."

She longs to call him Frank--she loves him with all her heart.
But Mrs. Crayford's warning words are still in her mind. She
never opens her lips. Her lover moves a little closer, and asks
another favor. Men are all alike on these occasions. Silence
invariably encourages them to try again.

"Clara! have you forgotten what I said at the concert yesterday?
May I say it again?"

"No!"

"We sail to-morrow for the Arctic seas. I may not return for
years. Don't send me away without hope! Think of the long, lonely
time in the dark North! Make it a happy time for _me_."

Though he speaks with the fervor of a man, he is little more than
a lad: he is only twenty years old, and he is going to risk his
young life on the frozen deep! Clara pities him as she never
pitied any human creature before. He gently takes her hand. She
tries to release it.

"What! not even that little favor on the last night?"

Her faithful heart takes his part, in spite of her. Her hand
remains in his, and feels its soft persuasive pressure. She is a
lost woman. It is only a question of time now!

"Clara! do you love me?"

There is a pause. She shrinks from looking at him--she trembles
with strange contradictory sensations of pleasure and pain. His
arm steals round her; he repeats his question in a whisper; his
lips almost touch her little rosy ear as he says it again:

"Do you love me?"

She closes her eyes faintly--she hears nothing but those
words--feels nothing but his arm round her --forgets Mrs.
Crayford's warning--forgets Richard Wardour himself--turns
suddenly, with a loving woman's desperate disregard of everything
but her love--nestles her head on his bosom, and answers him in
that way, at last!

He lifts the beautiful drooping head--their lips meet in their
first kiss--they are both in heaven: it is Clara who brings them
back to earth again with a start--it is Clara who says, "Oh! what
have I done?"--as usual, when it is too late.

Frank answers the question.

"You have made me happy, my angel. Now, when I come back, I come
back to make you my wife."

She shudders. She remembers Richard Wardour again at those words.

"Mind!" she says, "nobody is to know we are engaged till I permit
you to mention it. Remember that!"

He promises to remember it. His arm tries to wind round her once
more. No! She is mistress of herself; she can positively dismiss
him now--after she has let him kiss her!

"Go!" she says. "I want to see Mrs. Crayford. Find her! Say I am
here, waiting to speak to her. Go at once, Frank--for my sake!"

There is no alternative but to obey her. His eyes drink a last
draught of her beauty. He hurries away on his errand--the
happiest man in the room. Five minutes since she was only his
partner in the dance. He has spoken--and she has pledged herself
to be his partner for life!



Chapter 4.


It was not easy to find Mrs. Crayford in the crowd. Searching
here, and searching there, Frank became conscious of a stranger,
who appeared to be looking for somebody, on his side. He was a
dark, heavy-browed, strongly-built man, dressed in a shabby old
naval officer's uniform. His manner--strikingly resolute and
self-contained--was unmistakably the manner of a gentleman. He
wound his way slowly through the crowd; stopping to look at every
lady whom he passed, and then looking away again with a frown.
Little by little he approached the conservatory--entered it,
after a moment's reflection--detected the glimmer of a white
dress in the distance, through the shrubs and flowers--advanced
to get a nearer view of the lady--and burst into Clara's presence
with a cry of delight.

She sprang to her feet. She stood before him speechless,
motionless, struck to stone. All her life was in her eyes--the
eyes which told her she was looking at Richard Wardour.

He was the first to speak.

"I am sorry I startled you, my darling. I forgot everything but
the happiness of seeing you again. We only reached our moorings
two hours since. I was some time inquiring after you, and some
time getting my ticket when they told me you were at the ball.
Wish me joy, Clara! I am promoted. I have come back to make you
my wife."

A momentary change passed over the blank terror of her face. Her
color rose faintly, her lips moved. She abruptly put a question
to him.

"Did you get my letter?"

He started. "A letter from you? I never received it."

The momentary animation died out of her face again. She drew back
from him and dropped into a chair. He advanced toward her,
astonished and alarmed. She shrank in the chair--shrank, as if
she was frightened of him.

"Clara, you have not even shaken hands with me! What does it
mean?"

He paused; waiting and watching her. She made no reply. A flash
of the quick temper in him leaped up in his eyes. He repeated his
last words in louder and sterner tones:

"What does it mean?"

She replied this time. His tone had hurt her--his tone had roused
her sinking courage.

"It means, Mr. Wardour, that you have been mistaken from the
first."

"How have I been mistaken?"

"You have been under a wrong impression, and you have given me no
opportunity of setting you right."

"In what way have I been wrong?"

"You have been too hasty and too confident about yourself and
about me. You have entirely misunderstood me. I am grieved to
distress you, but for your sake I must speak plainly. I am your
friend always, Mr. Wardour. I can never be your wife."

He mechanically repeated the last words. He seemed to doubt
whether he had heard her aright.

"You can never be my wife?"

"Never!"

"Why?"

There was no answer. She was incapable of telling him a
falsehood. She was ashamed to tell him the truth.

He stooped over her, and suddenly possessed himself of her hand.
Holding her hand firmly, he stooped a little lower; searching for
the signs which might answer him in her face. His own face
darkened slowly while he looked. He was beginning to suspect her;
and he acknowledged it in his next words.

"Something has changed you toward me, Clara. Somebody has
influenced you against me. Is it--you force me to ask the
question--is it some other man?"

"You have no right to ask me that."

He went on without noticing what she had said to him.

"Has that other man come between you and me? I speak plainly on
my side. Speak plainly on yours."

"I _have_ spoken. I have nothing more to say."

There was a pause. She saw the warning light which told of the
fire within him, growing brighter and brighter in his eyes. She
felt his grasp strengthening on her hand. He appealed to her for
the last time.

"Reflect," he said, "reflect before it is too late. Your silence
will not serve you. If you persist in not answering me, I shall
take your silence as a confession. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Clara Burnham! I am not to be trifled with. Clara Burnham! I
insist on the truth. Are you false to me?"

She resented that searching question with a woman's keen sense of
the insult that is implied in doubting her to her face.

"Mr. Wardour! you forget yourself when you call me to account in
that way. I never encouraged you. I never gave you promise or
pledge--"

He passionately interrupted her before she could say more.

"You have engaged yourself in my absence. Your words own it; your
looks own it! You have engaged yourself to another man!"

"If I _have_ engaged myself, what right have you to complain of
it?" she answered firmly. "What right have you to control my
actions--?"

The next words died away on her lips. He suddenly dropped her
hand. A marked change appeared in the expression of his eyes--a
change which told her of the terrible passions that she had let
loose in him. She read, dimly read, something in his face which
made her tremble--not for herself, but for Frank.

Little by little the dark color faded out of his face. His deep
voice dropped suddenly to a low and quiet tone as he spoke the
parting words.

"Say no more, Miss Burnham--you have said enough. I am answered;
I am dismissed." He paused, and, stepping close up to her, laid
his hand on her arm.

"The time may come," he said, "when I shall forgive you. But the
man who has robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and he
first met."

He turned and left her.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Crayford, entering the conservatory,
was met by one of the attendants at the ball. The man stopped as
if he wished to speak to her.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am. Do you happen to have a
smelling-bottle about you? There is a young lady in the
conservatory who is taken faint."

Between the Scenes

The Landing Stage

Chapter 5.


The morning of the next day--the morning on which the ships were
to sail--came bright and breezy. Mrs. Crayford, having arranged
to follow her husband to the water-side, and see the last of him
before he embarked, entered Clara's room on her way out of the
house, anxious to hear how her young friend passed the night. To
her astonishment she found Clara had risen, and was dressed, like
herself, to go out.

"What does this mean, my dear? After what you suffered last
night--after the shock of seeing that man--why don't you take my
advice and rest in your bed?"

"I can't rest. I have not slept all night. Have you been out
yet?"

"No."

"Have you seen or heard anything of Richard Wardour?"

"What an extraordinary question!"

"Answer my question! Don't trifle with me!"

"Compose yourself, Clara. I have neither seen nor heard anything
of Richard Wardour. Take my word for it, he is far enough away by
this time."

"No! He is here! He is near us! All night long the presentiment
has pursued me--Frank and Richard Wardour will meet."

"My dear child! what are you thinking of? T hey are total
strangers to each other."

"Something will happen to bring them together. I feel it! I know
it! They will meet--there will be a mortal quarrel between
them--and I shall be to blame. Oh, Lucy! why didn't I take your
advice? Why was I mad enough to let Frank know that I loved him?
Are you going to the landing-stage? I am all ready--I must go
with you."

"You must not think of it, Clara. There will be crowding and
confusion at the water-side. You are not strong enough to bear
it. Wait--I won't be long away--wait till I come back."

"I must and will go with you! Crowd? _He_ will be among the
crowd! Confusion? In that confusion _he_ will find his way to
Frank! Don't ask me to wait. I shall go mad if I wait. I shall
not know a moment's ease until I have seen Frank, with my own
eyes, safe in the boat which takes him to his ship! You have got
your bonnet on; what are we stopping here for? Come! or I shall
go without you. Look at the clock; we have not a moment to lose!"

It was useless to contend with her. Mrs. Crayford yielded. The
two women left the house together.

The landing-stage, as Mrs. Crayford had predicted, was thronged
with spectators. Not only the relatives and friends of the Arctic
voyagers, but strangers as well, had assembled in large numbers
to see the ships sail. Clara's eyes wandered affrightedly hither
and thither among the strange faces in the crowd; searching for
the one face that she dreaded to see, and not finding it. So
completely were her nerves unstrung, that she started with a cry
of alarm on suddenly hearing Frank's voice behind her.

"The _Sea-mew_'s boats are waiting," he said. "I must go,
darling. How pale you are looking, Clara! Are you ill?"

She never answered. She questioned him with wild eyes and
trembling lips.

"Has anything happened to you, Frank? anything out of the
common?"

Frank laughed at the strange question.

"Anything out of the common?" he repeated. "Nothing that I know
of, except sailing for the Arctic seas. That's out of the common,
I suppose--isn't it?"

"Has anybody spoken to you since last night? Has any stranger
followed you in the street?"

Frank turned in blank amazement to Mrs. Crayford.

"What on earth does she mean?"

Mrs. Crayford's lively invention supplied her with an answer on
the spur of the moment.

"Do you believe in dreams, Frank? Of course you don't! Clara has
been dreaming about you; and Clara is foolish enough to believe
in dreams. That's all--it's not worth talking about. Hark! they
are calling you. Say good-by, or you will be too late for the
boat."

Frank took Clara's hand. Long afterward--in the dark Arctic days,
in the dreary Arctic nights--he remembered how coldly and how
passively that hand lay in his.

"Courage, Clara!" he said, gayly. "A sailor's sweetheart must
accustom herself to partings. The time will soon pass. Good-by,
my darling! Good-by, my wife!"

He kissed the cold hand; he looked his last--for many a long
year, perhaps!--at the pale and beautiful face. "How she loves
me!" he thought. "How the parting distresses her!" He still held
her hand; he would have lingered longer, if Mrs. Crayford had not
wisely waived all ceremony and pushed him away.

The two ladies followed him at a safe distance through the crowd,
and saw him step into the boat. The oars struck the water; Frank
waved his cap to Clara. In a moment more a vessel at anchor hid
the boat from view. They had seen the last of him on his way to
the Frozen Deep!

"No Richard Wardour in the boat," said Mrs. Crayford. "No Richard
Wardour on the shore. Let this be a lesson to you, my dear. Never
be foolish enough to believe in presentiments again."

Clara's eyes still wandered suspiciously to and fro among the
crowd.

"Are you not satisfied yet?" asked Mrs. Crayford.

"No," Clara answered, "I am not satisfied yet."

"What! still looking for him? This is really too absurd. Here is
my husband coming. I shall tell him to call a cab, and send you
home."

Clara drew back a few steps.

"I won't be in the way, Lucy, while you are taking leave of your
good husband," she said. "I will wait here."

"Wait here! What for?"

"For something which I may yet see; or for something which I may
still hear."

"Richard Wardour?"

"Richard Wardour."

Mrs. Crayford turned to her husband without another word. Clara's
infatuation was beyond the reach of remonstrance.

The boats of the _Wanderer_ took the place at the landing-stage
vacated by the boats of the _Sea-mew_. A burst of cheering among
the outer ranks of the crowd announced the arrival of the
commander of the expedition on the scene. Captain Helding
appeared, looking right and left for his first lieutenant.
Finding Crayford with his wife, the captain made his apologies
for interfering, with his best grace.

"Give him up to his professional duties for one minute, Mrs.
Crayford, and you shall have him back again for half an hour. The
Arctic expedition is to blame, my dear lady--not the captain--for
parting man and wife. In Crayford's place, I should have left it
to the bachelors to find the Northwest Passage, and have stopped
at home with you!"

Excusing himself in those bluntly complimentary terms, Captain
Helding drew the lieutenant aside a few steps, accidentally
taking a direction that led the two officers close to the place
at which Clara was standing. Both the captain and the lieutenant
were too completely absorbed in their professional business to
notice her. Neither the one nor the other had the faintest
suspicion that she could and did hear every word of the talk that
passed between them.

"You received my note this morning?" the captain began.

"Certainly, Captain Helding, or I should have been on board the
ship before this."

"I am going on board myself at once," the captain proceeded, "but
I must ask you to keep your boat waiting for half an hour more.
You will be all the longer with your wife, you know. I thought of
that, Crayford."

"I am much obliged to you, Captain Helding. I suppose there is
some other reason for inverting the customary order of things,
and keeping the lieutenant on shore after the captain is on
board?"

"Quite true! there _is_ another reason. I want you to wait for a
volunteer who has just joined us."

"A volunteer!"

"Yes. He has his outfit to get in a hurry, and he may be half an
hour late."

"It's rather a sudden appointment, isn't it?"

"No doubt. Very sudden."

"And--pardon me--it's rather a long time (as we are situated) to
keep the ships waiting for one man?"

"Quite true, again. But a man who is worth having is worth
waiting for. This man is worth having; this man is worth his
weight in gold to such an expedition as ours. Seasoned to all
climates and all fatigues--a strong fellow, a brave fellow, a
clever fellow--in short, an excellent officer. I know him well,
or I should never have taken him. The country gets plenty of work
out of my new volunteer, Crayford. He only returned yesterday
from foreign service."

"He only returned yesterday from foreign service! And he
volunteers this morning to join the Arctic expedition? You
astonish me."

"I dare say I do! You can't be more astonished than I was, when
he presented himself at my hotel and told me what he wanted.
'Why, my good fellow, you have just got home,' I said. 'Are you
weary of your freedom, after only a few hours' experience of it?'
His answer rather startled me. He said, 'I am weary of my life,
sir. I have come home and found a trouble to welcome me, which
goes near to break my heart. If I don't take refuge in absence
and hard work, I am a lost man. Will you give me a refuge?'
That's what he said, Crayford, word for word."

