There was logic and heroism in this closing sentence, though it did not strictly correspond with the expression she had just now let fall as to what the people would think. I surveyed her silently, and after a little exclaimed:
"You are in the right. Let the truth be known. I shall give the skipper the whole yarn that there may be no misunderstanding, for after all we may have to stick to this ship for some days, and it would be very unpleasant to find ourselves misjudged."
I gazed, as I spoke, through the windows of the saloon or cuddy front, which overlooked the main-deck, where a number of steerage passengers were standing in groups. The ship was before the wind; the great main-course was hauled up to its yard, and I could see to as far as the forecastle, with a fragment of bowsprit showing under the white arch of the foresail; some sailors in coloured apparel were hauling upon a rope hard by the foremast; a gleam of misty sunshine was pouring full upon this window-framed picture, and crowded it with rich oceanic tints softened by the ruled and swaying shadows of the rigging. An extraordinary thought flashed into my head.
"By Jove! Grace, I wonder if there's a parson on board?"
"Why do you wonder?"
"If there is a parson on board he might be able to marry us."
She coloured, smiled, and looked grave all in a breath.
"A ship is not a church," said she, almost demurely.
"No," I answered, "but a parson's a parson wherever he is—he carries with him the same appetite, the same clothes, the same powers, no matter whither his steps conduct him."
She shook her head smiling, but her blush had faded, nor could her smile disguise a look of alarm in her eyes.