Alone! alone on the Frozen Deep!
The Arctic sun is rising dimly
in the dreary sky. The beams
of the cold northern moon, mingling
strangely with the dawning light,
clothe the snowy plains in hues
of livid gray. An ice-field on
the far horizon is moving slowly
southward in the spectral light.
Nearer, a stream of open water
rolls its slow black waves past
the edges of the ice. Nearer
still, following the drift, an
iceberg rears its crags and pinnacles
to the sky; here, glittering
in the moonbeams; there, looming
dim and ghost-like in the ashy
light.
Midway on the long sweep of
the lower slope of the iceberg,
what objects rise, and break
the desolate monotony of the
scene? In this awful solitude,
can signs appear which tell of
human Life? Yes! The black outline
of a boat just shows itself,
hauled up on the berg. In an
ice-cavern behind the boat the
last red embers of a dying fire
flicker from time to time over
the figures of two men. One is
seated, resting his back against
the side of the cavern. The other
lies prostrate, with his head
on his comrade's knee. The first
of these men is awake, and thinking.
The second reclines, with his
still white face turned up to
the sky--sleeping or dead. Days
and days since, these two have
fallen behind on the march of
the expedition of relief. Days
and days since, these two have
been given up by their weary
and failing companions as doomed
and lost. He who sits thinking
is Richard Wardour. He who lies
sleeping or dead is Frank Aldersley.
The iceberg drifts slowly,
over the black water, through
the ashy light. Minute by minute
the lying fire sinks. Minute
by minute the deathly cold creeps
nearer and nearer to the lost
men.
Richard Wardour rouses himself
from his thoughts--looks at the
still white face beneath him--and
places his hand on Frank's heart.
It still beats feebly. Give him
his share of the food and fuel
still stored in the boat, and
Frank may live through it. Leave
him neglected where he lies,
and his death is a question of
hours--perhaps minutes; who knows?
Richard Wardour lifts the sleeper's
head and rests it against the
cavern side. He goes to the boat,
and returns with a billet of
wood. He stoops to place the
wood on the fire--and stops.
Frank is dreaming, and murmuring
in his dream. A woman's name
passes his lips. Frank is in
England again--at the ball--whispering
to Clara the confession of his
love.
Over Richard Wardour's face
there passes the shadow of a
deadly thought. He rises from
the fire; he takes the wood back
to the boat. His iron strength
is shaken, but it still holds
out. They are drifting nearer
and nearer to the open sea. He
can launch the boat without help;
he can take the food and the
fuel with him. The sleeper on
the iceberg is the man who has
robbed him of Clara--who has
wrecked the hope and the happiness
of his life. Leave the man in
his sleep, and let him die!
So the tempter whispers. Richard
Wardour tries his strength on
the boat. It moves: he has got
it under control. He stops, and
looks round. Beyond him is the
open sea. Beneath him is the
man who has robbed him of Clara.
The shadow of the deadly thought
grows and darkens over his face.
He waits with his hands on the
boat--waits and thinks.
The iceberg drifts slowly--over
the black water; through the
ashy light. Minute by minute,
the dying fire sinks. Minute
by minute, the deathly cold creeps
nearer to the sleeping man. And
still Richard Wardour waits--waits
and thinks.
Fourth Scene.
The Garden.
|