"Did you ask him to explain himself further?"

"Not I! I knew his value, and I took the poor devil on the spot,
without pestering him with any more questions. No need to ask him
to explain himself. The facts speak for themselves in these
cases. The old story, my good friend! There's a woman at the
bottom of it, of course."


Mrs. Crayford, waiting for the return of her husband as patiently
as she could, was startled by feeling a hand suddenly laid on her
shoulder. She looked round, and confronted Clara. Her first
feeling of surprise changed instantly to alarm. Clara was
trembling from head to foot.

"What is the matter? What has frightened you, my dear?"

"Lucy! I _have_ heard of him!"

"Richard Wardour again?"

"Remember what I told you. I have heard every word of the
conversation between Captain Helding and your husband. A man came
to the captain this morning and volunteered to join the
_Wanderer_. The captain has taken him. The man is Richard
Wardour."

"You don't mean it! Are you sure? Did you hear Captain Helding
mention his name?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it's Richard Wardour?"

"Don't ask me! I am as certain of it, as that I am standing here!
They are going away together, Lucy--away to the eternal ice and
snow. My foreboding has come true! The two will meet--the man who
is to marry me and the man whose heart I have broken!"

"Your foreboding has _not_ come true, Clara! The men have not met
here--the men are not likely to meet elsewhere. They are
appointed to separate ships. Frank belongs to the _Sea-mew_, and
Wardour to the _Wanderer_. See! Captain Helding has done. My
husband is coming this way. Let me make sure. Let me speak to
him."

Lieutenant Crayford returned to his wife. She spoke to him
instantly.

"William! you have got a new volunteer who joins the _Wanderer_?"

"What! you have been listening to the captain and me?"

"I want to know his name?"

"How in the world did you manage to hear what we said to each
other?"

"His name? has the captain given you his name?"

"Don't excite yourself, my dear. Look! you are positively
alarming Miss Burnham. The new volunteer is a perfect stranger to
us. There is his name--last on the ship's list."

Mrs. Crayford snatched the list out of her husband's hand, and
read the name:

"RICHARD WARDOUR."



Second Scene.

The Hut of the _Sea-mew_.

Chapter 6.


Good-by to England! Good-by to inhabited and civilized regions of
the earth!

Two years have passed since the voyagers sailed from their native
shores. The enterprise has failed--the Arctic expedition is lost
and ice-locked in the Polar wastes. The good ships _Wanderer_ and
_Sea-mew_, entombed in ice, will never ride the buoyant waters
more. Stripped of their lighter timbers, both vessels have been
used for the construction of huts, erected on the nearest land.

The largest of the two buildings which now shelter the lost men
is occupied by the surviving officers and crew of the _Sea-mew_.
On one side of the principal room are the sleeping berths and the
fire-place. The other side discloses a broad doorway (closed by a
canvas screen), which serves as a means of communication with an
inner apartment, devoted to the superior officers. A hammock is
slung to the rough raftered roof of the main room, as an extra
bed. A man, completely hidden by his bedclothes, is sleeping in
the hammock. By the fireside there is a second man--supposed to
be on the watch--fast asleep, poor wretch! at the present moment.
Behind the sleeper stands an old cask, which serves for a table.
The objects at present on the table are, a pestle and mortar, and
a saucepanful of the dry bones of animals--in plain words, the
dinner for the day. By way of ornament to the dull brown walls,
icicles appear in the crevices of the timber, gleaming at
intervals in the red fire-light. No wind whistles outside the
lonely dwelling--no cry of bird or beast is heard. Indoors, and
out-of-doors, the awful silence of the Polar desert reigns, for
the moment, undisturbed.



Chapter 7.


The first sound that broke the silence came from the inner
apartment. An officer lifted the canvas screen in the hut of the
_Sea-mew_ and entered the main room. Cold and privation had badly
thinned the ranks. The commander of the ship--Captain
Ebsworth--was dangerously ill. The first lieutenant was dead. An
officer of the _Wanderer_ filled their places for the time, with
Captain Helding's permission. The officer so employed
was--Lieutenant Crayford.

He approached the man at the fireside, and awakened him.

"Jump up, Bateson! It's your turn to be relieved."

The relief appeared, rising from a heap of old sails at the back
of the hut. Bateson vanished, yawning, to his bed. Lieutenant
Crayford walked backward and forward briskly, trying what
exercise would do toward warming his blood.

The pestle and mortar on the cask attracted his attention. He
stopped and looked up at the man in the hammock.

"I must rouse the cook," he said to himself, with a smile. "That
fellow little thinks how useful he is in keeping up my spirits.
The most inveterate croaker and grumbler in the world--and yet,
according to his own account, the only cheerful man in the whole
ship's company. John Want! John Want! Rouse up, there!"

A head rose slowly out of the bedclothes, covered with a red
night-cap. A melancholy nose rested itself on the edge of the
hammock. A voice, worthy of the nose, expressed its opinion of
the Arctic climate, in these words:

"Lord! Lord! here's all my breath on my blanket. Icicles, if you
please, sir, all round my mouth and all over my blanket. Every
time I have snored, I've frozen something. When a man gets the
cold into him to that extent that he ices his own bed, it can't
last much longer. Never mind! _I_ don't grumble."

Crayford tapped the saucepan of bones impatiently. John Want
lowered himself to the floor--grumbling all the way--by a rope
attached to the rafters at his bed head. Instead of approaching
his superior officer and his saucepan, he hobbled, shivering, to
the fire-place, and held his chin as close as he possibly could
over the fire. Crayford looked after him.

"Halloo! what are you doing there?"

"Thawing my beard, sir."

"Come here directly, and set to work on these bones."

John Want remained immovably attached to the fire-place, holding
something else over the fire. Crayford began to lose his temper.

"What the devil are you about now?"

"Thawing my watch, sir. It's been under my pillow all night, and
the cold has stopped it. Cheerful, wholesome, bracing sort of
climate to live in; isn't it, sir? Never mind! _I_ don't
grumble."

"No, we all know that. Look here! Are these bones pounded small
enough?"

John Want suddenly approached the lieutenant, and looked at him
with an appearance of the deepest interest.

"You'll excuse me, sir," he said; "how very hollow your voice
sounds this morning!"

"Never mind my voice. The bones! the bones!"

"Yes, sir--the bones. They'll take a trifle more pounding. I'll
do my best with them, sir, for your sake."

"What do you mean?"

John Want shook his head, and looked at Crayford with a dreary
smile.

"I don't think I shall have the honor of making much more bone
soup for you, sir. Do you think yourself you'll last long, sir? I
don't, saving your presence. I think about another week or ten
days will do for us all. Never mind! _I_ don't grumble."

He poured the bones into the mortar, and began to pound
them--under protest. At the same moment a sailor appeared,
entering from the inner hut.

"A message from Captain Ebsworth, sir."

"Well?"

"The captain is worse than ever with his freezing pains, sir. He
wants to see you immediately."

"I will go at once. Rouse the doctor."

Answering in those terms, Crayford returned to the inner hut,
followed by the sailor. John Want shook his head again, and
smiled more drearily than ever.

"Rouse the doctor?" he repeated. "Suppose the doctor should be
frozen? He hadn't a ha'porth of warmth in him last night, and his
voice sounded like a whisper in a speaking-trumpet. Will the
bones do now? Yes, the bones will do now. Into the saucepan with
you," cried John Want, suiting the action to the word, "and
flavor the hot water if you can! When I remember that I was once
an apprentice at a pastry-cook's--when I think of the gallons of
turtle-soup that this hand has stirred up in a jolly hot
kitchen--and when I find myself mixing bones and hot water for
soup, and turning into ice as fast as I can; if I wasn't of a
cheerful disposition I should feel inclined to grumble. John
Want! John Want! whatever had you done with your natural senses
when you made up your mind to go to sea?"

A new voice hailed the cook, speaking from one of the bed-places
in the side of the hut. It
 was the voice of Francis Aldersley.

"Who's that croaking over the fire?"

"Croaking?" repeated John Want, with the air of a man who
considered himself the object of a gratuitous insult. "Croaking?
You don't find your own voice at all altered for the worse--do
you, Mr. Frank? I don't give _him_," John proceeded, speaking
confidentially to himself, "more than six hours to last. He's one
of your grumblers."

"What are you doing there?" asked Frank.

"I'm making bone soup, sir, and wondering why I ever went to
sea."

"Well, and why did you go to sea?"

"I'm not certain, Mr. Frank. Sometimes I think it was natural
perversity; sometimes I think it was false pride at getting over
sea-sickness; sometimes I think it was reading 'Robinson Crusoe,'
and books warning of me _not_ to go to sea."

Frank laughed. "You're an odd fellow. What do you mean by false
pride at getting over sea-sickness? Did you get over sea-sickness
in some new way?"

John Want's dismal face brightened in spite of himself. Frank had
recalled to the cook's memory one of the noteworthy passages in
the cook's life.

"That's it, sir!" he said. "If ever a man cured sea-sickness in a
new way yet, I am that man--I got over it, Mr. Frank, by dint of
hard eating. I was a passenger on board a packet-boat, sir, when
first I saw blue water. A nasty lopp of a sea came on at
dinner-time, and I began to feel queer the moment the soup was
put on the table. 'Sick?' says the captain. 'Rather, sir,' says
I. 'Will you try my cure?' says the captain. 'Certainly, sir,'
says I. 'Is your heart in your mouth yet?' says the captain. 'Not
quite, sir,' says I. 'Mock-turtle soup?' says the captain, and
helps me. I swallow a couple of spoonfuls, and turn as white as a
sheet. The captain cocks his eye at me. 'Go on deck, sir,' says
he; 'get rid of the soup, and then come back to the cabin.' I got
rid of the soup, and came back to the cabin. 'Cod's
head-and-shoulders,' says the captain, and helps me. 'I can't
stand it, sir,' says I. 'You must,' says the captain, 'because
it's the cure.' I crammed down a mouthful, and turned paler than
ever. 'Go on deck,' says the captain. 'Get rid of the cod's head,
and come back to the cabin.' Off I go, and back I come. 'Boiled
leg of mutton and trimmings,' says the captain, and helps me. 'No
fat, sir,' says I. 'Fat's the cure,' says the captain, and makes
me eat it. 'Lean's the cure,' says the captain, and makes me eat
it. 'Steady?' says the captain. 'Sick,' says I. 'Go on deck,'
says the captain; 'get rid of the boiled leg of mutton and
trimmings and come back to the cabin.' Off I go, staggering--back
I come, more dead than alive. 'Deviled kidneys,' says the
captain. I shut my eyes, and got 'em down. 'Cure's beginning,'
says the captain. 'Mutton-chop and pickles.' I shut my eyes, and
got _them_ down. 'Broiled ham and cayenne pepper,' says the
captain. 'Glass of stout and cranberry tart. Want to go on deck
again?' 'No, sir,' says I. 'Cure's done,' says the captain.
'Never you give in to your stomach, and your stomach will end in
giving in to you.'"

Having stated the moral purpose of his story in those
unanswerable words, John Want took himself and his saucepan into
the kitchen. A moment later, Crayford returned to the hut and
astonished Frank Aldersley by an unexpected question.

"Have you anything in your berth, Frank, that you set a value
on?"

"Nothing that I set the smallest value on--when I am out of it,"
he replied. "What does your question mean?"

"We are almost as short of fuel as we are of provisions,"
Crayford proceeded. "Your berth will make good firing. I have
directed Bateson to be here in ten minutes with his ax."

"Very attentive and considerate on your part," said Frank. "What
is to become of me, if you please, when Bateson has chopped my
bed into fire-wood?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I suppose the cold has stupefied me. The riddle is beyond my
reading. Suppose you give me a hint?"

"Certainly. There will be beds to spare soon--there is to be a
change at last in our wretched lives here. Do you see it now?"

Frank's eyes sparkled. He sprang out of his berth, and waved his
fur cap in triumph.

"See it?" he exclaimed; "of course I do! The exploring party is
to start at last. Do I go with the expedition?"

"It is not very long since you were in the doctor's hands,
Frank," said Crayford, kindly. "I doubt if you are strong enough
yet to make one of the exploring party."

"Strong enough or not," returned Frank, "any risk is better than
pining and perishing here. Put me down, Crayford, among those who
volunteer to go."

"Volunteers will not be accepted, in this case," said Crayford.
"Captain Helding and Captain Ebsworth see serious objections, as
we are situated, to that method of proceeding."

"Do they mean to keep the appointments in their own hands?" asked
Frank. "I for one object to that."

"Wait a little," said Crayford. "You were playing backgammon the
other day with one of the officers. Does the board belong to him
or to you?"

"It belongs to me. I have got it in my locker here. What do you
want with it?"

"I want the dice and the box for casting lots. The captains have
arranged--most wisely, as I think--that Chance shall decide among
us who goes with the expedition and who stays behind in the huts.
The officers and crew of the _Wanderer_ will be here in a few
minutes to cast the lots. Neither you nor any one can object to
that way of deciding among us. Officers and men alike take their
chance together. Nobody can grumble."

"I am quite satisfied," said Frank. "But I know of one man among
the officers who is sure to make objections."

"Who is the man?"

"You know him well enough, too. The 'Bear of the Expeditions'
Richard Wardour."

"Frank! Frank! you have a bad habit of letting your tongue run
away with you. Don't repeat that stupid nickname when you talk of
my good friend, Richard Wardour."

"Your good friend? Crayford! your liking for that man amazes me."

Crayford laid his hand kindly on Frank's shoulder. Of all the
officers of the _Sea-mew_, Crayford's favorite was Frank.

"Why should it amaze you?" he asked. "What opportunities have you
had of judging? You and Wardour have always belonged to different
ships. I have never seen you in Wardour's society for five
minutes together. How can _you_ form a fair estimate of his
character?"

"I take the general estimate of his character," Frank answered.
"He has got his nickname because he is the most unpopular man in
his ship. Nobody likes him--there must be some reason for that."

"There is only one reason for it," Crayford rejoined. "Nobody
understands Richard Wardour. I am not talking at random.
Remember, I sailed from England with him in the _Wanderer_; and I
was only transferred to the _Sea-mew_ long after we were locked
up in the ice. I was Richard Wardour's companion on board ship
for months, and I learned there to do him justice. Under all his
outward defects, I tell you, there beats a great and generous
heart. Suspend your opinion, my lad, until you know my friend as
well as I do. No more of this now. Give me the dice and the box."

Frank opened his locker. At the same moment the silence of the
snowy waste outside was broken by a shouting of voices hailing
the hut--"_Sea-mew_, ahoy!"



