Departed.... Never to return!”
When he finished there was an awed silence, and he swung on the stool to see Judson and the two girls standing in the doorway. Helena Stuart, her eyes glowing, walked over to the piano. “That was lovely, Mr. McKenzie,” she murmured admiringly. “Won’t you sing something else?”
Donald was embarrassed. “I—I’d like to hear you play or sing something, Miss,” he stammered. “Will you, please?”
“By Jingo, Donny-boy,” cried the Skipper, “I’ve been with you nigh a year naow and I never knew you could play or sing like that! I’ve h’ard you chanteying, but, if I could play and sing like you can I’d be hanged if I’d go to sea.”
Miss Stuart had been rummaging through a music cabinet. “Here we are, Mr. McKenzie,” she cried. “Here’s a pretty thing—‘In Old Madrid!’ Do you know it? Fine! If you’ll sing it with me, I’ll play.” She commenced the prelude and they sang the quaint old song. It was a favorite of Donald’s and savored of the romance which forever appealed to his nature. Songs of feeling awakened responsive chords within him and his voice contained the subtle intonations of correct interpretation of the words.
“Her lover fell long years ago for Spain—”
He could conjure a picture of gallant conquistadores—caballeros and hidalgos of chivalrous Castile ... the lover—an armored knight lying stark on a stricken field with a Moorish arrow or javelin in his heart ... and her dainty glove would be fixed in his helm. He visioned her anguish when the dreadful news was brought to her—
“A convent veil ... those dark eyes hid,
And all the vows that love had sigh’d ... were vain!”
In such a song he could feed his soul on the sentiment which he hungered for. Miss Stuart’s soprano blended well with his expressive baritone and delighted the listeners who felt they were being truly regaled with singing of a high order. Ruth, too, was delighted, but deep down in her heart was a twinge of bitterness, of jealousy, of recrimination. This young stranger had lived under her father’s roof for almost a month and it was only on the eve of his departure for the fishery that she discovered his worth and talents. She had ignored him for a common sailor lad—a ship laborer—and here he was displaying culture superior to her own. Later, she catechised her brother. “Who is this McKenzie boy? He’s no common fellow like that cook of yours—that impossible McGlashan. Where is his family? Where does he come from?”