“You are correct,” she replied with a proud, little tilt of her glossy head, “though I think that only lately have I come to an understanding of its significance—and its responsibility. I ask your pardon again for interrupting you. It was not premeditated. It just happened.”
She did not wait for either of them to speak, but flashed the two a swift smile and passed down the promenade.
The music had ceased and the cabins at last were emptying themselves of life.
“A remarkable young woman,” Alan remarked. “I imagine that the spirit of Captain Miles Standish may be a little proud of this particular olive-branch. A chip off the old block, you might say. One would almost suppose he had married Priscilla and this young lady was a definite though rather indirect result.”
He had a curious way of laughing without any more visible manifestation of humor than spoken words. It was a quality in his voice which one could not miss, and at times, when ironically amused, it carried a sting which he did not altogether intend.
In another moment Mary Standish was forgotten, and he was asking the captain a question which was in his mind.
“The itinerary of this ship is rather confused, is it not?”
“Yes—rather,” acknowledged Captain Rifle. “Hereafter she will ply directly between Seattle and Nome. But this time we’re doing the Inside Passage to Juneau and Skagway and will make the Aleutian Passage via Cordova and Seward. A whim of the owners, which they haven’t seen fit to explain to me. Possibly the Canadian junket aboard may have something to do with it. We’re landing them at Skagway, where they make the Yukon by way of White Horse Pass. A pleasure trip for flabby people nowadays, Holt. I can remember—”
“So can I,” nodded Alan Holt, looking at the mountains beyond which lay the dead-strewn trails of the gold stampede of a generation before. “I remember. And old Donald is dreaming of that hell of death back there. He was all choked up tonight. I wish he might forget.”
“Men don’t forget such women as Jane Hope,” said the captain softly.