“Yes, I did, when I was a boy; an’ that wasn’t yesterday.”
“And did you,” continued the lady in the same sepulchral tone, “did you note how that man—that beacon, if I may use the expression, set up as a warning to deter all wilful boys and men from reckless, and wicked, and wandering, and obstreperous courses—did you note, I say, how that man, that beacon, was shipwrecked, and spent a dreary existence on an uninhabited and dreadful island, in company with a low, dissolute, black, unclothed companion called Friday?”
“Yes,” answered the captain, seeing that she paused for a reply.
“And all,” continued Martha, “in consequence of his resolutely and obstinately, and wilfully and wickedly going to sea?”
“Well, it couldn’t have happened if he hadn’t gone to sea, no doubt.”
“Then,” argued Martha, “will you, can you, George, contemplate the possibility of your only daughter coming to the same dreadful end?”
George, not exactly seeing the connection, rubbed his nose with his forefinger, and replied—“Certainly not.”
“Then you are bound,” continued Martha, in triumph, “by all that is upright and honourable, by all the laws of humanity and propriety, to give up this wild intention—and you must!”
“There!” cried Miss Jane emphatically, as if the argument were unanswerable—as indeed it was, being incomprehensible.
The last words were unfortunate. They merely riveted the captain’s determination.