the frozen deep-第11部分

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the　snow…driftstopped；　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
skysleeping　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　thoughtslooks　at　the
still　white　face　beneath　himand　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
hoursperhaps　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　fireand　stops。　Frank
is　dreaming；　and　murmuring　in　his　dream。　A　woman's　name　passes
his　lips。　Frank　is　in　England　againat　the　ballwhispering　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
Clarawho　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
boatwaits　and　thinks。

The　iceberg　drifts　slowlyover　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　waitswaits　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；　Lucygive　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；　Lucysomething　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　whiteher　soft　brown　hair　hanging
loosely　over　her　shouldersthere　is　something　weird　and
ghost…like　in　the　girl；　as　she　moves　nearer　and　nearer　to　the
window　in　the　full　light　of　the　moonpleading　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。　Playwhile　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　themnow；　when　their　last　news　of　the　_Wanderer_　and　the
_Sea…mew_　is　news　that　is　more　than　two　years　oldthey　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
pianoMozart'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　lovesthe　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
lawnthe　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
graveinsensible　to　touch；　insensible　to　sound；　motionless　as
stone；　cold　as　stoneClara　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　saythis　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　lipswords　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
su