“Nay, John, you know it well. I have told you before, that as long as I know that Will Laud is living, or at least until I know that he is dead, I will never marry any other man.”
“But you must know, Margaret, the dangerous life he leads, and the precarious tenure by which that life is held, subject as it is to all the perils of the sea.”
“Alas! I know it well; but there is a God who governs and directs all things for good, and I hope still that the day of grace and penitence may arrive, in which, though fickle as he now is, he may be altered and improved. Nothing is impossible; and as long as life lasts, so long will I have hope.”
“But your hopes, Margaret, may be blighted—it may be that the sea itself may devour him.”
“It may be so. It will require something more than the bare report of such a calamity to convince me of the fact, even though years should bring no tidings of him.”
“But if you should have the truth asserted by one who should chance to see him perish, would that be sufficient proof?”
“No, sir, no! Except I know from my own sight, or from the most positive evidence of more than one, I could not trust to it.”
“But if you were at last convinced of his death, might I then hope?”
“It will be time to speak to me of that if God should grant me life beyond that dreadful time; but, now that I think of your kindheartedness, and know how unwilling you are to give unnecessary pain, I begin to fear that you have some melancholy tidings to communicate. Speak, John, speak!—your manner is unusual, and your conversation is too ominous. Have you heard anything of Laud? Pray speak, and tell me at once.”