Chapter 8.


The sailor on watch opened the outer door. There, plodding over
the ghastly white snow, were the officers of the _Wanderer_
approaching the hut. There, scattered under the merciless black
sky, were the crew, with the dogs and the sledges, waiting the
word which was to start them on their perilous and doubtful
journey.

Captain Helding of the _Wanderer_, accompanied by his officers,
entered the hut, in high spirits at the prospect of a change.
Behind them, lounging in slowly by himself, was a dark, sullen,
heavy-browed man. He neither spoke, nor offered his hand to
anybody: he was the one person present who seemed to be perfectly
indifferent to the fate in store for him. This was the man whom
his brother officers had nicknamed the Bear of the Expedition. In
other words--Richard Wardour.

Crayford advanced to welcome Captain Helding. Frank, remembering
the friendly reproof which he had just received, passed ov er the
other officers of the _Wanderer_, and made a special effort to be
civil to Crayford's friend.

"Good-morning, Mr. Wardour," he said. "We may congratulate each
other on the chance of leaving this horrible place."

"_You_ may think it horrible," Wardour retorted; "I like it."

"Like it? Good Heavens! why?"

"Because there are no women here."

Frank turned to his brother officers, without making any further
advances in the direction of Richard Wardour. The Bear of the
Expedition was more unapproachable than ever.

In the meantime, the hut had become thronged by the able-bodied
officers and men of the two ships. Captain Helding, standing in
the midst of them, with Crayford by his side, proceeded to
explain the purpose of the contemplated expedition to the
audience which surrounded him.

He began in these words:

"Brother officers and men of the _Wanderer_ and _Sea-mew_, it is
my duty to tell you, very briefly, the reasons which have decided
Captain Ebsworth and myself on dispatching an exploring party in
search of help. Without recalling all the hardships we have
suffered for the last two years--the destruction, first of one of
our ships, then of the other; the death of some of our bravest
and best companions; the vain battles we have been fighting with
the ice and snow, and boundless desolation of these inhospitable
regions--without dwelling on these things, it is my duty to
remind you that this, the last place in which we have taken
refuge, is far beyond the track of any previous expedition, and
that consequently our chance of being discovered by any rescuing
parties that may be sent to look after us is, to say the least of
it, a chance of the most uncertain kind. You all agree with me,
gentlemen, so far?"

The officers (with the exception of Wardour, who stood apart in
sullen silence) all agreed, so far.

The captain went on.

"It is therefore urgently necessary that we should make another,
and probably a last, effort to extricate ourselves. The winter is
not far off, game is getting scarcer and scarcer, our stock of
provisions is running low, and the sick--especially, I am sorry
to say, the sick in the _Wanderer_'s hut--are increasing in
number day by day. We must look to our own lives, and to the
lives of those who are dependent on us; and we have no time to
lose."

The officers echoed the words cheerfully.

"Right! right! No time to lose."

Captain Helding resumed:

"The plan proposed is, that a detachment of the able-bodied
officers and men among us should set forth this very day, and
make another effort to reach the nearest inhabited settlements,
from which help and provisions may be dispatched to those who
remain here. The new direction to be taken, and the various
precautions to be adopted, are all drawn out ready. The only
question now before us is, Who is to stop here, and who is to
undertake the journey?"

The officers answered the question with one accord--"Volunteers!"

The men echoed their officers. "Ay, ay, volunteers."

Wardour still preserved his sullen silence. Crayford noticed him.
standing apart from the rest, and appealed to him personally.

"Do you say nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing," Wardour answered. "Go or stay, it's all one to me."

"I hope you don't really mean that?" said Crayford.

"I do."

"I am sorry to hear it, Wardour."

Captain Helding answered the general suggestion in favor of
volunteering by a question which instantly checked the rising
enthusiasm of the meeting.

"Well," he said, "suppose we say volunteers. Who volunteers to
stop in the huts?"

There was a dead silence. The officers and men looked at each
other confusedly. The captain continued:

"You see we can't settle it by volunteering. You all want to go.
Every man among us who has the use of his limbs naturally wants
to go. But what is to become of those who have not got the use of
their limbs? Some of us must stay here, and take care of the
sick."

Everybody admitted that this was true.

"So we get back again," said the captain, "to the old
question--Who among the able-bodied is to go? and who is to stay?
Captain Ebsworth says, and I say, let chance decide it. Here are
dice. The numbers run as high as twelve--double sixes. All who
throw under six, stay; all who throw over six, go. Officers of
the _Wanderer_ and the _Sea-mew_, do you agree to that way of
meeting the difficulty?"

All the officers agreed, with the one exception of Wardour, who
still kept silence.

"Men of the _Wanderer_ and _Sea-mew_, your officers agree to cast
lots. Do you agree too?"

The men agreed without a dissentient voice. Crayford handed the
box and the dice to Captain Helding.

"You throw first, sir. Under six, 'Stay.' Over six, 'Go.'"

Captain Helding cast the dice; the top of the cask serving for a
table. He threw seven.

"Go," said Crayford. "I congratulate you, sir. Now for my own
chance." He cast the dice in his turn. Three!" Stay! Ah, well!
well! if I can do my duty, and be of use to others, what does it
matter whether I go or stay? Wardour, you are next, in the
absence of your first lieutenant."

Wardour prepared to cast, without shaking the dice.

"Shake the box, man!" cried Crayford. "Give yourself a chance of
luck!"

Wardour persisted in letting the dice fall out carelessly, just
as they lay in the box.

"Not I!" he muttered to himself. "I've done with luck." Saying
those words, he threw down the empty box, and seated himself on
the nearest chest, without looking to see how the dice had
fallen.

Crayford examined them. "Six!" he exclaimed. "There! you have a
second chance, in spite of yourself. You are neither under nor
over--you throw again."

"Bah!" growled the Bear. "It's not worth the trouble of getting
up for. Somebody else throw for me." He suddenly looked at Frank.
"You! you have got what the women call a lucky face."

Frank appealed to Crayford. "Shall I?"

"Yes, if he wishes it," said Crayford.

Frank cast the dice. "Two! He stays! Wardour, I am sorry I have
thrown against you."

"Go or stay," reiterated Wardour, "it's all one to me. You will
be luckier, young one, when you cast for yourself."

Frank cast for himself.

"Eight. Hurrah! I go!"

"What did I tell you?" said Wardour. "The chance was yours. You
have thriven on my ill luck."

He rose, as he spoke, to leave the hut. Crayford stopped him.

"Have you anything particular to do, Richard?"

"What has anybody to do here?"

"Wait a little, then. I want to speak to you when this business
is over."

"Are you going to give me any more good advice?"

"Don't look at me in that sour way, Richard. I am going to ask
you a question about something which concerns yourself."

Wardour yielded without a word more. He returned to his chest,
and cynically composed himself to slumber. The casting of the
lots went on rapidly among the officers and men. In another
half-hour chance had decided the question of "Go" or "Stay" for
all alike. The men left the hut. The officers entered the inner
apartment for a last conference with the bed-ridden captain of
the _Sea-mew_. Wardour and Crayford were left together, alone.



Chapter 9.


Crayford touched his friend on the shoulder to rouse him. Wardour
looked up, impatiently, with a frown.

"I was just asleep," he said. "Why do you wake me?"

"Look round you, Richard. We are alone."

"Well--and what of that?"

"I wish to speak to you privately; and this is my opportunity.
You have disappointed and surprised me to-day. Why did you say it
was all one to you whether you went or stayed? Why are you the
only man among us who seems to be perfectly indifferent whether
we are rescued or not?"

"Can a man always give a reason for what is strange in his manner
or his words?" Wardour retorted.

"He can try," said Crayford, quietly--"when his friend asks him."

Wardour's manner softened.

"That's true," he said. "I _will_ try. Do you remember the first
night at sea when we sailed from England in the _Wanderer_?"

"As well as if it was yesterday."

"A calm, still night," the other went on, thoughtfully. "No
clouds, no stars. Nothing in the sky but the broad moon, and
hardly a ripple to break the path of light she made in the quiet
water. Mine was the middle watch that night. You cam e on deck,
and found me alone--"

He stopped. Crayford took his hand, and finished the sentence for
him.

"Alone--and in tears."

"The last I shall ever shed," Wardour added, bitterly.

"Don't say that! There are times when a man is to be pitied
indeed, if he can shed no tears. Go on, Richard."

Wardour proceeded--still following the old recollections, still
preserving his gentler tones.

"I should have quarreled with any other man who had surprised me
at that moment," he said. "There was something, I suppose, in
your voice when you asked my pardon for disturbing me, that
softened my heart. I told you I had met with a disappointment
which had broken me for life. There was no need to explain
further. The only hopeless wretchedness in this world is the
wretchedness that women cause."

"And the only unalloyed happiness," said Crayford, "the happiness
that women bring."

"That may be your experience of them," Wardour answered; "mine is
different. All the devotion, the patience, the humility, the
worship that there is in man, I laid at the feet of a woman. She
accepted the offering as women do--accepted it, easily,
gracefully, unfeelingly--accepted it as a matter of course. I
left England to win a high place in my profession, before I dared
to win _her_. I braved danger, and faced death. I staked my life
in the fever swamps of Africa, to gain the promotion that I only
desired for her sake--and gained it. I came back to give her all,
and to ask nothing in return, but to rest my weary heart in the
sunshine of her smile. And her own lips--the lips I had kissed at
parting--told me that another man had robbed me of her. I spoke
but few words when I heard that confession, and left her forever.
'The time may come,' I told her, 'when I shall forgive _you_. But
the man who has robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and
he first met.' Don't ask me who he was! I have yet to discover
him. The treachery had been kept secret; nobody could tell me
where to find him; nobody could tell me who he was. What did it
matter? When I had lived out the first agony, I could rely on
myself--I could be patient, and bide my time."

"Your time? What time?"

"The time when I and that man shall meet face to face. I knew it
then; I know it now--it was written on my heart then, it is
written on my heart now--we two shall meet and know each other!
With that conviction strong within me, I volunteered for this
service, as I would have volunteered for anything that set work
and hardship and danger, like ramparts, between my misery and me.
With that conviction strong within me still, I tell you it is no
matter whether I stay here with the sick, or go hence with the
strong. I shall live till I have met that man! There is a day of
reckoning appointed between us. Here in the freezing cold, or
away in the deadly heat; in battle or in shipwreck; in the face
of starvation; under the shadow of pestilence--I, though hundreds
are falling round me, I shall live! live for the coming of one
day! live for the meeting with one man!"

He stopped, trembling, body and soul, under the hold that his own
terrible superstition had fastened on him. Crayford drew back in
silent horror. Wardour noticed the action--he resented it--he
appealed, in defense of his one cherished conviction, to
Crayford's own experience of him.

"Look at me!" he cried. "Look how I have lived and thriven, with
the heart-ache gnawing at me at home, and the winds of the icy
north whistling round me here! I am the strongest man among you.
Why? I have fought through hardships that have laid the
best-seasoned men of all our party on their backs. Why? What have
_I_ done, that my life should throb as bravely through every vein
in my body at this minute, and in this deadly place, as ever it
did in the wholesome breezes of home? What am I preserved for? I
tell you again, for the coming of one day--for the meeting with
one man."

He paused once more. This time Crayford spoke.

"Richard!" he said, "since we first met, I have believed in your
better nature, against all outward appearance. I have believed in
you, firmly, truly, as your brother might. You are putting that
belief to a hard test. If your enemy had told me that you had
ever talked as you talk now, that you had ever looked as you look
now, I would have turned my back on him as the utterer of a vile
calumny against a just, a brave, an upright man. Oh! my friend,
my friend, if ever I have deserved well of you, put away these
thoughts from your heart! Face me again, with the stainless look
of a man who has trampled under his feet the bloody superstitions
of revenge, and knows them no more! Never, never, let the time
come when I cannot offer you my hand as I offer it now, to the
man I can still admire--to the brother I can still love!"

The heart that no other voice could touch felt that appeal. The
fierce eyes, the hard voice, softened under Crayford's influence.
Richard Wardour's head sank on his breast.

"You are kinder to me than I deserve," he said. "Be kinder still,
and forget what I have been talking about. No! no more about me;
I am not worth it. We'll change the subject, and never go back to
it again. Let's do something. Work, Crayford--that's the true
elixir of our life! Work, that stretches the muscles and sets the
blood a-glowing. Work, that tires the body and rests the mind. Is
there nothing in hand that I can do? Nothing to cut? nothing to
carry?"

The door opened as he put the question. Bateson--appointed to
chop Frank's bed-place into firing--appeared punctually with his
ax. Wardour, without a word of warning, snatched the ax out of
the man's hand.

"What was this wanted for?" he asked.

"To cut up Mr. Aldersley's berth there into firing, sir."

"I'll do it for you! I'll have it down in no time!" He turned to
Crayford. "You needn't be afraid about me, old friend. I am going
to do the right thing. I am going to tire my body and rest my
mind."

The evil spirit in him was plainly subdued--for the time, at
least. Crayford took his hand in silence; and then (followed by
Bateson) left him to his work.



Chapter 10.


Ax in hand, Wardour approached Frank's bed-place.

"If I could only cut the thoughts out of me," he said to himself,
"as I am going to cut the billets out of this wood!" He attacked
the bed-place with the ax, like a man who well knew the use of
his instrument. "Oh me!" he thought, sadly, "if I had only been
born a carpenter instead of a gentleman! A good ax, Master
Bateson--I wonder where you got it? Something like a grip, my
man, on this handle. Poor Crayford! his words stick in my throat.
A fine fellow! a noble fellow! No use thinking, no use
regretting; what is said, is said. Work! work! work!"

Plank after plank fell out on the floor. He laughed over the easy
task of destruction. "Aha! young Aldersley! It doesn't take much
to demolish your bed-place. I'll have it down! I would have the
whole hut down, if they would only give me the chance of chopping
at it!"

A long strip of wood fell to his ax--long enough to require
cutting in two. He turned it, and stooped over it. Something
caught his eye--letters carved in the wood. He looked closer. The
letters were very faintly and badly cut. He could only make out
the first three of them; and even of those he was not quite
certain. They looked like C L A--if they looked like anything. He
threw down the strip of wood irritably.

"D--n the fellow (whoever he is) who cut this! Why should he
carve _that_ name, of all the names in the world?"

He paused, considering--then determined to go on again with his
self-imposed labor. He was ashamed of his own outburst. He looked
eagerly for the ax. "Work, work! Nothing for it but work." He
found the ax, and went on again.

He cut out another plank.

He stopped, and looked at it suspiciously.

There was carving again, on this plank. The letters F. and A.
appeared on it.

