“You are over-worn,” said Frank gently; “and, indeed, the Swift is too rough a boat for a lady.”
“Ay, that it is, Miss Laura,” said Webster, “and, as for talk of failure or death, they are for us to prove, and not for you, who are made for better things. This steamer has been thrown across us by the mercy of Providence, and it is your duty almost to accept the gift, and embark in it for a safe port.”
“I despise myself,” she said wearily; “but I have no courage and no hope, and shudder at the thought of remaining on the Swift. I cannot understand it.”
“I think I can,” said Frank, in a low tone. “You have been mistaken in yourself, and your presence on board, in contrast with the grim ship, has seemed to me a sort of marvel. You are fitted for better things.”
“You mean I have no strength of purpose,” she said slowly. “And do you expect me to relinquish this enterprise, to go back without striking one blow, to surrender to my weakness, and for ever be a victim of my cowardice, haunted by a memory, and lashed by my conscience? No—no—never!”
She threw her head up proudly.
“You may go to safety in this ship; but—I—I will do what I have said.”
“You mistake us,” said Hume; “neither Mr Webster nor myself asks you to give up the enterprise. We have no thought of turning from it; but we do think strongly that you should not share in the work and worry of it. It is not fair to you; it is unjust to us.”
“Unjust, sir—how?”
“Madam, you may not know it, but every man on board the Swift thinks more of you than of his own safety, and if they all knew you were ashore they would be happier in working out your purpose.”