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between the two extremes。 In spite of sorrow and suffering； Mrs。 Crayford
is the beautiful Mrs。 Crayford still。
The delicious silence of the hour is softly disturbed by the voice of the
younger lady in the garden。
〃Go to the piano； Lucy。 It is a night for music。 Play something that is
worthy of the night。〃
Mrs。 Crayford looks round at the clock on the mantelpiece。
〃My dear Clara； it is past twelve！ Remember what the doctor told you。
You ought to have been in bed an hour ago。〃
〃Half an hour； Lucygive me half an hour more！ Look at the
moonlight on the sea。 Is it possible to go to bed on such a night as this？
Play something； Lucysomething spiritual and divine。〃
Earnestly pleading with her friend； Clara advances toward the window。
She too has suffered under the wasting influences of suspense。 Her face
has lost its youthful freshness； no delicate flush of color rises on it when
she speaks。 The soft gray eyes which won Frank's heart in the by…gone
time are sadly altered now。 In repose； they have a dimmed and wearied
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look。 In action； they are wild and restless； like eyes suddenly wakened
from startling dreams。 Robed in whiteher soft brown hair hanging
loosely over her shouldersthere is something weird and ghost…like in the
girl； as she moves nearer and nearer to the window in the full light of the
moonpleading for music that shall be worthy of the mystery and the
beauty of the night。
〃Will you come in here if I play to you？〃 Mrs。 Crayford asks。 〃It is a
risk； my love； to be out so long in the night air。〃
〃No！ no！ I like it。 Playwhile I am out here looking at the sea。 It quiets
me； it comforts me； it does me good。〃
She glides back； ghost…like； over the lawn。 Mrs。 Crayford rises； and
puts down the volume that she has been reading。 It is a record of
explorations in the Arctic seas。 The time has gone by when the two lonely
women could take an interest in subjects not connected with their own
anxieties。 Now； when hope is fast failing themnow； when their last news
of the _Wanderer_ and the _Sea…mew_ is news that is more than two years
oldthey can read of nothing； they can think of nothing； but dangers and
discoveries； losses and rescues in the terrible Polar seas。
Unwillingly； Mrs。 Crayford puts her book aside； and opens the piano
Mozart's 〃Air in A； with Variations；〃 lies open on the instrument。 One after
another she plays the lovely melodies； so simply； so purely beautiful； of
that unpretending and unrivaled work。 At the close of the ninth Variation
（Clara's favorite）； she pauses； and turns toward the garden。
〃Shall I stop there？〃 she asks。
There is no answer。 Has Clara wandered away out of hearing of the
music that she lovesthe music that harmonizes so subtly with the tender
beauty of the night？ Mrs。 Crayford rises and advances to the window。
No！ there is the white figure standing alone on the slope of the lawn
the head turned away from the house； the face looking out over the calm
sea； whose gently rippling waters end in the dim line on the horizon which
is the line of the Hampshire coast。
Mrs。 Crayford advances as far as the path before the window； and calls
to her。
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〃Clara！〃
Again there is no answer。 The white figure still stands immovably in
its place。
With signs of distress in her face； but with no appearance of alarm；
Mrs。 Crayford returns to the room。 Her own sad experience tells her what
has happened。 She summons the servants and directs them to wait in the
drawing…room until she calls to them。 This done； she returns to the garden；
and approaches the mysterious figure on the lawn。
Dead to the outer world； as if she lay already in her graveinsensible
to touch； insensible to sound； motionless as stone； cold as stoneClara
stands on the moonlit lawn； facing the seaward view。 Mrs。 Crayford waits
at her side； patiently watching for the change which she knows is to come。
〃Catalepsy；〃 as some call it〃hysteria；〃 as others saythis alone is certain；
the same interval always passes； the same change always appears。
It comes now。 Not a change in her eyes； they still remain wide open；
fixed and glassy。 The first movement is a movement of her hands。 They
rise slowly from her side and waver in the air like the hands of a person
groping in the dark。 Another interval； and the movement spreads to her
lips： they part and tremble。 A few minutes more； and words begin to drop；
one by one； from those parted lipswords spoken in a lost； vacant tone； as
if she is talking in her sleep。
Mrs。 Crayford looks back at the house。 Sad experience makes her
suspicious of the servants' curiosity。 Sad experience has long since warned
her that the servants are not to be trusted within hearing of the wild words
which Clara speaks in the trance。 Has any one of them ventured into the
garden？ No。 They are out of hearing at the window； waiting for the signal
which tells them that their help is needed。
Turning toward Clara once more； Mrs。 Crayford hears the vacantly
uttered words； falling faster and faster from her lips
〃Frank！ Frank！ Frank！ Don't drop behinddon't trust Richard Wardour。
While you can stand； keep with the other men； Frank！〃
（The farewell warning of Crayford in the solitudes of the Frozen Deep；
repeated by Clara in the garden of her English home！）
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A moment of silence follows； and； in that moment； the vision has
changed。 She sees him on the iceberg now； at the mercy of the bitterest
enemy he has on earth。 She sees him driftingover the black water；
through the ashy light。
〃Wake； Frank！ wake and defend yourself！ Richard Wardour knows that
I love youRichard Wardour's vengeance will take your life！ Wake； Frank…
…wake！ You are drifting to your death！〃 A low groan of horror bursts from
her； sinister and terrible to hear。 〃Drifting！ drifting！〃 she whispers to
herself〃drifting to his death！〃
Her glassy eyes suddenly softenthen close。 A long shudder runs
through her。 A faint flush shows itself on the deadly pallor of her face； and
fades again。 Her limbs fail her。 She sinks into Mrs。 Crayford's arms。
The servants； answering the call for help； carry her into the house。
They lay her insensible on her bed。 After half an hour or more； her eyes
open againthis time with the light of life in themopen； and rest
languidly on the friend sitting by the bedside。
〃I have had a dreadful dream；〃 she murmurs faintly。 〃Am I ill； Lucy？ I
feel so weak。〃
Even as she says the words； sleep； gentle； natural sleep； takes her
suddenly； as it takes young children weary with their play。 Though it is all
over now； though no further watching is required； Mrs。 Crayford still
keeps her place by the bedside； too anxious and too wakeful to retire to her
own room。
On other occasions； she is accustomed to dismiss from her mind the
words which drop from Clara in the trance。 This time the effort to dismiss
them is beyond her power。 The words haunt her。 Vainly she recalls to
memory all that the doctors have said to her； in speaking of Clara in the
state of trance。 〃What she vaguely dreads for the lost man whom she loves
is mingled in her mind with what she is constantly reading； of trials；
dangers； and escapes in the Arctic seas。 The most startling things that she
may say or do are all attributable to this cause； and may all be explained in
this way。〃 So the doctors have spoken； and； thus far； Mrs。 Crayford has
shared their view。 It is only to…night that the girl's words ring in her ear；
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with a strange prophetic sound in them。 It is only to…night that she asks
herself： 〃Is Clara present； in the spirit； with our loved and lost ones in the
lonely North？ Can