“I have made a mistake, which makes it worse,” I continued desperately. “I have cut away the anchor but lost it—the shackle-pin was gone. We must——”
“But you knew the shackle-pin—or something—was gone! I heard Maxwell tell you!” she interrupted, with a flash of temper in her eye that took the place of fear.
“I remembered when too late,” I returned meekly. “In the confusion it went from my mind. When I found we had broken from the mooring I naturally turned to the anchor and cut it free. Will you—can you forgive me? I will make what reparation I may.”
For an answer she dropped limply on the locker, and, again burying her face in her hands, sobbed violently while I stood silent, not knowing how to comfort her, though my brain was busy enough. Presently the paroxysm passed and she looked up with a changed expression; then, heedless of her dainty costume, she approached me and placed both hands on my wringing sleeve.
“Oh, it is for you to forgive me!” she said, the tears still in her eyes. “It is all my fault! If I had only heeded you in the beginning! And I am such a cowardly girl; but I’ll try to be brave and not make it worse. What must we do?” And a divine smile brightened her woebegone face.
“I will tell you all I fear,” I said, mightily relieved at her changed attitude. “With the wind from its present quarter it is impossible to return to the Cove, and to continue drifting is dangerous. Stratford Shoal lies directly in our way, and unless some other direction can be given the vessel we are certain to be wrecked upon it. Listen quietly,” I added, as I saw fright come again to her eyes. “I think I can avert that danger. It may appear strange and hard to you, but it is necessary that we run from home instead of toward it. Will you trust me entirely?”
“Oh, yes! I must—I will.”
“Then excuse me for a time; I have work to do.”
“And am I to sit still and do nothing?”
“You may make a fire, if you will; we will need it. This may be an all-night matter.”