by Frank Norris
Slowly the crisis passed off, slowly the reaction began. Hattie was still unconscious, but there was a new look upon her face — a look that Lloyd had learned to know from long experience, an intangible and most illusive expression, nothing, something, the sign that only those who are trained to search for it may see and appreciate — the earliest faint flicker after the passing of the shadow.
“Will she live, will she live, nurse?” came Mr. Campbell’s whisper at her shoulder.
“I think — I am almost sure — but we must not be too certain yet. Still there’s a chance; yes, there’s a chance.”
Campbell, suddenly gone white, put out his hand and leaned a moment against the mantelpiece. He did not now leave the room. The door-bell rang.
“Dr. Street,” murmured Lloyd.
But what had happened in the City? There in the still dark hours of that hot summer night an event of national, perhaps even international, importance had surely transpired. It was in the air — a sense of a Great Thing come suddenly to a head somewhere in the world. Footsteps sounded rapidly on the echoing sidewalks. Here and there a street door opened. From corner to corner, growing swiftly nearer, came the cry of newsboys chanting extras. A subdued excitement was abroad, finding expression in a vague murmur, the mingling of many sounds into one huge note — a note that gradually swelled and grew louder and seemed to be rising from all corners of the City at once.
There was a step at the sick-room door. Dr. Street? No, Rownie — Rownie with two telegrams for Lloyd.
Lloyd took them from her, then with a sharp, brusque movement of her head and suddenly smitten with an idea, turned from them to listen to the low, swelling murmur of the City. These despatches — no, they were no “call” for her. She guessed what they might be. Why had they come to her now? Why was there this sense of some great tidings in the wind? The same tidings that had come to the world might come to her — in these despatches. Might it not be so? She caught her breath quickly. The terror, the fearful anxiety that had haunted and oppressed her for so long, was it to be lifted now at last? The Enemy that lurked in the dark corners, ever ready to clutch her, was it to be driven back and away from her forever? She dared not hope for it. But something was coming to her; she knew it, she felt it; something was preparing for her, coming to her swifter with every second — coming, coming, coming from out the north. She saw Dr. Street in the room, though how and when he had arrived she could not afterward recall. Her mind was all alert, intent upon other things, listening, waiting. The surgeon had been leaning over the bed. Suddenly he straightened up, saying aloud to Campbell:
“Good, good, we’re safe. We have pulled through.”
Lloyd tore open her telegrams. One was signed “Bennett,” the other “Ferriss.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Mr. Campbell.
“Oh,” cried Lloyd, a great sob shaking her from head to heel, a smile of infinite happiness flashing from her face. “Oh — yes, thank God, we — we have pulled through.”
“Am I going to get well, am I going to get well, Miss Searight?” Hattie, once more conscious, raised her voice weak and faint.
Lloyd was on her knees beside her, her head bent over her.
“Hush; yes, dear, you are safe.” Then the royal bronze-red hair bent lower still. The dull-blue eyes were streaming now, the voice one low quiver of sobs. Tenderly, gently Lloyd put an arm about the child, her head bending lower and lower. Her cheek touched Hattie’s. For a moment the little girl, frail, worn, pitifully wasted, and the strong, vigorous woman, with her imperious will and indomitable purpose, rested their heads upon the same pillow, both broken with suffering, the one of the body, the other of the mind.
“Safe; yes, dear, safe,” whispered Lloyd, her face all but hidden. “Safe, safe, and saved to me. Oh, dearest of all the world!”
And then to her ears the murmur of the City seemed to leap suddenly to articulate words, the clanging thunder of the entire nation — the whole round world thrilling with this great news that had come to it from out the north in the small hours of this hot summer’s night. And the chanting cries of the street rolled to her like the tremendous diapason of a gigantic organ:
“Rescued, rescued, rescued!”
IV.
On the day that Lloyd returned to the house on Calumet Square (Hattie’s recovery being long since assured), and while she was unpacking her valise and settling herself again in her room, a messenger boy brought her a note.
Have just arrived in the City. When may I see you?
BENNETT.
News of Ward Bennett and of Richard Ferriss had not been wanting during the past fortnight or so. Their names and that of the ship herself, even the names of Adler, Hansen, Clarke, and Dennison, even Muck Tu, even that of Kamiska, the one surviving dog, filled the mouths and minds of men to the exclusion of everything else.
The return of the expedition after its long imprisonment in the ice and at a time when all hope of its safety had been abandoned was one of the great events of that year. The fact that the expedition had failed to reach the Pole, or to attain any unusual high latitude, was forgotten or ignored. Nothing was remembered but the masterly retreat toward Kolyuchin Bay, the wonderful march over the ice, the indomitable courage, unshaken by hardship, perils, obstacles, and privations almost beyond imagination. All this, together with a multitude of details, some of them palpably fictitious, the press of the City where Bennett and Ferriss both had their homes published and republished and published again and again. News of the men, their whereabouts and intentions, invaded the sick-room — where Lloyd watched over the convalescence of her little patient — by the very chinks of the windows.
