The night had passed.
Far and near the garden view looked its gayest and brightest in the
light of the noonday sun. The cheering sounds which tell of life and
action were audible all round the villa. From the garden of the nearest
house rose the voices of children at play. Along the road at the back
sounded the roll of wheels, as carts and carriages passed at intervals.
Out on the blue sea, the distant splash of the paddles, the distant
thump of the engines, told from time to time of the passage of steamers,
entering or leaving the strait between the island and the mainland. In
the trees, the birds sang gayly among the rustling leaves. In the house,
the women-servants were laughing over some jest or story that cheered
them at their work. It was a lively and pleasant time--a bright,
enjoyable day.
The two ladies were out together; resting on a garden seat, after a walk
round the grounds.
They exchanged a few trivial words relating to the beauty of the day,
and then said no more. Possessing the same consciousness of what she had
seen in the trance which persons in general possess of what they
have seen in a dream--believing in the vision as a supernatural
revelation--Clara’s worst forebodings were now, to her mind, realized
as truths. Her last faint hope of ever seeing Frank again was now at an
end. Intimate experience of her told Mrs. Crayford what was passing in
Clara’s mind, and warned her that the attempt to reason and remonstrate
would be little better than a voluntary waste of words and time. The
disposition which she had herself felt on the previous night, to attach
a superstitious importance to the words that Clara had spoken in the
trance, had vanished with the return of the morning. Rest and reflection
had quieted her mind, and had restored the composing influence of
her sober sense. Sympathizing with Clara in all besides, she had no
sympathy, as they sat together in the pleasant sunshine, with Clara’s
gloomy despair of the future. She, who could still hope, had nothing to
say to the sad companion who had done with hope. So the quiet minutes
succeeded each other, and the two friends sat side by side in silence.
An hour passed, and the gate-bell of the villa rang.
They both started--they both knew the ring. It was the hour when
the postman brought their newspapers from London. In past days, what
hundreds on hundreds of times they had torn off the cover which inclosed
the newspaper, and looked at the same column with the same weary
mingling of hope and despair! There to-day--as it was yesterday; as it
would be, if they lived, to-morrow--there was the servant with Lucy’s
newspaper and Clara’s newspaper in his hand!
Would both of them do again to-day what both had done so often in the
days that were gone?
No! Mrs. Crayford removed the cover from her newspaper as usual. Clara
laid _her_ newspaper aside, unopened, on the garden seat.
In silence, Mrs. Crayford looked, where she always looked, at the column
devoted to the Latest Intelligence from foreign parts. The instant her
eye fell on the page she started with a loud cry of joy. The newspaper
fell from her trembling hand. She caught Clara in her arms. “Oh, my
darling! my darling! news of them at last.”
Without answering, without the slightest change in look or manner, Clara
took the newspaper from the ground, and read the top line in the column,
printed in capital letters:
THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION.
She waited, and looked at Mrs. Crayford.
“Can you bear to hear it, Lucy,” she asked, “if I read it aloud?”
Mrs. Crayford was too agitated to answer in words. She signed
impatiently to Clara to go on.
Clara read the news which followed the heading in capital letters. Thus
it ran:
“The following intelligence, from St. Johns, Newfoundland, has reached
us for publication. The whaling-vessel _Blythewood_ is reported to
have met with the surviving officers and men of the Expedition in Davis
Strait. Many are stated to be dead, and some are supposed to be missing.
The list of the saved, as collected by the people of the whaler, is not
vouched for as being absolutely correct, the circumstances having been
adverse to investigation. The vessel was pressed for time; and the
members of the Expedition, all more or less suffering from exhaustion,
were not in a position to give the necessary assistance to inquiry.
Further particulars may be looked for by the next mail.”
The list of the survivors followed, beginning with the officers in the
order of their rank. They both read the list together. The first name
was Captain Helding; the second was Lieutenant Crayford.
There the wife’s joy overpowered her. After a pause, she put her arm
around Clara’s waist, and spoke to her.
