The Frozen Deep

streamed over his face. “Richard! dear Richard!” he said. “Remember—and forgive me.”

Richard neither heeded nor heard him. His dim eyes still looked across the room at Clara and Frank.

“I have made her happy!” he murmured. “I may lay down my weary head now on the mother earth that hushes all her children to rest at last. Sink, heart! sink, sink to rest! Oh, look at them!” he said to Crayford, with a burst of grief. “They have forgotten me already.”

It was true! The interest was all with the two lovers. Frank was young and handsome and popular. Officers, passengers, and sailors, they all crowded round Frank. They all forgot the martyred man who had saved him—the man who was dying in Crayford’s arms.

Crayford tried once more to attract his attention—to win his recognition while there was yet time. “Richard, speak to me! Speak to your old friend!”

He look round; he vacantly repeated Crayford’s last word.

“Friend?” he said. “My eyes are dim, friend—my mind is dull. I have lost all memories but the memory of her. Dead thoughts—all dead thoughts but that one! And yet you look at me kindly! Why has your face gone down with the wreck of all the rest?”

He paused; his face changed; his thoughts drifted back from present to past; he looked at Crayford vacantly, lost in the terrible remembrances that were rising in him, as the shadows rise with the coming night.

“Hark ye, friend,” he whispered. “Never let Frank know it. There was a time when the fiend within me hungered for his life. I had my hands on the boat. I heard the voice of the Tempter speaking to me: Launch it, and leave him to die! I waited with my hands on the boat, and my eyes on the place where he slept. ‘Leave him! leave him!’ the voice whispered. ‘Love him!’ the lad’s voice answered, moaning and murmuring in his sleep. ‘Love him, Clara, for helping me!‘ I heard the morning wind come up in the silence over the great deep. Far and near, I heard the groaning of the floating ice; floating, floating to the clear water and the balmy air. And the wicked Voice floated away with it—away, away, away forever! ‘Love him! love him, Clara, for helping me!‘ No wind could float that away! ‘Love him, Clara—’”

His voice sank into silence; his head dropped on Crayford’s breast. Frank saw it. Frank struggled up on his bleeding feet and parted the friendly throng round him. Frank had not forgotten the man who had saved him.

“Let me go to him!” he cried. “I must and will go to him! Clara, come with me.”

Clara and Steventon supported him between them. He fell on his knees at Wardour’s s ide; he put his hand on Wardour’s bosom.

“Richard!”

The weary eyes opened again. The sinking voice was heard feebly once more.

“Ah! poor Frank. I didn’t forget you, Frank, when I came here to beg. I remembered you lying down outside in the shadow of the boats. I saved you your share of the food and drink. Too weak to get at it now! A little rest, Frank! I shall soon be strong enough to carry you down to the ship.”

The end was near. They all saw it now. The men reverently uncovered their heads in the presence of Death. In an agony of despair, Frank appealed to the friends round him.

“Get something to strengthen him, for God’s sake! Oh, men! men! I should never have been here but for him! He has given all his strength to my weakness; and now, see how strong I am, and how weak he is! Clara, I held by his arm all over the ice and snow. He kept watch when I was senseless in the open boat. His hand dragged me out of the waves when we were wrecked. Speak to him, Clara! speak to him!” His voice failed him, and his head dropped on Wardour’s breast.

She spoke, as well as her tears would let her.

“Richard, have you forgotten me?”

He rallied at the sound of that beloved voice. He looked up at her as she knelt at his head.

“Forgotten you?” Still looking at her, he lifted his hand with an effort, and laid it on Frank. “Should I have been strong enough to save him, if I could have forgotten you?” He waited a moment and turned his face feebly toward Crayford. “Stay!” he said. “Someone was here and spoke to me.” A faint light of recognition glimmered in his eyes. “Ah, Crayford! I recollect now. Dear Crayford! come nearer! My mind clears, but my eyes grow dim. You will remember me kindly for Frank’s sake? Poor Frank! why does he hide his face? Is he crying? Nearer, Clara—I want to look my last at you. My sister, Clara! Kiss me, sister, kiss me before I die!”

She stooped and kissed his forehead. A faint smile trembled on his lips. It passed away; and stillness possessed the face—the stillness of Death.

Crayford’s voice was heard in the silence.

“The loss is ours,” he said. “The gain is his. He has won the greatest of all conquests—the conquest of himself. And he has died in the moment of victory. Not one of us here but may live to envy his glorious death.”

The distant report of a gun came from the ship in the offing, and signaled the return to England and to home.