The Frozen Deep

“No.”

“Have you seen or heard anything of Richard Wardour?”

“What an extraordinary question!”

“Answer my question! Don’t trifle with me!”

“Compose yourself, Clara. I have neither seen nor heard anything of Richard Wardour. Take my word for it, he is far enough away by this time.”

“No! He is here! He is near us! All night long the presentiment has pursued me—Frank and Richard Wardour will meet.”

“My dear child! what are you thinking of? T hey are total strangers to each other.”

“Something will happen to bring them together. I feel it! I know it! They will meet—there will be a mortal quarrel between them—and I shall be to blame. Oh, Lucy! why didn’t I take your advice? Why was I mad enough to let Frank know that I loved him? Are you going to the landing-stage? I am all ready—I must go with you.”

“You must not think of it, Clara. There will be crowding and confusion at the water-side. You are not strong enough to bear it. Wait—I won’t be long away—wait till I come back.”

“I must and will go with you! Crowd? He will be among the crowd! Confusion? In that confusion he will find his way to Frank! Don’t ask me to wait. I shall go mad if I wait. I shall not know a moment’s ease until I have seen Frank, with my own eyes, safe in the boat which takes him to his ship! You have got your bonnet on; what are we stopping here for? Come! or I shall go without you. Look at the clock; we have not a moment to lose!”

It was useless to contend with her. Mrs. Crayford yielded. The two women left the house together.

The landing-stage, as Mrs. Crayford had predicted, was thronged with spectators. Not only the relatives and friends of the Arctic voyagers, but strangers as well, had assembled in large numbers to see the ships sail. Clara’s eyes wandered affrightedly hither and thither among the strange faces in the crowd; searching for the one face that she dreaded to see, and not finding it. So completely were her nerves unstrung, that she started with a cry of alarm on suddenly hearing Frank’s voice behind her.

“The Sea-mew‘s boats are waiting,” he said. “I must go, darling. How pale you are looking, Clara! Are you ill?”

She never answered. She questioned him with wild eyes and trembling lips.

“Has anything happened to you, Frank? anything out of the common?”

Frank laughed at the strange question.

“Anything out of the common?” he repeated. “Nothing that I know of, except sailing for the Arctic seas. That’s out of the common, I suppose—isn’t it?”

“Has anybody spoken to you since last night? Has any stranger followed you in the street?”

Frank turned in blank amazement to Mrs. Crayford.

“What on earth does she mean?”

Mrs. Crayford’s lively invention supplied her with an answer on the spur of the moment.

“Do you believe in dreams, Frank? Of course you don’t! Clara has been dreaming about you; and Clara is foolish enough to believe in dreams. That’s all—it’s not worth talking about. Hark! they are calling you. Say good-by, or you will be too late for the boat.”

Frank took Clara’s hand. Long afterward—in the dark Arctic days, in the dreary Arctic nights—he remembered how coldly and how passively that hand lay in his.

“Courage, Clara!” he said, gayly. “A sailor’s sweetheart must accustom herself to partings. The time will soon pass. Good-by, my darling! Good-by, my wife!”

He kissed the cold hand; he looked his last—for many a long year, perhaps!—at the pale and beautiful face. “How she loves me!” he thought. “How the parting distresses her!” He still held her hand; he would have lingered longer, if Mrs. Crayford had not wisely waived all ceremony and pushed him away.

The two ladies followed him at a safe distance through the crowd, and saw him step into the boat. The oars struck the water; Frank waved his cap to Clara. In a moment more a vessel at anchor hid the boat from view. They had seen the last of him on his way to the Frozen Deep!

“No Richard Wardour in the boat,” said Mrs. Crayford. “No Richard Wardour on the shore. Let this be a lesson to you, my dear. Never be foolish enough to believe in presentiments again.”

Clara’s eyes still wandered suspiciously to and fro among the crowd.

“Are you not satisfied yet?” asked Mrs. Crayford.

“No,” Clara answered, “I am not satisfied yet.”

“What! still looking for him? This is really too absurd. Here is my husband coming. I shall tell him to call a cab, and send you home.”

Clara drew back a few steps.

“I won’t be in the way, Lucy, while you are taking leave of your good husband,” she said. “I will wait here.”

“Wait here! What for?”

“For something which I may yet see; or for something which I may still hear.”

“Richard Wardour?”