the snow…driftstopped； stepped back； and answered Crayford at
the door：
〃While he can stand； he keeps with Me。〃
Third Scene
The Iceberg。
Chapter 12。
Alone！ alone on the Frozen Deep！
The Arctic sun is rising dimly in the dreary sky。 The beams of
the cold northern moon； mingling strangely with the dawning
light； clothe the snowy plains in hues of livid gray。 An
ice…field on the far horizon is moving slowly southward in the
spectral light。 Nearer； a stream of open water rolls its slow
black waves past the edges of the ice。 Nearer still； following
the drift； an iceberg rears its crags and pinnacles to the sky；
here； glittering in the moonbeams； there； looming dim and
ghost…like in the ashy light。
Midway on the long sweep of the lower slope of the iceberg； what
objects rise； and break the desolate monotony of the scene？ In
this awful solitude； can signs appear which tell of human Life？
Yes！ The black outline of a boat just shows itself； hauled up on
the berg。 In an ice…cavern behind the boat the last red embers of
a dying fire flicker from time to time over the figures of two
men。 One is seated； resting his back against the side of the
cavern。 The other lies prostrate； with his head on his comrade's
knee。 The first of these men is awake； and thinking。 The second
reclines； with his still white face turned up to the
skysleeping or dead。 Days and days since； these two have fallen
behind on the march of the expedition of relief。 Days and days
since； these two have been given up by their weary and failing
companions as doomed and lost。 He who sits thinking is Richard
Wardour。 He who lies sleeping or dead is Frank Aldersley。
The iceberg drifts slowly； over the black water； through the ashy
light。 Minute by minute the lying fire sinks。 Minute by minute
the deathly cold creeps nearer and nearer to the lost men。
Richard Wardour rouses himself from his thoughtslooks at the
still white face beneath himand places his hand on Frank's
heart。 It still beats feebly。 Give him his share of the food and
fuel still stored in the boat； and Frank may live through it。
Leave him neglected where he lies； and his death is a question of
hoursperhaps minutes； who knows？
Richard Wardour lifts the sleeper's head and rests it against the
cavern side。 He goes to the boat； and returns with a billet of
wood。 He stoops to place the wood on the fireand stops。 Frank
is dreaming； and murmuring in his dream。 A woman's name passes
his lips。 Frank is in England againat the ballwhispering to
Clara the confession of his love。
Over Richard Wardour's face there passes the shadow of a deadly
thought。 He rises from the fire； he takes the wood back to the
boat。 His iron strength is shaken； but it still holds out。 They
are drifting nearer and nearer to the open sea。 He can launch the
boat without help； he can take the food and the fuel with him。
The sleeper on the iceberg is the man who has robbed him of
Clarawho has wrecked the hope and the happiness of his life。
Leave the man in his sleep； and let him die！
So the tempter whispers。 Richard Wardour tries his strength on
the boat。 It moves： he has got it under control。 He stops； and
looks round。 Beyond him is the open sea。 Beneath him is the man
who has robbed him of Clara。 The shadow of the deadly thought
grows and darkens over his face。 He waits with his hands on the
boatwaits and thinks。
The iceberg drifts slowlyover the black water； through the ashy
light。 Minute by minute； the dying fire sinks。 Minute by minute；
the deathly cold creeps nearer to the sleeping man。 And still
Richard Wardour waitswaits and thinks。
Fourth Scene。
The Garden。
Chapter 13。
The spring has come。 The air of the April night just lifts the
leaves of the sleeping flowers。 The moon is queen in the
cloudless and starless sky。 The stillness of the midnight hour is
abroad； over land and over sea。
In a villa on the westward shore of the Isle of Wight； the glass
doors which lead from the drawing…room to the garden are yet
open。 The shaded lamp yet burns on the table。 A lady sits by the
lamp； reading。 From time to time she looks out into the garden；
and sees the white…robed figure of a young girl pacing slowly to
and fro in the soft brightness of the moonlight on the lawn。
Sorrow and suspense have set their mark on the lady。 Not rivals
only； but friends who formerly admired her； agree now that she
looks worn and aged。 The more merciful judgment of others
remarks； with equal truth； that her eyes； her hair； her simple
grace and grandeur of movement have lost but little of their
olden charms。 The truth lies； as usual； between the two extremes。
In spite of sorrow and suffering； Mrs。 Crayford is the beautiful
Mrs。 Crayford still。
The delicious silence of the hour is softly disturbed by the
voice of the younger lady in the garden。
〃Go to the piano； Lucy。 It is a night for music。 Play something
that is worthy of the night。〃
Mrs。 Crayford looks round at the clock on the mantelpiece。
〃My dear Clara； it is past twelve！ Remember what the doctor told
you。 You ought to have been in bed an hour ago。〃