He put down the ax. There were vague misgivings in him which he
was not able to realize. The state of his own mind was fast
becoming a puzzle to him.

"More carving," he said to himself. "That's the way these young
idlers employ their long hours. F. A.? Those must be _his_
initials--Frank Aldersley. Who c arved the letters on the other
plank? Frank Aldersley, too?"

He turned the piece of wood in his hand nearer to the light, and
looked lower down it. More carving again, lower down! Under the
initials F. A. were two more letters--C. B.

"C. B.?" he repeated to himself. "His sweet heart's initials, I
suppose? Of course--at his age--his sweetheart's initials."

He paused once more. A spasm of inner pain showed the shadow of
its mysterious passage, outwardly on his face.

"_Her_ cipher is C. B.," he said, in low, broken tones. "C.
B.--Clara Burnham."

He waited, with the plank in his hand; repeating the name over
and over again, as if it was a question he was putting to
himself.

"Clara Burnham? Clara Burnham?"

He dropped the plank, and turned deadly pale in a moment. His
eyes wandered furtively backward and forward between the strip of
wood on the floor and the half-demolished berth. "Oh, God! what
has come to me now?" he said to himself, in a whisper. He
snatched up the ax, with a strange cry--something between rage
and terror. He tried--fiercely, desperately tried--to go on with
his work. No! strong as he was, he could not use the ax. His
hands were helpless; they trembled incessantly. He went to the
fire; he held his hands over it. They still trembled incessantly;
they infected the rest of him. He shuddered all over. He knew
fear. His own thoughts terrified him.

"Crayford!" he cried out. "Crayford! come here, and let's go
hunting."

No friendly voice answered him. No friendly face showed itself at
the door.

An interval passed; and there came over him another change. He
recovered his self-possession almost as suddenly as he had lost
it. A smile--a horrid, deforming, unnatural smile--spread slowly,
stealthily, devilishly over his face. He left the fire; he put
the ax away softly in a corner; he sat down in his old place,
deliberately self-abandoned to a frenzy of vindictive joy. He had
found the man! There, at the end of the world--there, at the last
fight of the Arctic voyagers against starvation and death, he had
found the man!

The minutes passed.

He became conscious, on a sudden, of a freezing stream of air
pouring into the room.

He turned, and saw Crayford opening the door of the hut. A man
was behind him. Wardour rose eagerly, and looked over Crayford's
shoulder.

Was it--could it be--the man who had carved the letters on the
plank? Yes! Frank Aldersley!



Chapter 11.


"Still at work!" Crayford exclaimed, looking at the
half-demolished bed-place. "Give yourself a little rest, Richard.
The exploring party is ready to start. If you wish to take leave
of your brother officers before they go, you have no time to
lose."

He checked himself there, looking Wardour full in the face.

"Good Heavens!" he cried, "how pale you are! Has anything
happened?"

Frank--searching in his locker for articles of clothing which he
might require on the journey--looked round. He was startled, as
Crayford had been startled, by the sudden change in Wardour since
they had last seen him.

"Are you ill?" he asked. "I hear you have been doing Bateson's
work for him. Have you hurt yourself?"

Wardour suddenly moved his head, so as to hide his face from both
Crayford and Frank. He took out his handkerchief, and wound it
clumsily round his left hand.

"Yes," he said; "I hurt myself with the ax. It's nothing. Never
mind. Pain always has a curious effect on me. I tell you it's
nothing! Don't notice it!"

He turned his face toward them again as suddenly as he had turned
it away. He advanced a few steps, and addressed himself with an
uneasy familiarity to Frank.

"I didn't answer you civilly when you spoke to me some little
time since. I mean when I first came in here along with the rest
of them. I apologize. Shake hands! How are you? Ready for the
march?"

Frank met the oddly abrupt advance which had been made to him
with perfect good humor.

"I am glad to be friends with you, Mr. Wardour. I wish I was as
well seasoned to fatigue as you are."

Wardour burst into a hard, joyless, unnatural laugh.

"Not strong, eh? You don't look it. The dice had better have sent
me away, and kept you here. I never felt in better condition in
my life." He paused and added, with his eye on Frank and with a
strong emphasis on the words: "We men of Kent are made of tough
material."

Frank advanced a step on his side, with a new interest in Richard
Wardour.

"You come from Kent?" he said.

"Yes. From East Kent." He waited a little once more, and looked
hard at Frank. "Do you know that part of the country?" he asked.

"I ought to know something about East Kent," Frank answered.
"Some dear friends of mine once lived there."

"Friends of yours?" Wardour repeated. "One of the county
families, I suppose?"

As he put the question, he abruptly looked over his shoulder. He
was standing between Crayford and Frank. Crayford, taking no part
in the conversation, had been watching him, and listening to him
more and more attentively as that conversation went on. Within
the last moment or two Wardour had become instinctively conscious
of this. He resented Crayford's conduct with needless
irritability.

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked.

"Why are you looking unlike yourself?" Crayford answered,
quietly.

Wardour made no reply. He renewed the conversation with Frank.

"One of the county families?" he resumed. "The Winterbys of Yew
Grange, I dare say?"

"No," said Frank; "but friends of the Witherbys, very likely. The
Burnhams."

Desperately as he struggled to maintain it, Wardour's
self-control failed him. He started violently. The clumsily-wound
handkerchief fell off his hand. Still looking at him attentively,
Crayford picked it up.

"There is your handkerchief, Richard," he said. "Strange!"

"What is strange?"

"You told us you had hurt yourself with the ax--"

"Well?"

"There is no blood on your handkerchief."

Wardour snatched the handkerchief out of Crayford's hand, and,
turning away, approached the outer door of the hut. "No blood on
the handkerchief," he said to himself. "There may be a stain or
two when Crayford sees it again." He stopped within a few paces
of the door, and spoke to Crayford. "You recommended me to take
leave of my brother officers before it was too late," he said. "I
am going to follow your advice."

The door was opened from the outer side as he laid his hand on
the lock.

One of the quartermasters of the _Wanderer_ entered the hut.

"Is Captain Helding here, sir?" he asked, addressing himself to
Wardour.

Wardour pointed to Crayford.

"The lieutenant will tell you," he said.

Crayford advanced and questioned the quartermaster. "What do you
want with Captain Helding?" he asked.

"I have a report to make, sir. There has been an accident on the
ice."

"To one of your men?"

"No, sir. To one of our officers."

Wardour, on the point of going out, paused when the quartermaster
made that reply. For a moment he considered with himself. Then he
walked slowly back to the part of the room in which Frank was
standing. Crayford, directing the quartermaster, pointed to the
arched door way in the side of the hut.

"I am sorry to hear of the accident," he said. "You will find
Captain Helding in that room."

For the second time, with singular persistency, Wardour renewed
the conversation with Frank.

"So you knew the Burnhams?" he said. "What became of Clara when
her father died?"

Frank's face flushed angrily on the instant.

"Clara!" he repeated. "What authorizes you to speak of Miss
Burnham in that familiar manner?"

Wardour seized the opportunity of quarreling with him.

"What right have you to ask?" he retorted, coarsely.

Frank's blood was up. He forgot his promise to Clara to keep
their engagement secret--he forgot everything but the unbridled
insolence of Wardour's language and manner.

"A right which I insist on your respecting," he answered. "The
right of being engaged to marry her."

Crayford's steady eyes were still on the watch, and Wardour felt
them on him. A little more and Crayford might openly interfere.
Even Wardour recognized for once the necessity of controlling his
temper, cost him what it might. He made his apologies, with
overstrained politeness, to Frank.

"Impos sible to dispute such a right as yours," he said. "Perhaps
you will excuse me when you know that I am one of Miss Burnham's
old friends. My father and her father were neighbors. We have
always met like brother and sister--"

Frank generously stopped the apology there.

"Say no more," he interposed. "I was in the wrong--I lost my
temper. Pray forgive me."

Wardour looked at him with a strange, reluctant interest while he
was speaking. Wardour asked an extraordinary question when he had
done.

"Is she very fond of you?"

Frank burst out laughing.

"My dear fellow," he said, "come to our wedding, and judge for
yourself."

"Come to your wedding?" As he repeated the words Wardour stole
one glance at Frank which Frank (employed in buckling his
knapsack) failed to see. Crayford noticed it, and Crayford's
blood ran cold. Comparing the words which Wardour had spoken to
him while they were alone together with the words that had just
passed in his presence, he could draw but one conclusion. The
woman whom Wardour had loved and lost was--Clara Burnham. The man
who had robbed him of her was Frank Aldersley. And Wardour had
discovered it in the interval since they had last met. "Thank
God!" thought Crayford, "the dice have parted them! Frank goes
with the expedition, and Wardour stays behind with me."

The reflection had barely occurred to him--Frank's thoughtless
invitation to Wardour had just passed his lips--when the canvas
screen over the doorway was drawn aside. Captain Helding and the
officers who were to leave with the exploring party returned to
the main room on their way out. Seeing Crayford, Captain Helding
stopped to speak to him.

"I have a casualty to report," said the captain, "which
diminishes our numbers by one. My second lieutenant, who was to
have joined the exploring party, has had a fall on the ice.
Judging by what the quartermaster tells me, I am afraid the poor
fellow has broken his leg."

"I will supply his place," cried a voice at the other end of the
hut.

Everybody looked round. The man who had spoken was Richard
Wardour.

Crayford instantly interfered--so vehemently as to astonish all
who knew him.

"No!" he said. "Not you, Richard! not you!"

"Why not?" Wardour asked, sternly.

"Why not, indeed?" added Captain Helding. "Wardour is the very
man to be useful on a long march. He is in perfect health, and he
is the best shot among us. I was on the point of proposing him
myself."

Crayford failed to show his customary respect for his superior
officer. He openly disputed the captain's conclusion.

"Wardour has no right to volunteer," he rejoined. "It has been
settled, Captain Helding, that chance shall decide who is to go
and who is to stay."

"And chance _has_ decided it," cried Wardour. "Do you think we
are going to cast the dice again, and give an officer of the
_Sea-mew_ a chance of replacing an officer of the _Wanderer_?
There is a vacancy in our party, not in yours; and we claim the
right of filling it as we please. I volunteer, and my captain
backs me. Whose authority is to keep me here after that?"

"Gently, Wardour," said Captain Helding. "A man who is in the
right can afford to speak with moderation." He turned to
Crayford. "You must admit yourself," he continued, "that Wardour
is right this time. The missing man belongs to my command, and in
common justice one of my officers ought to supply his place."

It was impossible to dispute the matter further. The dullest man
present could see that the captain's reply was unanswerable. In
sheer despair, Crayford took Frank's arm and led him aside a few
steps. The last chance left of parting the two men was the chance
of appealing to Frank.

"My dear boy," he began, "I want to say one friendly word to you
on the subject of your health. I have already, if you remember,
expressed my doubts whether you are strong enough to make one of
an exploring party. I feel those doubts more strongly than ever
at this moment. Will you take the advice of a friend who wishes
you well?"

Wardour had followed Crayford. Wardour roughly interposed before
Frank could reply.

"Let him alone!"

Crayford paid no heed to the interruption. He was too earnestly
bent on withdrawing Frank from the expedition to notice anything
that was said or done by the persons about him.

"Don't, pray don't, risk hardships which you are unfit to bear!"
he went on, entreatingly. "Your place can be easily filled.
Change your mind, Frank. Stay here with me."

Again Wardour interfered. Again he called out, "Leave him alone!"
more roughly than ever. Still deaf and blind to every
consideration but one, Crayford pressed his entreaties on Frank.

"You owned yourself just now that you were not well seasoned to
fatigue," he persisted. "You feel (you _must_ feel) how weak that
last illness has left you? You know (I am sure you know) how
unfit you are to brave exposure to cold, and long marches over
the snow."

Irritated beyond endurance by Crayford's obstinacy; seeing, or
thinking he saw, signs of yielding in Frank's face, Wardour so
far forgot himself as to seize Crayford by the arm and attempt to
drag him away from Frank. Crayford turned and looked at him.

"Richard," he said, very quietly, "you are not yourself. I pity
you. Drop your hand."

Wardour relaxed his hold, with something of the sullen submission
of a wild animal to its keeper. The momentary silence which
followed gave Frank an opportunity of speaking at last.

"I am gratefully sensible, Crayford," he began, "of the interest
which you take in me--"

"And you will follow my advice?" Crayford interposed, eagerly.

"My mind is made up, old friend," Frank answered, firmly and
sadly. "Forgive me for disappointing you. I am appointed to the
expedition. With the expedition I go." He moved nearer to
Wardour. In his innocence of all suspicion he clapped Wardour
heartily on the shoulder. "When I feel the fatigue," said poor
simple Frank, "you will help me, comrade--won't you? Come along!"

Wardour snatched his gun out of the hands of the sailor who was
carrying it for him. His dark face became suddenly irradiated
with a terrible joy.

"Come!" he cried. "Over the snow and over the ice! Come! where no
human footsteps have ever trodden, and where no human trace is
ever left."

Blindly, instinctively, Crayford made an effort to part them. His
brother officers, standing near, pulled him back. They looked at
each other anxiously. The merciless cold, striking its victims in
various ways, had struck in some instances at their reason first.
Everybody loved Crayford. Was he, too, going on the dark way that
others had taken before him? They forced him to seat himself on
one of the lockers. "Steady, old fellow!" they said
kindly--"steady!" Crayford yielded, writhing inwardly under the
sense of his own helplessness. What in God's name could he do?
Could he denounce Wardour to Captain Helding on bare
suspicion--without so much as the shadow of a proof to justify
what he said? The captain would decline to insult one of his
officers by even mentioning the monstrous accusation to him. The
captain would conclude, as others had already concluded, that
Crayford's mind was giving way under stress of cold and
privation. No hope--literally, no hope now, but in the numbers of
the expedition. Officers and men, they all liked Frank. As long
as they could stir hand or foot, they would help him on the
way--they would see that no harm came to him.

The word of command was given; the door was thrown open; the hut
emptied rapidly. Over the merciless white snow--under the
merciless black sky--the exploring party began to move. The sick
and helpless men, whose last hope of rescue centered in their
departing messmates, cheered faintly. Some few whose days were
numbered sobbed and cried like women. Frank's voice faltered as
he turned back at the door to say his last words to the friend
who had been a father to him.

"God bless you, Crayford!"

Crayford broke away from the officers near him; and, hurrying
forward, seized Frank by both hands. Crayford held him as if he
would never let him go.

"God preserve you, Frank! I would give all I have in the world to
be with you. Good-by! Good-by!"

