He was weeping still, but his face literally shone with the joy and pride of the thought; he dashed the tears away, and with the same gesture waved his arms in triumph toward the sky.
“But when did this happen?” asked the captain. “And who was the woman?”
“It was all so like him,” exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw, scarcely heeding the other’s question. “He worked on impulse; he lived his life on impulse; he died on impulse. This last thing alone should make him immortal. What other man would have had the courage? What other man would have had the frank and splendid audacity? To desert his wife when he felt that she was no longer what he needed; to——”
“So he deserted her, did he?” said the captain slowly.
“Yes; such minds do not stick at any conventional things. He deserted her; he fled with another. The other was rich and—so I understand—beautiful. She had a yacht waiting to carry her and her poet away—think of the romance of it, think of the romance of it! They reached the yacht, it appears, and set sail for their paradise under a moonlit sky. Imagine the scene! Then, in the midst of it all comes grim Fate in the shape of a lumbering coasting steamer and cuts them in two. A survivor has already declared that he saw Brian Carlaw and the woman go down locked in each other’s arms. My poor boy—he has carried himself well before the world to the last!”
“Do you know,” asked the captain with some sternness, “that his wife is here, within a few yards of us?”
“I was not aware of it,” replied Mr. Carlaw, glancing about him. “My sole reason for coming here—to this place of his birth—and at so early a moment is because I feel that something should be done for him; that they should understand the loss they and the world have sustained, and should fitly mark their grief. From whom could the news come so appropriately as from the father who loved him and sacrificed so much for him? That is my real errand. But you say that she is here?”
“Yes,” replied the captain; “she came here yesterday—I suppose when she learned that he had deserted her. She must be told of this.”
“Yes, I suppose she must,” replied Mr. Carlaw hurriedly. “Of course, she takes no real or great place in this sorrowful business; my son stands alone, and the name of the lady with whom he died will naturally and inevitably be linked with his. A few will be shocked; to the majority, I trust, the position will appear appropriate. Personally, I am sorry for the wife—but she does not touch the story.”