〃Half an hour； Lucygive me half an hour more！ Look at the
moonlight on the sea。 Is it possible to go to bed on such a night
as this？ Play something； Lucysomething spiritual and divine。〃
Earnestly pleading with her friend； Clara advances toward the
window。 She too has suffered under the wasting influences of
suspense。 Her face has lost its youthful freshness； no delicate
flush of color rises on it when she speaks。 The soft gray eyes
which won Frank's heart in the by…gone time are sadly altered
now。 In repose； they have a dimmed and wearied look。 In action；
they are wild and restless； like eyes suddenly wakened from
startling dreams。 Robed in whiteher soft brown hair hanging
loosely over her shouldersthere is something weird and
ghost…like in the girl； as she moves nearer and nearer to the
window in the full light of the moonpleading for music that
shall be worthy of the mystery and the beauty of the night。
〃Will you come in here if I play to you？〃 Mrs。 Crayford asks。 〃It
is a risk； my love； to be out so long in the night air。〃
〃No！ no！ I like it。 Playwhile I am out here looking at the sea。
It quiets me； it comforts me； it does me good。〃
She glides back； ghost…like； over the lawn。 Mrs。 Crayford rises；
and puts down the volume that she has been reading。 It is a
record of explorations in the Arctic seas。 The time has gone by
when the two lonely women could take an interest in subjects not
connected with their own anxieties。 Now； when hope is fast
failing themnow； when their last news of the _Wanderer_ and the
_Sea…mew_ is news that is more than two years oldthey can read
of nothing； they can think of nothing； but dangers and
discoveries； losses and rescues in the terrible Polar seas。
Unwillingly； Mrs。 Crayford puts her book aside； and opens the
pianoMozart's 〃Air in A； with Variations；〃 lies open on the
instrument。 One after another she plays the lovely melodies； so
simply； so purely beautiful； of that unpretending and unrivaled
work。 At the close of the ninth Variation （Clara's favorite）； she
pauses； and turns toward the garden。
〃Shall I stop there？〃 she asks。
There is no answer。 Has Clara wandered away out of hearing of the
music that she lovesthe music that harmonizes so subtly with
the tender beauty of the night？ Mrs。 Crayford rises and advances
to the window。
No！ there is the white figure standing alone on the slope of the
lawnthe head turned away from the house； the face looking out
over the calm sea； whose gently rippling waters end in the dim
line on the horizon which is the line of the Hampshire coast。
Mrs。 Crayford advances as far as the path before the window； and
calls to her。
〃Clara！〃
Again there is no answer。 The white figure still stands immovably
in its place。
With signs of distress in her face； but with no appearance of
alarm； Mrs。 Crayford returns to the room。 Her own sad experience
tells her what has happened。 She summons the servants and directs
them to wait in the drawing…room until she calls to them。 This
done； she returns to the garden； and approaches the mysterious
figure on the lawn。
Dead to the outer world； as if she lay already in her
graveinsensible to touch； insensible to sound； motionless as
stone； cold as stoneClara stands on the moonlit lawn； facing
the seaward view。 Mrs。 Crayford waits at her side； patiently
watching for the change which she knows is to come。 〃Catalepsy；〃
as some call it〃hysteria；〃 as others saythis alone is
certain； the same interval always passes； the same change always
appears。
It comes now。 Not a change in her eyes； they still remain wide
open； fixed and glassy。 The first movement is a movement of her
hands。 They rise slowly from her side and waver in the air like
the hands of a person groping in the dark。 Another interval； and
the movement spreads to her lips： they part and tremble。 A few
minutes more； and words begin to drop； one by one； from those
parted lipswords spoken in a lost； vacant tone； as if she is
talking in her sleep。
Mrs。 Crayford looks back at the house。 Sad experience makes her
suspicious of the servants' curiosity。 Sad experience has long
since warned her that the servants are not to be trusted within
hearing of the wild words which Clara speaks in the trance。 Has
any one of them ventured into the garden？ No。 They are out of
hearing at the window； waiting for the signal which tells them
that their help is needed。
Turning toward Clara once more； Mrs。 Crayford hears the vacantly
uttered words； falling faster and faster from her lips
〃Frank！ Frank！ Frank！ Don't drop behinddon't trust Richard
Wardour。 While you can stand； keep with the other men； Frank！〃
（The farewell warning of Crayford in the solitudes of the Frozen
Deep； repeated by Clara in the garden of her English home！）
A moment of silence follows； and； in that moment； the vision has
changed。 She sees him on the iceberg now； at the mercy of the
bitterest enemy he has on earth。 She sees him driftingover the
black water； through the ashy light。
〃Wake； Frank！ wake and defend yourself！ Richard Wardour knows