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Page 82
His was the work, for him the shock of battle, the rigour of the fight,
the fierce assault, the ceaseless onset, the unfailing and unflinching
courage.
Hers was the woman's part. Already she had assumed it; steadfast
unselfishness, renunciation, patience, the heroism greater than all
others, that sits with folded hands, quiet, unshaken, and under fearful
stress, endures, and endures, and endures. To be the inspiration of
great deeds, high hopes, and firm resolves, and then, while the fight
was dared, to wait in calmness for its issue--that was her duty, that,
the woman's part in the world's great work.
Lloyd was dimly conscious of a certain sweet and subtle element in her
love for Bennett that only of late she had begun to recognise and be
aware of. This was a certain vague protective, almost maternal,
instinct. Perhaps it was because of his present weakness both of body
and character, or perhaps it was an element always to be found in the
deep and earnest love of any noble-hearted woman. She felt that she, not
as herself individually, but as a woman, was not only stronger than
Bennett, but in a manner older, more mature. She was conscious of depths
in her nature far greater than in his, and also that she was capable of
attaining heights of heroism, devotion, and sacrifice which he, for all
his masculine force, could not only never reach, but could not even
conceive of. It was this consciousness of her larger, better nature that
made her feel for Bennett somewhat as a mother feels for a son, a sister
for her younger brother. A great tenderness mingled with her affection,
a vast and almost divine magnanimity, a broad, womanly pity for his
shortcomings, his errors, his faults. It was to her he must look for
encouragement. It was for her to bind up and reshape the great energy
that had been so rudely checked, and not only to call back his strength,
but to guide it and direct into its appointed channels.
Lloyd returned toward the glass-enclosed veranda to find Bennett just
arousing from his nap. She drew the shawls closer about him and
rearranged the pillows under his head, and then sat down on the steps
near at hand.
"Tell me about this Captain Duane," she began. "Where is he now?"
Bennett yawned and passed his hand across his face, rubbing the sleep
from his eyes.
"What time is it? I must have slept over an hour. Duane? Why, you saw
what the paper said. I presume he is at Tasiusak."
"Do you think he will succeed? Do you think he will reach the Pole?
Adler thinks he won't."
"Oh, perhaps, if he has luck and an open season."
"But tell me, why does he take so many men? Isn't that contrary to the
custom? I know a great deal about arctic work. While you were away I
read every book I could get upon the subject. The best work has been
done with small expeditions. If you should go again--when you go again,
will you take so many? I saw you quoted somewhere as being in favour of
only six or eight men."
"Ten should be the limit--but some one else will make the attempt now.
I'm out of it. I tried and failed."
"Failed--you! The idea of you ever failing, of you ever giving up! Of
course it was all very well to joke this morning about giving up your
career; but I know you will be up and away again only too soon. I am
trying to school myself to expect that."
"Lloyd, I tell you that I am out of it. I don't believe the Pole ever
can be reached, and I don't much care whether it is reached or not."
Suddenly Lloyd turned to him, the unwonted light flashing in her eyes.
"_I_ do, though," she cried vehemently. "It can be done, and
we--America--ought to do it."
Bennett stared at her, startled by her outburst.
"This English expedition," Lloyd continued, the colour flushing in her
cheeks, "this Duane-Parsons expedition, they will have the start of
everybody next year. Nearly every attempt that is made now establishes a
new record for a high latitude. One nation after another is creeping
nearer and nearer almost every year, and each expedition is profiting by
the experiences and observations made by the one that preceded it. Some
day, and not very long now, some nation is going to succeed and plant
its flag there at last. Why should it not be us? Why shouldn't _our_
flag be first at the Pole? We who have had so many heroes, such great
sailors, such splendid leaders, such explorers--our Stanleys, our
Farraguts, our Decaturs, our De Longs, our Lockwoods--how we would stand
ashamed before the world if some other nation should succeed where we
have all but succeeded--Norway, or France, or Russia, or
England--profiting by our experiences, following where we have made the
way!"
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