Lloyd learned how the ship had been “nipped;” how, after inconceivable toil, the members of the expedition had gained the land; how they had marched southward toward the Chuckch settlements; how, at the eleventh hour, the survivors, exhausted and starving, had been rescued by the steam whalers; how these whalers themselves had been caught in the ice, and how the survivors of the Freja had been obliged to spend another winter in the Arctic. She learned the details of their final return. In the quiet, darkened room where Hattie lay she heard from without the echo of the thunder of the nations; she saw how the figure of Bennett towered suddenly magnificent in the world; how that the people were brusquely made aware of a new hero. She learned that honours came thronging about him unsought; that the King of the Belgians had conferred a decoration upon him; that the geographical societies of continental Europe had elected him to honourary membership; that the President and the Secretary of War had sent telegrams of congratulations.
“And what does he do,” she murmured, “the first of all upon his return? Asks to see me — me!”
She sent an answer to his note by the same boy who brought it, naming the following afternoon, explaining that two days later she expected to go into the country to a little town called Bannister to take her annual fortnight’s vacation.
“But what of — of the other?” she murmured as she stood at the window of her room watching the messenger boy bicycling across the square. “Why does not he — he, too — ?”
She put her chin in the air and turned about, looking abstractedly at the rugs on the parquetry.
Lloyd’s vacation had really begun two days before. Her name was off the roster of the house, and till the end of the month her time was her own. The afternoon was hot and very still. Even in the cool, stone-built agency, with its windows wide and heavily shaded with awnings, the heat was oppressive. For a long time Lloyd had been shut away from fresh air and the sun, and now she suddenly decided to drive out in the City’s park. She rang up her stable and ordered Lewis to put her ponies to her phaeton.
She spent a delightful two hours in the great park, losing herself in its farthest, shadiest, and most unfrequented corners. She drove herself, and intelligently. Horses were her passion, and not Lewis himself understood their care and management better. Toward the cool of the day and just as she had pulled the
ponies down to a walk in a long, deserted avenue overspanned with elms and great cottonwoods she was all at once aware of an open carriage that had turned into the far end of the same avenue approaching at an easy trot. It drew near, and she saw that its only occupant was a man leaning back rather limply in the cushions. As the eye of the trained nurse fell upon him she at once placed him in the category of convalescents or chronic invalids, and she was vaguely speculating as to the nature of his complaint when the carriage drew opposite her phaeton, and she recognised Richard Ferriss.
Ferriss, but not the same Ferriss to whom she had said good-bye on that never-to-be-forgotten March afternoon, with its gusts and rain, four long years ago. The Ferriss she had known then had been an alert, keen man, with quick, bright eyes, alive to every impression, responsive to every sensation, living his full allowance of life. She was looking now at a man unnaturally old, of deadened nerves, listless. As he caught sight of her and recognised her he suddenly roused himself with a quick, glad smile and with a look in his eyes that to Lloyd was unmistakable. But there was not that joyful, exuberant start she had anticipated, and, for that matter, wished. Neither did Lloyd set any too great store by the small amenities of life, but that Ferriss should remain covered hurt her a little. She wondered how she could note so trivial a detail at such a moment. But this was Ferriss.
Her heart was beating fast and thick as she halted her ponies. The driver of the carriage jumped down and held the door for Ferriss, and the chief engineer stepped quickly toward her.
So it was they met after four years — and such years — unexpectedly, without warning or preparation, and not at all as she had expected. What they said to each other in those first few moments Lloyd could never afterward clearly remember. One incident alone detached itself vividly from the blur.
“I have just come from the square,” Ferriss had explained, “and they told me that you had left for a drive out here only the moment before, so there was nothing for it but to come after you.”
“Shan’t we walk a little?” she remembered she had asked after a while. “We can have the carriages wait; or do you feel strong enough? I forgot—”
But he interrupted her, protesting his fitness.
“The doctor merely sent me out to get the air, and it’s humiliating to be wheeled about like an old woman.”
Lloyd passed the reins back of her to Lewis, and, gathering her skirts about her, started to descend from the phaeton. The step was rather high from the ground. Ferriss stood close by. Why did he not help her? Why did he stand there, his hands in his pockets, so listless and unconscious of her difficulty. A little glow of irritation deepened the dull crimson of her cheeks. Even returned Arctic explorers could not afford to ignore entirely life’s little courtesies — and he of all men.
“Well,” she said, expectantly hesitating before attempting to descend.
Then she caught Ferriss’s eyes fixed upon her. He was smiling a little, but the dull, stupefied expression of his face seemed for a brief instant to give place to one of great sadness. He raised a shoulder resignedly, and Lloyd, with the suddenness of a blow, remembered that Ferriss had no hands.
She dropped back in the seat of the phaeton, covering her eyes, shaken and unnerved for the moment with a great thrill of infinite pity — of shame at her own awkwardness, and of horror as for one brief instant the smiling summer park, the afternoon’s warmth, the avenue of green, over-arching trees, the trim, lacquered vehicles and glossy-brown horses were struck from her mind, and she had a swift vision of the Ice, the darkness of the winter night, the lacerating, merciless cold, the blinding, whirling, dust-like snow.
