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 L161— O-1096
 
 THE FROZEN DEEP 
 
 ifC.
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., XHW-STllEET 5-QL'AUE 
 
 AND PARLIAilEXT STREET
 
 E^abmgs aitir SErttmigs in i^metrta 
 
 THE FROZEN DEEP 
 
 AVB OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET 
 1874 
 
 Cd '-](/ 
 
 7'fie right of translation ix re.'<erie(i
 
 1/, / 
 
 TO 
 
 OLIVEE WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 [N SINCERE ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS AS POET, NOVELIST, ESSAYIST 
 
 AND IN CORDIAL REMEMBRANCE OF OUR INTERCOURSE 
 
 DURING MY VISIT TO AMERICA 
 
 r
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIEST VOLUME. 
 
 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introductory Lines 3 
 
 FIRST SCENE. 
 The Ball-Room 11 
 
 BETWEEN THE SCENES. 
 The Landing-Stage 54 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 The Hut of the Sea-Mew 69 
 
 THIED SCENE. 
 The Iceberg 133
 
 Vlll CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Garden 138 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 The Boat-House 173 
 
 THE DREAM WOMAN: 
 
 A JIYSTERY, IN FOUR XAERATIVES. 
 
 FIRST NARRATIVE. 
 
 Introdijctory Statement of the Facts. By 
 Percy Fairbank 223
 
 THE FEOZEN DEEP 
 
 A DRAMATIC STORY, IN FIVE SCENES. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 INTRODUCTORY LINES. 
 
 {Relating the Adventures and Transformations of 
 The Frozen Deep.) 
 
 As long ago as the year 1856 I wrote a 
 play called ' The Frozen Deep.' 
 
 The work was first represented by ama- 
 teur actors, at the house of the late Charles 
 Dickens, on the 6th of January 1857. Mr. 
 Dickens himself played the principal part, 
 and played it with a truth, vigour, and 
 pathos never to be forgotten by those who 
 were fortunate enough to witness the per- 
 formance. The other personages of the 
 story were represented by the ladies of 
 Mr. Dickens's family, by the late Mark 
 Lemon (editor of 'Punch'), by the late 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE FROZEN DEEr. 
 
 Augustus Egg, R.A. (the artist), and by 
 the author of the play. 
 
 The next appearance of ' The Frozen 
 Deep' (played by the amateur company) 
 took place at The Gallery of Illustration, 
 Regent Street, before the Queen and the 
 Royal Family, by the Queen's own com- 
 mand. After this special performance 
 other representations of the work were 
 given — first at The Gallery of Illustration, 
 subsequently (with professional actresses) 
 in some of the principal towns in England 
 — for the benefit of the family of a well-- 
 beloved friend of ours, who died in 1857 — 
 the late Douglas Jerrold. At Manchester 
 the play was twice performed — on the 
 second evening in the presence of three 
 thousand spectators. This was, I think, 
 the finest of all the representations of ' The 
 Frozen Deep.' The extraordinary intelli- 
 gence and enthusiasm of the great au-
 
 IXTPvODUCTORY LINES. 5 
 
 dience stimulated us all to do our best. 
 Dickens surpassed himself. The trite 
 phrase is the true phrase to describe that 
 magnificent piece of acting. He literally 
 electrified the audience. 
 
 I present here, as ' a curiosity ' which 
 may be welcome to some of my readers, a 
 portion of the original playbill of the per- 
 formance at Manchester. To me it has 
 now become one of the saddest memorials 
 of the past that I possess. Of the nine 
 amateur actors who played the men's parts 
 (one of them my brother, all of tliem my 
 valued friends) but two are now living 
 besides myself — Mr. Charles Dickens, 
 jun., and Mr. Edward Pigott.
 
 In Remembrance of tlie late Mr, Douglas Jerrold, 
 
 FREE TEADE HALL. 
 
 UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MR. CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 On FRIDAY Evening, Aug. 21, and on SATURDAY 
 
 Evening, Aug. 22, 1857, 
 
 AT EIGHT o'clock EXACTLY, 
 
 Will be presented an entirely new Romantic Drama, in three Acts, by 
 
 MR. WILKIE CDLLIjS'S, 
 
 CALLED 
 
 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 The Overture composed expressly for this Piece by Mr. PRANCli^SCO 
 BERGER, who will conduct the Orchestra. 
 
 The Dresses by Messrs. Nathan, of Titchbourne Street, Haymarlet, and Miss WiLKixs, 
 of Carburton St., Fitzroy Square. Perruquier, Mr. "Wilson, of the Strand. 
 
 Captaix Ebsworth (of the 'Sea-Mew') Mr. EDWARD PIGOTT 
 
 Captain Heldixg (of the 'Wanderer') Mr. ALFRED DICI^NS 
 
 LiErTENAXT Cratford Mr. mark lemon 
 
 Frank Aldersley Mr. WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 Richard Wardotjr Mr. CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Lieutenant Stetenton Mr. YOUNG CHARLES* 
 
 John Want . . {Ships Cook) . . Mr. AUGUSTUS EGG 
 
 Bateson* {two of the 'Sea-Mew's' , Mr. SHIRLEY BROOKS 
 
 Darker ) peoi^le) \ Mr. CHARLES COLLINS 
 
 (Officers and Crews of the 'Sea-Mew' and 'Wanderer.') 
 
 Mrs. Steventon Mrs. GEORGE VINING 
 
 Rose Ebsworth Miss ELLEN SABINE 
 
 Lucy Crayford Miss ELLEN TERNAN 
 
 Clara Buknham Miss MARIA TERNAN 
 
 Nurse Esther Mrs. TERNAN 
 
 Maid Miss MEWTE.f 
 
 Tlie Scenery andlScenic Effects of the First Act by Mr. TELBIN. 
 
 The Scenery and Scenic Effects of the Second and Third Acts by Mr. 
 
 STANFIELD, R.A. 
 
 * A f.icetious nickname, invented by Dickens for his oldest son. 
 
 t Another nickname by Dickens for a young lady who had nothing to say.
 
 INTRODUCTORY LINES. 7 
 
 The country performances being con- 
 cluded, nearly ten years passed before the 
 footlights shone again on ' The Frozen 
 Deep.' In 1866 I accepted a j^roposal, 
 made to me by Mr. Horace Wigan, to pro- 
 duce the play (with certain alterations and 
 additions) on the public stage, at the Olym- 
 pic Theatre, London. The first perform- 
 ance took place (while I was myself absent 
 from England) on the 27th of November, 
 in the year just mentioned. Mr. H. Neville 
 acted the part ' created ' by Dickens. 
 
 Seven years passed after the production 
 of the play at the Olympic Theatre, and 
 then ' The Frozen Deep ' appealed once 
 more to public favour, in another country 
 than England, and under a totally new 
 form. 
 
 I occupied the autumn and winter of 
 1873-74 most agreeably to myself, by a 
 tour in the United States of America, re-
 
 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ceiving from the generous people of that 
 great country a reception which I shall 
 remember proudly and gratefully to the 
 end of my life. During my stay in 
 America I read in public, in the principal 
 cities, one of my shorter stories (enlarged 
 and re- written for the purpose), called 
 ' The Dream- Woman.' Concluding my 
 tour at Boston, I was advised by my 
 friends to give, if possible, a special attrac- 
 tion to my farewell reading in America, by 
 presenting to my audience a new work. 
 Having this object in view, and having 
 but a short space of time at my disposal, I 
 bethought myself of ' The Frozen Deep.' 
 The play had never been published, and I 
 determined to re -write it in narrative form 
 for a public reading. The experiment 
 proved, on trial, to be far more successful 
 than I had ventured to anticipate. Occu- 
 pying nearly two hours in its delivery, the
 
 INTRODUCTORY LINES. 9 
 
 transformed ' Frozen Deep ' kept its hold 
 from first to last on the interest and sym- 
 pathies of the audience. I hope to have 
 future opportunities of reading it in my 
 own country, as well as in the United 
 States. 
 
 Proposals having lately been made to 
 me, in England and in America, to publish 
 my ' readings,' I here present ' The Frozen 
 Deep ' and ' The Dream-Woman.' The 
 stories, as I print them, are in both 
 instances considerably longer than the 
 stories as I read them, the limits of time 
 in the case of a public reading rendering it 
 imperatively necessary to abridge w^ithout 
 mercy developments of character and inci- 
 dent w^hich are essential to the due pre- 
 sentation of a work in its literary form. I 
 have only to add, for the benefit of those 
 who may have seen, and who may not 
 have forgotten, the play, that the narrative
 
 10 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 version of ' The Frozen Deep ' departs 
 widely from the treatment of the story in 
 the First Act of the dramatic version, but 
 (with the one exception of the Third 
 Scene) follows the play as closely as pos- 
 sible in the succeeding Acts. 
 
 I have only to add that the third and 
 last story in the present collection ('John 
 Jago^s Ghost') was suggested to me by a 
 printed account of a trial which took place 
 in America. This little work was written 
 during my stay in Xew York, and was 
 published (periodically) in England, in 
 ' The Home Journal.' 
 
 W. C. 
 
 London : 
 
 September, 1874.
 
 THE STOEY. 
 
 FIEST SCENE. 
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 The date is between twenty and thirty 
 years ago. The place is an English sea- 
 port. The time is night. And the busi- 
 ness of the moment is — dancing. 
 
 The ^ I ay or 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 North- West Passage) on the next day, 
 with the mornins: tide.
 
 12 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Honour to the Mayor and Corporation ! 
 It is a brilliant ball. The band is con:iplete. 
 The room is spacious. The large conserva- 
 tory opening out of it is pleasantly lit with 
 Chinese lanterns, and beautifully decorated 
 with slirubs and flowers. All officers of 
 the army and navy who are present wear 
 their uniforms in honour 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 admira- 
 tion selects two of the ladies who are 
 dancing as its favourite 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,
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 16 
 
 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. Cray- 
 ford's dearest friend, and she is to stay 
 with Mrs. Crayford during the Lieute- 
 nant's absence in the Arctic regions. She 
 is now dancing, with the Lieutenant him- 
 self 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 Held- 
 ing and Mrs. Crayford, in one of the inter- 
 vals 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 —
 
 14 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' In very delicate health, Captain Held- 
 ing.' 
 
 ^ Consumptive ? ' 
 
 ' Not in the least.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear that. She is a 
 charming creature, Mrs. Cray ford. She 
 interests me indescribably. If I was only 
 twenty years younger — perhaps (as I am 
 not twenty years j^ounger) 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.' 
 
 ' Aye ! aye ! A bad school, I suppose? '
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 15 
 
 ' 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 speak- 
 ing 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
 
 16 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Second Sight has something — in the shape 
 of poetry — to recommend it, surely? 
 Estimate for yourself,' she continued seri- 
 ously, ' 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. Cray ford — 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 pro- 
 fess to see into the future? Am I to 
 understand that she positively falls into a 
 trance, and sees people in distant countries.
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 17 
 
 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 oppo- 
 site to us ? ' 
 
 * The young lady who is dancing oppo- 
 site to us.' 
 
