He spoke bitterly and I determined to take advantage of the opportunity to draw him out. I wanted to penetrate the inmost recesses of his being, and with this object in view I replied:
"Yes, Captain, I have often thought of it and have realized it in my own experience. It sometimes seems little short of a miracle, that after years of wandering, I am now here with you. In my case I was not influenced by a mere trifle, but a stern necessity. I had absolutely nothing to lose, and I thought I might find something which, under the circumstances, would amply repay me for all the hardships and dangers I might have to encounter. But you were differently situated. You were independent. You had wealth, business and influential friends, while I had been robbed of my patrimony, and was thrown upon the world with nothing but my hands and brain to work with. My course was a necessity, but it is a mystery why you should abandon a profitable business and organize this expedition at such an enormous expenditure of labor and money, while you regard its avowed objects as matters of such little importance. Your course seems to involve a self-contradiction that I cannot comprehend."
"And thereby hangs a tale," said the Captain. "As a matter of fact, I never did attach any great importance to Arctic exploration. From my point of view, the discovery of the Pole would be of no especial value to mankind, as no practical use could be made of it. Even the discovery of a productive country, which may be possible, could not greatly benefit the world, as it would be inaccessible to the masses of humanity whose condition would be improved by the discovery of a new country and cheap homes. While such a successful culmination would be of small benefit to the world, it would be of still less interest to myself. I really care but little about what we may find at the end of this voyage."
"Then," I said, "if such be the estimate that you place upon the objects of this expedition, I am more than ever curious to learn what could have impelled you to undertake it. You must have had a reason of some kind. I cannot understand how men can act without a motive."
"Yes," said he, "I was impelled to organize this expedition by a power stronger than myself, but when I ask myself what I expect to accomplish by it, truth compels me to answer: 'Nothing.' As to the motive, I suppose that I have been actuated by an all-absorbing desire to forget the miseries of the past in the activities of the present."
"But this is not the tale that unlocks the mystery." I responded. "You have aroused my curiosity to a fever heat, and yet you fail to gratify it. It might be that I could pour oil on the troubled waters and possibly enable you to discover that you have been actuated by a mistaken conception, and that really there is nothing in the past that you should desire to forget. It would certainly do no harm to review the case, and it might reveal the fact that it was a source of misery, simply because all the circumstances were not fully understood."
"I have no desire," said the Captain, "to conceal the story of my life from you, if you care to hear it. But I fully understand it and it is of such a nature as to admit of no remedy."
"Do not be too sure of that," I said. "But until the story is told, of course I will not be able to form an intelligent opinion of the case. Yet, observation and experience have convinced me that there are always two sides to every question and that to get at the facts in all their bearings, we must closely examine both sides."
"Well," said the captain, "I see that you were cut out for a lawyer and the wonder is how you came to be a sailor. You certainly have a judicial cast of mind and to while away the monotony of the hour, I will submit the matter to you, reserving the right, however, to decide for myself. I have always exercised my natural right to examine every question from my own standpoint and decide it according to my own sense of right and wrong.
"It is the same old story of an all-absorbing love and a cruel disappointment, followed by long years of suppressed anguish, from which I am still striving to escape. I was an orphan, living with my bachelor uncle, Richard Sage, in one of the suburbs of New York City. He was my guardian and the executor of the estate left me by my father. My uncle was kind and indulgent, and my widowed aunt who presided over his home, was to me a loving mother, and so my childhood days were passed in happy contentment.