Crayford touched his friend
on the shoulder to rouse him.
Wardour looked up, impatiently,
with a frown.
"I was just asleep," he said. "Why
do you wake me?"
"Look round
you, Richard. We are alone."
"Well--and
what of that?"
"I wish to
speak to you privately; and
this is my opportunity. You
have disappointed and surprised
me to-day. Why did you say it
was all one to you whether you
went or stayed? Why are you the
only man among us who seems to
be perfectly indifferent whether
we are rescued or not?"
"Can a man always give a reason
for what is strange in his manner
or his words?" Wardour retorted.
"He can try," said Crayford,
quietly--"when his friend asks
him."
Wardour's manner softened.
"That's true," he said. "I
_will_ try. Do you remember the
first night at sea when we sailed
from England in the _Wanderer_?"
"As well as
if it was yesterday."
"A calm, still night," the
other went on, thoughtfully. "No
clouds, no stars. Nothing in
the sky but the broad moon, and
hardly a ripple to break the
path of light she made in the
quiet water. Mine was the middle
watch that night. You cam e on
deck, and found me alone--"
He stopped. Crayford took his
hand, and finished the sentence
for him.
"Alone--and
in tears."
"The last I shall ever shed," Wardour
added, bitterly.
"Don't say
that! There are times when
a man is to be pitied
indeed, if he can shed no tears.
Go on, Richard."
Wardour proceeded--still following
the old recollections, still
preserving his gentler tones.
"I should have quarreled with
any other man who had surprised
me at that moment," he said. "There
was something, I suppose, in
your voice when you asked my
pardon for disturbing me, that
softened my heart. I told you
I had met with a disappointment
which had broken me for life.
There was no need to explain
further. The only hopeless wretchedness
in this world is the wretchedness
that women cause."
"And the only unalloyed happiness," said
Crayford, "the happiness that
women bring."
"That may be your experience
of them," Wardour answered; "mine
is different. All the devotion,
the patience, the humility, the
worship that there is in man,
I laid at the feet of a woman.
She accepted the offering as
women do--accepted it, easily,
gracefully, unfeelingly--accepted
it as a matter of course. I left
England to win a high place in
my profession, before I dared
to win _her_. I braved danger,
and faced death. I staked my
life in the fever swamps of Africa,
to gain the promotion that I
only desired for her sake--and
gained it. I came back to give
her all, and to ask nothing in
return, but to rest my weary
heart in the sunshine of her
smile. And her own lips--the
lips I had kissed at parting--told
me that another man had robbed
me of her. I spoke but few words
when I heard that confession,
and left her forever. 'The time
may come,' I told her, 'when
I shall forgive _you_. But the
man who has robbed me of you
shall rue the day when you and
he first met.' Don't ask me who
he was! I have yet to discover
him. The treachery had been kept
secret; nobody could tell me
where to find him; nobody could
tell me who he was. What did
it matter? When I had lived out
the first agony, I could rely
on myself--I could be patient,
and bide my time."
"Your time?
What time?"
"The time when
I and that man shall meet face
to face. I knew
it then; I know it now--it was
written on my heart then, it
is written on my heart now--we
two shall meet and know each
other! With that conviction strong
within me, I volunteered for
this service, as I would have
volunteered for anything that
set work and hardship and danger,
like ramparts, between my misery
and me. With that conviction
strong within me still, I tell
you it is no matter whether I
stay here with the sick, or go
hence with the strong. I shall
live till I have met that man!
There is a day of reckoning appointed
between us. Here in the freezing
cold, or away in the deadly heat;
in battle or in shipwreck; in
the face of starvation; under
the shadow of pestilence--I,
though hundreds are falling round
me, I shall live! live for the
coming of one day! live for the
meeting with one man!"
He stopped, trembling, body
and soul, under the hold that
his own terrible superstition
had fastened on him. Crayford
drew back in silent horror. Wardour
noticed the action--he resented
it--he appealed, in defense of
his one cherished conviction,
to Crayford's own experience
of him.
"Look at me!" he cried. "Look
how I have lived and thriven,
with the heart-ache gnawing at
me at home, and the winds of
the icy north whistling round
me here! I am the strongest man
among you. Why? I have fought
through hardships that have laid
the best-seasoned men of all
our party on their backs. Why?
What have _I_ done, that my life
should throb as bravely through
every vein in my body at this
minute, and in this deadly place,
as ever it did in the wholesome
breezes of home? What am I preserved
for? I tell you again, for the
coming of one day--for the meeting
with one man."
He paused once more. This time
Crayford spoke.
"Richard!" he said, "since
we first met, I have believed
in your better nature, against
all outward appearance. I have
believed in you, firmly, truly,
as your brother might. You are
putting that belief to a hard
test. If your enemy had told
me that you had ever talked as
you talk now, that you had ever
looked as you look now, I would
have turned my back on him as
the utterer of a vile calumny
against a just, a brave, an upright
man. Oh! my friend, my friend,
if ever I have deserved well
of you, put away these thoughts
from your heart! Face me again,
with the stainless look of a
man who has trampled under his
feet the bloody superstitions
of revenge, and knows them no
more! Never, never, let the time
come when I cannot offer you
my hand as I offer it now, to
the man I can still admire--to
the brother I can still love!"
The heart that no other voice
could touch felt that appeal.
The fierce eyes, the hard voice,
softened under Crayford's influence.
Richard Wardour's head sank on
his breast.
"You are kinder to me than
I deserve," he said. "Be kinder
still, and forget what I have
been talking about. No! no more
about me; I am not worth it.
We'll change the subject, and
never go back to it again. Let's
do something. Work, Crayford--that's
the true elixir of our life!
Work, that stretches the muscles
and sets the blood a-glowing.
Work, that tires the body and
rests the mind. Is there nothing
in hand that I can do? Nothing
to cut? nothing to carry?"
The door opened as he put the
question. Bateson--appointed
to chop Frank's bed-place into
firing--appeared punctually with
his ax. Wardour, without a word
of warning, snatched the ax out
of the man's hand.
"What was this wanted for?" he
asked.
"To cut up
Mr. Aldersley's berth there
into firing, sir."
"I'll do it for you! I'll have
it down in no time!" He turned
to Crayford. "You needn't be
afraid about me, old friend.
I am going to do the right thing.
I am going to tire my body and
rest my mind."
The evil spirit in him was
plainly subdued--for the time,
at least. Crayford took his hand
in silence; and then (followed
by Bateson) left him to his work.
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