 The Captain waited a little — letting the 
 new flood of information which had poured 
 in on him settle itself steadily in liis mind. 
 This process accomplished, the Arctic ex- 
 plorer 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. Cray ford replied. * She had been 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 THE FEOZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 colour left her face. She 
 stood between us, insensible to touch, in- 
 sensible 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 re- 
 ferred 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 colour appeared in 
 her face, and left it again. Her eyes 
 closed, her feet fiiiled her, and she sank 
 insensible into our arms.'
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 19 
 
 ' Sank insensible into your arms,' re- 
 peated tlie Captain, absorbing his new in- 
 formation. ' 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 allu- 
 sion 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 Caj)tain. 
 c 2
 
 20 THE FROZEX DEEP. 
 
 ' 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 un- 
 familiar to medical practice. "We know," 
 he told me, " that certain disordered condi- 
 tions of the brain and the nervous system 
 produce results quite as extraordinary as 
 any that you have described — and there 
 our knowledge ends. Xeither 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 — tlie 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
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 21 
 
 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 solu- 
 tion of the difficulty. 
 
 ' Aye ! aye ! At last we have hit the 
 nail on the head ! Secret anxieties. Yes ! 
 yes ! Plain enough now. A disappoint- 
 ment 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 se- 
 cretly on her mind. I sometimes feel a 
 little hurt at her incomprehensible si- 
 lence.'
 
 22 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 
 icill 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 farther ? ' 
 
 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
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 23 
 
 next of ships that were ordered home again. 
 This last experiment produced its effect — 
 an effect wliich the Captain had not bar- 
 gained for. 
 
 ' Do yon 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 fig^ures of the dance which 
 brought them within hearing of the oppo- 
 site 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 ! Every- 
 body 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.
 
 24: THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' 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 
 Ilelding 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 whis- 
 pered. 'If it is, as commander of the 
 Arctic Expedition, I have a particular re- 
 quest to make. Will the Second Sight 
 oblige me by seeing the shortest way to 
 the North- West Passage before we leave 
 England ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Crayford declined to humour 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 tlie entrance to the conservatory Mrs.
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 25 
 
 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 irre- 
 sistible 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 Lmocent ! ' 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.
 
 26 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 ' 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 grey 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 mur- 
 mured. ' 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.
 
 THE BALL-EOOM. '2 i 
 
 ' 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
 
 28 THE FKOZEN DEEP. 
 
 much ill 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 
 ex^daimed witli a burst of despair. ' The 
 words won't come to me.' 
 
 ' Then I must help you. Do you feel 
 ill to-night? Do you feel as you felt 
 that day when you were with my sister 
 and me in the garden ? ' 
 
 ' Ob, 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.'
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 29 
 
 There is a reason. Captain Held- 
 
 mg 
 
 ' 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
 
 50 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 the last year of my father's life. Did I 
 ever tell you that my father moved south- 
 ward, 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 honse was near a fine country 
 seat standing in its own park. The owner 
 of the ])lace was a gentleman named 
 Wardour. He, too, was one of my father's 
 Kentish friends. He had an only son.' 
 
 She paused, and played nervonsly 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.'
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 31 
 
 ' 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?'
 
 32 THE FROZEX DEEP. 
 
 ' No. He ^vas not — unhappily for ine 
 — ^he was not that sort of man. He never 
 spoke of the feeUng with which he re- 
 garded me. It was I who saw it. I 
 couldn't help seemg 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 bashfalness 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
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 33 
 
 just told you. My father was suffering at 
 that time under the illness which after- 
 wards caused his death. He was quite 
 unfit to interfere.' 
 
 ' Was there no one else who could help 
 you?' 
 
 ' Xo one.' 
 
 ' No lady in whom you could confide ? ' 
 
 ' I had acquaintances among the ladies 
 in the neighbourhood. 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 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 house to take leave of us before he jomed 
 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, hew as out in the garden again — 
 he was gone ! I ought to have spoken, I
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 35 
 
 know. It was not honourable, not kind 
 towards 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 ! Hav- 
 ing said that, surely you are not to l)lame ? 
 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 
 — ashed for an answer. The ansAver has 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 never come. What is the plain conclusion? 
 My letter has never reached him. And 
 the "Atalanta " is expected back ! Richard 
 Ward our 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? ' 
 
 j\lrs. Cray ford 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. Cray ford was thinking. 
 
 She saw Clara's position plainly ; she 
 understood the disturbino- 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 aoita- 
 tion. Her quick observing faculty had 
 just detected that Clara's face showed no 
 signs of relief, now that she had unbur- 
 dened herself of her secret. There was
 
 THE BALL-KOOM. 37 
 
 something clearly under the surface here — 
 something of importance, that still re- 
 mained 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 had the clue in 
 her hand, Mrs. Crayford deliberately re- 
 peated her question in another form of 
 words. Instead of answering, Clara sud- 
 denly looked up. At the same moment a 
 faint flush of colour appeared in her face 
 for the first time. 
 
 Looking up instinctively on her side, 
 Mrs. Crayford became aware of the pre- 
 sence in the conservatory of a young 
 gentleman who was claiming Clara as his 
 partner in the coming waltz. Mrs. Cray-
 
 :>8 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ford fell into thinking once more. Had 
 this young gentleman (she asked herself) 
 anything to do with the untold end of the 
 story? Was tkis the true secret of Clara 
 Burnham's terror at the impending return 
 of Richard Wardour? Mrs. Crayford de- 
 cided oil 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 ? '
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 39 
 
 ' I have not the honour, Mrs. Crayford. 
 I belong to the " Sea- Mew." ' 
 
 Mrs. Crayford's superb eyes looked 
 shrewdly backwards and forwards 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 
 comphcate the difficulty with Kichard 
 Wardour I There was no time for makino: 
 any further inquiries. The band had 
 begun the prelude to the waltz, and 
 Francis Aldersley was waiting for his 
 partner. AVith 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
 
 40 THE FROZEN DEEr. 
 
 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 the 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.
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 41 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 The burden on Clara's mind weighs on it 
 more heavily than ever after what Mrs. 
 Crayford has said to her. She is too un- 
 happy 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 towards him. He whispers 
 to her: 
 
 ' Call me Frank.'
 
 42 THE FROZEN DEEP 
 
 She longs to call liim Frank — she loves 
 him with all her heart. But Mrs. Cray- 
 ford's warning words are still in her mind. 
 She never opens her lips. Her lover 
 moves a little closer, and asks another fa- 
 vour. 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Xo ! ' 
 
 ' We shall sail to-morrow for the Arctic 
 Seas. I may not return for years. Don't 
 send me aw^ay without hope ! Think of the 
 long lonely time in the dark Xorth ! Make 
 it a happy time for me.'' 
 
 Though he speaks with the fervour of a 
 man, he is little more than a lad ; he is only 
 twentv years old — and he is ^oino; to risk 
 his young life on the frozen deep ! Clara
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 43 
 
 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 favour 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 
 lookino; at him — she trembles with strano^e 
 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.
 
 44 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Crayford's warning — forgets Richard War- 
 dour 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 
 W ardour again at those words. 
 
 'Mind I' she says, 'nobody is to know 
 we are engaged till I permit you to mention 
 it. Remember that ! '
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 45 
 
 He promises to remember it. His arm 
 tries to wind round her once more. No ! 
 She is mistress of herself ; she can posi- 
 tively 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 hap- 
 piest man in the room. Five minutes 
 since, she was only his partner in the dance. 
 He has spoken — and she has pledged her- 
 self to be his partner for life ! 
 
 Chapter IY 
 
 It was not easy to find Mrs. Crayford in 
 the crowd. Searching here and searching
 
 46 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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-con- 
 tained — 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 look- 
 ing away again with a frown. Little by 
 little he approached the conservatory- 
 entered it, after a moment's reflection — de- 
 tected 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
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 47 
 
 which told her she was looking at Richard 
 War dour. 
 
 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 colour 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.
 
 48 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 and dropped into a chair. He advanced 
 towards 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 leapt 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 impres- 
 sion, and you have given me no o]3portunity 
 of setting you right.'
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 49 
 
 ' In what way have I been wrong ? ' 
 
 ' You have been too hasty and too con- 
 fident 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 incapa- 
 ble of telling him a falsehood. She was 
 ashamed to tell him the truth. 
 
 He stooped over her, and suddenly pos- 
 sessed himself of her hand. Holdin^: her 
 hand firmly, he stooped a little lower, 
 
 VOL. 1. E
 
 50 THE FEOZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 towards 
 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 warn- 
 ing light which told of the fire within him, 
 growing brighter and brighter in his eyes. 
 She felt his grasp strengthening on her
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 51 
 
 hand. She heard him appeal to her for 
 the last time. 
 
 ' Reflect/ he said, ' reflect before it is too 
 late. Yom' 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 
 
 ""--ir"
 
 52 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 terri- 
 ble 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 colour 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 dis-
 
 THE BALL-ROOM. 53 
 
 missed/ 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 con- 
 servatory who is taken faint.'
 
 54 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 BETWEEN THE SCENES. 
 Chapter V. 
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. 
 
 The morning of the next day — the morn- 
 ing 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 had 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 ? '
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. 55 
 
 'No.' 
 
 'Have you seen or heard anything of 
 Eichard Wardour ? ' 
 
 ' What an extraordinary question ! ' 
 
 ' Answer my question ! Don't trifle 
 with me ! ' 
 
 ' Compose yourself, Clara. I have nei- 
 ther 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 mil 
 meet.' 
 
 ' My dear child, what are you thinking 
 of ? They are total strangers to each 
 other.' 
 
 ' Something wdll 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?
 
 56 TPIE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment'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 ! '
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. 57 
 
 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 affright- 
 edly hither and thither among the strange 
 faces in the crowd, searching for the one 
 face that she dreaded to see, and not find- 
 ing 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.
 
 58 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' 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, ex- 
 cept 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. Cray ford. 
 
 ' What on earth does she mean ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Crayford's lively invention sup- 
 plied 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
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. 59 
 
 calling you. Say good-bye, or you will be 
 too late for the boat.' 
 
 Frank took Clara's band. Long after- 
 wards — 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 gaily. ' A 
 sailor's sweetheart must accustom herself 
 to partings. The time will soon pass. 
 Good-bye, my darling ! Good-bye, 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 cere- 
 mony and pushed him away. 
 
 The two ladies followed him at a safe
 
 60 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 AVardour 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 satis- 
 fied 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.'
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. Gl 
 
 Clara drew back a few steps. 
 
 ' I won't be in the w\ay, Lucy, wliile 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 cheer- 
 ino; amono: 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 apolo- 
 gies for interfering with his best grace.
 
 62 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' 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 North- West Passage, and have stopped 
 at home with you.' 
 
 Excusing himself in those bluntly com- 
 plimentary terms, Captain Helding drew 
 the lieutenant aside a few steps, acciden- 
 tally 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 duties 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.
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. G3 
 
 ' You received my note this morning ? ' 
 the captain began. 
 
 ' Certainly, Captain H elding, 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, Cravford.' 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 64 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' It's rather a sudden appointment, isn't 
 it?' 
 
 ' Xo doubt. Yery sudden.' 
 
 ' And, pardon me, it's rather a long time 
 (as we are situated) to keep the ships wait- 
 ing 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, Cray- 
 ford. 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.'
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. 65 
 
 ' 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 refuo-e 
 in absence and hard Avork, I am a lost man. 
 Will you give me 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 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 con- 
 fronted Clara. Her first feeling of sur- 
 prise changed instantly to alarm. Clara 
 was trembling from head to foot. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? AVhat 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.'
 
 THE LANDING STAGE. 67 
 
 ' 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 72ot 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.' 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Lieutenant Crayford returned to his wife. 
 She spoke to him instantly. 
 
