It did not require more than that one glance to declare the identity of this figure.
It was Hildegarde.
She stood not more than six feet away—my back was toward her, and as the space under the canopy could not boast of any too much light, evidently she had no suspicion of my presence. I did not move at once, but sat there feasting my eyes upon her.
She looked over the sea—somewhere in that direction lay the tropical land of Bolivar, whence we had just sailed.
Did she know that?—was her gaze bent in that quarter with anything like regret?—could she have left any one there about whom she felt concern?
That sigh—was it meant for grief or satisfaction? In short, had I after all done her as great a service as I thought in carrying her away from the disturbed town of Bolivar?
Ah! another sigh.
Plainly she was not wholly happy.
My heart reproached me—I had been the cause of her misery—I who had allowed my pride to force me into an act that separated two hearts intended for each other.
Was it too late to make amends?