Rupert Vivian went to London with a fixed determination not to return to Strathleckie. He told himself that he had been thinking far too much of the whims and vagaries of a silly, pretty girl; and that it would be for his good to put such memories of her bright eyes, and vain, coquettish ways as remained to him, completely out of his mind. He did his best to carry out this resolution, but he was not very successful.

He had some troubles of his own, and a good deal of business to transact; but the weeks did not pass very rapidly, although his time was so fully occupied. He began to be anxious to hear something of his friend, Percival Heron; he searched the newspapers for tidings of the Arizona, he called at Lloyd's to inquire after her; but a mystery seemed to hang over her fate. She had never reached Pernambuco—so much was certain! Had she gone to the bottom, carrying with her passengers and crew? And the Falcon, in which Brian had sailed—also reported missing—what had become of her?

Rupert knew enough of Elizabeth Murray's story to think of her with anxiety—almost with tenderness—at this juncture. He knew of no reason why the marriage with Percival should not take place, for he had not heard a word about her special interest in Brian Luttrell; but he had been told of Brian's reappearance, and of the doubt cast upon his claim to the property. He was anxious, for Percival's sake as well as for hers, that the matter should be satisfactorily adjusted; and he felt a pang of dismay when he first learnt the doubt that hung over the fate of the Arizona.

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.

"I thought you had gone with the others," he said, "but I am glad to find you here. I can tell you first—alone. I have sad news, Kitty. Why don't you come and shake hands with me, dear, as you always do? I want to have your little hand in mine while I tell you the story."

He was standing near the arm-chair, from which he had risen, with his hand extended still. There was a look of appeal, almost a look of helplessness, about him, which Kitty did not altogether understand. She came forward and touched his hand very lightly, and then would have withdrawn it had his fingers not closed upon it with a firm, yet gentle grasp.

"I think I know what you have come to say," she answered, not struggling to draw her hand away, but surrendering it as if it were not worth while to consider such a trifle. "I read it all in the newspapers this morning. The others do not know."

"You did not tell them?" said Rupert, a little surprised.

"I came to tell them now."

"You have been away? Ah, yes, I heard you talking about a visit to Edinburgh some time ago: you have been there, perhaps? I came to see your father—to see you all, so that you should not learn the story first from the newspapers, but I was too late to shield you, Kitty."

"Yes," she said, with a weary sigh; "too late."

"I have brought the man Mason with me. He will tell you a great deal more than you can read in the newspapers. Would you like to see him now? Or will you wait until your father comes?"

"I will wait, I think," said Kitty, very gently. "They will not be long now. Sit down, Mr. Vivian. I hope you have had all that you want."

"What is the matter, Kitty?" asked Vivian, with (for him) extraordinary abruptness. "Why have you taken away your hand, child? What have I done?"

She made no answer.

"You are in trouble, Kitty. Can I not comfort you a little? I would give a great deal to be able to do it. But the day for that is gone by."

"Yes, it is gone by," echoed Kitty once more in the tones that never used to be so sad.

"It is selfish to talk about myself when you have this great loss to bear," he pursued; "and yet I must tell you what has happened to me lately, so that you may understand what perhaps seems strange to you. Am I altered, Kitty? Do I look changed to your eyes in any way?"

"No," she answered, hesitatingly; "I think not. But people do not change very easily in appearance, do they? Whatever happens, they are the same. I am not at all altered, they tell me, since—since you were here."

"Why should you be?" said Rupert, vaguely touched, he knew not why, by the pathetic quality that had crept into her voice. "Even a great sorrow, like this one, does not change us in a single day. But I have had some weeks in which to think of my loss; small and personal though it may seem to you."

"What loss?" said Kitty.

"Is it no loss to think that I shall never see your face again, Kitty? I am blind."

"Blind!" She said the word again, with a strange thrill in her voice. "Blind!"

"Not quite, just yet," said Rupert, quietly, but with a resolute cheerfulness. "I know that you are standing there, and I can still grope my way amongst the tables and chairs in a room, without making many mistakes: but I cannot see your sweet eyes and mouth, Kitty, and I shall never look upon the purple hills again. Do you remember that we planned to climb Craig Vohr next summer for the sake of the fine view? Not much use my attempting it now, I am afraid—unless you went with me, and told me what you saw."