 ' Wilham, you have got a new vohmteer 
 who joins the " Wanderer? " ' 
 
 ' AVhat ! you have been listening to the 
 Captain and me ? ' 
 
 ' 1 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, m}^ dear. Look ! 
 you are positively alarming MissBurnhara. 
 The new volunteer is a perfect stranger to 
 us. There is his name — last on the ship's 
 list.' 
 
 Mrs. Crawford smatched the list out of 
 her Imsband's hand, and read the name : 
 ^Richard Wardour.'
 
 69 
 
 SECOND SCENE. 
 the hut of the sea-mew. 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 Good-bye to England! Good-bye to in- 
 habited and civilised regions of the earth ! 
 
 Two years have passed since the voya- 
 gers 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 buoy- 
 ant waters more. Stripped of their lighter 
 timbers, both vessels have been used for 
 the construction of huts, erected on the 
 nearest land.
 
 70 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 The laro-est of the two buildino-s 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 fireplace. 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 raft- 
 ered 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. Be- 
 hind 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 saucepan full of the dry bones of ani- 
 mals. In plain words, the dinner for the
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 71 
 
 day. By way of ornament to the dull 
 brown walls, icicles appear in the crevices 
 of the timber, gleaming at intervals in the 
 red firelight. 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 VII. 
 
 The first sound that broke the silence 
 came from the inner apartment. An offi- 
 cer lifted the canvas screen in the hut of 
 the ' Sea- Mew ' and entered the main room. 
 Cold and privation had sadly thinned the 
 ranks. The commander of the ship — Cap- 
 tain 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.
 
 72 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 The officer so employed was — Lieutenant 
 Cray ford. 
 
 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. Bate- 
 son vanished, yawning, to his bed. Lieu- 
 tenant Crayford walked backwards and 
 forwards briskly, trying what exercise 
 would do towards warming his blood. 
 
 The pestle and mortar on the cask at- 
 tracted his attention. He stopped and 
 looked up at the man in the hammock. 
 
 ' I must rouse the cook,' he said to him- 
 self, 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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. ^6 
 
 in the whole ship's company. John Want ! 
 John Want! Rouse up, there ! ' 
 
 A head rose slowly out of the bed- 
 clothes, 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 ! / don't grumble.' 
 
 Crayford tapped the saucepan of bones 
 impatiently. John Want lowered himself 
 to the floor — grumbling all the wa}' — by a 
 rope attached to the rafters at his bed 
 head. Instead of approaching his superior
 
 74 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 officer and his saucepan he hobbled, shiver- 
 ing, to the fireplace, and held his chin as 
 close as he possibly could over the fire. 
 Crayfi)rd looked after him. 
 
 ^ Hullo ! what are you doing there ? ' 
 
 ' Thawing my beard, sir.' 
 
 ' Come here directly, and set to work on 
 these bones.' 
 
 John Want remained immovably at- 
 tached to the fireplace, 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 un- 
 der 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 ! / don't grumble.' 
 
 ' No ; we all know that. Look here ! 
 Are these bones pounded small enough ? ' 
 
 John Want suddenly approached the
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 75 
 
 lieutenant, and looked at him with an ap- 
 pearance of the deepest interest. 
 
 ' You'll excuse me, sir,' he said ; ^how 
 very hollow your voice sounds this morn- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' 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 honour 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. / don't grumble.' 
 
 He poured the bones into the mortar 
 and began to pound them — under protest.
 
 76 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 re- 
 turned to the inner hut, followed by the 
 sailor. John Want shook his head again, 
 and smiled more drearily than ever. 
 
 ' Eouse the doctor,' he repeated. ' Sup- 
 pose 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 flavour 
 the hot water if you can ! When I re-
 
 THE HUT or THE SEA-MEW. 77 
 
 member that I was once an apprentice at a 
 pastrycook'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 bedplaces 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. ' Croak- 
 ing? You don't find your own voice at 
 all altered for the worse — do you, Mr.
 
 78 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Frank? I don't give A/???,' 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 wonder- 
 ing why I ever went to sea.' 
 
 ^ Well, and why did you go to sea ? ' 
 
 ' I'm not certain, Mr. Frank. Some- 
 times I think it was natural perversity ; 
 sometimes I think it was false pride at get- 
 ting 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 get- 
 ting 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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 79 
 
 cook's memory one of the noteworthy pas- 
 sages 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. 
 ^' Eather, 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 o-ot
 
 80 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 rid of the soup, a,ncl then 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 cram- 
 med down a mouthful and turned paler 
 than ever. "Go on deck," says the cap- 
 tain. " 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, stag- 
 gering — back I come, more dead than 
 alive. " Devilled kidneys," says the cap-
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 81 
 
 tain. 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 youJ^ ' 
 
 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? ' 
 
 Frank looked puzzled. 
 
 ' Nothing that I set the smallest value 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 82 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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,' Cray ford proceeded. 
 ' Your berth will make good firing. I 
 have directed Bateson to be here in ten 
 minutes with his axe.' 
 
 ' 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 firewood ? ' 
 
 ' Can't you guess ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose the cold has stupefied me. 
 The riddle is beyond my reading. Sup- 
 pose 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 tri- 
 umph.
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 83 
 
 ' 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 perish- 
 ing here. Put me down, Crayford, anion o^ 
 those who volunteer to go.' 
 
 ' Volunteers will not be accepted in this 
 case,' said Crayford. ' Captain Helding 
 and Captain Ebsworth see serious objec- 
 tions, 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 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 
 Avisely, as I think — that Chance shall de- 
 cide among us who goes with the expedi- 
 tion, 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. Xeither you nor any one can object 
 to that way of settling the question. Offi- 
 cers and men alike take their chance to- 
 irether. Xobodv can tumble.' 
 
 ' /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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 85 
 
 '^Bear of the Expedition," Richard War- 
 dour.' 
 
 ' 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 War- 
 dour.' - 
 
 ' 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,' Cray ford's favourite was Frank. 
 
 'W^hy should it amaze you?' he asked. 
 'What opportunities have you had of judg- 
 ing? You and Wardour have always be- 
 longed to different ships. I have never 
 seen you in Wardour's society for five 
 minutes together. How cau you form a 
 fair estimate of his character ? ' 
 
 ' I take the general estimate of his char- 
 acter,' Frank answered. ' He has got his
 
 86 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 nickname because he is the most unpopular 
 man in his ship. Xobody likes him — there 
 must be some reason for that.' 
 
 ' There is only one reason for it/ Cray- 
 ford rejoined. ' Xobody understands Rich- 
 ard Wardour. I am not talking at ran- 
 dom. Remember I sailed from England 
 T^'ith 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 learnt there to do 
 him justice. Under all his outward de- 
 fects, 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. Xo more of this now. Give me 
 the dice and the box.' 
 
 Frank opened his locker. At the same 
 time the silence of the snowy waste outside 
 was broken by a shouting of voices hailing 
 the hut — ' Sea-Mew, a-hoy ! '
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 87 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 The sailor on watch opened the outer door. 
 There, ploddmg 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, wait- 
 ing the word which was to start them on 
 their perilous and doubtful journey. 
 
 Captain Helding of the 'Wanderer,' ac- 
 companied 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 per- 
 son present who seemed to be perfectly 
 indifferent to the fate in store for liim. 
 This was the man whom his brother 
 officers had nicknamed the Bear of the
 
 88 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Expedition. In other words — Richard 
 Wardour. 
 
 Crayford advanced to welcome Captain 
 Heidi ng. Frank — remembering the friendly 
 reproof which he had just received — passed 
 over the other officers of the Wanderer, 
 and made a special effort to be civil to 
 Cray ford'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 1 why ? ' 
 
 ' Because there are no women here.' 
 
 Frank turned to his brother officers, 
 without making any further advances in 
 the direction of Richard AYardour. The 
 Bear of the Expedition was more unap- 
 proachable than ever. 
 
 In the meantime, the hut had become
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 89 
 
 thronged by the able-bodied officers and 
 men of the two ships. Captain Helding, 
 standing in the midst of them, with Cray- 
 ford 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 '' Wan- 
 derer " and " Sea-Mew," it is my duty to 
 tell you, very briefly, the reasons which 
 have decided Captain Ebsworth and my- 
 self on despatching 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 deso- 
 lation of these inhospitable regions — with- 
 out dwelling on these things, it is my duty
 
 90 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 dis- 
 covered 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 War- 
 dour, 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 "" Wan- 
 derer's " hut — are increasing in number
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 91 
 
 day by day. We must look to oiir o\\^i 
 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 detach- 
 ment of the able-bodied officers and men 
 among us should set forth this very day, 
 and make another effi)rt to reach the 
 nearest inhabited settlements, from which 
 help and provisions may be despatched to 
 those Avho remain liere. The new direc- 
 tion to be taken, and the various precau- 
 tions 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 ! '
 
 92 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 The men echoed their officers. ' Aye, 
 aye, volunteers.' 
 
 Wardour still preserved his sullen silence. 
 Cray ford noticed him, standing apart from 
 the rest, and appealed to him person- 
 ally. 
 
 ^ 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 Cray ford. 
 
 ' I do.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to hear it, Wardour.' 
 
 Captain Helding answered the general 
 suggestion in favour of volunteering by a 
 question which instantly checked the rising 
 enthusiasm of the meeting. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' suppose we say volun- 
 teers. AVho volunteers to stop in the 
 huts?'
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 93 
 
 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 volun- 
 teering. 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
 
 94 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 you agree to that way of meeting the 
 difficulty?' 
 
 All the officers agreed — with the one ex- 
 ception 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 ao^reed 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? Wardonr, you
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 95 
 
 are next, in the absence of your first lieu- 
 ten ant J 
 
 Wardour prepared to cast without shak- 
 ing 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. ' IVe 
 
 done with luck.' Saying those words, he 
 threw down the empty box, and seated 
 himself on the nearest chest, without look- 
 ing 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. Some- 
 body else throw for me.' He suddenly
 
 96 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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. ' Five ! 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. 
 
 ' Eio;ht. Hurrah ! I g-o ! ' 
 
 '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.'
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 97 
 
 ^ Are you going to give me any more 
 good advice ? ^ 
 
 ' Don't look at me in that sour way, 
 Ricliard. I am going to ask you a ques- 
 
 tion about somethiner which concerns 
 
 & 
 
 your- 
 
 self.' 
 
 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 apart- 
 ment for a last conference with the bed- 
 ridden captain of the ' Sea-Mew.' War- 
 dour and Crayford were left together, 
 alone . 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 
 Crayford touched his friend on the shoulder 
 to rouse him. War dour looked up, impa- 
 tiently, with a frown. 
 
 'I was just asleep,' he said. 'Why do 
 you wake me ? ' 
 
 ' Look round you, Eichard. We are 
 alone.' 
 
 ' Well— and what of that ? ' 
 
 ' I wish to speak to you privately, and 
 this is my opportunity. You have disap- 
 pointed 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 per- 
 fectly 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.
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 99 
 
 ^ He caij try,' said Cray ford quietly, 
 ' when his friend asks him.' 
 
 Wardour's manner softened. 
 
 ' That's true,' he said. ' I loill try. Do 
 you remember the first night at sea, when 
 -we sailed from England in the '' Wan- 
 derer? " ' 
 
 ' 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 
 came 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 §ay that. There are times when 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE FKOZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 quarrelled with any 
 other man who had surprised me at that 
 moment,' he said. ' There w^as 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 wdiich had broken me for 
 life. There was no need to explain fur- 
 ther. The only hopeless Avretchedness in 
 this world is the wa^etchedness that women 
 cause.' 
 