Frank waved his  hand--das hed away the tears that were gathering
in his eyes--and hurried out. Crayford called after him, the
last, the only warning that he could give:

"While you can stand, keep with the main body, Frank!"

Wardour, waiting till the last--Wardour, following Frank through
the snow-drift--stopped, stepped back, and answered Crayford at
the door:

"While he can stand, he keeps with Me."



Third Scene

The Iceberg.

Chapter 12.


Alone! alone on the Frozen Deep!

The Arctic sun is rising dimly in the dreary sky. The beams of
the cold northern moon, mingling strangely with the dawning
light, clothe the snowy plains in hues of livid gray. An
ice-field on the far horizon is moving slowly southward in the
spectral light. Nearer, a stream of open water rolls its slow
black waves past the edges of the ice. Nearer still, following
the drift, an iceberg rears its crags and pinnacles to the sky;
here, glittering in the moonbeams; there, looming dim and
ghost-like in the ashy light.

Midway on the long sweep of the lower slope of the iceberg, what
objects rise, and break the desolate monotony of the scene? In
this awful solitude, can signs appear which tell of human Life?
Yes! The black outline of a boat just shows itself, hauled up on
the berg. In an ice-cavern behind the boat the last red embers of
a dying fire flicker from time to time over the figures of two
men. One is seated, resting his back against the side of the
cavern. The other lies prostrate, with his head on his comrade's
knee. The first of these men is awake, and thinking. The second
reclines, with his still white face turned up to the
sky--sleeping or dead. Days and days since, these two have fallen
behind on the march of the expedition of relief. Days and days
since, these two have been given up by their weary and failing
companions as doomed and lost. He who sits thinking is Richard
Wardour. He who lies sleeping or dead is Frank Aldersley.

The iceberg drifts slowly, over the black water, through the ashy
light. Minute by minute the lying fire sinks. Minute by minute
the deathly cold creeps nearer and nearer to the lost men.

Richard Wardour rouses himself from his thoughts--looks at the
still white face beneath him--and places his hand on Frank's
heart. It still beats feebly. Give him his share of the food and
fuel still stored in the boat, and Frank may live through it.
Leave him neglected where he lies, and his death is a question of
hours--perhaps minutes; who knows?

Richard Wardour lifts the sleeper's head and rests it against the
cavern side. He goes to the boat, and returns with a billet of
wood. He stoops to place the wood on the fire--and stops. Frank
is dreaming, and murmuring in his dream. A woman's name passes
his lips. Frank is in England again--at the ball--whispering to
Clara the confession of his love.

Over Richard Wardour's face there passes the shadow of a deadly
thought. He rises from the fire; he takes the wood back to the
boat. His iron strength is shaken, but it still holds out. They
are drifting nearer and nearer to the open sea. He can launch the
boat without help; he can take the food and the fuel with him.
The sleeper on the iceberg is the man who has robbed him of
Clara--who has wrecked the hope and the happiness of his life.
Leave the man in his sleep, and let him die!

So the tempter whispers. Richard Wardour tries his strength on
the boat. It moves: he has got it under control. He stops, and
looks round. Beyond him is the open sea. Beneath him is the man
who has robbed him of Clara. The shadow of the deadly thought
grows and darkens over his face. He waits with his hands on the
boat--waits and thinks.

The iceberg drifts slowly--over the black water; through the ashy
light. Minute by minute, the dying fire sinks. Minute by minute,
the deathly cold creeps nearer to the sleeping man. And still
Richard Wardour waits--waits and thinks.



Fourth Scene.

The Garden.

Chapter 13.


The spring has come. The air of the April night just lifts the
leaves of the sleeping flowers. The moon is queen in the
cloudless and starless sky. The stillness of the midnight hour is
abroad, over land and over sea.

In a villa on the westward shore of the Isle of Wight, the glass
doors which lead from the drawing-room to the garden are yet
open. The shaded lamp yet burns on the table. A lady sits by the
lamp, reading. From time to time she looks out into the garden,
and sees the white-robed figure of a young girl pacing slowly to
and fro in the soft brightness of the moonlight on the lawn.
Sorrow and suspense have set their mark on the lady. Not rivals
only, but friends who formerly admired her, agree now that she
looks worn and aged. The more merciful judgment of others
remarks, with equal truth, that her eyes, her hair, her simple
grace and grandeur of movement have lost but little of their
olden charms. The truth lies, as usual, between the two extremes.
In spite of sorrow and suffering, Mrs. Crayford is the beautiful
Mrs. Crayford still.

The delicious silence of the hour is softly disturbed by the
voice of the younger lady in the garden.

"Go to the piano, Lucy. It is a night for music. Play something
that is worthy of the night."

Mrs. Crayford looks round at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"My dear Clara, it is past twelve! Remember what the doctor told
you. You ought to have been in bed an hour ago."

"Half an hour, Lucy--give me half an hour more! Look at the
moonlight on the sea. Is it possible to go to bed on such a night
as this? Play something, Lucy--something spiritual and divine."

Earnestly pleading with her friend, Clara advances toward the
window. She too has suffered under the wasting influences of
suspense. Her face has lost its youthful freshness; no delicate
flush of color rises on it when she speaks. The soft gray eyes
which won Frank's heart in the by-gone time are sadly altered
now. In repose, they have a dimmed and wearied look. In action,
they are wild and restless, like eyes suddenly wakened from
startling dreams. Robed in white--her soft brown hair hanging
loosely over her shoulders--there is something weird and
ghost-like in the girl, as she moves nearer and nearer to the
window in the full light of the moon--pleading for music that
shall be worthy of the mystery and the beauty of the night.

"Will you come in here if I play to you?" Mrs. Crayford asks. "It
is a risk, my love, to be out so long in the night air."

"No! no! I like it. Play--while I am out here looking at the sea.
It quiets me; it comforts me; it does me good."

She glides back, ghost-like, over the lawn. Mrs. Crayford rises,
and puts down the volume that she has been reading. It is a
record of explorations in the Arctic seas. The time has gone by
when the two lonely women could take an interest in subjects not
connected with their own anxieties. Now, when hope is fast
failing them--now, when their last news of the _Wanderer_ and the
_Sea-mew_ is news that is more than two years old--they can read
of nothing, they can think of nothing, but dangers and
discoveries, losses and rescues in the terrible Polar seas.

Unwillingly, Mrs. Crayford puts her book aside, and opens the
piano--Mozart's "Air in A, with Variations," lies open on the
instrument. One after another she plays the lovely melodies, so
simply, so purely beautiful, of that unpretending and unrivaled
work. At the close of the ninth Variation (Clara's favorite), she
pauses, and turns toward the garden.

"Shall I stop there?" she asks.

There is no answer. Has Clara wandered away out of hearing of the
music that she loves--the music that harmonizes so subtly with
the tender beauty of the night? Mrs. Crayford rises and advances
to the window.

No! there is the white figure standing alone on the slope of the
lawn--the head turned away from the house; the face looking out
over the calm sea, whose gently rippling waters end in the dim
line on the horizon which is the line of the Hampshire coast.

Mrs. Crayford advances as far as the path before the window, and
calls to her.

"Clara!"

Again there is no answer. The white figure still stands immovably
in its place.

With signs of distress in her face, but with no appearance of
alarm, Mrs. Crayford returns to the room. Her own sad experience
tells her what has happened. She summons the servants and directs
them to wait in the drawing-room until she calls to them. This
done, she returns to the garden, and approaches the mysterious
figure on the lawn.

Dead to the outer world, as if she lay already in her
grave--insensible to touch, insensible to sound, motionless as
stone, cold as stone--Clara stands on the moonlit lawn, facing
the seaward view. Mrs. Crayford waits at her side, patiently
watching for the change which she knows is to come. "Catalepsy,"
as some call it--"hysteria," as others say--this alone is
certain, the same interval always passes; the same change always
appears.

It comes now. Not a change in her eyes; they still remain wide
open, fixed and glassy. The first movement is a movement of her
hands. They rise slowly from her side and waver in the air like
the hands of a person groping in the dark. Another interval, and
the movement spreads to her lips: they part and tremble. A few
minutes more, and words begin to drop, one by one, from those
parted lips--words spoken in a lost, vacant tone, as if she is
talking in her sleep.

Mrs. Crayford looks back at the house. Sad experience makes her
suspicious of the servants' curiosity. Sad experience has long
since warned her that the servants are not to be trusted within
hearing of the wild words which Clara speaks in the trance. Has
any one of them ventured into the garden? No. They are out of
hearing at the window, waiting for the signal which tells them
that their help is needed.

Turning toward Clara once more, Mrs. Crayford hears the vacantly
uttered words, falling faster and faster from her lips

"Frank! Frank! Frank! Don't drop behind--don't trust Richard
Wardour. While you can stand, keep with the other men, Frank!"

(The farewell warning of Crayford in the solitudes of the Frozen
Deep, repeated by Clara in the garden of her English home!)

A moment of silence follows; and, in that moment, the vision has
changed. She sees him on the iceberg now, at the mercy of the
bitterest enemy he has on earth. She sees him drifting--over the
black water, through the ashy light.

"Wake, Frank! wake and defend yourself! Richard Wardour knows
that I love you--Richard Wardour's vengeance will take your life!
Wake, Frank--wake! You are drifting to your death!" A low groan
of horror bursts from her, sinister and terrible to hear.
"Drifting! drifting!" she whispers to herself--"drifting to his
death!"

Her glassy eyes suddenly soften--then close. A long shudder runs
through her. A faint flush shows itself on the deadly pallor of
her face, and fades again. Her limbs fail her. She sinks into
Mrs. Crayford's arms.

The servants, answering the call for help, carry her into the
house. They lay her insensible on her bed. After half an hour or
more, her eyes open again--this time with the light of life in
them--open, and rest languidly on the friend sitting by the
bedside.

"I have had a dreadful dream," she murmurs faintly. "Am I ill,
Lucy? I feel so weak."

Even as she says the words, sleep, gentle, natural sleep, takes
her suddenly, as it takes young children weary with their play.
Though it is all over now, though no further watching is
required, Mrs. Crayford still keeps her place by the bedside, too
anxious and too wakeful to retire to her own room.

On other occasions, she is accustomed to dismiss from her mind
the words which drop from Clara in the trance. This time the
effort to dismiss them is beyond her power. The words haunt her.
Vainly she recalls to memory all that the doctors have said to
her, in speaking of Clara in the state of trance. "What she
vaguely dreads for the lost man whom she loves is mingled in her
mind with what she is constantly reading, of trials, dangers, and
escapes in the Arctic seas. The most startling things that she
may say or do are all attributable to this cause, and may all be
explained in this way." So the doctors have spoken; and, thus
far, Mrs. Crayford has shared their view. It is only to-night
that the girl's words ring in her ear, with a strange prophetic
sound in them. It is only to-night that she asks herself: "Is
Clara present, in the spirit, with our loved and lost ones in the
lonely North? Can mortal vision see the dead and living in the
solitudes of the Frozen Deep?"



Chapter 14.


The night had passed.

Far and near the garden view looked its gayest and brightest in
the light of the noonday sun. The cheering sounds which tell of
life and action were audible all round the villa. From the garden
of the nearest house rose the voices of children at play. Along
the road at the back sounded the roll of wheels, as carts and
carriages passed at intervals. Out on the blue sea, the distant
splash of the paddles, the distant thump of the engines, told
from time to time of the passage of steamers, entering or leaving
the strait between the island and the mainland. In the trees, the
birds sang gayly among the rustling leaves. In the house, the
women-servants were laughing over some jest or story that cheered
them at their work. It was a lively and pleasant time--a bright,
enjoyable day.

The two ladies were out together; resting on a garden seat, after
a walk round the grounds.

They exchanged a few trivial words relating to the beauty of the
day, and then said no more. Possessing the same consciousness of
what she had seen in the trance which persons in general possess
of what they have seen in a dream--believing in the vision as a
supernatural revelation--Clara's worst forebodings were now, to
her mind, realized as truths. Her last faint hope of ever seeing
Frank again was now at an end. Intimate experience of her told
Mrs. Crayford what was passing in Clara's mind, and warned her
that the attempt to reason and remonstrate would be little better
than a voluntary waste of words and time. The disposition which
she had herself felt on the previous night, to attach a
superstitious importance to the words that Clara had spoken in
the trance, had vanished with the return of the morning. Rest and
reflection had quieted her mind, and had restored the composing
influence of her sober sense. Sympathizing with Clara in all
besides, she had no sympathy, as they sat together in the
pleasant sunshine, with Clara's gloomy despair of the future.
She, who could still hope, had nothing to say to the sad
companion who had done with hope. So the quiet minutes succeeded
each other, and the two friends sat side by side in silence.

An hour passed, and the gate-bell of the villa rang.

They both started--they both knew the ring. It was the hour when
the postman brought their newspapers from London. In past days,
what hundreds on hundreds of times they had torn off the cover
which inclosed the newspaper, and looked at the same column with
the same weary mingling of hope and despair! There to-day--as it
was yesterday; as it would be, if they lived, to-morrow--there
was the servant with Lucy's newspaper and Clara's newspaper in
his hand!

Would both of them do again to-day what both had done so often in
the days that were gone?

No! Mrs. Crayford removed the cover from her newspaper as usual.
Clara laid _her_ newspaper aside, unopened, on the garden seat.

In silence, Mrs. Crayford looked, where she always looked, at the
column devoted to the Latest Intelligence from foreign parts. The
instant her eye fell on the page she started with a loud cry of
joy. The newspaper fell from her trembling hand. She caught Clara
in her arms. "Oh, my darling! my darling! news of them at last."

Without answering, without the slightest change in look or
manner, Clara took the newspaper from the ground, and read the
top line in the column, printed in capital letters:

THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION.

She waited, and looked at Mrs. Crayford.

"Can you bear to hear it, Lucy," she asked, "if I read it aloud?"

Mrs. Crayford was too agitated to answer in words. She signed
impatiently to Clara to go on.

Clara read the news which followed the heading in capital
letters. Thus it ran:

"The following intelligence, from St. Johns, Newfoundland, has
reached us for publication. The whaling-vessel _Blythew ood_ is
reported to have met with the surviving officers and men of the
Expedition in Davis Strait. Many are stated to be dead, and some
are supposed to be missing. The list of the saved, as collected
by the people of the whaler, is not vouched for as being
absolutely correct, the circumstances having been adverse to
investigation. The vessel was pressed for time; and the members
of the Expedition, all more or less suffering from exhaustion,
were not in a position to give the necessary assistance to
inquiry. Further particulars may be looked for by the next mail."

The list of the survivors followed, beginning with the officers
in the order of their rank. They both read the list together. The
first name was Captain Helding; the second was Lieutenant
Crayford.

