To her perverted mentality, accidents could happen to others, but they couldn’t happen to Alec. She preferred to think of the sea-captains who had safely dodged the wrath of the sea and who had retired to snug stone villas in sea-side towns where they took their ease growing geraniums and roses and acknowledging the whistle or flag salutes of brother masters in active service as they passed by. On her lonely couch, she dreamed of the future days when Alec would retire from the sea for all time; when she would have him always with her, and when young Donald Percival—man grown—would be a coming Glasgow architect, designing structures destined to be the admiration of all eyes.
In conning over her lifetime so far, Janet felt a great pride in her accomplishments. From the “but and ben” of a poor Highland farm she had travelled far, and to her credit it must be said that she had worked and studied hard to keep pace with her social progress. Her humble origin and the menial service of her pre-marital days had been skilfully covered, and her quick and active mind readily absorbed the “correct” conversation, deportment and pursuits which should necessarily accompany the social status of a “Captain’s wife whose husband was in the New York passenger service, and whose salary was four hundred pounds a year!”
Since her marriage she had dropped home ties. She felt that she owed her parents but little. They had brought her into the world, fed and clothed her for a few years and were glad when she had gone into “service” in Glasgow. She was off their hands then, and ten brothers and sisters more than filled her place at home. Neither her father nor mother could write, and the only time she saw her family again was when they arrived in Glasgow en route to Canada. They were now out on a homestead in “Moose Jaw, Chicago, Sacramento or some such outlandish place,” and she had heard nothing from them since they emigrated.
Baillie Ross had attained the coveted Lord Provostship, but with the honors of the office, he had become unapproachable to Janet. David McKenzie was flying his own house-flag on several sailing-ships, but he had discouraged advances by cutting Captain and Mrs. McKenzie “dead” on the few occasions during which they came face to face. “To the devil with him!” laughed Alec on the first non-recognition. “I can get along without him. His name is a curse in the mouths of sailormen and his ships are notorious as ‘work-houses’ and ‘starvation packets.’ Better not to claim acquaintance with such a brother. He was never anything to me anyhow!”
Alec had written to his uncle upon one occasion—just a friendly letter telling of his progress at sea (he was in the Cardonia then), but Sir Alastair had answered curtly, stating that “David had informed him of his (Alec’s) doings and he didn’t care to hear any more about them!” Alec read the letter thoughtfully, and mentally pictured the story David would spin to the Baronet. With a bitter smile, he threw the letter in the fire and wiped both his brother and his uncle forever from his affections.
Thus, unencumbered or blessed with relations, the McKenzies ploughed their own furrow and lived happily in their own select sphere. Donald went to the private school and showed exceptional brilliancy at his books, even though his tuition was interrupted often by spells of ill-health. His frequent sicknesses worried the mother, until a famous Glasgow specialist had examined the lad and given his verdict. “He’s as sound as a bell, madam, but he has a cauld stomach. Keep his feet warrm and dinna gie him a lot of sweet trash to eat. Dinna coddle him. Let him rin the streets—it’s the life of a laud rinning and jeuking aboot—and by the time he’s twalve or fourteen he’ll be as tough as a louse and as hard tae kill!” Couched in homely Doric, the advice of the great Doctor Chalmers—famous throughout Great Britain for his skill and common-sense prescriptions—assuaged Janet’s fears and opened up a desirable vista to Donald Percival.
Captain McKenzie’s interpretation of the great physician’s advice was to insist on Donald being sent to a public school. “Let him get along with real boys, Janet,” he maintained. “He’s ten years old now and should be able to take care of himself. If you coddle him too much, he’ll be a namby-pamby baby instead of a live boy—”
“But think of the rough characters he’ll meet?” objected his wife.
“He’ll have to meet them sometime and the sooner the better. He isn’t going to be a monk that you should want to keep him so inviolable. Now, Janet, take him away from that kindergarten he’s attending and put him in the Gregg Street Public School right away.” Captain McKenzie was determined, and next day Janet took her ewe-lamb to the public school in a cab and waited on the head master.