 ' And the only unalloyed happiness,' said 
 Crayford, ' the happiness that women bring.' 
 
 ' That may be your experience of them,' 
 Wardour answ^ered. ' Mine is different. 
 All the devotion, the patience, the humility.
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 101 
 
 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, grace- 
 fully, 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 
 for ever. " 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."
 
 102 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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.' 
 
 ^ Y our 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 volun- 
 teered for this service, as I would have 
 volunteered for anything that set work and 
 hardship and danger, like ramparts, be- 
 tween my misery and me. With that 
 conviction strong within me still, I tell you 
 it is no matter whether I stay here with
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 103 
 
 the sick or go hence with the strong. I 
 shall live till I have met that man ! There 
 is a clay 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 ! hve 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 super- 
 stition had fastened on him. Crayford 
 drew back in silent horror. Wardour 
 noticed the action — he resented it — he ap- 
 pealed in defence of his one cherished con- 
 viction to Crayford's own experience of 
 him. 
 
 ' Look at me ! ' he cried. ' Look how I 
 have lived and thriven, with the heartache 
 gnawing at me at home, and the winds of
 
 104 THE FROZEX DEEP. 
 
 the icy north whistlmg 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 / 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 
 commg of one day — for the meeting with 
 one man.' 
 
 He paused once more. This time Cray- 
 ford spoke. 
 
 ' Richard I ' 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 bro- 
 ther 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 vou had ever looked as you look now
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 105 
 
 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 those 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. 
 Eichard 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, Cray-
 
 106 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ford — 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 axe. War dour, without a word of 
 warning, snatched the axe 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 sub-
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 107 
 
 dued — for the time at least. Crayford took 
 his hand in silence, and then (followed by 
 Bateson) left him to his work. 
 
 Chapter X. 
 
 Axe in hand, Wardour approached Frank's 
 bedplace. 
 
 ' 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 at- 
 tacked the bedplace with the axe like a 
 man who well knew the use of his instru- 
 ment, ' Oh, me,' he thought, sadly, ' if I 
 had only been born a carpenter instead of 
 a gentleman ! A good axe, Master Bate- 
 son — I wonder where you got it ? Some- 
 thing 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 ! '
 
 108 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Plank after plank fell out on the floor. 
 He laughed over the easy task of destruc- 
 tion. ' Aha ! young Aldersley ! It doesn't 
 take much to demolish your bedplace. I'll 
 have it down ! I would have the whole 
 hut down, if they would only give me the 
 chance of chopping at it I ' 
 
 A long strip of wood fell to his axe — 
 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. 
 
 ' Damn the fellow (whoever he is) who 
 cut this ! Why should he carve that name, 
 of all the names in the world ? '
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 109 
 
 He paused, considering — then determined 
 to go on again with his self-imposed labour. 
 He was ashamed of his own outburst. He 
 looked eagerly for the axe. ' Work, work ! 
 Nothing for it but work.' He found the 
 axe, 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 axe. There were vague 
 miso:ivino:s in him which he was not able 
 to realise. The state of his own mind ^^'as 
 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 carved 
 the letters on the other plank ? Frank 
 Aldersley, too ? ' 
 
 He turned the piece of wood in his hand
 
 110 THE FPtOZEX DEEP. 
 
 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 
 sweetheart'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 cypher 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 him- 
 self. 
 
 ' Clara Burnham ? Clara Burnham ? ' 
 
 He dropped the plank and turned deadly 
 pale in a moment. His eyes wandered 
 furtively backwards and forwards between 
 the strip of Avood on the floor and the half-
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. Ill 
 
 demolished berth. ' God ! what has 
 come to me now ? ' he said to himself, in a 
 whisper. He snatched up the axe 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 axe. 
 His hands were helpless ; they trembled 
 incessantly. He went to the fire ; he held 
 his hands over it. They still trembled inces- 
 santly ; 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.
 
 112 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 unnatural smile — spread slowly, stealthily, 
 devilishly over his face. He left the fire ; 
 he put the axe 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 
 hmi. War dour 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 !
 
 THE HUT OF TPIE SEA-MEW. 113 
 
 Chapter XL 
 
 ' Still at work ! ' Crayford exclaimed, 
 looking at the half-demolished bedplace. 
 ' Give yourself a little rest, Richard. The 
 exploring party is ready to start. If you 
 w^ish to take leave of your brother officers 
 before they go, you have no time to lose.' 
 
 He checked himself there, looking War- 
 dour 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 Batesons work for him. 
 Have you hurt yourself ? ' 
 
 VOL. L I
 
 114 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 
 axe. It's nothing. Xever mind. Pain 
 always has a curious effect on me. I tell 
 you it's nothing ! don't notice it ! ' 
 
 He turned his face towards them again 
 as suddenly as he had turned it away. He 
 advanced a few steps, and addressed him- 
 self Tvith 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 ? Eeady for the march ? ' 
 
 Frank met the oddly abrupt advance 
 which had been made to him with perfect 
 o^ood humour. 
 
 ' I am glad to be friends with you, Mr.
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 115 
 
 Wardour. I wish I was as well seasoned 
 to fatigue as you are.' 
 
 Wardour burst into a hard, joyless, un- 
 natural laugh. 
 
 ' Xot 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.'
 
 116 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' Friends of yours ? ' AVarclour 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 watchino- him and listenino^ to him 
 more and more attentively as that conver- 
 sation went on. Within the last moment 
 or two AVardour 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 Avith Frank. 
 
 ' One of the county families ? ' he re- 
 sumed. ' The Witherbys of Yew Grange, 
 I daresay ? ' 
 
 ' Xo,' said Frank ; ' but friends of the 
 Witherbys, very likely — the Burnhams.'
 
 THE IIUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 117 
 
 Desperately as lie struggled to maintain 
 it, Wardour's self-control failed liim. He 
 started violently. The clumsily-wound 
 handkerchief fell off his hand. Still look- 
 ing 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 axe ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' There is no l^lood on your handkerchief.' 
 
 Wardour snatched the handkerchief out 
 of Crayford's hand, and, turning away, ap- 
 proached the outer door of the hut. ' No 
 blood on the handkerchief,' he said to him- 
 self. ' There may be a stain or two when 
 Crayford sees it again.' He stopped within 
 a few paces of the door, and spoke to Cray- 
 ford. ' You recommended me to take leave 
 of my brother officers before it was too
 
 118 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 late/ lie 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 ' Wan- 
 derer ' entered the hut. 
 
 ' Is Captain Helding here, sir ? ' he asked, 
 addressing himself to Wardour. 
 
 Wardour poiuted to Cray ford. 
 
 ' The lieutenant will tell you,' he said. 
 
 Crayford advanced and questioned the 
 quartermaster. 
 
 ' What do you want with Captain Held- 
 ing ? ' 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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-ME^y. 119 
 
 himself. Then he walked slowly back to 
 the part of the room in which Frank was 
 standing. Crayford, directing the quarter- 
 master, pointed to the arched doorway 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 per- 
 sistency, 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 authorises 
 you to speak of Miss Burnham in that 
 familiar manner?' 
 
 Wardour seized the opportunity of quar- 
 relling with him.
 
 120 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' AVhat right have you to ask ? ' he re- 
 torted coarsely. 
 
 Frank's blood was up. He forgot his 
 promise to Clara to keep their engagement 
 secret — he forgot everything but the un- 
 bridled insolence of Wardour's language 
 and manner. 
 
 ' A right which I insist on your respect- 
 ing,' 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 recognised, for 
 once, the necessity of controlling his temper, 
 cost him what it mio:ht. He made his 
 apologies with overstrained politeness to 
 Frank. 
 
 ' Impossible to dispute such a right as 
 yours,' he said. ' Perhaps 3'ou will excuse 
 me when you know that I am one of Miss
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 121 
 
 Burnham's old friends. My father and her 
 father were neighbours. 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 for- 
 give me.' 
 
 War dour 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 lauo^hinci:. 
 
 ' My dear fellow ! ' he said, ' come to our 
 wedding, and judge for yourself.' 
 
 ' Come to your wedding ? ' As he re- 
 peated the words Wardour stole one glance 
 at Frank, which Frank (employed in buck- 
 ling his knapsack) failed to see. Crayford 
 noticed it — and Cray ford's blood ran cold.
 
 122 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Comparing tlie words which Warclour had 
 spoken to him while they were alone to- 
 gether with the words that had just parsed 
 in his presence, he could draw but one con- 
 clusion. 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 dis- 
 covered it in the interval since they had 
 last met. ' Thank God ! ' thought Cray- 
 ford, ' 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 
 Wfirdour 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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 123 
 
 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 Eichard Wardour. 
 
 Crayford instantly interfered — so vehe- 
 mently 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
 
 124 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 useful on a long marcli. He is in perfect 
 health, and he is the best shot among us. 
 I was on the point of proposing him my- 
 self.' 
 
 Crayford foiled 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 
 2:0 and who is to stav.' 
 
 ' And chance has decided it,' cried War- 
 dour. ' 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, AVardonr,' said Captain Helding.
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 125 
 
 ^ 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 unanswer- 
 able. 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
 
 126 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 strongly than ever at this moment. Will 
 you take the advice of a friend who wishes 
 you well ? ' 
 
 Wardour had followed Cray ford. War- 
 dour 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 any- 
 thing 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 entreat- 
 ingly. '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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 127 
 
 every consideration but one, Cray ford 
 pressed his entreaties on Frank. 
 
 ' You owned yourself just now that you 
 were not well seasoned to fatigue/ he per- 
 sisted. ' 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 Cray ford'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 some- 
 thing of the sullen submission of a wild
 
 128 THE FKOZEN DEEP. 
 
 animal to his keeper. The momentary 
 silence which followed gave Frank an 
 opportunity of speaking at last. 
 
 ' I am gratefully sensible, Crayforcl,' he 
 began, ' of the interest which you take in 
 me ' 
 
 ' And you will follow my advice ? ' Cray- 
 ford 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 War- 
 dour 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
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 129 
 
 him. His dark face became suddenly irra- 
 diated with a terrible joy. 
 
 ' Come ! ' he said. ' 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 in- 
 wardly under the sense of his own helpless- 
 ness. What in God's name could he do? 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 mention- 
 ing 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 explor- 
 ing party began to move. The sick and 
 helpless men, whose last hope of rescue cen-
 
 THE HUT OF THE SEA-MEW. 131 
 
 tred in their departing messmates, cheered 
 faintly. Some few whose days were num- 
 bered 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-bye ! Good-bye ! ' 
 
 Frank waved his hand — dashed 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 ! ' 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Wardour, waiting till the last — Wardour, 
 following Frank through the snow-drift — 
 stopped, stepped ])ack, and answered 
 Crayford at the door : 
 
 ' While he can stand, he keeps with Me/ 
 
 THE END OF THE SECOND SCENE.
 
 133 
 
 THIRD SCENE. 
 
 THE ICEBEKG. 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 
 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 dawn- 
 ing light, clothe the snowy plains in hues 
 of livid grey. 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
 
 134 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 the moonbeams ; there, looming dim and 
 ghostlike 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
 
 THE ICEBERG. 135 
 
 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 dying 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 ao:ainst the cavern side. He
 
 136 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 strenirth on the boat.
 
 THE ICEBERG. 137 
 
 It moves ; he has got it under controh 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. 
 
 THE END OF THE THIRD SCENE.
 
