"There is, I fear, but little hope for our friend--unless this
girl on whom he has set his heart can (by some lucky change of
circumstances) become his wife. He has tried to master his
weakness; but his own infatuation is too much for him. He is
really and truly in a state of despair. Two evenings since--to
give you a melancholy example of what I mean--I was in my cabin,
when I heard the alarm of a man overboard. The man was Rothsay.
My sailing-master, seeing that he was unable to swim, jumped into
the sea and rescued him, as I got on deck. Rothsay declares it to
have been an accident; and everybody believes him but myself. I
know the state of his mind. Don't be alarmed; I will have him
well looked after; and I won't give him up just yet. We are still
bound southward, with a fair wind. If the new scenes which I hope
to show him prove to be of no avail, I must reluctantly take him
back to England. In that case, which I don't like to contemplate,
you may see him again--perhaps in a month's time."


He might return in a month's time--return to hear of the death of
the one friend, on whose power and will to help him he might have
relied. If I failed to employ in his interests the short interval
of life still left to me, could I doubt (after what I had just
read) what the end would be? How could I help him? Oh, God! how
could I help him?

Mrs. Rymer left the window, and returned to the chair which she
had occupied when I first received her.

"Are you quieter in your mind now?" she asked.