There the wife's joy overpowered her. After a pause, she put her
arm around Clara's waist, and spoke to her.

"Oh, my love!" she murmured, "are you as happy as I am? Is
Frank's name there too? The tears are in my eyes. Read for me--I
can't read for myself."

The answer came, in still, sad tones:

"I have read as far as your husband's name. I have no need to
read further."

Mrs. Crayford dashed the tears from her eyes--steadied
herself--and looked at the newspaper.

On the list of the survivors, the search was vain. Frank's name
was not among them. On a second list, headed "Dead or Missing,"
the first two names that appeared were:

FRANCIS ALDERSLEY. RICHARD WARDOUR.

In speechless distress and dismay, Mrs. Crayford looked at Clara.
Had she force enough in her feeble health to sustain the shock
that had fallen on her? Yes! she bore it with a strange unnatural
resignation--she looked, she spoke, with the sad self-possession
of despair.

"I was prepared for it," she said. "I saw them in the spirit last
night. Richard Wardour has discovered the truth; and Frank has
paid the penalty with his life--and I, I alone, am to blame." She
shuddered, and put her hand on her heart. "We shall not be long
parted, Lucy. I shall go to him. He will not return to me."

Those words were spoken with a calm certainty of conviction that
was terrible to hear. "I have no more to say," she added, after a
moment, and rose to return to the house. Mrs. Crayford caught her
by the hand, and forced her to take her seat again.

"Don't look at me, don't speak to me, in that horrible manner!"
she exclaimed. "Clara! it is unworthy of a reasonable being, it
is doubting the mercy of God, to say what you have just said.
Look at the newspaper again. See! They tell you plainly that
their information is not to be depended on--they warn you to wait
for further particulars. The very words at the top of the list
show how little they knew of the truth 'Dead _or_ Missing!' On
their own showing, it is quite as likely that Frank is missing as
that Frank is dead. For all you know, the next mail may bring a
letter from him. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Can you deny what I say?"

"No."

"'Yes!' 'No!' Is that the way to answer me when I am so
distressed and so anxious about you?"

"I am sorry I spoke as I did, Lucy. We look at some subjects in
very different ways. I don't dispute, dear, that yours is the
reasonable view."

"You don't dispute?" retorted Mrs. Crayford, warmly. "No! you do
what is worse--you believe in your own opinion; you persist in
your own conclusion--with the newspaper before you! Do you, or do
you not, believe the newspaper?"

"I believe in what I saw last night."

"In what you saw last night! You, an educated woman, a clever
woman, believing in a vision of your own fancy--a mere dream! I
wonder you are not ashamed to acknowledge it!"

"Call it a dream if you like, Lucy. I have had other dreams at
other times--and I have known them to be fulfilled."

"Yes!" said Mrs. Crayford. "For once in a way they may have been
fulfilled, by chance--and you notice it, and remember it, and pin
your faith on it. Come, Clara, be honest!--What about the
occasions when the chance has been against you, and your dreams
have not been fulfilled? You superstitious people are all alike.
You conveniently forget when your dreams and your presentiments
prove false. For my sake, dear, if not for your own," she
continued, in gentler and tenderer tones, "try to be more
reasonable and more hopeful. Don't lose your trust in the future,
and your trust in God. God, who has saved my husband, can save
Frank. While there is doubt, there is hope. Don't embitter my
happiness, Clara! Try to think as I think--if it is only to show
that you love me."

She put her arm round the girl's neck, and kissed her. Clara
returned the kiss; Clara answered, sadly and submissively,

"I do love you, Lucy. I _will_ try."

Having answered in those terms, she sighed to herself, and said
no more. It would have been plain, only too plain, to far less
observant eyes than Mrs. Crayford's that no salutary impression
had been produced on her. She had ceased to defend her own way of
thinking, she spoke of it no more--but there was the terrible
conviction of Frank's death at Wardour's hands rooted as firmly
as ever in her mind! Discouraged and distressed, Mrs. Crayford
left her, and walked back toward the house.



Chapter 15.


At the drawing-room window of the villa there appeared a polite
little man, with bright intelligent eyes, and cheerful sociable
manners. Neatly dressed in professional black, he stood,
self-proclaimed, a prosperous country doctor--successful and
popular in a wide circle of patients and friends. As Mrs.
Crayford approached him, he stepped out briskly to meet her on
the lawn, with both hands extended in courteous and cordial
greeting.

"My dear madam, accept my heartfelt congratulations!" cried the
doctor. "I have seen the good news in the paper; and I could
hardly feel more rejoiced than I do now if I had the honor of
knowing Lieutenant Crayford personally. We mean to celebrate the
occasion at home. I said to my wife before I came out, 'A bottle
of the old Madeira at dinner to-day, mind!--to drink the
lieutenant's health; God bless him!' And how is our interesting
patient? The news is not altogether what we could wish, so far as
she is concerned. I felt a little anxious, to tell you the truth,
about the effect of it; and I have paid my visit to-day before my
usual time. Not that I take a gloomy view of the news myself. No!
There is clearly a doubt about the correctness of the
information, so far as Mr. Aldersley is concerned--and that is a
point, a great point in Mr. Aldersley's favor. I give him the
benefit of the doubt, as the lawyers say. Does Miss Burnham give
him the benefit of the doubt too? I hardly dare hope it, I
confess."

"Miss Burnham has grieved and alarmed me," Mrs. Crayford
answered. "I was just thinking of sending for you when we met
here."

With those introductory words, she told the doctor exactly what
had happened; repeating not only the conversation of that morning
between Clara and herself, but also the words which had fallen
from Clara, in the trance of the past night.

The doctor listened attentively. Little by little, its easy
smiling composure vanished from his face, as Mrs. Crayford went
on, and left him completely transformed into a grave and
thoughtful man.

"Let us go and look at her," he said.

He seated himself by Clara's side, and carefully studied her
face, with his hand on her pulse. There was no sympathy here
between the dreamy mystical temperament of the patient and the
downright practical character of the doctor. Clara secretly
disliked her medical attendant. She submitted impatiently to the
close investigation of which he made her the object. He
questioned her--and she answered irritably. Advancing a step
further (the doctor was not easily discouraged) he adverted to
the news of the Expedition, and took up the tone of remonstrance
which had been already adopted by Mrs. Crayford. Clara declined
to discuss the question. She rose with formal politeness, and
requested permission to return to the house. The doctor attempted
no further resistance. "By all means, Miss Burnham," he answered,
resignedly--having first cast a look at Mrs. Crayford which said
plainly, "Stay here with me." Clara bowed her acknowledgments in
co ld silence, and left them together. The doctor's bright eyes
followed the girl's wasted, yet still graceful figure as it
slowly receded from view, with an expression of grave anxiety
which Mrs. Crayford noticed with grave misgiving on her side. He
said nothing, until Clara had disappeared under the veranda which
ran round the garden-side of the house.

"I think you told me," he began, "that Miss Burnham has neither
father nor mother living?"

"Yes. Miss Burnham is an orphan."

"Has she any near relatives?"

"No. You may speak to me as her guardian and her friend. Are you
alarmed about her?"

"I am seriously alarmed. It is only two days since I called here
last, and I see a marked change in her for the worse--physically
and morally, a change for the worse. Don't needlessly alarm
yourself! The case is not, I trust, entirely beyond the reach of
remedy. The great hope for us is the hope that Mr. Aldersley may
still be living. In that event, I should feel no misgivings about
the future. Her marriage would make a healthy and a happy woman
of her. But as things are, I own I dread that settled conviction
in her mind that Mr. Aldersley is dead, and that her own death is
soon to follow. In her present state of health this idea
(haunting her as it certainly will night and day) will have its
influence on her body as well as on her mind. Unless we can check
the mischief, her last reserves of strength will give way. If you
wish for other advice, by all means send for it. You have my
opinion."

"I am quite satisfied with your opinion," Mrs. Crayford replied.
"For God's sake, tell me, what can we do?"

"We can try a complete change," said the doctor. "We can remove
her at once from this place."

"She will refuse to leave it," Mrs. Crayford rejoined. "I have
more than once proposed a change to her--and she always says No."

The doctor paused for a moment, like a man collecting his
thoughts.

"I heard something on my way here," he proceeded, "which suggests
to my mind a method of meeting the difficulty that you have just
mentioned. Unless I am entirely mistaken, Miss Burnham will not
say No to the change that I have in view for her."

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Crayford, eagerly.

"Pardon me if I ask you a question, on my part, before I reply,"
said the doctor. "Are you fortunate enough to possess any
interest at the Admiralty?"

"Certainly. My father is in the Secretary's office; and two of
the Lords of the Admiralty are friends of his."

"Excellent! Now I can speak out plainly with little fear of
disappointing you. After what I have said, you will agree with
me, that the only change in Miss Burnham's life which will be of
any use to her is a change that will alter the present tone of
her mind on the subject of Mr. Aldersley. Place her in a position
to discover--not by reference to her own distempered fancies and
visions, but by reference to actual evidence and actual
fact--whether Mr. Aldersley is, or is not, a living man; and
there will be an end of the hysterical delusions which now
threaten to fatally undermine her health. Even taking matters at
their worst--even assuming that Mr. Aldersley has died in the
Arctic seas--it will be less injurious to her to discover this
positively, than to leave her mind to feed on its own morbid
superstitions and speculations, for weeks and weeks together,
while the next news from the Expedition is on its way to England.
In one word, I want you to be in a position, before the week is
out, to put Miss Burnham's present conviction to a practical
test. Suppose you could say to her, 'We differ, my dear, about
Mr. Francis Aldersley. You declare, without the shadow of a
reason for it, that he is certainly dead, and, worse still, that
he has died by the act of one of his brother officers. I assert,
on the authority of the newspaper, that nothing of the sort has
happened, and that the chances are all in favor of his being
still a living man. What do you say to crossing the Atlantic, and
deciding which of us is right--you or I?' Do you think Miss
Burnham will say No to that, Mrs. Crayford? If I know anything of
human nature, she will seize the opportunity as a means of
converting you to a belief in the Second Sight."

"Good Heavens, doctor! do you mean to tell me that we are to go
to sea and meet the Arctic Expedition on its way home?"

"Admirably guessed, Mrs. Crayford! That is exactly what I mean."

"But how is it to be done?"

"I will tell you immediately. I mentioned--didn't I?--that I had
heard something on my road to this house."

"Yes "

"Well, I met an old friend at my own gate, who walked with me a
part of the way here. Last night my friend dined with the admiral
at Portsmouth. Among the guests there was a member of the
Ministry who had brought the news about the Expedition with him
from London. This gentleman told the company there was very
little doubt that the Admiralty would immediately send out a
steam-vessel, to meet the rescued men on the shores of America,
and bring them home. Wait a little, Mrs. Crayford! Nobody knows,
as yet, under what rules and regulations the vessel will sail.
Under somewhat similar circumstances, privileged people have been
received as passengers, or rather as guests, in her majesty's
ships--and what has been conceded on former occasions may, by
bare possibility, be conceded now. I can say no more. If you are
not afraid of the voyage for yourself, I am not afraid of it
(nay, I am all in favor of it on medical grounds) for my patient.
What do you say? Will you write to your father, and ask him to
try what his interest will do with his friends at the Admiralty?"

Mrs. Crayford rose excitedly to her feet.

"Write!" she exclaimed. "I will do better than write. The journey
to London is no great matter--and my housekeeper here is to be
trusted to take care of Clara in my absence. I will see my father
to-night! He shall make good use of his interest at the
Admiralty--you may rely on that. Oh, my dear doctor, what a
prospect it is! My husband! Clara! What a discovery you have
made--what a treasure you are! How can I thank you?"

"Compose yourself, my dear madam. Don't make too sure of success.
We may consider Miss Burnham's objections as disposed of
beforehand. But suppose the Lords of the Admiralty say No?"

"In that case, I shall be in London, doctor; and I shall go to
them myself. Lords are only men; and men are not in the habit of
saying No to me."

So they parted.



In a week from that day, her majesty's ship _Amazon_ sailed for
North America. Certain privileged persons, specially interested
in the Arctic voyagers, were permitted to occupy the empty
state-rooms on board. On the list of these favored guests of the
ship were the names of two ladies--Mrs. Crayford and Miss
Burnham.



Fifth Scene

The Boat-House.

Chapter 16.


Once more the open sea--the sea whose waters break on the shores
of Newfoundland! An English steamship lies at anchor in the
offing. The vessel is plainly visible through the open doorway of
a large boat-house on the shore--one of the buildings attached to
a fishing-station on the coast of the island.

The only person in the boat-house at this moment is a man in the
dress of a sailor. He is seated on a chest, with a piece of cord
in his hand, looking out idly at the sea. On the rough
carpenter's table near him lies a strange object to be left in
such a place--a woman's veil.

What is the vessel lying at anchor in the offing?

The vessel is the _Amazon_--dispatched from England to receive
the surviving officers and men of the Arctic Expedition. The
meeting has been successfully effected, on the shores of North
America, three days since. But the homeward voyage has been
delayed by a storm which has driven the ship out of her course.
Taking advantage, on the third day, of the first returning calm,
the commander of the _Amazon_ has anchored off the coast of
Newfoundland, and has sent ashore to increase his supplies of
water before he sails for England. The weary passengers have
landed for a few hours, to refresh themselves after the
discomforts of the tempest. Among them are the two ladies. The
veil left on the table in the boat-house is Clara's veil.

And who is the man si tting on the chest, with the cord in his
hand, looking out idly at the sea? The man is the only cheerful
person in the ship's company. In other words--John Want.

Still reposing on the chest, our friend, who never grumbles, is
surprised by the sudden appearance of a sailor at the boat-house
door.

"Look sharp with your work there, John Want!" says the sailor.
"Lieutenant Crayford is just coming in to look after you."

With this warning the messenger disappears again. John Want rises
with a groan, turns the chest up on one end, and begins to fasten
the cord round it. The ship's cook is not a man to look back on
his rescue with the feeling of unmitigated satisfaction which
animates his companions in trouble. On the contrary, he is
ungratefully disposed to regret the North Pole.

"If I had only known"--thus runs the train of thought in the mind
of John Want--"if I had only known, before I was rescued, that I
was to be brought to this place, I believe I should have
preferred staying at the North Pole. I was very happy keeping up
everybody's spirits at the North Pole. Taking one thing with
another, I think I must have been very comfortable at the North
Pole--if I had only known it. Another man in my place might be
inclined to say that this Newfoundland boat-house was rather a
sloppy, slimy, draughty, fishy sort of a habitation to take
shelter in. Another man might object to perpetual Newfoundland
fogs, perpetual Newfoundland cod-fish, and perpetual Newfoundland
dogs. We had some very nice bears at the North Pole. Never mind!
it's all one to me--_I_ don't grumble."