 138 
 
 FOURTH SCENE. 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 Chapter XIII. 
 
 The spring has come. The air of the April 
 night just lifts the leaves of the sleeping 
 flowers. The moon is queen in the cloud- 
 less 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, ready- 
 ing. From time to time she looks out into
 
 THE GARDEN. 139 
 
 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 move- 
 ment have lost but little of their olden 
 charms. The truth lies, as usual, between 
 the two extremes. In spite of sorrow and 
 suiFering, Mrs. Cray ford 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.'
 
 140 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Mrs. Crayford looks round at the clock 
 on the mantlepiece. 
 
 ' My dear Clara, it is past twelve ! Re- 
 member what the doctor told you. You 
 ousfht to have been in bed an hour a^-o.' 
 
 ' 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 towards the window. She too 
 has suffered under the wasting influences 
 of suspense. Her face has lost its youthful 
 freshness; no delicate flush of colour rises 
 on it when she speaks. The soft grey eyes 
 which won Frank's heart in the bygone 
 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.
 
 THE GARDEN. 141 
 
 Kobed in white, her soft brown hair hang- 
 ing loosely over her shoulders, there is 
 somethinof weird and ghostlike in the 2:irl, 
 as she moves nearer and nearer to the win- 
 dow in the full light of the moon — pleading 
 for music that shall be worthy of the mys- 
 tery 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 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, ghostlike 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. 
 No.v". when hope is fast failing them — now.
 
 142 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 nothino- but dano^ers and dis- 
 coveries, losses and rescues in the terrible 
 Polar seas. 
 
 Unwillingly, Mrs. Crayford puts her book 
 aside and goes to the piano — Mozart's ^ Air 
 in A, with A^ariations,' lies open on the in- 
 strument. One after another she plays the 
 lovely melodies, so simply, so purely beau- 
 tiful, of that unpretending and unrivalled 
 work. At the close of the ninth variation 
 (Clara's favourite) she pauses, and turns 
 towards 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 harmonises so subtly 
 with the tender beauty of the night? Mrs. 
 Crayford rises and advances to the window.
 
 THE GARDEN. 143 
 
 No ! there is tlie white fio-ure 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 tlie Hampshire coast. 
 
 Mrs. Cray ford 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. Cray- 
 ford 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 mys- 
 terious figure on the lawn. 
 
 Dead to the outer world, as if she lay
 
 144 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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. Cray- 
 ford 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 move- 
 ment of her hands. They rise slowly from 
 her side, and waver in the air like the 
 hands of a person groping ii> 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.
 
 THE GARDEN. 145 
 
 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 towards Clara once more, Mrs. 
 Crayford hears the vacantly- uttered words 
 falling faster and faster from her lips. 
 
 * Frank! Frank! Frank! Don't drop be- 
 hind — 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!) 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE FROZEN^ DEEP. 
 
 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 your- 
 self ! 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;! driftmo; 1' 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 ngain. Her 
 limbs fail her. She sinks into ]Mrs. Cray- 
 ford's arms.
 
 THE GARDEN. 147 
 
 The servants, answering the call for 
 help, carry her into the house. They lay 
 her insensible on her bed. After an hour 
 or more, her eyes open again — this time 
 with the light of life in them — open, and 
 rest languidly on her 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. Cray- 
 ford 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 Avords which 
 drop from Clara in the trance. This time 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE FKOZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 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 pro- 
 phetic sound in them. It is only to-night 
 that she asks herself: ' Is Clara present, in 
 the spirit, witli our loved and lost ones in 
 the lonely North? Can mortal vision see 
 the dead and living in the solitudes of the 
 Frozen Deep?'
 
 THE GARDEN. 149 
 
 Chapter XIY. 
 
 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 
 gaily among the rustling leaves. In the 
 house the women- servants w^ere lauofhino^ 
 over some jest or story that cheered them
 
 150 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 at their work. It was a lively and pleasant 
 time — a bright enjoyable day. 
 
 The two ladies were out together, rest- 
 ing on a garden seat, after a walk round 
 the orrounds. 
 
 They exchanged a few trivial words re- 
 lating to the beauty of the day, and then 
 said no more. Possessino' the same con- 
 sciousness 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, realised as truths. Her last 
 faint hope of ever seeing Frank agam 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
 
 THE GAEDEN. 151 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing. Eest and reflection had quieted her 
 mind, and had restored the composing in- 
 fluence of her sober sense. Sympathising 
 with Clara in all besides, she had no sym- 
 pathy, as they sat together in the pleasant 
 sunshine, with Clara's gloomy despair of 
 the future. She, who could still hope, had 
 nothing to sa}'- 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
 
 152 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 of times they had torn off the cover which 
 enclosed 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 botli of them had done so often 
 in the days that were gone ? 
 
 No ! Mrs. Crayford removed the cover 
 from her newspaper as usual. Clara laid 
 lier 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,
 
 THE GAKDEN. 153 
 
 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. 
 John's, Newfoundland, has reached us for 
 publication. The whaling vessel " Blythe- 
 wood" is reported to have met with the 
 surviving officers and men of the expedi-
 
 154 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 tion 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 cir- 
 cumstances having been adverse to investi- 
 gation. The vessel was pressed for time ; 
 and the members of the expedition, all 
 more or less suffering from exhaustioij, 
 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, begin- 
 ning 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 round 
 Clara's waist, and spoke to her. 
 
 ' Oh, my love ! ' she murmured, ' are you
 
 THE GARDEN. 155 
 
 as liappy 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 farther.' 
 
 Mrs. Cray ford 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 two first names that appeared 
 were: 
 
 Francis Aldersley. 
 
 ElCHARD 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 resigna-
 
 156 THE EEOZEN DEEP. 
 
 tion; 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 shud- 
 dered, 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 
 see. ' I have no more to say,' she added, 
 after a moment, and rose to return to the 
 house. Mrs. Cray ford 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
 
 THE GARDEN. 157 
 
 newspaper again. See! They tell you 
 plainly that their information is not to be 
 depended upon — they warn you to wait for 
 further particulars. The very words at 
 the top of the list show how little they 
 know of the truth. '' Dead, or missino; ! " 
 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. AVe 
 look at some subjects in very different ways. 
 I don't dispute, dear, that yours is the rea- 
 sonable view.'
 
 158 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' 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
 
 THE GARDEN. 159 
 
 dreams have not been fulfilled? You super- 
 stitious people are all alike. You con- 
 veniently forget wlien your dreams and 
 your presentiments prove false. For my 
 sake, dear, if not for your own,' she con- 
 tinued, 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
 
 160 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 far less observant eyes than Mrs. Crayford's 
 that no salutary impression had been pro- 
 duced on her. She had ceased to defend 
 her own way of thinking, she spoke of it 
 no more ; but there was the terrible con- 
 viction 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 towards the house. 
 
 Chapter XV. 
 
 At the drawing-room window of the villa 
 there appeared a polite little man, with 
 bright intelligent eyes and cheerful sociable 
 manners. Xeatly dressed in professional 
 black, he stood, self- proclaimed, a prosper- 
 ous 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
 
 THE GARDEN. 161 
 
 both hands extended in courteous and cor- 
 dial 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 honour 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. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Alder sley is concerned — and that is a point, 
 a great point, in Mr. Aldersley's favour. 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 van- 
 ished from his face as Mrs. Crayford went 
 on, and left him completely transformed 
 into a grave and thoughtful man.
 
 THE GARDEN. 163 
 
 ' Let us go and look at her,' lie said. 
 
 He seated liimself 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 sub- 
 mitted impatiently to the close investiga- 
 tion 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 al- 
 ready adopted by Mrs. Cray ford. Clara 
 declined to discuss the question. She rose 
 with formal politeness, and requested per- 
 mission to return to the house. The doctor 
 attempted no further resistance. ' By all 
 means, Miss Burnham,' he answered, re- 
 if 2
 
 164 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 signedly — having first cast a look at Mrs. 
 Cray ford which said plainly, ' Stay here 
 with me.' Clara bowed her acknowledg- 
 ments in cold 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 verandah 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
 
 THE GARDEN. 165 
 
 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, that 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,'
 
 166 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Mrs. Cray ford replied. ' It is your advice 
 I want. For God's sake tell me what can 
 we do ? ' 
 
 ' AYe can try a complete change,' said the 
 doctor. ' We can remove her at once from 
 this place.' 
 
 ' She will refuse to leave it,' Mrs. Cray- 
 ford rejoined. ' I have more than once 
 proposed a change to her — and she always 
 says Xo.' 
 
 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.
 
 THE GARDEN. 167 
 
 ' 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 Ad- 
 miralty 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. Alders - 
 ley. 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
 
 168 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 will be less injurious to her to discover this 
 positively, than to leave her mind to feed 
 on its own morbid superstitions and specu- 
 lations, 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 convictions 
 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 favour 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.
 
 THE GARDEN. 169 
 
 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 out 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 men- 
 tioned — didn't I? — that I had heard some- 
 thing 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
 
 170 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 told the company there was very little 
 doubt that the Admiralty would immedi- 
 ately 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 circum- 
 stances, privileged people have been received 
 as passengers, or rather as guests, in Her 
 Majesty's ships — and what has been con- 
 ceded 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, 1 am not afraid of it (nay, I 
 am all in favour 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.
 
 THE GARDEN. 171 
 
 '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 pro- 
 spect 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 dis- 
 posed 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.
 
 172 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 In a week from that day Her Majesty's 
 ship Amazon sailed for North America. 
 Certain privileged persons, specially inter- 
 ested in the Arctic voyagers, were peraiitted 
 to occupy the empty state-rooms on board. 
 On the list of these favoured guests of the 
 ship were the names of two ladies — Mrs. 
 Crayford and Miss Burnham. 
 
 THE END OF THE FOURTH SCENE.
 
 173 
 
 FIFTH SCENE. 
 the boat-house. 
 
 Chapter XYL 
 
 Once more the open sea — the sea whose 
 waters break on the shores of ISTewfound- 
 land ! 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
 
 174 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 the rough carpenter's table near hhn 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 — despatched 
 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 dis- 
 comforts of the tempest. Among them are
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 175 
 
 the two ladies. The veil left on the table 
 in the boat-house is Clara's veil. 
 
 And who is the man sitting 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 Cray- 
 ford is just coming to look after you.' 
 
 With this warning the messenger disap- 
 pears again. John Want rises with a groan 
 — turns the chest uj) 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
 
 176 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 in trouble. On the contrary, he is ungrate- 
 fully disposed to regret the North Pole. 
 
 ' If I had only known ' — thus runs the 
 train of thought in the mind of John AVant 
 
 ' if I had only known, before I was 
 
 rescued, that I w^as 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 Newfound- 
 land codfish, and perpetual Newfoundland 
 dogs. We had some very nice bears at the 
 North Pole. Never mind! it's all one to 
 me — /don't grumble.'
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 177 
 
 ' 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 humour 
 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 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 flavour 
 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 dr}^. 
 them afterwards 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 vaga- 
 bond ! You would have grumbled in the 
 Garden of Eden.' 
 
