And now indeed the shadows gathered and closed in about us. Already our day was but a brief period of mournful twilight. Soon there would be only a chill redness in the northern sky at midday. Then this too would leave us, and the electric glow of the Billowcrest would be our only cheer.

With the coming of the dark, the friendly sea life—the penguins and the seals—vanished. They had visited us numerously during the early days of our arrival in Bottle Bay, and we did not realize what a comfort they had been until they were gone. Neither did we quite understand why they should go, when the water of the bay was still open. Yet we knew that they must be wiser in the matter than we, and we could not help being a bit depressed as we watched them becoming fewer each day, until the last one had regarded us solemnly and with a harsh note of farewell had deserted us for the open waters of the north.

Instinctively we drew nearer together and our interdependence became daily more evident. What gave trifling pleasure to one was a signal for a general rejoicing, while the slightest individual ailment became a matter of heavy concern to all.

There were so few of us, and the darkening waste about was so wide and desolate. Personal consideration and even tenderness crept into our daily round, and any dim shadows of discontent that may have lingered among us were gathered up by the approaching gloom.

The Captain informed us that on the Saturday before Easter we should see the sun for the last time. Gale said he was glad Easter fell late that year, and that we ought to do something special in the way of farewell ceremonies.

So on Saturday immediately after breakfast we began our programme. We were to have many other such diversions during the long night that followed, and as our first was fairly representative of the others I will give it somewhat in detail. There were a number of musical instruments on board and most of us could play, or at least strum a little. Edith Gale, who was a skilled musician, had composed something for the occasion, and led on the harp. Ferratoni played well on the violin, Gale had some mastery of the flute, and I could follow with chords on the piano. Then we had singing, in which all joined, and the great barrier behind us echoed for the first time in all its million years to a grand old English ballad with a rousing chorus.

Now followed a literary series in which we were to give things of our own composition. Edith Gale was first on this programme. She did not need to read her effort. It was very brief.

“Beauty,” she said, “and a love of the truly beautiful, are nature’s best gifts to men and women. We have only to look and to listen, and we learn something of the joy of the Universe and the soothing spirit of peace. Even in this loneliness, and through the long night that lies now at our Gateway of the Sun, we may find, if we will understand it, something beside desolation and unillumined dark. Within, we shall keep the semblance and memories of summertime. Without, will fall a night, mighty and solemn, and terrifying, but always majestic, always beautiful. And in our hearts we shall not grow faint, or despair.”

After the acknowledgments Gale said:

“That’s the sort of thing that Johnnie used to carry to the homes and hearthstones of Tangleside, and it’s wonderful the way they seemed to take to it. What do you think about it, Bill? Do you think a love of the beautiful will be our greatest comfort during a hundred-day night? Let’s hear from you.”

Mr. Sturritt rose nervously.

“I—I am quite sure,” he began, “that Miss Gale understands her bus—er—subject, I should say, but I would suggest, that, without proper nourishment—that is—food we would find it not easy to appreciate the less filling—er, I mean less material comforts of beauty.”

Here Mr. Sturritt glanced at a little paper in his hand and continued more steadily.

“Without proper food man becomes ill in body and morals. With it, he becomes hopeful, and inspired to high achievements. Different foods result in varied trains of thought. Acting upon this I hope to produce a condensed lozenge or wafer that shall assist each according to his needs. The inventor, the artist and the poet will then be gently stimulated in imagination, command of words or rhythmic forces, as may be required.”

Mr. Sturritt lowered his paper.

“For those lacking in their love of the truly beautiful I may also get up a dose—er, I should say—prepare a lozenge. For our long winter, however, I have laid in a line of—er—uncondensed supplies which I hope will make our memories of summer fonder, and the strangeness of the night less—less discouraging.”

“Good for you, Bill,” laughed Gale as he sat down. “Johnnie’s all right too, but in a case of this kind it’s the food question that I’m thinking of. Who’s next? Let’s hear from you, Biffer.”

The Captain rose with some embarrassment, and rather ponderously.

“I’m with Miss Gale, mostly,” he began. “I’ve seen the sea in a storm so beautiful that I wasn’t afraid, but the story I’m going to tell may seem to side some with Mr. Sturritt, too.