"Have you done cording that box?"

This time the voice is a voice of authority--the man at the
doorway is Lieutenant Crayford himself. John Want answers his
officer in his own cheerful way.

"I've done it as well as I can, sir--but the damp of this place
is beginning to tell upon our very ropes. I say nothing about our
lungs--I only say our ropes."

Crayford answers sharply. He seems to have lost his former relish
for the humor of John Want.

"Pooh! To look at your wry face, one would think that our rescue
from the Arctic regions was a downright misfortune. You deserve
to be sent back again."

"I could be just as cheerful as ever, sir, if I _was_ sent back
again; I hope I'm thankful; but I don't like to hear the North
Pole run down in such a fishy place as this. It was very clean
and snowy at the North Pole--and it's very damp and sandy here.
Do you never miss your bone-soup, sir? _I_ do. It mightn't have
been strong; but it was very hot; and the cold seemed to give it
a kind of a meaty flavor as it went down. Was it you that was
a-coughing so long last night, sir? I don't presume to say
anything against the air of these latitudes; but I should be glad
to know it wasn't you that was a-coughing so hollow. Would you be
so obliging as just to feel the state of these ropes with the
ends of your fingers, sir? You can dry them afterward on the back
of my jacket."

"You ought to have a stick laid on the back of your jacket. Take
that box down to the boat directly. You croaking vagabond! You
would have grumbled in the Garden of Eden."

The philosopher of the Expedition was not a man to be silenced by
referring him to the Garden of Eden. Paradise itself was not
perfect to John Want.

"I hope I could be cheerful anywhere, sir," said the ship's cook.
"But you mark my words--there must have been a deal of
troublesome work with the flower-beds in the Garden of Eden."

Having entered that unanswerable protest, John Want shouldered
the box, and drifted drearily out of the boat-house.

Left by himself, Crayford looked at his watch, and called to a
sailor outside.

"Where are the ladies?" he asked.

"Mrs. Crayford is coming this way, sir. She was just behind you
when you came in."

"Is Miss Burnham with her?"

"No, sir; Miss Burnham is down on the beach with the passengers.
I heard the young lady asking after you, sir."

"Asking after me?" Crayford considered with himself as he
repeated the words. He added, in lower and graver tones, "You had
better tell Miss Burnham you have seen me here."

The man made his salute and went out. Crayford took a turn in the
boat-house.

Rescued from death in the Arctic wastes, and reunited to a
beautiful wife, the lieutenant looked, nevertheless,
unaccountably anxious and depressed. What could he be thinking
of? He was thinking of Clara.

On the first day when the rescued men were received on board the
_Amazon_, Clara had embarrassed and distressed, not Crayford
only, but the other officers of the Expedition as well, by the
manner in which she questioned them on the subject of Francis
Aldersley and Richard Wardour. She had shown no signs of dismay
or despair when she heard that no news had been received of the
two missing men. She had even smiled sadly to herself, when
Crayford (out of compassionate regard for her) declared that he
and his comrades had not given up the hope of seeing Frank and
Wardour yet. It was only when the lieutenant had expressed
himself in those terms and when it was hoped that the painful
subject had been dismissed--that Clara had startled every one
present by announcing that she had something still to say in
relation to Frank and Wardour, which had not been said yet.
Though she spoke guardedly, her next words revealed suspicions of
foul play lurking in her mind--exactly reflecting similar
suspicions lurking in Crayford's mind--which so distressed the
lieutenant, and so surprised his comrades, as to render them
quite incapable of answering her. The warnings of the storm which
shortly afterward broke over the vessel were then visible in sea
and sky. Crayford made them his excuse for abruptly leaving the
cabin in which the conversation had taken place. His brother
officers, profiting by his example, pleaded their duties on deck,
and followed him out.

On the next day, and the next, the tempest still raged--and the
passengers were not able to leave their state-rooms. But now,
when the weather had moderated and the ship had anchored--now,
when officers and passengers alike were on shore, with leisure
time at their disposal--Clara had opportunities of returning to
the subject of the lost men, and of asking questions in relation
to them which would make it impossible for Crayford to plead an
excuse for not answering her. How was he to meet those questions?
How could he still keep her in ignorance of the truth?

These were the reflections which now troubled Crayford, and which
presented him, after his rescue, in the strangely inappropriate
character of a depressed and anxious man. His brother officers,
as he well knew, looked to him to take the chief responsibility.
If he declined to accept it, he would instantly confirm the
horrible suspicion in Clara's mind. The emergency must be met;
but how to meet it--at once honorably and mercifully--was more
than Crayford could tell. He was still lost in his own gloomy
thoughts when his wife entered the boat-house. Turning to look at
her, he saw his own perturbations and anxieties plainly reflected
in Mrs. Crayford's face.

"Have you seen anything of Clara?" he asked. "Is she still on the
beach?"

"She is following me to this place," Mrs. Crayford replied. "I
have been speaking to her this morning. She is just as resolute
as ever to insist on your telling her of the circumstances under
which Frank is missing. As things are, you have no alternative
but to answer her."

"Help me to answer her, Lucy. Tell me, before she comes in, how
this dreadful suspicion first took possession of her. All she
could possibly have known when we left England was that the two
men were appointed to separate ships. What could have led her to
suspect that they had come together?"

"She was firmly persuaded, William, that they _would_ come
together when the Expedition left England. And she had read in
books of Arctic travel, of men left behind by their comrades on
the march, and of men adrift on ice-bergs. With her mind full of
these images and forebodings, she saw Frank and Wardour (or
dreamed of them) in one of her attacks of trance. I was by her
side; I heard what she said at the time. She warned Frank that
Wardour had discovered the truth. She called out to him, 'While
you can stand, keep with the other men, Frank!"

"Good God!" cried Crayford; "I warned him myself, almost in those
very words, the last time I saw him!"

"Don't acknowledge it, William! Keep her in ignorance of what you
have just told me. She will not take it for what it is--a
startling coincidence, and nothing more. She will accept it as
positive confirmation of the faith, the miserable superstitious
faith, that is in her. So long as you don't actually know that
Frank is dead, and that he has died by Wardour's hand, deny what
she says--mislead her for her own sake--dispute all her
conclusions as I dispute them. Help me to raise her to the better
and nobler belief in the mercy of God!" She stopped, and looked
round nervously at the doorway. "Hush!" she whispered. "Do as I
have told you. Clara is here."



Chapter 17.


Clara stopped at the doorway, looking backward and forward
distrustfully between the husband and wife. Entering the
boat-house, and approaching Crayford, she took his arm, and led
him away a few steps from the place in which Mrs. Crayford was
standing.

"There is no storm now, and there are no duties to be done on
board the ship," she said, with the faint, sad smile which it
wrung Crayford's heart to see. "You are Lucy's husband, and you
have an interest in me for Lucy's sake. Don't shrink on that
account from giving me pain: I can bear pain. Friend and brother!
will you believe that I have courage enough to hear the worst?
Will you promise not to deceive me about Frank?"

The gentle resignation in her voice, the sad pleading in her
look, shook Crayford's self-possession at the outset. He answered
her in the worst possible manner; he answered evasively.

"My dear Clara," he said, "what have I done that you should
suspect me of deceiving you?"

She looked him searchingly in the face, then glanced with renewed
distrust at Mrs. Crayford. There was a moment of silence. Before
any of the three could speak again, they were interrupted by the
appearance of one of Crayford's brother officers, followed by two
sailors carrying a hamper between them. Crayford instantly
dropped Clara's arm, and seized the welcome opportunity of
speaking of other things.

"Any instructions from the ship, Steventon?" he asked,
approaching the officer.

"Verbal instructions only," Steventon replied. "The ship will
sail with the flood-tide. We shall fire a gun to collect the
people, and send another boat ashore. In the meantime here are
some refreshments for the passengers. The ship is in a state of
confusion; the ladies will eat their luncheon more comfortably
here."

Hearing this, Mrs. Crayford took _her_ opportunity of silencing
Clara next.

"Come, my dear," she said. "Let us lay the cloth before the
gentlemen come in."

Clara was too seriously bent on attaining the object which she
had in view to be silenced in that way. "I will help you
directly," she answered--then crossed the room and addressed
herself to the officer, whose name was Steventon.

"Can you spare me a few minutes?" she asked. "I have something to
say to you."

"I am entirely at your service, Miss Burnham."

Answering in those words, Steventon dismissed the two sailors.
Mrs. Crayford looked anxiously at her husband. Crayford whispered
to her, "Don't be alarmed about Steventon. I have cautioned him;
his discretion is to be depended on."

Clara beckoned to Crayford to return to her.

"I will not keep you long," she said. "I will promise not to
distress Mr. Steventon. Young as I am, you shall both find that I
am capable of self-control. I won't ask you to go back to the
story of your past sufferings; I only want to be sure that I am
right about one thing--I mean about what happened at the time
when the exploring party was dispatched in search of help. As I
understand it, you cast lots among yourselves who was to go with
the party, and who was to remain behind. Frank cast the lot to
go." She paused, shuddering. "And Richard Wardour," she went on,
"cast the lot to remain behind. On your honor, as officers and
gentlemen, is this the truth?"

"On my honor," Crayford answered, "it is the truth."

"On my honor," Steventon repeated, "it is the truth."

She looked at them, carefully considering her next words, before
she spoke again.

"You both drew the lot to stay in the huts," she said, addressing
Crayford and Steventon. "And you are both here. Richard Wardour
drew the lot to stay, and Richard Wardour is not here. How does
his name come to be with Frank's on the list of the missing?"

The question was a dangerous one to answer. Steventon left it to
Crayford to reply. Once again he answered evasively.

"It doesn't follow, my dear," he said, "that the two men were
missing together because their names happen to come together on
the list."

Clara instantly drew the inevitable conclusion from that
ill-considered reply.

"Frank is missing from the party of relief," she said. "Am I to
understand that Wardour is missing from the huts?"

Both Crayford and Steventon hesitated. Mrs. Crayford cast one
indignant look at them, and told the necessary lie, without a
moment's hesitation!

"Yes!" she said. "Wardour is missing from the huts."

Quickly as she had spoken, she had still spoken too late. Clara
had noticed the momentary hesitation on the part of the two
officers. She turned to Steventon.

"I trust to your honor," she said, quietly. "Am I right, or
wrong, in believing that Mrs. Crayford is mistaken?"

She had addressed herself to the right man of the two. Steventon
had no wife present to exercise authority over him. Steventon,
put on his honor, and fairly forced to say something, owned the
truth. Wardour had replaced an officer whom accident had disabled
from accompanying the party of relief, and Wardour and Frank were
missing together.

Clara looked at Mrs. Crayford.

"You hear?" she said. "It is you who are mistaken, not I. What
you call 'Accident,' what I call 'Fate,' brought Richard Wardour
and Frank together as members of the same Expedition, after all."
Without waiting for a reply, she again turned to Steventon, and
surprised him by changing the painful subject of the conversation
of her own accord.

"Have you been in the Highlands of Scotland?" she asked.

"I have never been in the Highlands," the lieutenant replied.

"Have you ever read, in books about the Highlands, of such a
thing as 'The Second Sight'?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe in the Second Sight?"

Steventon politely declined to commit himself to a direct reply.

"I don't know what I might have done, if I had ever been in the
Highlands," he said. "As it is, I have had no opportunities of
giving the subject any serious consideration."

"I won't put your credulity to the test," Clara proceeded. "I
won't ask you to believe anything more extraordinary than that I
had a strange dream in England not very long since. My dream
showed me what you have just acknowledged--and more than that.
How did the two missing men come to be parted from their
companions? Were they lost by pure accident, or were they
deliberately left behind on the march?"

Crayford made a last vain effort to check her inquiries at the
point which they had now reached.

"Neither Steventon nor I were members of the party of relief," he
said. "How are we to answer you?"

"Your brother officers who _were_ members of the party must have
told you what happened," Clara rejoined. "I only ask you and Mr.
Steventon to tell me what they told you."

Mrs. Crayford interposed again, with a practical suggestion this
time.

"The luncheon is not unpacked yet," she said. "Come, Clara! this
is our business, and the time is passing."

"The luncheon can wait a few minutes longer," Clara answered.
"Bear with my obstinacy," she went on, laying her hand
caressingly on Crayford's shoulder. "Tell me how those two came
to be separated from the rest. You have always been the kindest
of friends--don't begin to be cruel to me now!"

The tone in which she made her entreaty to Crayford went straight
to the sailor's heart. He gave up the hopeless struggle: he let
her see a glimpse of the truth.

"On the third day out," he said, "Frank's strength failed him.  He
fell behin d the rest from fatigue."

"Surely they waited for him?"

"It was a serious risk to wait for him, my child. Their lives
(and the lives of the men they had left in the huts) depended, in
that dreadful climate, on their pushing on. But Frank was a
favorite. They waited half a day to give Frank the chance of
recovering his strength."

There he stopped. There the imprudence into which his fondness
for Clara had led him showed itself plainly, and closed his lips.

It was too late to take refuge in silence. Clara was determined
on hearing more.

She questioned Steventon next.

"Did Frank go on again after the half-day's rest?" she asked.

"He tried to go on--"

"And failed?"

"Yes."

"What did the men do when he failed? Did they turn cowards? Did
they desert Frank?"

She had purposely used language which might irritate Steventon
into answering her plainly. He was a young man--he fell into the
snare that she had set for him.

"Not one among them was a coward, Miss Burnham!" he replied,
warmly. "You are speaking cruelly and unjustly of as brave a set
of fellows as ever lived! The strongest man among them set the
example; he volunteered to stay by Frank, and to bring him on in
the track of the exploring party."

There Steventon stopped--conscious, on his side, that he had said
too much. Would she ask him who this volunteer was? No. She went
straight on to the most embarrassing question that she had put
yet--referring to the volunteer, as if Steventon had already
mentioned his name.

"What made Richard Wardour so ready to risk his life for Frank's
sake?" she said to Crayford. "Did he do it out of friendship for
Frank? Surely you can tell me that? Carry your memory back to the
days when you were all living in the huts. Were Frank and Wardour
friends at that time? Did you never hear any angry words pass
between them?"

There Mrs. Crayford saw her opportunity of giving her husband a
timely hint.

"My dear child!" she said; "how can you expect him to remember
that? There must have been plenty of quarrels among the men, all
shut up together, and all weary of each other's company, no
doubt."

"Plenty of quarrels!" Crayford repeated; "and every one of them
made up again."