 The philosopher of the Expedition was 
 not a man to be silenced by referring him
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 179 
 
 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 pro- 
 test, 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 con-
 
 180 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 siclered with himself, as he repeated the 
 words. He added, in lower and graver 
 tones, ' You had better tell Miss Burnhani 
 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 Lieu- 
 tenant 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 Cray- 
 ford only, but the other officers of the Ex- 
 pedition as well, by the manner in which 
 she questioned them on the subject of 
 Francis Aldersley and Eichard Wardour. 
 She had shown no signs of dismay or 
 despair when she heard that no news had 
 been received of the two missing men.
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 181 
 
 She had even smiled sadly to herself, when 
 Cray ford (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 he had apparently suc- 
 ceeded in dismissing the painful subject — 
 that Clara had startled every one present 
 by announcing that she had something to 
 say in relation to Richard and Frank, 
 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 Cray ford's mind — which so dis- 
 tressed the Lieutenant, and so surprised his 
 comrades, as to render them quite incapable 
 of answering her. The warnings of the 
 storm which shortly afterwards broke over 
 the vessel were then visible in sea and
 
 182 THE EROZEN DEEP. 
 
 sky. Crayford made them his excuse for 
 abruptly leavmg the cabm 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 sub- 
 ject 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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 183 
 
 hirn, after his rescue, in the strangely inap- 
 propriate 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 
 honourably 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. Cray- 
 ford'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 reso- 
 lute as ever to insist on your telling lier of
 
 184 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 the circumstances under which Frank is 
 missing. As things are, you have no alter- 
 native but to answer her.' 
 
 ' Help me to answer her, Lucy. Tell 
 me, before she comes in, how this horrible 
 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 icould 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 icebergs. With her 
 mind full of these imao'cs and forebodino;s, 
 she saw Frank and AYardour (or dreamed 
 of them) in one of her attacks of trance. 
 I was by her side — I heard what she said
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 185 
 
 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 con- 
 firmation of the faith, the miserable super- 
 stitious 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
 
 180 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 nervously at the doorway. ' Hush ! ' she 
 whispered; ' do as 1 have told you. Clara 
 is here.' 
 
 Chapter XYII. 
 
 Clara stopped at the doorway, looking 
 backwards and forwards distrustfully be- 
 tween 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. Cray- 
 ford was standing. 
 
 ' There is no storm now, and there are 
 no duties to be done on board the ship,' 
 she said, with a faint sad smile which it 
 w^rung 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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 187 
 
 believe that I have courage enough to hear 
 the worst? Will you promise not to de- 
 ceive 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 sliould suspect me of de- 
 ceiving you ? ' 
 
 She looked him searchingly in the face — 
 then glanced with renewed distrust at Mrs. 
 Cray ford. 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.
 
 188 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ^ Any instructions from the ship, Ste- 
 venton? ' he asked, approaching the officer. 
 
 ' Verbal instructions only,' Steven ton 
 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 vessel is in a state 
 of confusion ; the ladies will eat their luncb 
 more comfortably here.' 
 
 Hearing this, Mrs. Crayford took her 
 opportunity of silencing Clara next. 
 
 ' Come, my dear,' she said, ' let us lay 
 the cloth and put the lunch on the table 
 before the gentlemen come in.' 
 
 Clara was too seriously bent on attain- 
 ing the object which she had in ^dew, 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 St even ton.
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 189 
 
 ' Can you spare me a few minutes ? ' slie 
 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. Cray- 
 ford whispered to her, ' Don't be alarmed 
 about Steventon. I have cautioned him ; 
 I believe he 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 ; 1 only want to be sure that I 
 am right about one thing — I mean about 
 what happened at the time when the ex- 
 ploring party was despatched in search of
 
 190 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 honour, as officers and gentlemen, 
 is this the truth ? ' 
 
 ' On my honour,' Crayford answered, ' it 
 is the truth.' 
 
 ' On my honour,' St event on repeated, 
 ' it is the truth.' 
 
 She looked at them, carefully consider- 
 ing 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 BOAT-HOUSE. 191 
 
 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 to- 
 gether on the list.' 
 
 Clara instantly drew the inevitable con- 
 clusion 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.
 
 192 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' I trust to your honour,' she said, 
 quietly. ' Ain I right, or wrong, in be- 
 lieving 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 honour 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 con- 
 versation of her own accord.
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 193 
 
 ' Have you been in the Highlands of 
 Scotland ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I have never been in the Highlands/ 
 Steventon 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 opportuni- 
 ties of giving the subject any serious con- 
 sideration.' 
 
 ' 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 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 THE FKOZEN DEEP. 
 
 what you have just acknowledged — and 
 more than that. How did the two missing 
 men come to be parted from their com- 
 panions? Were they lost by pure acci- 
 dent ? or were they deliberately left behind 
 on the march ? ' 
 
 Crayford made a last vain effort to 
 check her enquiries 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 mem- 
 bers 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 BOAT-HOUSE. 195 
 
 ' The luncheon can wait a few minutes 
 longer,' Clara answered. ' Bear with my 
 obstinacy,' she went on, laying her hand 
 caressingly on Cray ford'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 en- 
 treaty 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 behind 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 
 
 2
 
 196 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 their pusliing on. But Frank was a fa- 
 vourite. They waited half a day to give 
 Frank the chance of recoverinof his 
 strength.' 
 
 There he stopped. There the impru- 
 dence 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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 197 
 
 her plainly. He was a young man ; he fell 
 into the snare that she had set for him. 
 
 ' Xot one among them was a coward, 
 Miss Burnham!' he replied, warmly. 'You 
 are speaking cru(illy and unjustly of as 
 brave a set of fellows as ever lived. The 
 strongest man among them set the ex- 
 ample: he volunteered to stay by Frank 
 and to bring him on in the track of the 
 exploring party.' 
 
 There Steven ton 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 embar- 
 rassing 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 friend- 
 ship for Frank? Surely you can tell me
 
 198 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 opportu- 
 nity 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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 199 
 
 there doing nothing. This hamper holds a 
 great deal ; we must have a division of 
 labour. Your division shall be laying the 
 tablecloth . Don't handle it in that clumsy 
 way ! You unfold a tablecloth as if you 
 were unfurling a sail. Put the knives on 
 the right, and the forks on the left, and the 
 napkin and 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 ap- 
 peared to have yielded at last to the con- 
 spiracy 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.
 
 200 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' '' 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 
 Kichard stUl 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, trembliug 
 violently. Mrs. Cray ford 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.' 
 
 '/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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 201 
 
 what it is. Take me away! No. Not out on 
 the beach. I can't pass the door. Some- 
 where else ! somewhere else ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Cray ford 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 enclosure — 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
 
 202 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 Cray ford 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. *A¥hat can 
 she possibly be frightened of ? ' 
 
 She put the question, still looking me- 
 chanically 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 atten- 
 tively on the view from the main doorway 
 of the boat-house. Mrs. Crayford looked
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 203 
 
 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 XVIII. 
 
 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 grey 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.
 
 204 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' "Who are you? ' 
 
 He answered in a hollow voice : 
 
 ' A starving man/ 
 
 He advanced a few steps — slowly and 
 painfully, as if he was sinking under fa- 
 tigue. 
 
 ^ Throw me some bones from the table,' 
 lie 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 pro- 
 tect 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 the first mouthful of food, 
 he stopped, considered vacanth' with him-
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 205 
 
 self, 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. Steven- 
 ton questioned him. 
 
 ' Where do you come from ? ' 
 
 ' From the sea.' 
 
 'Wrecked?' . 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 Steventon turned to Mrs. Cray ford. 
 
 ' There may be some truth in the poor 
 wretch's story/ he said. 'I heard some- 
 thing 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.
 
 206 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' I can't tell you,' lie said. ' I can't get 
 the wash of the sea out of my ears. I 
 can't get the shinmg stars all night, and the 
 burning sun all day, out of my brain. 
 AYhen 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 gnawing 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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 207 
 
 taken the food — drank a little — stopped — 
 and considered with himself again. He 
 held up the bottle to the light, and, mark- 
 ing 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. Cray ford 
 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 towards the 
 table. 
 
 '• Don't be afraid, Mrs. Crayford,' said 
 Steventon. 
 
 ' I'm not afraid,' Mrs. Crayford replied.
 
 208 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 ex- 
 cited. 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
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 209 
 
 ^^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 fare- 
 well, 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. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 Mrs. Crayford spoke to her husband as he 
 passed her. 
 
 'It's only a poor mad creature, William,' 
 she whispered, ' shipwrecked and starv- 
 ing.' 
 
 'Mad?' Crayford repeated, approaching 
 nearer and nearer to the man. ' Am / 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 re- 
 peated vacantly — 
 
 ' Villain ? and where is Frank ? ' 
 
 As the name escaped his lips, Clara 
 appeared at the open yard door, and hur- 
 ried into the room.
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 211 
 
 ' I heard Richard's name ! ' she said. ' I 
 heard Frank's name ! What does it 
 mean ? ' 
 
 At the somid of her voice the outcast 
 renewed the straggle 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 recogni- 
 tion 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, 
 p 2
 
 212 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 ! Footsore and weary, but living !
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 213 
 
 Saved — saved for her I ' 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 her 
 lover ahve. Step by step, slower and 
 slower, Richard War dour drew back and 
 left them by themselves. 
 
 ' I may rest now,' he said, faintly. ' I 
 may sleep at last. The task is done. The 
 struo^o^le is over.' 
 
 His last reserves of strength had been 
 given to Frank. He stopped, he stag- 
 gered, his hands wavered 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 pil-
 
 214 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 lowed Wardour's weary head on his own 
 breast. The tears streamed over his face. 
 'Richard! Dear Richard! ' he said. 'Re- 
 member — 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 child- 
 ren 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, passen- 
 gers, 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.
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 215 
 
 Crayford tried once more to attract his 
 attention — to win liis recognition while 
 there was yet time. 
 
 ' Richard, speak to me ! Speak to your 
 old friend ! ' 
 
 He looked 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. ♦ 
 
 ' Hr.rk ye, friend I ' he whispered.
 
 21G THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 ' Never let Frank know it. There Avas a 
 time when the fiend within me hungered 
 for his hfe. 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 I 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 float- 
 ing ice, floating, floating, to the clear water 
 and the balmy air. And the wicked Voice 
 floated away with it — away, awa}', away 
 for ever ! " Love him ! love him, Clara, 
 for helping me'^ Xo wind could float that 
 
 away. " Love him, Clara " ' 
 
 His voice sank into silence; his head
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 217 
 
 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 be- 
 tween them. He fell on his knees at 
 Wardour's side; he put his hand on War- 
 dour'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 re- 
 membered you, lying down outside in the 
 shadow of the boats. T saved you your 
 share of the food and drink. Too weak to 
 get at it now ! A little rest, Frank ! I
 
 218 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 
 liis head dropped on Wardour's breast. 
 
 She spoke, as well as her tears would let 
 her.
 
 THE BOAT-HOUSE. 219 
 
 ' 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 Jiim^ if I could have for- 
 gotten you ? ' He waited a moment, and 
 turned his face feebly towards Cray ford. 
 ' Stay ! ' he caid. ' Some one 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 ! '
 
 220 THE FROZEN DEEP. 
 
 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 signalled the re- 
 turn to Eno:land and to home.
 
 THE DEEAM WOMAN 
 
 A MYSTERY, IN FOUR NARRATIVES.
 
 [Introductori Note. — The original version of this 
 story was published, many years since, in ' House- 
 hold Words,' and was afterwards printed in the 
 collection of my shorter stories called ' The Queen 
 of Hearts.' In the present version — written for my 
 public readings in the United States — new characters 
 and new incidents are introduced ; and a new begin- 
 ning and ending have been written. Indeed, the 
 whole complexion of the narrative differs so essen- 
 tially from the older and shorter version, as to 
 justify me in believing that the reader will find in 
 these pages what is, to all practical intents and 
 purposes, a new story. — W. C] 
 
 PERSONS OF THE MYSTERY. 
 
