“Let’s take a shoot up to Halifax for a day,” suggested Judson, and when McKenzie gave him a quizzical stare, he reddened under his tan. “If I don’t,” he added in excuse, “Helena will be getting hitched to one of those Willy-boys that’s forever flappin’ araound her. Get into your glad rags and come along.” And the two men ran for their respective homes, changed, and caught the packet steamer a half-minute before she pulled out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ruth Nickerson greeted Donald with unusual warmth. She was now a woman beautiful of face and figure, and McKenzie had never seen her look so entrancing and desirable, while the sincerity of her welcome caused his heart to thump wildly. When she took his hand, she stepped close to him and looked up into his face with wide open eyes—eyes as clear and as blue as a Trade wind sky, and there was a hint of deep regard in them which made him feel ridiculously happy. For a space he retained her soft fingers in his and she made no attempt to withdraw them.
“I am so glad to see you, Donald,” she said softly, and there was a depth of feeling in her voice that he had never heard before. “And I, you,” he murmured, and he gave her hand another press before releasing it.
She stood back a space and scanned him from head to foot. He was dressed neatly and becomingly in a grey tweed and with tan boots. His collar and tie were in accordance with the latest fashion, and a Halifax barber had spent an hour trimming his hair, shaving his cheeks, and manicuring his sun-tanned strong fingers. This last was a piece of the fussiness of early training, and when he departed, his barber remarked to a workmate, “Them rich guys are great on havin’ their lunch hooks fussed up. By th’ mitts on him, I reckon he’s bin spendin’ th’ winter sportin’ ’round in Bermuja playin’ goluff an’ paddlin’ canoes.”
Nothing of the desperate ordeal of three weeks before appeared in his face or figure. His features glowed with a healthy tan and the white skin of his forehead—hat-shaded from sun and sea wind—served to contrast with his dark wavy hair. There was a snappy glint of vigorous strength in his large dark eyes which matched the erectness of his slim figure, and his present appearance caused Ruth to hark back in memory of the day, four years previous, when she had first met him—a rough looking, tousled-headed sea boy, garbed in clothes which were a caricature.
After the survey, which Donald endured somewhat abashed, she remarked laughingly, “My! Donald McKenzie, if I were to meet you on the street I wouldn’t know you—you’re grown so——” She was going to say “handsome,” but hesitated and caught him by the arm. “Come into the parlor and tell me all about your dreadful adventures. It must have been awful.” And she led him to a sofa and motioned him to a seat beside her.
As he was reluctant to tell the story, she plied him with questions to which he returned jocular answers. It is bad form for a sailor to relate personal adventures in any other way. “Yes,” he observed humorously, “we cut away the mast because it made the vessel lop-sided and very uncomfortable. When we cut it down and got it clear of the ship, things were much nicer. The gale? Oh, it was quite a breeze—quite a breeze! I should imagine you people ashore had an awful time in the streets with the shingles flying and the signs and telephone poles falling down. None of those dangers at sea—thank goodness!” And he heaved a sigh of mock relief.