The light died away from her face; but she said, cheerfully enough,—­

“Well, I am at your mercy, then, Keith.  Let us take it that way.  Now you must tell me what part in the comedy you mean me to play; for the life of me I can’t make it out.”

“Oh, Gerty, Gerty, do not speak like that!” he exclaimed.  “You are breaking my heart!  Is there none of the old love left?  Is it all a matter for jesting?”

She saw she had been incautious.

“Well,” said she, gently, “I was wrong; I know it is more serious than that; and I am not indisposed to forgive you, if you treat me fairly.  I know you have great earnestness of nature; and—­and you were very fond of me; and although you have risked a great deal in what you have done, still, men who are very deeply in love don’t think much about consequences.  And if I were to forgive you, and make friends again, what then?”

“And if we were as we used to be,” said he, with a grave wistfulness in his face, “do you not think I would gladly take you ashore, Gerty?”

“And to Castle Dare?”

“Oh yes, to Castle Dare!  Would not my mother and Janet be glad to welcome you!”

“And papa may be there?”

“If he is not there, can we not telegraph for him?  Why, Gerty, surely you would not be married anywhere but in the Highlands?”

At the mention of marriage she blanched somewhat; but she had nerved herself to play this part.

“Then, Keith,” said she, gallantly, “I will make you a promise.  Take me to Castle Dare to-morrow, and the moment I am within its doors I will shake hands with you, and forgive you, and we will be friends again as in the old days.”

“We were more than friends, Gerty,” said he, in a low voice.

“Let us be friends first, and then who knows what may not follow?” said she, brightly.  “You cannot expect me to be overprofuse in affection just after being shut up like this?”

“Gerty,” said he, and he looked at her with those strangely tired eyes, and there was a great gentleness in his voice, “do you know where you are?  You are close to the island that I told you of—­where I wish to have my grave on the cliff.  But instead of a grave, would it not be a fine thing to have a marriage here?  No, do not be alarmed, Gerty! it is only with your own goodwill; and surely your heart will consent at last!  Would not that be a strange wedding, too; with the minister from Salen; and your father on board; and the people from Dare?  Oh, you would see such a number of boats come out that day, and we would go proudly back; and do you not think there would be a great rejoicing that day?  Then all our troubles would be at an end, Gerty!  There would be no more fear; and the theatres would never see you again; and the long happy life we should lead, we two together!  And do you know the first thing I would get you, Gerty?—­it would be a new yacht!  I would go to the Clyde and have it built all for you.  I would not have