“Twenty-five years ago last January I was captain of a three-masted schooner in the colony trade, bound from Liverpool to Halifax. Five days out we struck one of the hardest no’theast storms I ever met. In less than an hour after she hit us we’d lost our mainmast, and our cook’s galley was a wreck. Our deck was open at the seams in forty places and everything, including our provision, was wet with salt water. I ought to have run back but I didn’t, and we hadn’t more’n got out of that storm till another hit us, and then another, until we’d had eleven hurricanes in less than that many days, and were in the worst condition a vessel could get into and keep afloat. We had none too much provision to start with, and most of what we’d had was lost. There was no way to cook what we did have, so it was half a loaf of bread and a pint of water a day, and drifting along under a little dinky sail, with a signal of distress flying. Well, the wind kept up and blew us across the ocean, somehow. We got in sight of Halifax light one evening, and right there we struck a nor’wester that laid us out proper. We rolled and pitched and waterlogged, and went back to sea again—God knows where.

“Then hard times did begin. It was four ounces of bread and half a gill of water a day for fifty days, and cold and freezing, trying to keep afloat.”

“And then you were rescued! Then you were taken off!”

It was Edith Gale. She was leaning forward, and her eyes glistening.

“No, Miss Gale, then we ran out of bread and water.”

“Oh, Captain Biffer!”

“For seven days there wa’n’t any of either. Everybody laid down to die except me. I kep’ up on responsibility, and stood at the wheel day and night. I didn’t know where we was, and I didn’t care, but somehow I couldn’t let go of the wheel. Mebbe, if I’d appreciated nature a little more it would have helped, too, and I know a little food would have gone a long ways. But nature didn’t seem to need us, and we didn’t need nature. And all the food and water were gone, though pretty soon I didn’t care for that, either. I didn’t even care much when I saw a big steamer coming right toward us. I was glad, of course, but I didn’t care enough to make any hurrah over it, and neither did the men. But after we’d been carried on board, and I’d got through with a plate of soup, down in the Captain’s room, I says; ‘What day is it, Captain?’ ‘Why,’ he says, ‘didn’t you know? It’s Easter Sunday.’ ‘No,’ I says, ‘but the Lord be praised.’”

The glisten in Edith Gale’s eyes had become tears. Captain Biffer and I had had our differences. Perhaps in a general way he still believed me an ass. But I had walked over and taken his hand before I remembered it.

“I want to shake a brave man’s hand,” I said.

“Mr. Larkins,” said Gale, “suppose you give us your experience. What’s the best thing to keep up on through a long dark night?”

“Well, Admiral,” began Mr. Larkins, “I’ve never been shipwrecked, but I remember something about a dark night, and a man as got out into the wet of it. It was tin year ago, and I was comin’ out of Manchester on the bark Mary Collins, bound fer Bombay. She was a shlow old towboat, an’ the sailors were makin’ fun of her from the shtarrt. But there was one felly, named Doolan, who kep’ at it continual, an’ repeatin’ all day that he could shwim to Bombay sooner than we could get there on the Mary Collins. ‘An,’ Doolan,’ I says, ‘you may get a chance to thry it, if we hit one o’ thim shqualls that I run into here two year ago.’ An’ it was the next night that we did that same, an’ Doolan was up on the top-s’l yarrd. An’ whin the thwist of the shquall hit Doolan, he wint off wid a whoop an’ a currvin’ ploonge, an’ one of the men below yells out ‘Man overboard!’ an’ heaves a life-buoy into the blackness of it. But by the time we could put her about in that shquall, an’ get back, there was no Doolan. We hadn’t expected there would be. For whin a man dhrifts ashtern in a shquall on a darrk night his name may shtay Doolan, but it’s more than likely to be Dinnis. So afther callin’ an’ showin’ lights a bit, we wint on to Bombay in the direction that Doolan might be shwimmin’, if he had a mind, now, to thry. An’ whin we got to Bombay an’ I wint to the Cushtom House an’ walked in, I see a felly sthandin’ by the rail, an’ a-grinnin’, an’ by the Ghost of me Great Gran’mother if it wasn’t Doolan! ‘Don’t be frightened, sur,’ he says, ‘it’s me.’ ‘An’ Doolan!’ I says, ‘an’ how did you get here? ‘Shwimmin’,’ says Doolan, ‘an’ I told you I could beat the Mary Collins.’