She did not say a word. He waited a moment, but none came; and he could not see the tears that were in her eyes. Perhaps he divined that they were there.

"It has been coming on for some time," he said, still in the cheerful tone which he had made himself adopt. "I was nearly certain of it when I was here in January; and since then I have seen some famous oculists, and spent a good deal of time in a dark room—with no very good result. Nothing can be done."

"Nothing? Absolutely nothing?"

"Nothing at all. I must bear it as other men have done. I am rather old to frame my life anew, and I shall never equal Mr. Fawcett in energy and power, though I think I shall take him as my model," said Rupert, with a rather sad smile, "but I must do my best, and I dare say I shall get used to it in time. Kitty, I thought—somehow—that I should like to hear you say that you were sorry.... And you have not said it yet."

"I am sorry," said Kitty, in a low voice.

The tears were falling over her pale cheeks, but she did not turn away her head—why should she? He could not see.

"I have been a fool," said Vivian, with the unusual energy of utterance which struck her as something new in him. "I am thirty-eight—twenty years older than you, Kitty—and I have missed half the happiness that I might have got out of my life, and squandered the other half. I will tell you what happened when I was a lad of one-and-twenty—before you were a year old, Kitty: think of that!—I fell in love with a woman some years older than myself. She was a barmaid. Can you fancy me now in love with a barmaid? I find it hard to imagine, myself. I married her, Kitty. Before we had been married six weeks I discovered that she drank. I was tied to a drunken, brawling, foul-mouthed woman of the lower class—for life. At least I thought it was for life."

He paused, and asked with peculiar gentleness:—

"Am I telling you this at a wrong time? Shall I leave my story for another day? You are thinking of him, perhaps: I am not without thoughts of him, too, even in the story that I tell. Shall I stop, or shall I go on?"

"Go on, please. I want to hear. Yes, as well now as any other time. You married. What then?"

Could it be Kitty who was speaking? Rupert scarcely recognised those broken, uneven tones. He went on slowly.

"She left me at last. We agreed to separate. I saw her from time to time, and made her an allowance. She lived in one place: I in another. She died last year."

"Last year?"

"Yes, in the autumn. You heard that I had gone into Wales to see a relation who was dying: that was my wife."

"Did Percival know?" asked Kitty, in a low voice.

"No. I think very few persons knew. I wonder whether I ought to have told the world in general! I did not want to blazon forth my shame."

For a little time they both were silent. Then Rupert said, softly:—

"When she was dead, I remembered the little girl whom I used to know in Gower-street; and I said to myself that I would find her out."

"You found her changed," said Kitty, with a sob.

"Very much changed outwardly; but with the same loving heart at the core. Kitty, I was unjust to you: I have come back to offer reparation."

"For what?"

"For that injustice, dear. When I went away from Strathleckie in January, I was angry and vexed with you. I thought that you were throwing yourself away in promising to marry Hugo Luttrell—" then, as Kitty made a sudden gesture—"oh, I know I had no right to interfere. I was wrong, quite wrong. I must confess to you now, Kitty, that I thought you a vain, frivolous, little creature; and it was not until I began to think over what I had said to you and what you had said to me, that I saw clearly, as I lay in my darkened room, how unjust I had been to you."

"You were not unjust," said Kitty, hurriedly; "and I was wrong. I did not tell you the truth; I let you suppose that I was engaged to Hugo when I was not. But——"

"You were not engaged to him?"

"No."

"Then I may say what I should have said weeks ago if I had not thought that you had promised to marry him?"

"It cannot make much difference what you say now," said Kitty, heavily. "It is too late."

"I suppose it is. I cannot ask any woman—especially any girl of your age—to share the burden of my infirmity."

"It is not that. Anyone would be proud to share such a burden—to be of the least help to you—but I mean—you have not heard——"

She could not go on. If he had seen her face, he might have guessed more quickly what she meant. But he could not see; and her voice, broken as it was, told him only that she was agitated by some strong emotion—he knew not of what kind. He rose and stood beside her, as if he did not like to sit while she was standing. Even at that moment she was struck by the absence of his old airs of superiority; his blindness seemed to have given him back the dependence and simplicity of much earlier days.

