Part 12 (1/2)

”Suppose you give me the job?” says Molly, quietly.

He looks her up, down and across, with an eye like a gimlet; she takes the scrutiny cheerfully, as her duty and his due, offers him her clear, grey eyes (her only reference for character) and her capable, trim, broad-shouldered figure as security for fitness.

”I suppose you know your own business best,” he says brusquely.

”You're engaged. What name do you wish to go by?”

”My own,” says she, ”Molly d.i.c.kett.”

So now, you see! The secret is out, and you may observe her again piloted by the first mate, scouting through the shops of Buenos Ayres for a blue-and-white striped cotton frock, broad enough through the shoulders. Ap.r.o.ns she purchased and caps (larger caps than Mrs.

Cope's, who compromised on white lawn bow-knots) and high-laced, rubber-soled, white canvas boots, only to be procured in English shops for sporting-goods. Their price caused the first mate to whistle.

”What's the idea of all this?” he demanded suddenly. ”Of course, you know, you must be up to some game. Your kind doesn't s.h.i.+p as stewardess.”

”What game were _you_ up to?” Molly replied quickly. ”Your kind doesn't s.h.i.+p as first mate, does it?”

”What kind?” he said gruffly.

”The 'd.i.c.ky' kind,” she answered.

He blurted out some amazed incoherence, and,

”Oh, I've seen Harvard men, before,” she a.s.sured him pleasantly.

Molly took the best of care of her two ladies and accepted their gratuities with a grave courtesy. They confided to the captain, at New York, that she seemed unusually refined for her position, and he replied that for all he knew, she might be.

”We'll never see _her_ again,” the first mate grumbled sourly, when she stepped off the gangplank, and the captain shrugged his shoulders non-committally.

They did, nevertheless, but her mother never did. After that one dreadful interview in the d.i.c.kett library (it had used to be the sitting-room in her college days) when Eleanor had cried, and Kathryn's letter had been read aloud, and Mr. d.i.c.kett had vainly displayed his bank-book, and her mother had literally trembled with rage, there was nothing for it but oblivion--oblivion, and silence.

”A stewardess! My daughter a stewardess! I believe we could put you in an asylum--you're not decent!”

Mrs. d.i.c.kett's cheeks were greyish and mottled.

”Come, come, mother! Come, come!” said Mr. d.i.c.kett. ”There's some mistake, I'm sure. If you'd only come and live with us, Molly--we're all alone, now, you know, and Lord knows there's plenty for all. It doesn't seem quite the thing, I must say, though. It--it hurts your mother's pride, you see.”

”I'm sorry,” said Molly, sadly. It is incredible, but she had never antic.i.p.ated it! She was really very simple and direct, and life seemed so clear and good to her, now.

”To compare yourself with that Englishman is ridiculous, and you know it,” sobbed Eleanor. ”What if he _was_ a cow-boy? He didn't wear a cap and ap.r.o.n--and it was for his health--and George is too angry to come over, even!”

”It's for my health, too,” Molly urged, trying to keep her temper. ”I never was the same after I went on that vacation to Maine--I told you before. Life isn't worth living, unless you're well.”

”But you could have the south chamber for your own sitting-room, as George suggested, and do your writing at your own time,” Mr. d.i.c.kett began.

”I've told you I'm not a writer,” she interrupted shortly.

”George would rather have paid out of his own pocket----”

”We'll leave George out of this, I think,” said Molly, her foot tapping dangerously.