 Francis Ravex 
 Mbs. Raven 
 Mrs. Chance 
 Percy Faiebank "j 
 Mes. Fairbank j 
 Joseph Rigobert ... 
 Alicia Warlock ... 
 
 (Ostler). 
 (His mother). 
 (His aunt). 
 
 (His master and mistress). 
 
 (His fellow-servant). 
 (His wife). 
 
 Period — The Present Time. 
 Scene — Partly in England, partly in France.
 
 223 
 
 THE FIRST NARRATIVE. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS. 
 BY PERCY FAIRBANK. 
 
 I. 
 
 ' Hullo, there ! Ostler ! Hullo-o-o ! ' 
 
 ' My dear ! why don't you look for the 
 bell?' 
 
 ' I have looked — there is no bell.' 
 ' And nobody m the yard. How very 
 extraordinary ! Call again, dear.* 
 ' Ostler ! Hullo, there ! Ostler-r-r ! ' 
 My second call echoes through empty 
 space, and rouses nobody — produces, in 
 short, no visible result. I am at the end of 
 my resources — I don't know what to say or 
 what to do next. Here I stand in the 
 solitary inn yard of a strange town, with
 
 224 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 two horses to hold, and a lady to take care 
 of. By way of adding to my responsibi- 
 lities, it so happens that one of the horses 
 is dead lame, and that the lady is my wife. 
 
 Who am I ? — you will ask. 
 
 There is plenty of time to answer the 
 question. Nothing happens ; and nobody 
 appears to receive us. Let me introduce 
 myself and my Avife. 
 
 I am Percy Fairbank — English gentle- 
 man — age (let us say) forty — no profession 
 — moderate politics — middle height — fair 
 complexion — easy character — plenty of 
 money. 
 
 My wife is a French lady. She was 
 Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge — when I 
 was first presented to her at her father's 
 house in France. I fell in love with her — 
 I really don't know Avhy. It might have 
 been because I was perfectly idle, and had 
 nothing else to do at the time. Or it
 
 PERCY FAIRBANK's NARRATIVE. 225 
 
 might have been because all my friends 
 said she was the very last woman whom I 
 ought to think of marrying. On the sur- 
 face, I must own, there is nothing in com- 
 mon between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She 
 is tall ; she is dark ; she is nervous^ excit- 
 able, romantic ; in all her opinions she 
 proceeds to extremes. What could such a 
 woman see in me ? what could I see in her ? 
 I know no more than you do. In some 
 mysterious manner we exactly suit each 
 other. We have been man and wife for 
 ten years, and our only regret is, that we 
 have no children. I don't know what you 
 may think ; / call that — upon the whole — a 
 happy marriage. 
 
 So much for ourselves. The next ques- 
 tion is — what has brought us into the inn 
 yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, 
 and hold the horses? 
 
 We live for the most part in France — at 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 22 G THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 the country house m which my wife and I 
 first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, 
 we pay visits to my friends in England. 
 We are paying one of those visits now. 
 Our host is an old college friend of mine, 
 possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire ; 
 and we have arrived at his house — called 
 Farleigh Hall — towards the close of the 
 hunting-season. 
 
 On the day of which 1 am now writing — 
 destined to be a memorable day in onr 
 calendar — the hounds meet at Farleio-h 
 Hall. Mrs. Fairbank and I are mounted 
 on two of the best horses in my friend's 
 stables. We are quite unworthy of that 
 distinction ; for we know nothing, and care 
 nothing, about hunting. On the other 
 hand, we delight in riding, and we enjoy 
 the breezy spring morning and the fair and 
 fertile English landscape surrounding us on 
 every side. While the hunt prospers, we
 
 PERCY fairbank's nakrative. 227 
 
 follow the hunt. But when a check occurs 
 — when time passes and patience is sorely 
 tried ; when the bewildered dogs run 
 hither and thither, and strong language 
 falls from the lips of exasperated sports- 
 men — we fail to take any further interest 
 in the proceedings. We turn our horses' 
 heads in the direction of a grassy lane, 
 delightfully shaded by trees. We trot 
 merrily along the lane, and^find ourselves 
 on an open common. We gallop across 
 the common, and follow the windings of a 
 second lane. We cross a brook, we pass 
 through a village, we emerge into pastoral 
 solitude among the hills. The horses toss 
 their heads, and neigh to each other, and 
 enjoy it as much as we do. The hunt is 
 forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of 
 children ; we are actually singing a French 
 song — when in one moment our merriment 
 comes to an end. My wife's horse sets one 
 q2
 
 228 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 of his fore-feet on a loose stone, and stum- 
 bles. His rider's ready hand saves him 
 from falling. But, at the first attempt he 
 makes to go on, the sad truth shows 
 itself — a tendon is strained ; the horse is 
 lame. 
 
 What is to be done? We are strangers 
 in a lonely part of the country. Look 
 where we may, we see no sims of a human 
 habitation. There is nothing for it but to 
 take the bridle -road up the hill, and try 
 what we can discover on the other side. 
 I transfer the saddles, and mount my wife 
 on my own horse. He is not used to carry 
 a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of a 
 man's legs on either side of him; he fidgets, 
 and starts, and kicks up the dust. I follow 
 on foot, at a respectful distance from his 
 heels, leading the lame horse. Is there a 
 more miserable object on the face of 
 creation than a lame horse? I have seen
 
 PERCY FAIRBANk's NARRATIVE. 229 
 
 lame men and lame dogs who were cheer- 
 ful creatm^es ; but I never yet saw a lame 
 horse who didn't look heartbroken over 
 his own misfortune. 
 
 For half-an-hour my wife capers and 
 curvets sideways along the bridle-road. I 
 trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken 
 horse halts behind me. Hard by the top 
 of the hill, our melancholy procession 
 passes a Somersetshire peasant at work in 
 a field. I summon the man to approach 
 lis ; and the man looks at me stolidly, from 
 the middle of the field, without stirring a 
 step. I ask at the top of my voice how far 
 it is to Farleigh Hall. The Somerset- 
 shire peasant answers at the top of his 
 voice, 
 
 ^ Vourteen mile. Gi' oi a drap o' zyder.' 
 
 I translate (for my wife's benefit) from 
 
 the Somersetshire language into the English 
 
 language. We are fourteen miles from
 
 230 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 Farleigli Hall; and our friend in the field 
 desires to be rewarded for oivin^^ us that 
 information, with a drop of cider. There 
 is the peasant, painted by himself ! Quite 
 a bit of character, my dear ! Quite a bit of 
 character ! 
 
 Mrs. Fairbank doesn't view the study of 
 agricultural human nature with my rehsh. 
 Her fidgety horse will not allow her a 
 moment's repose ; she is beginning to lose 
 her temper. 
 
 ' We can't go fourteen miles in this way,' 
 she says. 'Where is the nearest inn? Ask 
 that brute in the field ! ^ 
 
 I take a shilling from my pocket and 
 hold it up in the sun. The shilling exer- 
 cises magnetic virtues. The shilling draws 
 the peasant slowly towards me from the 
 middle of the field. I inform him that we 
 want to put up the horses, and to hire a 
 carriao;e to take us back to Farleisch Hall.
 
 PERCY FAIRBANK's NARRATIVE. 231 
 
 Where can we do that? The peasant 
 answers (with his eye on the shilling) : — 
 
 'At Oonderbridge, to be zure.' (At 
 Underbridge, to be sure.) 
 
 ' Is it far to Underbridge ? ' 
 
 The peasant repeats, ' Yar to Oonder- 
 bridge?' — and laughs at the question. 
 ' Hoo-hoo-hoo ! ' (Underbridge is evi- 
 dently close by — if we could only find it.) 
 ' Will you show us the wa}^, my man ? ' 
 ' Will you gi' oi a drap o' zyder ? ' I 
 courteously bend my head, and point to 
 the shilling. The agricultural intelligence 
 exerts itself. The peasant joins our 
 melancholy procession. My wife is a fine 
 woman, but he never once looks at my 
 wife — and, more extraordinary still, he 
 never even looks at the horses. His eyes 
 are with his mind — and his mind is on the 
 shillinsr. 
 
 o 
 
 We reach the top of tlie hill — and,
 
 232 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 behold on the other side, nestling in a 
 valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the 
 tovni of Underbridge ! Here our guide 
 claims his shilling, and leaves us to find 
 out the inn for ourselves. I am constitu- 
 tionally a polite man. I say ' Good 
 morning ' at parting. The guide looks at 
 me with the shilling between his teeth to 
 make sure that it is a good one. ' Marnin!' 
 he says savagely — and turns his back on 
 us, as if we had offended him. A curious 
 product, this, of the growth of civilisation. 
 If I didn't see a church spire at Under- 
 bridge, I might suppose that we had lost 
 ourselves on a savage island. 
 
 II. 
 
 Arriving at the town, we have no difficulty 
 in finding the inn. The town is composed 
 of one desolate street; and midway in that
 
 PERcr fairbank's narrative. 233 
 
 street stands the inn — an ancient stone 
 building sadly out of repair. The painting 
 on the signboard is obliterated. The 
 shutters over the lono; ran";e of front 
 windows are all closed. A cock and his 
 hens are the only living creatures at the 
 door. Plainly, this is one of the old inns 
 of the stage-coach period, ruined by the 
 railway. We pass through the open arched 
 doorway, and find no one to welcome us. 
 We advance into the stable yard behind; I 
 assist my wife to dismount — and there we 
 are in the position already disclosed to 
 view at the opening of this narrative. No 
 bell to ring. No human creature to 
 answer when I call. I stand helpless, 
 with the bridles of the horses in my hand. 
 Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully down 
 the length of the yard, and, does — what all 
 women do, when they find themselves in a 
 strange place. She opens every door as
 
 234 THE DREAM WOMAIs^ 
 
 she passes it, and peeps in. On my side, I 
 have just recovered my breath, I am on the 
 point of shouting for the ostler for the 
 third and last time, when I hear Mrs. 
 Fairbank suddenly call to me. 
 
 ' Percy ! come here ! ' 
 
 Her voice is eae^er and ao;itated. She 
 has opened a last door at the end of the 
 yard, and has started back from some 
 sight which has suddenly met her view. I 
 hitch the horses' bridles on a rusty nail in 
 the wall near me, and join my wife. She 
 has turned pale, and catches me nervously 
 by the arm. 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' she cries ; ' look at 
 that ! ' 
 
 I look — and what do I see ? 
 
 I see a dingy little stable, containing two 
 stalls. In one stall a horse is munching 
 his corn. In the other a man is lying asleep 
 on the litter.
 
 PERCY FAIRBANK's NARRATIVE. 235 
 
 A worn, withered, woe-begone man in an 
 ostler's dress. His hollow wrinkled cheeks, 
 his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow skin, 
 tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering. 
 There is an ominous frown on his eyebrows 
 — there is a painful nervous contraction on 
 one side of his mouth. I hear him breathing 
 convulsively when I first look in ; he shud- 
 ders and sighs in his sleep. It is not a 
 pleasant sight to see, and I turn round 
 instinctively to the bright sunlight in the 
 yard. My wife turns me back again in the 
 direction of the stable door. 
 