“But it wasn’t shwimmin’ that saved Doolan, ner food, ner reshponsibility, ner even the beauties of nature, though he had a chance durin’ the night he fell over to view thim at close range. It was the life-buoy that saved Doolan, an’ kep’ him floatin’ till he was picked up next mornin’ by a shmarter boat that beat the Mary Collins to Bombay by one tide. I’m not sayin’ but that the others air sushtainin’ too, but it was the life-buoy that saved Doolan.”

“There are many kinds of life-buoys, Mr. Larkins,” laughed Edith Gale, “and I confess that Mr. Doolan seems to have found the one best suited to his needs. What is your experience, Mr. Emory?”

The quiet Second Officer was silent for a moment, and his face saddened.

“I was shipwrecked once,” he said. “We lost our vessel and drifted for a long time in a leaky boat. A good many died. I was kept up by the memory of a girl, waiting for me at home. When I got there——”

Mr. Emory paused as if to gather himself. It had grown very still in the saloon.

“She was dead,” he concluded, “so you see my shipwreck and dark night are not over yet.”

Our narrow round had indeed brought us close together. I doubt if Emory had ever spoken of this before to any one. Edith Gale laid her hand on his arm.

“And she is still waiting,” she said, “you must not forget that.”

“Suppose we hear from you, Chase,” said Gale, after a pause.

Matters had taken rather an unexpected turn. I felt that I could not discuss what would best sustain me through the dark night ahead without putting myself and one other person in a trying position. I made an effort to gain time.

“I think we should hear from the Admiral, now,” I said.

“Oh, well,” said Gale, “I’m not bashful if I have got new clothes on. Here’s a few observations that I’ve jotted down from time to time, not especially for a dark night, but for any old night, or day either, when you happen to think about ’em.” Gale straightened back and pulled down his vest comfortably. “Seventeen Observations,” he began, “by Chauncey Gale. Homes and Firesides a Specialty.”

I. “This is a good world if we just think so. The toothache is about the worst thing in it, and we can have the tooth pulled.

II. “There ain’t so many mistakes in this world as people think. A man’s pretty apt to get where he belongs by the time he’s forty.

III. “It’s easy to get rich if people only know it. Most folks want to make too hard work of it.

IV. “There may be men who could get rich playing poker, but I’ve only happened to meet the ones that had tried it.

V. “It isn’t hard work to judge human nature if you let the other man do the talking.

VI. “A man’s word may be as good as his bond, but if it is he won’t mind giving his bond, too.

VII. “The commuter who keeps his lawn mowed is a gentleman. If he mows the vacant lot next to him, he’s fit for a better world.

VIII. “Many a man is a blamed fool with the best intentions in the world.

IX. “A free show may be a good show, but if it is, the crowd will pay for it.

X. “A mosquito has no fear of death, and a pound of them will ruin the best addition ever laid out.

XI. “Luck is a good thing, but it’s the men that don’t count on it that mostly have it.

XII. “It isn’t the biggest creature that can stand the most punishment. A lick that will only amuse a fly will kill a baby.

XIII. “Distance depends a good deal on how fast a man can walk. No addition should be more than five minutes from the station.

XIV. “A man can enjoy leisure just as well while he’s waiting for a train as any other time if he’ll only think so.

XV. “I never saw a failure yet that wasn’t worth more than it cost, if the fellow that failed made use of it.

XVI. “The best way to make yourself liked is to make yourself worth liking.

XVII. “Never laugh at a lunatic’s plans. The biggest fool scheme to-day may be a sound business proposition to-morrow.”

Gale sat down amid enthusiasm. Most of his observations were not new in substance, and some of them I did not altogether agree with, but in them all I recognized the characteristic philosophy that had made Chauncey Gale the man I had learned to admire, and even to love. His last “observation,” though uncomplimentary in form, explained to me our presence in Bottle Bay at this moment. I would endeavor to make it hold good.

“Come, Chase, it’s your turn, now!”

