The Frozen Deep

“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. Crayford 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 toward the table.

“Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Crayford,” said Steventon.

“I am not afraid,” Mrs. Crayford replied. “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 excited. 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—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 farewell, 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. Mrs. Crayford spoke to her husband as he passed her.

“It’s only a poor, mad creature, William,” she whispered—“shipwrecked and starving.”

“Mad?” Crayford repeated, approaching nearer and nearer to the man. “Am I 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 repeated vacantly,

“Villain? and where is Frank?”

As the name escaped his lips, Clara appeared at the open yard door, and hurried into the room.

“I heard Richard’s name!” she said. “I heard Frank’s name! What does it mean?”

At the sound of her voice the outcast renewed the struggle 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 recognition 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. 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! foot-sore and weary—but living—saved; saved for her!

“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 Frank alive. Step by step, slower and slower, Richard Wardour drew back, and left them by themselves.

“I may rest now,” he said, faintly. “I may sleep at last. The task is done. The struggle is over.”

His last reserves of strength had been given to Frank. He stopped—he staggered—his hands waved 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 pillowed Wardour’s weary head on his own bosom. The tears