The man was a sinister and terrible object to look at. His eyes glared
like the eyes of a wild animal; his head was bare; his long gray hair
was torn and tangled; his miserable garments hung about him in rags. He
stood in the doorway, a speechless figure of misery and want, staring at
the well-spread table like a hungry dog.
Steventon spoke to him.
“Who are you?”
He answered, in a hoarse, hollow voice,
“A starving man.”
He advanced a few steps, slowly and painfully, as if he were sinking
under fatigue.
“Throw me some bones from the table,” he said. “Give me my share along
with the dogs.”
There was madness as well as hunger in his eyes while he spoke those
words. Steventon placed Mrs. Crayford behind him, so that he might be
easily able to protect her in case of need, and beckoned to two sailors
who were passing the door of the boat-house at the time.
“Give the man some bread and meat,” he said, “and wait near him.”
The outcast seized on the bread and meat with lean, long-nailed hands
that looked like claws. After his first mouthful of the food, he
stopped, considered vacantly with himself, and broke the bread and meat
into two portions. One portion he put into an old canvas wallet that
hung over his shoulder; the other he devoured voraciously. Steventon
questioned him.
“Where do you come from?”
“From the sea.”
“Wrecked?”
“Yes.”
Steventon turned to Mrs. Crayford.
“There may be some truth in the poor wretch’s story,” he said. “I heard
something of a strange boat having been cast on the beach thirty or
forty miles higher up the coast. When were you wrecked, my man?”
The starving creature looked up from his food, and made an effort to
collect his thoughts--to exert his memory. It was not to be done. He
gave up the attempt in despair. His language, when he spoke, was as wild
as his looks.
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “I can’t get the wash of the sea out of my
ears. I can’t get the shining stars all night, and the burning sun all
day, out of my brain. When was I wrecked? When was I first adrift in the
boat? When did I get the tiller in my hand and fight against hunger and
sleep? When did the gnawing in my breast, and the burning in my head,
first begin? I have lost all reckoning of it. I can’t think; I can’t
sleep; I can’t get the wash of the sea out of my ears. What are you
baiting me with questions for? Let me eat!”
Even the sailors pitied him. The sailors asked leave of their officer to
add a little drink to his meal.
“We’ve got a drop of grog with us, sir, in a bottle. May we give it to
him?”
“Certainly!”
He took the bottle fiercely, as he had taken the food, drank a little,
stopped, and considered with himself again. He held up the bottle to the
light, and, marking how much liquor it contained, carefully drank half
of it only. This done, he put the bottle in his wallet along with the
food.
“Are you saving it up for another time?” said Steventon.
“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 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 side; 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.