The ghastly thought of her standing there looking up at the moon, and the pitiless moon looking down on the sea and on him! Agatha's senses reeled—she burst into the most awful laughter.
Marmaduke held her fast—the whimsical absent Marmaduke—now roused into his true character, kind, as any woman, and wiser than most men.
“Agatha, you must be quiet. It is wicked ever to despair. There is a chance—more than a chance, that your husband has been saved. He has infinite presence of mind, and he is a young, strong, likely lad. But Brian—poor Brian! my dear old friend!”
Duke Dugdale's bravery gave way—he was of such a gentle, tender heart. The sight of his emotion stilled Agatha's frenzy, and made it more like a natural grief, though it was hard yet—hard as stone.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand, and smiling piteously—“come—don't cry. I can't!—not for the world. Let us talk. What are you going to do?”
“I am going right off to Southampton—whence they have sent steamers out in all directions to pick up the boats, if they are drifting anywhere about the Channel. Fancy—to be out in the open sea, this winter-time, with possibly no clothes or food!”
“Hush!”—shuddered Agatha's low voice—“hush! or I shall go quite mad, and I would rather not just yet—afterwards, I shall not mind.”
“Poor child!”
“Don't now,” and she shrank from him. “Never think of me—that does not signify. Only something must be done. No weeping—no talking—do something!”
“I told you I should. I am going”—