“Oh, my love!” she murmured, “are you as happy as I am? Is Frank’s
name there too? The tears are in my eyes. Read for me--I can’t read for
myself.”
The answer came, in still, sad tones:
“I have read as far as your husband’s name. I have no need to read
further.”
Mrs. Crayford dashed the tears from her eyes--steadied herself--and
looked at the newspaper.
On the list of the survivors, the search was vain. Frank’s name was not
among them. On a second list, headed “Dead or Missing,” the first two
names that appeared were:
FRANCIS ALDERSLEY. RICHARD WARDOUR.
In speechless distress and dismay, Mrs. Crayford looked at Clara. Had
she force enough in her feeble health to sustain the shock that
had fallen on her? Yes! she bore it with a strange unnatural
resignation--she looked, she spoke, with the sad self-possession of
despair.
“I was prepared for it,” she said. “I saw them in the spirit last night.
Richard Wardour has discovered the truth; and Frank has paid the penalty
with his life--and I, I alone, am to blame.” She shuddered, and put her
hand on her heart. “We shall not be long parted, Lucy. I shall go to
him. He will not return to me.”
Those words were spoken with a calm certainty of conviction that was
terrible to hear. “I have no more to say,” she added, after a moment,
and rose to return to the house. Mrs. Crayford caught her by the hand,
and forced her to take her seat again.
“Don’t look at me, don’t speak to me, in that horrible manner!” she
exclaimed. “Clara! it is unworthy of a reasonable being, it is doubting
the mercy of God, to say what you have just said. Look at the newspaper
again. See! They tell you plainly that their information is not to be
depended on--they warn you to wait for further particulars. The very
words at the top of the list show how little they knew of the truth
‘Dead _or_ Missing!’ On their own showing, it is quite as likely that
Frank is missing as that Frank is dead. For all you know, the next mail
may bring a letter from him. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you deny what I say?”
“No.”
“‘Yes!’ ‘No!’ Is that the way to answer me when I am so distressed and
so anxious about you?”
“I am sorry I spoke as I did, Lucy. We look at some subjects in very
different ways. I don’t dispute, dear, that yours is the reasonable
view.”
“You don’t dispute?” retorted Mrs. Crayford, warmly. “No! you do what
is worse--you believe in your own opinion; you persist in your own
conclusion--with the newspaper before you! Do you, or do you not,
believe the newspaper?”
“I believe in what I saw last night.”
“In what you saw last night! You, an educated woman, a clever woman,
believing in a vision of your own fancy--a mere dream! I wonder you are
not ashamed to acknowledge it!”
“Call it a dream if you like, Lucy. I have had other dreams at other
times--and I have known them to be fulfilled.”
“Yes!” said Mrs. Crayford. “For once in a way they may have been
fulfilled, by chance--and you notice it, and remember it, and pin your
faith on it. Come, Clara, be honest!--What about the occasions when the
chance has been against you, and your dreams have not been fulfilled?
You superstitious people are all alike. You conveniently forget when
your dreams and your presentiments prove false. For my sake, dear, if
not for your own,” she continued, in gentler and tenderer tones, “try
to be more reasonable and more hopeful. Don’t lose your trust in the
future, and your trust in God. God, who has saved my husband, can save
Frank. While there is doubt, there is hope. Don’t embitter my happiness,
Clara! Try to think as I think--if it is only to show that you love me.”
She put her arm round the girl’s neck, and kissed her. Clara returned
the kiss; Clara answered, sadly and submissively,
“I do love you, Lucy. I _will_ try.”
Having answered in those terms, she sighed to herself, and said no more.
It would have been plain, only too plain, to far less observant eyes
than Mrs. Crayford’s that no salutary impression had been produced on
her. She had ceased to defend her own way of thinking, she spoke of
it no more--but there was the terrible conviction of Frank’s death at
Wardour’s hands rooted as firmly as ever in her mind! Discouraged and
distressed, Mrs. Crayford left her, and walked back toward the house.