“This,” I said, rising, “is something I did while wandering about the docks of New York City. The editors that saw it didn’t care for it, and I don’t care very much for it now, myself. I have altered my opinion about some things since then—not about the sea, I mean, but about the—the most sustaining—that is, through a dark night—I mean, that is—now——”

“Never mind what you mean now,” said Gale. “Suppose you read it and let us see if we can tell what you meant then.”

I was glad enough for this interruption, and proceeded, forthwith:

“Well, yes,” commented Gale, as I sat down. “I seem to gather what you were driving at then, but it didn’t seem to me you meant quite the same thing the day we sailed.”

Edith Gale came out of a reverie to join in the laugh. I wondered if she knew what I had meant by my floundering about before beginning the verses—if she realized that a word, or perhaps three words, from her would mean more to me now than all the seas and lands of earth.

But Ferratoni, at a signal from Gale, had arisen. For days he had been as one in a dream. We had thought him depressed by the oncoming night. It seems doubtful, now, that he even realized that there was a night.

“Force!” he began. “In that word lies the secret of all the worlds and skies.

“Force, and its visible symbol, vibration!

“Sound—it is vibration—all know it.

“Heat, light, color, Electricity—they are vibrations:—many recognize it.

“Life, thought, soul—these, too, are vibrations, yet more subtle:—I have proved it.

“And from vibrations—harmony.

“Music—the fitting together or chording of sounds—the union of vibrations—it is the form all know, it has soothed and charmed so many.”

He paused and looked toward Edith Gale.

“Beauty,” he continued, “that which you so well offer to men as spirit sustenance, what is it but the combining of life and color vibrations into chords which bring joy to those whose souls awake to answer?

“Harmony—it is Nature’s law. Only the hand of man may work discord. Left undisturbed for even a brief period, the wood and the stream, the meadow and the hill, fall into rhyme and melody, while from the sun and moon falls a quivering glory of light, and voices of the air come whispering or shouting past to blend more perfectly the elemental chord.”

His eyes wandered about to the others in the room.

“Lives vibrating to lives—the chord is friendship.” His gaze came back to Edith Gale, then to me. “Soul vibrates to soul—the chord is love.”

During the brief silence which followed this there was no question as to vibrations on my part. They were distinct waves, in fact, and I did not dare to look otherwise than straight ahead.

“For myself,” he continued, and I breathed again, “I have found the way of mental unity which means the voiceless speaking.”

He motioned to Miss Gale, who struck a chord on the harp near her. From the strings of the piano across the room came a faint yet perfect answer.

“That,” he said—“it contains it all. Thus the electric chords answer to each other and we speak without wires across the spaces. So the vibrations of the thought awaken in the mind of another their echo, and men are made to know, and may answer, without words.”

Once more he paused, and we had somehow a feeling that he was drifting away from us. When he spoke again there was in his voice the quality of one who, listening to faint far-off words, tries to repeat them.

“Somewhere,” he said, “from out of the land we are about to enter—there is seeking us now such a message. It comes far through the spaces—the strings of my thought are not perfectly adjusted to its tuning. Here, in the close union of our daily round the difficulty is not. We have become in mental adjustment—our minds have formed in a chord to which it is not strange that I, who have given my life to such research, should have found the key—should have become able to know without words, as in another way I have been able to hear without wires.”

He roused, as it were, and once more came back to us—to me, in fact.

“You,” he continued, “are at this instant wondering if what I said of the answering soul be true. It is, and you shall presently know it. You,” turning to Gale, “are thinking of the hour. You wished to consult your watch and hesitated out of consideration for me. You have no need. The Captain who sits behind you has just done so, and it lacks still a half-hour of midday.” He turned to Zar, who thus far had been a silent observer of the ceremonies. “You,” he said, “are remembering a little sunny cabin in the North, where thirty years ago you lived with your little ones about you. One of them is grown, now; the others are dead.”

Zar had comprehended little or nothing of what had gone before of Ferratoni’s words. She had been in a reverie, but at this point she sprang to her feet excitedly.

“Good Lawd!” she cried, “what kin’ o’ man is dat? Stan’ here an’ tell me jes’ puzzacly what I thinkin’ dat berry minute! I gwine out o’ here! I not gwine stay in no sech place!”

