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Page 31
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 against the
cavern side. He goes to the boat, and returns with a billet of
wood. He stoops to place the wood on the fire--and stops. Frank
is dreaming, and murmuring in his dream. A woman's name passes
his lips. Frank is in England again--at the ball--whispering to
Clara the confession of his love.
Over Richard Wardour's face there passes the shadow of a deadly
thought. He rises from the fire; he takes the wood back to the
boat. His iron strength is shaken, but it still holds out. They
are drifting nearer and nearer to the open sea. He can launch the
boat without help; he can take the food and the fuel with him.
The sleeper on the iceberg is the man who has robbed him of
Clara--who has wrecked the hope and the happiness of his life.
Leave the man in his sleep, and let him die!
So the tempter whispers. Richard Wardour tries his strength on
the boat. It moves: he has got it under control. He stops, and
looks round. Beyond him is the open sea. Beneath him is the man
who has robbed him of Clara. The shadow of the deadly thought
grows and darkens over his face. He waits with his hands on the
boat--waits and thinks.
The iceberg drifts slowly--over the black water; through the ashy
light. Minute by minute, the dying fire sinks. Minute by minute,
the deathly cold creeps nearer to the sleeping man. And still
Richard Wardour waits--waits and thinks.
Fourth Scene.
The Garden.
Chapter 13.
The spring has come. The air of the April night just lifts the
leaves of the sleeping flowers. The moon is queen in the
cloudless and starless sky. The stillness of the midnight hour is
abroad, over land and over sea.
In a villa on the westward shore of the Isle of Wight, the glass
doors which lead from the drawing-room to the garden are yet
open. The shaded lamp yet burns on the table. A lady sits by the
lamp, reading. From time to time she looks out into the garden,
and sees the white-robed figure of a young girl pacing slowly to
and fro in the soft brightness of the moonlight on the lawn.
Sorrow and suspense have set their mark on the lady. Not rivals
only, but friends who formerly admired her, agree now that she
looks worn and aged. The more merciful judgment of others
remarks, with equal truth, that her eyes, her hair, her simple
grace and grandeur of movement have lost but little of their
olden charms. The truth lies, as usual, between the two extremes.
In spite of sorrow and suffering, Mrs. Crayford is the beautiful
Mrs. Crayford still.
The delicious silence of the hour is softly disturbed by the
voice of the younger lady in the garden.
"Go to the piano, Lucy. It is a night for music. Play something
that is worthy of the night."
Mrs. Crayford looks round at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"My dear Clara, it is past twelve! Remember what the doctor told
you. You ought to have been in bed an hour ago."
"Half an hour, Lucy--give me half an hour more! Look at the
moonlight on the sea. Is it possible to go to bed on such a night
as this? Play something, Lucy--something spiritual and divine."
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