There was no forgiveness, as there was no hope. Why should she expect it? Ah! but what a difference it would have made to her! How it would have helped her to bear her fate!
For a second she tottered on the verge of a breakdown, and then rallied, drawing upon that splendid woman's courage which enables such as her to stand and bear with fate where others would fall and be crushed.
Bravely she forced herself to continue, beating down the misery and despair which the cold tones of his voice had raised within her.
"And what are you doing here, Jack?"
"Tossed ashore by the capricious sea. I might ask you the same question, had I not already heard your story."
"Not from—Hawksley?" She stumbled miserably over her husband's name, and then with a sudden fear cast an uneasy look over her shoulder.
"No; the bluejacket," said Jack's even voice, and he got slowly to his feet.
"Won't you—won't you even shake hands, Jack?" pleaded the woman in her low, sad voice. "I know you won't forgive me, and I don't expect you to; but——"
It was the "but," the misery, the despair, the utter hopelessness, and yet the passionate entreaty in that last little word which conquered Jack's iron-bound soul and swept away his righteous indignation at a treatment which had spoiled his life.
He was touched; that "but" weighed down the scales on the side of his love, till his grievance, his outraged feelings, and the resultant misery leaped from him lightly as a feather.