CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Donald was talking. “And, Mother, I’ve got the house and everything all ready for you. All you’ve got to do is step into it. It’s a pretty little place up on a hill overlooking the harbor. Of course, it isn’t anything like our old home in Maxwell Park, but it’ll do until I can save some money to build another—”
Mrs. McKenzie, looking just a shade older, but there were little lines around the eyes and mouth which told a story not of Time’s making, gazed lovingly at her sea-bronzed son. How he had grown! And how strong and handsome he was! The sight of him revived memories ... he reminded her of him who went out to Eternity in the maw of a big Atlantic comber not so many years ago. She realized that the pale-faced, sensitive little chap of two years ago had vanished, and in his place was a strapping, ruddy-visaged youth who was almost a man. His dark eyes flashed with the fire of life and the enjoyment of it, and there was a timbre in his voice which expressed confidence, fearlessness, and the ability to command if necessary. The sea had worked wonders in him. It had given her a new son, and her heart filled with pride at the capable, possessive manner in which he sketched out her future with him. She drew his face down to hers and kissed him on the cheek. “Anywhere with you, my bonny, will be home. Be it cot or palace, it will be yours, Don, and it’s proud I’ll be to keep it neat and sweet for my laddie.”
Donald laughed happily. “Mother, do you remember when the Kelvinhaugh towed out? I saw you standing at the ferry slip by Shearer’s Yard that morning. My, but I was feeling miserable then! I was ready to run away if I could.”
The mother rose and opened a drawer. They were seated in her room at the Home for the Aged, and Donald had just arrived from Glasgow but an hour before. “Here’s a clipping from a paper I saved for you,” she said. “It’s about the Kelvinhaugh, and many’s the prayer I’ve made in thankfulness.” Donald took the piece of newspaper, read it, and whistled. It ran—a terse, unsentimental record of disaster:—
LOSS OF A GLASGOW BARQUE.
Sydney, N.S.W., Jan. 15:—The ship Castor arrived here to-day from Chemainus, B.C., and reports passing a large quantity of wreckage in lat. 31 degrees North, long. 152 degrees West, which seems to prove the loss at sea of the Glasgow four mast barque, Kelvinhaugh. The wreckage consisted of lumber, yards and upper masts, and a damaged life-boat bore the name KELVINHAUGH—GLASGOW. The master of the Castor is of the opinion that the barque foundered by capsizing in a squall. The ill-fated vessel carried a crew of twenty-five men, most of whom were signed on in Vancouver, B.C., from which port she loaded lumber for Sydney, N.S.W. She was a new vessel of 2,500 tons, commanded by William Muirhead of 972 Glenburn Road, Glasgow, and owned by D. McKenzie & Co., Glasgow.
He laid the clipping down and looked into space. “So she went ... just as Nickerson said she would. We’re lucky ... darned lucky!” The mother nodded as he spoke his thoughts aloud. “You don’t know how thankful I was that you had left that ship when I read that,” she said. “Just think ... if you had remained in her. It would have been dreadful!”
Donald slipped his arm around her shoulders and laughed. “I’m not born to be drowned, Mother,” he said. “Now tell me, what do you know about that lovely uncle of mine? Is he dead, knighted, in jail, or what?”
Mrs. McKenzie gave a contemptuous grimace as she replied, “The wicked ever prosper, Donald. He seems to be getting along wonderfully. I see his name in the papers quite often, and he is reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in Glasgow. He has a whole fleet of tramp steamers now—the Dun Line—”