 ' Wait ! ' she says. ' Wait ! he may do it 
 again/ 
 
 ' Do what again ? ' 
 
 ' He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when 
 I first looked in. He Avas dreaming some 
 dreadful dream. Hush ! he's beginning 
 again.' 
 
 I look and listen. The man stirs on his
 
 236 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 miserable bed. The man speaks, in a quick 
 fierce whisper, through his clenched teeth. 
 ' Wuke up ! Wake up, there ! Murder ! ' 
 
 There is an interval of silence. He moves 
 one lean arm slowly until it rests over his 
 throat ; he shudders, and turns on his straw ; 
 he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly 
 stretches it out; his hand clutches at the 
 straw on the side towards which he has 
 turned ; he seems to fancy that he is grasping 
 at the edge of something ; I see his lips 
 begin to move again ; I step softly into the 
 stable ; my wife follows me, with her hand 
 fast clasped in mine. We both bend over 
 him. He is talking once more in his sleep — 
 strange talk, mad talk, this time. 
 
 ' Light grey eyes ' (we hear him say), 
 * and a droop in the left eyelid — flaxen hair, 
 with a gold-yellow streak in it — all right, 
 mother ! fair, white arms with a down on 
 them — little, lady's hand, with a reddisK
 
 TERCY FAIRBANK's NARRATIVE. 237 
 
 look round the finger-nails — the knife — the 
 cursed knife — first on one side, then on 
 the other — alia, you she-devil ! where is the 
 knife?' 
 
 He stops and grows restless on a sudden. 
 We see him writhing on the straw. He 
 throws up both his hands and gasps hyste- 
 rically for breath. His eyes open suddenly. 
 For a moment they look at nothing, with a 
 vacant glitter in them — then they close 
 again in deeper sleep. Is he dreaming still? 
 Yes ; but the dream seems to have taken a 
 new course. When he speaks next, the tone 
 is altered ; the words are few — sadly and 
 imploringly repeated over and over again. 
 ' Say you love me ! I am so fond of you. 
 Say you love me I say you love me ! ' He 
 sinks into deeper and deeper sleep, faintly 
 repeating those words. They die away on 
 his lips. He speaks no more. 
 
 By this time, Mrs. Fairbank has got over
 
 2P)8 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 her terror. She is devoured by curiosity 
 now. The miserable creature on the straw 
 has appealed to the imaginative side of 
 her character. Her inimitable appetite for 
 romance hungers and thirsts for more. She 
 shakes me impatiently by the ai-m. ' Do 
 you hear ? There is a woman at the bottom 
 of it, Percy ! There is love and murder in 
 it, Percy! Where are the j^eople of the 
 inn? Go into the yard, and call to them 
 again.' 
 
 My wife belongs, on her mother's side, to 
 the South of France. The South of France 
 breeds fine women with hot tempers. I 
 say no more. Married men will understand 
 my position. . Single men may need to be 
 told that there are occasions when we must 
 not only love and honour — we must also 
 obey — our wives. 
 
 I turn to the door to obey 7?z?/ wife, and find 
 myself confronting a stranger who has stolen
 
 PERCY FAIRBANKS NARRATIVE. 239 
 
 on us unawares. The stranger is a tiny, 
 sleepy, rosy old man, with a vacant pudding- 
 face, and a shining bald head. He wears 
 drab breeches and gaiters, and a respectable 
 square-tailed ancient black coat. I feel 
 instinctively that here is the landlord of the 
 inn. 
 
 ' Good morning, sir,' says the rosy old 
 man. ' I'm a little hard of hearing. Was it 
 you that was a-calling just now in the yard?' 
 
 Before I can answer, my wife interposes. 
 She insists (in a shrill voice, adapted to our 
 host's hardness of hearing) on knowing wdio 
 that unfortunate person is sleeping on the 
 straw ? ' Where does he come from ? Why 
 does he say such dreadful things in his 
 sleep ? Is he married or single ? Did he 
 ever fall in love with a murderess? What 
 sort of a looking woman was she ? Did she 
 really stab him or not? In short, dear Mr. 
 Landlord, tell us the whole story ! '
 
 240 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until 
 Mrs. Fairbank has quite done — then delivers 
 himself of his reply as follows : — 
 
 ' His name's Francis Eaven. He's an 
 Independent Methodist. He was forty-five 
 year old last birthday. And he's my ostler. 
 That's his story.' 
 
 My wife's hot Southern temper finds its 
 way to her foot, and expresses itself by a 
 stamp on the stable yard. 
 
 The landlord turns himself sleepily round, 
 and looks at the horses. ' A fine pair of 
 horses, them two in the yard. Do you want 
 to put 'em up in my stables? ' I reply in 
 the afiirmative by a nod. The landlord, 
 bent on making himself agreeable to my wife, 
 addresses her once more. ' I'm a-going to 
 wake Francis Raven. He's an Independent 
 Methodist. He was forty -five year old last 
 birthday. And he's my ostler. That's his 
 story.'
 
 PERCY FAIUBANK's NARRATIVE. 241 
 
 Having issued this second edition of his 
 interesting narrative, the landlord enters the 
 stable. We follow him, to see how he will 
 wake Francis Raven, and what will happen 
 upon that. The stable broom stands in a 
 corner ; the landlord takes it — advances 
 towards the sleeping ostler — and coolly stirs 
 the man up with the broom as if he was a 
 wild beast in a cage. Francis Raven starts 
 to his feet with a cry of terror — looks at us 
 wildly, with a horrid glare of suspicion in 
 his eyes — recovers himself the next moment 
 — and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, 
 respectable serving-man. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your 
 pardon, sir.' 
 
 The tone and manner in which he makes 
 his apologies are both above his apparent 
 station in life. I begin to catch the infec- 
 tion of Mrs. Fairbank's interest in this man. 
 We both follow him out into the yard, to see 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 what he will do with the horses. The man- 
 ner in which he lifts the injured leg of the 
 lame horse tells me at once that he under- 
 stands his business. Quickly and quietly, 
 he leads the animals into an empty stable ; 
 quickly and quietly, he gets a bucket of hot 
 water, and puts the lame horse's leg into it. 
 ' The warm water vaLl reduce the swelling, 
 sir. I will bandage the leg afterwards.' 
 All that he does, is done intelligently ; all 
 that he says, he says to the purpose. No- 
 thino; wild, nothino; strano^e about him, now. 
 Is this the same man whom we heard talking 
 in his sleep? the same man who woke with 
 that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion 
 in his eyes ? I determine to try him with 
 one or two questions. 
 
 III. 
 
 ' Not much to do here,' I say to the ostler. 
 ' Very little to do sir,' the ostler replies.
 
 PERCY FAIRBANk's NARRATIVE. 243 
 
 ' Anybody staying in- the house ? ' 
 
 ' The house is quite empty, sir.' 
 
 ' I thought you were all dead. 1 could 
 make nobody hear me.' 
 
 ' The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the 
 waiter is out on an errand.' 
 
 ' Yes; and you were fast asleep in the 
 stable. Do you often take a nap m the day- 
 time?' 
 
 The worn face of the ostler faintly flushes. 
 His eyes look away from my eyes for the 
 first time. Mrs. Fairbank furtively pinches 
 my arm. Are we on the eve of a discovery 
 at last? I repeat my question. The man 
 has no civil alternative but to give me an 
 answer. The answer is given in these 
 words: 
 
 ' I was tired out, sir. You wouldn't have 
 found me asleep in the daytime but for that.' 
 
 ^ Tired out, eh ? You had been hard at 
 work, I suppose?' 
 
 B 2
 
 244 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 ^What was it, then?' 
 
 ' He hesitates again, and answers unwil- 
 lingly, ' I was up all night.' 
 
 ' Up all night ? Anything going on in the 
 town?' 
 
 • Nothing going on, sir.' 
 
 'Anybody ill?' 
 
 ' Nobody ill, sir.' 
 
 That reply is the last. Try as I may, I 
 can extract nothing more from him. He 
 turns away and busies himself in attending 
 to the horse's leg. I leave the stable, to 
 speak to the landlord about the carriage 
 which is to take us back to Farleigh Hall. 
 Mrs. Fairbank remains with the ostler, and 
 favours me with a look at parting. The 
 look says plainly, ' / mean to find out why 
 he was up all night. Leave him to Me.' 
 
 The ordering of the carriage is easily 
 accomplished. The inn possesses one horse
 
 PERCY FAIRBANK'S NARRATIVE. 245 
 
 and one chaise. The landlord has a story 
 to tell of the horse, and a story to tell of 
 the chaise. They resemble the story of 
 Fi'ancis Raven — with this exception, that 
 the horse and chaise belong to no religious 
 persuasion. ' The horse will be nine year 
 old next birthday. I've had the shay for 
 four and twenty year. Mr. Max of Under- 
 bridge, he bred the horse; and Mr. Pooley 
 of Yeovil, he built the shay. It's my horse 
 and my shay. And that's their story ! ' 
 Having relieved his mind of these details, 
 the landlord proceeds to put the harness on 
 the horse. By way of assisting him, I drag 
 the chaise into the yard. Just as our 
 preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbank 
 appears. A moment or two later the ostler 
 follows her out. He has bandaged the 
 horse's leg, and is now ready to drive us to 
 Farleigh Hall. I observe signs of agitation 
 in his face and manner, which suggest that
 
 246 THE DKEAM WOMAN. 
 
 my wife lias found her way into his confi 
 dence. I put the question to her privately 
 in a corner of the yard. 'Well? Have 
 you found out why Francis Raven was up 
 all night?' 
 
 Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic 
 effect. Instead of answering plainly, Yes 
 or No, she suspends the interest and excites 
 the audience by putting a question on her 
 side. 
 
 ' What is the day of the month, dear?' 
 
 ' The day of the month is the first of 
 March.' 
 
 ' The first of March, Percy, is Francis 
 Raven's birthday.' 
 
 I try to look as if I was interested — and 
 don't succeed. 
 
 ' Francis was born,' Mrs. Fairbank pro- 
 ceeds gravely, ' at two o'clock in the 
 morning.' 
 
 I begin to wonder whether my wife's
 
 PERCY FAIRBANK's NARRATIVE. 247 
 
 intellect is going the way of the landlord's 
 intellect. ' Is that all?' I ask. 
 
 ' It is not all,' Mrs. Fairbank answers. 
 ' Francis Raven sits up on the morning cf 
 his birthday, because he is afraid to go to 
 bed.' 
 
 ' And why is he afraid to go to bed ? ' 
 
 ' Because he is in peril of his life.' 
 
 ^ On his birthday ? ' 
 
 ' On his birthday. At two o'clock in 
 the morning. As regularly as the birthday 
 comes round.' 
 
 There she stops. Has she discovered no 
 more than that? No more thus far. I 
 begin to feel really interested by this time. 
 I ask eagerly what it means? Mrs. Fair- 
 bank points mysteriously to the chaise— 
 with Francis Raven (hitherto our ostler, 
 now our coachman) waiting for us to get 
 in. The chaise has a seat for two in front, 
 and a seat for one behind. My wife casts
 
 248 THE DREAM WOMAN. 
 
 a warning look at me, and places herself 
 on the seat in front. 
 
 The necessary consequence of this ar- 
 rangement is, that Mrs. Fairbank sits by 
 the side of the driver, during a journe}^ of 
 two hours and more. Need I state the 
 result? It would be an insult to your 
 intelligence to state the result. Let me 
 offer you my place in the chaise. And let 
 Francis Raven tell his terrible story in his 
 own words. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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