His anxiety led him one day to stroll with a friend into the office of a shipowner who had some connection with the Arizona. Here he found an old sailor telling a story to which the clerks and the chief himself were listening with evident interest. Vivian inquired who he was. The answer made him start. John Mason, of the good ship Arizona, which I saw with my own eyes go down in eight fathoms o' water off Rocas reef. Me and the mate got off in the boat, by a miracle, as you may say. All lost but us.
And forthwith he told the story of the wreck—as far as he knew it.
Vivian listened with painful eagerness, and sat for some little time in silence when the story was finished, with his hand shading his eyes. Then he rose up and addressed the man.
"I want you to go with me to Scotland," he said, abruptly. "I want you to tell this story to a lady. She was to have been married to the Mr. Heron of whom you speak as soon as he returned. Poor girl! if anything can make it easier for her, it will be to hear of poor Heron's courage in the hour of death."
He set out that night, taking John Mason with him, and gleaning from him many details concerning Percival's popularity on board ship, details which he knew would be precious to the ears of his family by-and-bye. Mason was an honest fellow, and did not exaggerate, even when he saw that exaggeration would be welcome: but Percival had made himself remarked, as he generally did wherever he went, by his ready tongue and flow of animal spirits. Mason had many stories to tell of Mr. Heron's exploits, and he told them well.
Vivian was anxious to see the Herons before any newspaper report should reach them; and he therefore hurried the seaman up to Strathleckie after a hasty breakfast at the hotel. But at Strathleckie, disappointment awaited him. Everybody was out—except the baby and the servants. The whole party had gone to spend a long day at the house of a friend: they would not be back till evening.
Rupert was forced to resign himself to the delay. The man, Mason, was regaled in the servants' hall, and was there regarded as a kind of hero; but Vivian had no such distraction of mind. He had nothing to do: he had reasons of his own for neither walking out nor trying to read. He leaned back in an arm-chair, with his back to the light, and closed his eyes. From time to time he sighed heavily.
He felt himself quite sufficiently at home to ask for anything that he wanted; and the glass of wine and biscuit which formed his luncheon were brought to him in the study, the room that seemed to him best fitted for the communication that he would have to make. He had been there for two or three hours, and the short winter day was already beginning to grow dim, when the door opened, and a footstep made itself heard upon the threshold.
It was a woman's step. It paused, advanced, then paused again as if in doubt. Vivian rose from his chair, and held out both hands. "Kitty," he said. "Kitty, is it you?"
"Yes, it is I," she said. Her voice had lost its ring; there was a tonelessness about it which convinced Rupert that she had already heard what he had come to tell.