For half an hour they walked slowly about in the park, the carriages following at a distance. They did not talk very much. It seemed to Lloyd that she would never tire of scrutinising his face, that her interest in his point of view, his opinions, would never flag. He had had an experience that came but to few men. For four years he had been out of the world, had undergone privation beyond conception. What now was to be his attitude? How had he changed? That he had not changed to her Lloyd knew in an instant. He still loved her; that was beyond all doubt. But this terrible apathy that seemed now to be a part of him! She had heard of the numbing stupor that invades those who stay beyond their time in the Ice, but never before had she seen it in its reality. It was not a lack of intelligence; it seemed rather to be the machinery of intelligence rusted and clogged from long disuse. He deliberated long before he spoke. It took him some time to understand things. Speech did not come to him readily, and he became easily confused in the matter of words. Once, suddenly, he had interrupted her, breaking out with:
“Oh, the smell of the trees, of the grass! Isn’t it wonderful; isn’t it wonderful?” And a few seconds later, quite irrelevantly: “And, after all, we failed.”
At once Lloyd was all aroused, defending him against himself.
“Failed! And you say that? If you did not reach the Pole, what then? The world will judge you by results perhaps, and the world’s judgment will be wrong. Is it nothing that you have given the world an example of heroism—”
“Oh, don’t call it that.”
“Of heroism, of courage, of endurance? Is it nothing that you have overcome obstacles before which other men would have died? Is it nothing that you have shown us all how to be patient, how to be strong? There are some things better even than reaching the Pole. To suffer and be calm is one of them; not to give up — never to be beaten — is another. Oh, if I were a man! Ten thousand, a hundred thousand people are reading to-night of what you have done — of what you have done, you understand, not of what you have failed to do. They have seen — you have shown them what the man can do who says I will, and you have done a little more, have gone a little further, have been a little braver, a little hardier, a little nobler, a little more determined than any one has ever been before. Whoever fails now cannot excuse himself by saying that he has done as much as a man can do. He will have to remember the men of the Freja. He will have to remember you. Don’t you suppose I am proud of you; don’t you suppose that I am stronger and better because of what you have done? Do you think it is nothing for me to be sitting here beside you, here in this park — to be — yes, to be with you? Can’t you understand? Isn’t it something to me that you are the man you are; not the man whose name the people are shouting just now, not the man to whom a king gave a bit of ribbon and enamel, but the man who lived like a man, who would not die just because it was easier to die than to live, who fought like a man, not only for himself but for the lives of those he led, who showed us all how to be strong, and how strong one could be if one would only try? What does the Pole amount to? The world wants men, great, strong, harsh, brutal men — men with purposes, who let nothing, nothing, nothing stand in their way.”
“You mean Bennett,” said Ferriss, looking up quickly. “You commenced by speaking of me, but it’s Bennett you are talking of now.”
But he caught her glance and saw that she was looking steadfastly at him — at him. A look was in her face, a light in her dull-blue eyes, that he had never seen there before.
“Lloyd,” he said quietly, “which one of us, Bennett or I, were you speaking of just then? You know what I mean; which one of us?”
“I was speaking of the man who was strong enough to do great things,” she said.
Ferriss drew the stumps of his arms from his pockets and smiled at them grimly.
“H’m, can one do much — this way?” he muttered.
With a movement she did not try to restrain Lloyd put both her hands over his poor, shapeless wrists. Never in her life had she been so strongly moved. Pity, such as she had never known, a tenderness and compassion such as she had never experienced, went knocking at her breast. She had no words at hand for so great emotions. She longed to tell him what was in her heart, but all speech failed.
“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “Don’t! I will not have you.”
A little later, as they were returnin
g toward the carriages, Lloyd, after a moment’s deliberation upon the matter, said:
“Can’t I set you down somewhere near your rooms? Let your carriage go.”
He shook his head: “I’ve just given up my downtown rooms. Bennett and I have taken other rooms much farther uptown. In fact, I believe I am supposed to be going there now. It would be quite out of your way to take me there. We are much quieter out there, and people can’t get at us so readily. The doctor says we both need rest after our shaking up. Bennett himself — iron as he is — is none too strong, and what with the mail, the telegrams, reporters, deputations, editors, and visitors, and the like, we are kept on something of a strain. Besides we have still a good deal of work to do getting our notes into shape.”
Lewis brought the ponies to the edge of the walk, and Lloyd and Ferriss separated, she turning the ponies’ heads homeward, starting away at a brisk trot, and leaving him in his carriage, which he had directed to carry him to his new quarters.
But at the turn of the avenue Lloyd leaned from the phaeton and looked back. The carriage was just disappearing down the vista of elms and cottonwoods. She waved her hand gayly, and Ferriss responded with the stump of one forearm.
On the next day but one, a Friday, Lloyd was to go to the country. Every year in the heat of the summer Lloyd spent her short vacation in the sleepy and old-fashioned little village of Bannister. The country around the village was part of the Searight estate. It was quiet, off the railroad, just the place to forget duties, responsibilities, and the wearing anxieties of sick-rooms. But Thursday afternoon she expected Bennett.