Marmaduke began, speaking in fragments hurriedly put together, looking steadily down on his hands, using a brief business tone—just as if every syllable had not been planned by him on his way back, so that the tidings might fall most gradually on the poor wife's ear.
“It was indeed the Ardente. Four sailors were picked up yesterday, in one of her boats. They say it's likely that others may have got off in the same way.”
“Ah!” That wild sob of thanksgiving! Marmaduke seemed to dread it more than despair. He hastily added:
“But they had many things against them. The fire happened at midnight. When it broke out there was no one on deck but one passenger, walking up and down. He was a young man, the sailors say, tall, with long light hair.”
The speaker's voice faltered; he could not bear to see the misery he inflicted. At last Agatha motioned to hear more.
“One sailor remembers him particularly, because during all the tumult he was almost the only person who seemed to have his wits about him. He was seen everywhere—getting out the boats, quieting the passengers—doing it all, the man says, as steadily as if he had been in his own house on shore, instead of in a burning ship. If there was any one likely to have saved his own life and the lives of others, the sailors think it must be that young man.”
“When did they see him last?”
“Not five minutes before the ship went down. He was in a boat with several more. They think it was he because of his light hair. He was leaning over towards a floating spar, helping in a woman and child.”
“Ah, then it was he! It was my husband!” cried Agatha, clasping her hands, while her countenance glowed like that of some Roman wife, who, dearer even than his life, esteemed her husband's honour.
“I believe,” she said, as that rapture faded, and the natural pang returned—“I firmly believe that he has been saved. God would not let him perish. He must have got safe off from the wreck in that boat. Don't you think he has?”