"I suppose you mean that you are not free," he said. "And even if you had been free, my dear, it is not at all likely that I should have had a chance. There are certain to be many wooers of a girl possessed of your fresh sweetness and innocent gaiety. I wished only to say to you that I have been punished for any harsh words of mine, by finding out that I could not forget your face for a day, for an hour. I will not say that I cannot live without you; but I will say that life would have the charm that it had in the days of my youth, if I could have hoped that you, Kitty, would have been my wife."

There was a faint melancholy in the last few words that went to Kitty's heart. Rupert heard her sob, and immediately put out his hand with the uncertain action of a man who cannot see.

"Kitty!" he said, ruefully, "I did not mean to make you cry, dear. Don't grieve. There are obstacles on both sides now. I am a blind, helpless old fellow; and you are going to be married. Child, what does this mean?"

Unable to speak, she had seized his hand and guided it to the finger on which she wore a plain gold ring. He felt it: he felt her hand, and then he asked a question.

"Are you married already, Kitty?"

"Yes."

"To whom?"

"To Hugo Luttrell." And then she sank down almost at his feet, sobbing, and her hot tears fell upon the hand which she pressed impulsively to her lips. "Oh, forgive me! forgive me!" she cried. "Indeed, I did not know what to do. I was very wicked and foolish. And now I am miserable. I shall be miserable all my life."

These vague self-accusations conveyed no very clear idea to Vivian's mind; but he was conscious of a sharp sting of pain at the thought that she was not happy in her marriage.

"I did not know. I would not have spoken as I did if I had known," he said.

"No, I know you would not; and yet I could not tell you. You will hear all about it from the others. I cannot bear to tell you. And yet—yet—don't think me quite so foolish, quite so wrong as they will say that I have been. They do not know all. I cannot tell them all. I was driven into it—and now I have to bear the punishment. My whole life is a punishment. I am miserable."

"Life can never be a mere punishment, if it is rightly led," said Vivian, in a low tone. "It is, at any rate, full of duties and they will bring happiness."

"To some, perhaps; not to me," said Kitty, raising herself from her kneeling posture and drying her eyes. "I have no duties but to look nice and make myself agreeable."

"You will find duties if you look for them. There is your husband's happiness, to begin with——"

"My husband," exclaimed Kitty, in a tone of passionate contempt that startled him. But they could say no more, for at that moment the carriage came up to the door, and, from the voices in the hall, it was plain that the family had returned.

A great hush fell upon those merry voices when Mr. Vivian's errand was made known. Mrs. Heron, who was really fond of Percival, was inconsolable, and retired to her own room with the little boys and the baby to weep for him in peace. Mr. Heron, Kitty, and Elizabeth remained with Rupert in the study, listening to the short account which he gave of the wreck of the Arizona, as he had learnt it from Mason's lips. And then it was proposed that Mason should be summoned to tell his own story.

Mason's eyes rested at once upon Elizabeth with a look of respectful admiration. He told his story with a rough, plain eloquence which more than once brought tears to the listeners' eyes; and he dwelt at some length on the presence of mind and cheery courage which Mr. Heron had shown during the few minutes between the striking of the ship and her going down. "Just as bold as a lion, ladies and gentlemen; helping every poor soul along, and never thinking of himself. They told fine tales of one of the men we took aboard from the Falcon; but Mr. Heron beat him and all of us, I'm sure."

"You took on board someone from the Falcon?" said Elizabeth, suddenly.

"Yes, ma'am, three men that were picked up in an open boat, where they had been for five days and nights; the Falcon having been burnt to the water's edge, and very few of the crew saved."

Elizabeth's hands clasped themselves a little more tightly, but she suffered no sign of emotion to escape her.

"Do you remember the names of the men saved from the Falcon?" she said.

"There was Jackson," said the sailor, slowly; "and there was Fall; and there was a steerage passenger—seems to me his name was Smith, but I can't rec'llect exackly."

"It was not Stretton?"

"No, it warn't no name like that, ma'am."

"Then they are both lost," said Elizabeth, rising up with a deadly calm in her fixed eyes and white face; "both lost in the great, wild sea. We shall see them no more—no more." She paused, and then added in a much lower voice, as if speaking to herself: "I shall go to them, but they will not return to me."

Her strength seemed to give way. She walked a few steps unsteadily, threw up her hands as if to save herself, and without a word and without a cry, fell in a dead faint to the ground.