"Gertrude!" said he, in wonder; but he did not approach her. He stood before her, as one who was submissive.
"So we have got to land at last," said she; and more and more he wondered to hear the friendliness of her voice. Could it be true, then? Or was it only one of those visions that had of late been torturing his brain?
"Oh yes, Gerty!" said he. "We have got to an anchorage."
"I thought I would sit up for it," said she. "Christina said we should get to land some time to-night; and I thought I would like to see you. Because, you know, Keith, you have used me very badly. And won't you sit down?"
He accepted that invitation. Could it be true? could it be true? This was ringing in his ears. He heard her only in a bewildered way.
"And I want you to tell me what you mean to do with me," said she, frankly and graciously: "I am at your mercy, Keith."
"Oh, not that—not that," said he; and he added, sadly enough, "it is I who have been at your mercy since ever I saw you, Gerty; and it is for you to say what is to become of you and of me. And have you got over your anger now? And will you think of all that made me do this, and try to forgive it for the sake of my love for you, Gerty? Is there any chance of that now?"
She rather avoided the earnest gaze that was bent on her. She did not notice how nervously his hand gripped the edge of the table near him.
"Well, it is a good deal to forgive, Keith; you will acknowledge that yourself: and though you used to think that I was ready to sacrifice everything for fame, I did not expect you would make me a nine-days' wonder in this way. I suppose the whole thing is in the papers now."
"Oh no, Gerty; I sent a message to your father."