"And every one of them made up again," Mrs. Crayford reiterated,
in her turn. "There! a plainer answer than that you can't wish to
have. Now are you satisfied? Mr. Steventon, come and lend a hand
(as you say at sea) with the hamper--Clara won't help me.
William, don't stand there doing nothing. This hamper holds a
great deal; we must have a division of labor. Your division shall
be laying the tablecloth. Don't handle it in that clumsy way! You
unfold a table-cloth as if you were unfurling a sail. Put the
knives on the right, and the forks on the left, and the napkin
and the bread between them. Clara, if you are not hungry in this
fine air, you ought to be. Come and do your duty; come and have
some lunch!"

She looked up as she spoke. Clara appeared to have yielded at
last to the conspiracy to keep her in the dark. She had returned
slowly to the boat-house doorway, and she was standing alone on
the threshold, looking out. Approaching her to lead her to the
luncheon-table, Mrs. Crayford could hear that she was speaking
softly to herself. She was repeating the farewell words which
Richard Wardour had spoken to her at the ball.

"'A time may come when I shall forgive _you_. But the man who has
robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and he first met.'
Oh, Frank! Frank! does Richard still live, with your blood on his
conscience, and my image in his heart?"

Her lips suddenly closed. She started, and drew back from the
doorway, trembling violently. Mrs. Crayford looked out at the
quiet seaward view.

"Anything there that frightens you, my dear?" she asked. "I can
see nothing, except the boats drawn up on the beach."

"_I_ can see nothing either, Lucy."

"And yet you are trembling as if there was something dreadful in
the view from this door."

"There _is_ something dreadful! I feel it, though I see nothing.
I feel it, nearer and nearer in the empty air, darker and darker
in the sunny light. I don't know what it is. Take me away! No.
Not out on the beach. I can't pass the door. Somewhere else!
somewhere else!"

Mrs. Crayford looked round her, and noticed a second door at the
inner end of the boat-house. She spoke to her husband.

"See where that door leads to, William."

Crayford opened the door. It led into a desolate inclosure, half
garden, half yard. Some nets stretched on poles were hanging up
to dry. No other objects were visible--not a living creature
appeared in the place. "It doesn't look very inviting, my dear,"
said Mrs. Crayford. "I am at your service, however. What do you
say?"

She offered her arm to Clara as she spoke. Clara refused it. She
took Crayford's arm, and clung to him.

"I'm frightened, dreadfully frightened!" she said to him,
faintly. "You keep with me--a woman is no protection; I want to
be with you." She looked round again at the boat-house doorway.
"Oh!" she whispered, "I'm cold all over--I'm frozen with fear of
this place. Come into the yard! Come into the yard!"

"Leave her to me," said Crayford to his wife. "I will call you,
if she doesn't get better in the open air."

He took her out at once, and closed the yard door behind them.

"Mr. Steventon, do you understand this?" asked Mrs. Crayford.
"What can she possibly be frightened of?"

She put the question, still looking mechanically at the door by
which her husband and Clara had gone out. Receiving no reply, she
glanced round at Steventon. He was standing on the opposite side
of the luncheon-table, with his eyes fixed attentively on the
view from the main doorway of the boat-house. Mrs. Crayford
looked where Steventon was looking. This time there was something
visible. She saw the shadow of a human figure projected on the
stretch of smooth yellow sand in front of the boat-house.

In a moment more the figure appeared. A man came slowly into
view, and stopped on the threshold of the door.



Chapter 18.


The man was a sinister and terrible object to look at. His eyes
glared like the eyes of a wild animal; his head was bare; his
long gray hair was torn and tangled; his miserable garments hung
about him in rags. He stood in the doorway, a speechless figure
of misery and want, staring at the well-spread table like a
hungry dog.

Steventon spoke to him.

"Who are you?"

He answered, in a hoarse, hollow voice,

"A starving man."

He advanced a few steps, slowly and painfully, as if he were
sinking under fatigue.

"Throw me some bones from the table," he said. "Give me my share
along with the dogs."

There was madness as well as hunger in his eyes while he spoke
those words. Steventon placed Mrs. Crayford behind him, so that
he might be easily able to protect her in case of need, and
beckoned to two sailors who were passing the door of the
boat-house at the time.

"Give the man some bread and meat," he said, "and wait near him."

The outcast seized on the bread and meat with lean, long-nailed
hands that looked like claws. After his first mouthful of the
food, he stopped, considered vacantly with himself, and broke the
bread and meat into two portions. One portion he put into an old
canvas wallet that hung over his shoulder; the other he devoured
voraciously. Steventon questioned him.

"Where do you come from?"

"From the sea."

"Wrecked?"

"Yes."

Steventon turned to Mrs. Crayford.

"There may be some truth in the poor wretch's story," he said. "I
heard something of a strange boat having been cast on the beach
thirty or forty miles higher up the coast. When were you wrecked,
my man?"

The starving creature looked up from his food, and made an effort
to collect his thoughts--to exert his memory. It was not to be
done. He gave up the attempt in despair. His language, when he
spoke, was as wild as his looks.

"I can't tell you," he said. "I can't get the wash of the sea out
of my ears. I can't get the shining stars all night, and the
burning sun all day, out of my brain. When was I wrecked? When
was I first adrift in the boat? When did I get the tiller in my
hand and fight against hunger and sleep? When did the gnawi ng in
my breast, and the burning in my head, first begin? I have lost
all reckoning of it. I can't think; I can't sleep; I can't get
the wash of the sea out of my ears. What are you baiting me with
questions for? Let me eat!"

Even the sailors pitied him. The sailors asked leave of their
officer to add a little drink to his meal.

"We've got a drop of grog with us, sir, in a bottle. May we give
it to him?"

"Certainly!"

He took the bottle fiercely, as he had taken the food, drank a
little, stopped, and considered with himself again. He held up
the bottle to the light, and, marking how much liquor it
contained, carefully drank half of it only. This done, he put the
bottle in his wallet along with the food.

"Are you saving it up for another time?" said Steventon.

"I'm saving it up," the man answered. "Never mind what for.
That's my secret."

He looked round the boat-house as he made that reply, and noticed
Mrs. Crayford for the first time.

"A woman among you!" he said. "Is she English? Is she young? Let
me look closer at her."

He advanced a few steps toward the table.

"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Crayford," said Steventon.

"I am not afraid," Mrs. Crayford replied. "He frightened me at
first--he interests me now. Let him speak to me if he wishes it!"

He never spoke. He stood, in dead silence, looking long and
anxiously at the beautiful Englishwoman.

"Well?" said Steventon.

He shook his head sadly, and drew back again with a heavy sigh.

"No!" he said to himself, "that's not _her_ face. No! not found
yet."

Mrs. Crayford's interest was strongly excited. She ventured to
speak to him.

"Who is it you want to find?" she asked. "Your wife?"

He shook his head again.

"Who, then? What is she like?"

He answered that question in words. His hoarse, hollow voice
softened, little by little, into sorrowful and gentle tones.

"Young," he said; "with a fair, sad face--with kind, tender
eyes--with a soft, clear voice. Young and loving and merciful. I
keep her face in my mind, though I can keep nothing else. I must
wander, wander, wander--restless, sleepless, homeless--till I
find _her!_ Over the ice and over the snow; tossing on the sea,
tramping over the land; awake all night, awake all day; wander,
wander, wander, till I find _her!_"

He waved his hand with a gesture of farewell, and turned wearily
to go out.

At the same moment Crayford opened the yard door.

"I think you had better come to Clara," he began, and checked
himself, noticing the stranger. "Who is that?"

The shipwrecked man, hearing another voice in the room, looked
round slowly over his shoulder. Struck by his appearance,
Crayford advanced a little nearer to him. Mrs. Crayford spoke to
her husband as he passed her.

"It's only a poor, mad creature, William," she
whispered--"shipwrecked and starving."

"Mad?" Crayford repeated, approaching nearer and nearer to the
man. "Am _I_ in my right senses?" He suddenly sprang on the
outcast, and seized him by the throat. "Richard Wardour!" he
cried, in a voice of fury. "Alive!--alive, to answer for Frank!"

The man struggled. Crayford held him.

"Where is Frank?" he said. "You villain, where is Frank?"

The man resisted no longer. He repeated vacantly,

"Villain? and where is Frank?"

As the name escaped his lips, Clara appeared at the open yard
door, and hurried into the room.

"I heard Richard's name!" she said. "I heard Frank's name! What
does it mean?"

At the sound of her voice the outcast renewed the struggle to
free himself, with a sudden frenzy of strength which Crayford was
not able to resist. He broke away before the sailors could come
to their officer's assistance. Half-way down the length of the
room he and Clara met one another face to face. A new light
sparkled in the poor wretch's eyes; a cry of recognition burst
from his lips. He flung one hand up wildly in the air. "Found!"
he shouted, and rushed out to the beach before any of the men
present could stop him.

Mrs. Crayford put her arms round Clara and held her up. She had
not made a movement: she had not spoken a word. The sight of
Wardour's face had petrified her.

The minutes passed, and there rose a sudden burst of cheering
from the sailors on the beach, near the spot where the
fishermen's boats were drawn up. Every man left his work. Every
man waved his cap in the air. The passengers, near at hand,
caught the infection of enthusiasm, and joined the crew. A moment
more, and Richard Wardour appeared again in the doorway, carrying
a man in his arms. He staggered, breathless with the effort that
he was making, to the place where Clara stood, held up in Mrs.
Crayford's arms.

"Saved, Clara!" he cried. "Saved for _you!_"

He released the man, and placed him in Clara's arms.

Frank! foot-sore and weary--but living--saved; saved for _her!_

"Now, Clara!" cried Mrs. Crayford, "which of us is right? I who
believed in the mercy of God? or you who believed in a dream?"

She never answered; she clung to Frank in speechless ecstasy. She
never even looked at the man who had preserved him, in the first
absorbing joy of seeing Frank alive. Step by step, slower and
slower, Richard Wardour drew back, and left them by themselves.

"I may rest now," he said, faintly. "I may sleep at last. The
task is done. The struggle is over."

His last reserves of strength had been given to Frank. He
stopped--he staggered--his hands waved feebly in search of
support. But for one faithful friend he would have fallen.
Crayford caught him. Crayford laid his old comrade gently on some
sails strewn in a corner, and pillowed Wardour's weary head on
his own bosom. The tears streamed over his face. "Richard! dear
Richard!" he said. "Remember--and forgive me."

Richard neither heeded nor heard him. His dim eyes still looked
across the room at Clara and Frank.

"I have made _her_ happy!" he murmured. "I may lay down my weary
head now on the mother earth that hushes all her children to rest
at last. Sink, heart! sink, sink to rest! Oh, look at them!" he
said to Crayford, with a burst of grief. "They have forgotten
_me_ already."

It was true! The interest was all with the two lovers. Frank was
young and handsome and popular. Officers, passengers, and
sailors, they all crowded round Frank. They all forgot the
martyred man who had saved him--the man who was dying in
Crayford's arms.

Crayford tried once more to attract his attention--to win his
recognition while there was yet time. "Richard, speak to me!
Speak to your old friend!"

He look round; he vacantly repeated Crayford's last word.

"Friend?" he said. "My eyes are dim, friend--my mind is dull. I
have lost all memories but the memory of _her_. Dead
thoughts--all dead thoughts but that one! And yet you look at me
kindly! Why has your face gone down with the wreck of all the
rest?"

He paused; his face changed; his thoughts drifted back from
present to past; he looked at Crayford vacantly, lost in the
terrible remembrances that were rising in him, as the shadows
rise with the coming night.

"Hark ye, friend," he whispered. "Never let Frank know it. There
was a time when the fiend within me hungered for his life. I had
my hands on the boat. I heard the voice of the Tempter speaking
to me: Launch it, and leave him to die! I waited with my hands on
the boat, and my eyes on the place where he slept. 'Leave him!
leave him!' the voice whispered. 'Love him!' the lad's voice
answered, moaning and murmuring in his sleep. 'Love him, Clara,
for helping _me!_' I heard the morning wind come up in the
silence over the great deep. Far and near, I heard the groaning
of the floating ice; floating, floating to the clear water and
the balmy air. And the wicked Voice floated away with it--away,
away, away forever! 'Love him! love him, Clara, for helping
_me!_' No wind could float that away! 'Love him, Clara--'"

His voice sank into silence; his head dropped on Crayford's
breast. Frank saw it. Frank struggled up on his bleeding feet and
parted the friendly throng round him. Frank had not forgotten the
man who had saved him.

"Let me go to him!" he cried. "I must and will go to him! Clara,
come with me."

Clara and Steventon supported him between them. He fell on his
knees at Wardour's s ide; he put his hand on Wardour's bosom.

"Richard!"

The weary eyes opened again. The sinking voice was heard feebly
once more.

"Ah! poor Frank. I didn't forget you, Frank, when I came here to
beg. I remembered you lying down outside in the shadow of the
boats. I saved you your share of the food and drink. Too weak to
get at it now! A little rest, Frank! I shall soon be strong
enough to carry you down to the ship."

The end was near. They all saw it now. The men reverently
uncovered their heads in the presence of Death. In an agony of
despair, Frank appealed to the friends round him.

"Get something to strengthen him, for God's sake! Oh, men! men! I
should never have been here but for him! He has given all his
strength to my weakness; and now, see how strong I am, and how
weak _he_ is! Clara, I held by his arm all over the ice and snow.
_He_ kept watch when I was senseless in the open boat. _His_ hand
dragged me out of the waves when we were wrecked. Speak to him,
Clara! speak to him!" His voice failed him, and his head dropped
on Wardour's breast.

She spoke, as well as her tears would let her.

"Richard, have you forgotten me?"

He rallied at the sound of that beloved voice. He looked up at
her as she knelt at his head.

"Forgotten you?" Still looking at her, he lifted his hand with an
effort, and laid it on Frank. "Should I have been strong enough
to save him, if I could have forgotten you?" He waited a moment
and turned his face feebly toward Crayford. "Stay!" he said.
"Someone was here and spoke to me." A faint light of recognition
glimmered in his eyes. "Ah, Crayford! I recollect now. Dear
Crayford! come nearer! My mind clears, but my eyes grow dim. You
will remember me kindly for Frank's sake? Poor Frank! why does he
hide his face? Is he crying? Nearer, Clara--I want to look my
last at _you_. My sister, Clara! Kiss me, sister, kiss me before
I die!"

She stooped and kissed his forehead. A faint smile trembled on
his lips. It passed away; and stillness possessed the face--the
stillness of Death.

Crayford's voice was heard in the silence.

"The loss is ours," he said. "The gain is his. He has won the
greatest of all conquests--the conquest of himself. And he has
died in the moment of victory. Not one of us here but may live to
envy _his_ glorious death."

The distant report of a gun came from the ship in the offing, and
signaled the return to England and to home.