r meet him again? Perhaps not. Or why should she? Of
what avail would it be?

Passing over the seas she gave herself up to her recollections, and
to the mournful thoughts that crowded in upon her. Among other
things, she could not help thinking and wondering about Windham's
despair. What was the reason that he had always kept such a close
watch over himself? What was the reason why he never ventured to
utter in words that which had so often been expressed in his eloquent
face? Above all, what was the cause of that despairing cry which had
escaped him when they exchanged their last farewell? It was the
recognition on his part of some insuperable obstacle that lay between
them. That was certain. Yet what could the obstacle be? Clearly, it
could not have been the knowledge of her own position. It was
perfectly evident that Windham knew nothing whatever about her, and
could have not even the faintest idea of the truth. It must therefore
be, as she saw it, that this obstacle could only be one which was in
connection with himself. And what could that be? Was he a priest
under vows of celibacy? She smiled at the preposterous idea. Was he
engaged to be married in England, and was he now on the way to his
bride? Could this be it? and was his anguish the result of the
conflict between love and honor in his breast? This may have been the
case. Finally, was he married already? She could not tell. She rather
fancied that it was an engagement, not a marriage; and it was in this
that she thought she could find the meaning of his passionate and
despairing words.

Passing over those waters where once she had known what it was to be
betrayed, and had tasted of the bitterness of death, she did not find
that they had power to renew the despair which they once had caused.
Behind the black memory of that hour of anguish rose up another
memory which engrossed all her thoughts. If she had tears, it was for
this. It was Windham, whose image filled all her soul, and whose last
words echoed through her heart. For as she gazed on these waters it
was not of the drifting schooner that she thought, not of the hours
of intense watchfulness, not of the hope deferred that gradually
turned into despair; it was rather of the man who, as she had often
heard since, was the one who first recognized her, and came to her in
her senselessness, and bore her in his arms back to life. Had he done
well in rescuing her? Had he not saved her for a greater sorrow?