I heard her give a sigh, as of relief.
Good heavens! could it be possible she had been under the impression I kept such bachelor quarters aboard that my yacht was not a fit place for a lady? Would that account for her aversion to the thought of coming aboard?
It seemed almost incredible; surely, she should know my tastes of old, and that no matter what my weakness might be, it did not run in the line of debauchery.
Then she turned to me, and I saw an expression of genuine anxiety sweep over her face.
“Oh! you are wounded—you look terrible—it must be seen to. How can I forgive myself for thinking as I did when you have been in such peril for me? Please go to as little trouble as you can for me; show me my room, and I will bother you no more to-night. It is all so unfortunate, so wretched, that I am almost sorry I sent that note.”
“Well, I am not,” I said, firmly; “but I must present a very disagreeable sight to any one’s eyes. We have no maid aboard, unfortunately, so I have to do the honors myself. This is your room, Hildegarde.”
I opened the door.
The little cubbyhole did look rather alluring, I am bound to confess, and it quite pleased Hildegarde, who could not suppress an ejaculation of pleasure.
“Will it do?” I asked, humbly. She must never know what strange thoughts used to haunt me whenever I shut myself in that particular little stateroom and endeavored to imagine her there, and how more than once I had even been unmanly enough to shed a few tears over the dismal prospect of such a strange event ever happening to take myself sternly to task afterward about it.
“It is very sweet and lovely. I thank you for all your kindness, Morgan,” she said, with a tremor in her voice that affected me curiously.