She set out hastily for the door. Her outbreak had brought the needed relaxation, and we all laughed.

“Come back,” called Gale. “You haven’t made your speech yet. We want to hear what you have to say.”

The old woman turned suddenly.

“All right, den I tell you what I got to say! I’s mighty good an’ tired dis heah country! Dat’s what I got to say! Heah we come off f’m a good civilianized lan’ wheah de sun git up an’ go to bed same as people do, an’ come off heah wheah de sun git up ha’f way, an’ cain’t git up no furdah, and cain’t git back nohow, but jes’ stay dar week in an’ week out, an’ keep hones’ folks awake, an’ den when it do git down cain’t git up ag’in, an’ de whole worl’ freeze up a-waitin’ foh hit. An’ what we come foh? Why, to fin’ a’ old pole what can be pick’ up in anybody’s wood-pile, free foh ca’yin’ off! Come down heah aftah a pole! What kin’ o’ pole you reck’n’ gwine grow in such place, anyhow? I sh’d say pole! Why, you couldn’t grow a bean pole! You couldn’t grow a willer squich like I use to keep foh a little girl what need hit now—bringin’ her ole mammy off down heah to freeze up in dis ice-jug! Come aftah a pole an’ fine a hole, dat’s what we done! No won’er Mistah Macaroni know what I thinkin’ ’bout, when hit all freeze up an’ stay heah, ’stid o’ gwine wheah hit b’long!” The old woman paused an instant for breath, then in a deep voice of warning concluded her arraignment. “An’ what kin’ o’ great black beas’ gwine come an’ get dis ship befo’ we all see mo’nin’? What great black monstah comin’ outen dis long black night what you-all mention? I know—hit Deff! Dat what comin’—Deff! Gwine out to say good-by to de sun, is you? Well, you bettah, caise when dat sun git roun’ dis way ag’in, if hit evah do, hit’s my ’pinion dat hit wait a long time befo’ we-all come out to say ‘Howdy!’”

The old woman flung herself out of the saloon. We laughed, but her final words had not been entirely without effect. It was by no means impossible that during the long night the “black beast” would come, and that the returning sun would find fewer to bid it welcome.

“I think she speaks not with the spirit of prophecy,” said Ferratoni, but nevertheless we grew rather silent as we passed into the gloom without. Edith Gale and I ascended to the bridge. The others did not follow, but huddled forward to the bow. It lacked still ten minutes of midday.

We now saw that the sky overhead was thick, but clear-streaked in the north. Where the sun would appear there was a sorrowful semblance of dawn. Far across the black, frozen wastes, chill bands of red and orange glowed feebly amid heavier bands of dusk violet. Profound, overpowering, the infinite dark and cold were upon us. Before it, philosophies dwindled and the need of warm human touch and sympathy came powerfully upon us all. Edith Gale did not speak, and instinctively we drew closer together. Somewhere beneath the fur wrappings my hand found hers. She did not withdraw it. The caution of Chauncey Gale seemed as far off as the place where he had spoken it. I leaned nearer to her. The word formed itself on my lips—I could not be blamed.

“Sweetheart!” I whispered.

She did not answer—the sun was coming. Above the far rim it showed a thin rayless edge. Between, there seemed to lie a million miles of frozen sea. We watched it creep slowly westward. It was not a real sun, but a wraith—a vision such as Dante might have dreamed.

Again, leaning near, I whispered to her; and again, just at first, she did not answer. Then, very softly:

“But it was not until you found the new world that you were to claim your reward.”

My heart bounded. She had remembered, then.

“Yes—I wish only to name it, now.”

The sun that had grown to a narrow distorted segment became once more a wavering line.

“Wait,” she said—“not now—to-morrow, perhaps—in the morning——”

“Morning? It is months till then. It is the long night I am thinking of——”

“Yes, I know. I didn’t mean—I meant——” and then somehow my arm had found its way about her, and she was close, close, and did not draw away.

The sun went out. The black wall—the black sea—the great black Antarctic Night and cold closed in, but within and about us lay the ineffable glory that has lighted the world and warmed it since man first looked on woman and found her fair.