smile which it wrung 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 believe that I have courage enough to hear the worst? Will you promise not to deceive 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 should suspect me of deceiving you?”
She looked him searchingly in the face, then glanced with renewed distrust at Mrs. Crayford. 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.
“Any instructions from the ship, Steventon?” he asked, approaching the officer.
“Verbal instructions only,” Steventon 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 ship is in a state of confusion; the ladies will eat their luncheon more comfortably here.”
Hearing this, Mrs. Crayford took
“Come, my dear,” she said. “Let us lay the cloth before the gentlemen come in.”
Clara was too seriously bent on attaining the object which she had in view 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 Steventon.
“Can you spare me a few minutes?” she 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. Crayford whispered to her, “Don’t be alarmed about Steventon. I have cautioned him; his discretion 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; I only want to be sure that I am right about one thing—I mean about what happened at the time when the exploring party was dispatched in search of 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 honor, as officers and gentlemen, is this the truth?”
“On my honor,” Crayford answered, “it is the truth.”
“On my honor,” Steventon repeated, “it is the truth.”
She looked at them, carefully considering 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 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 together on the list.”
Clara instantly drew the inevitable conclusion 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.
“I trust to your honor,” she said, quietly. “Am I right, or wrong, in believing 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 honor, 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 conversation of her own accord.
“Have you been in the Highlands of Scotland?” she asked.
“I have never been in the Highlands,” the lieutenant 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?”
