Kenneth McAlpine Part 32

Mr Smith, I may tell the reader, was family solicitor to Mrs McGregor's brother, in whose house she had resided since her husband's death. The solicitor lived in London, but not unfrequently ran down to enjoy the sea or the land sport, so easily obtained in this lone but lovely isle of the Hebrides.

"Surprised to see me, Mrs McGregor?" said the gentleman, as he shook hands and sat down. "Hope I didn't frighten you much? Just ran down from town to get a mouthful of sea-air. Been rather overworked of late.

Tea, did you say? Yes, with pleasure, but Mary must really bring me something substantial to go along with it. My journey has made me hungry."

"And you have seen my brother?"

"Only two days ago, and he is looking hale and hearty, and hopes to return in a week."

"Well, Mr Smith, you must stay here till he returns."

"It is doubtful if I can; business, you know, business. What a lovely sunset, to be sure! Bodes a fine day to-morrow I should think."

"You seem happy, Mr Smith?"

"I feel as fresh as a daisy."

"And yet, but a minute ago, you hinted at being f.a.gged by over-work."

"Oh!" replied the solicitor, shaking his head, "that was _before_ I left town. Bless you, madam, two gulps of Highland air set me on my legs again at any time."

The two chatted very pleasantly together over the evening meal; but towards the end of it Mr Smith managed adroitly to turn the conversation to bygone times.

"I seem to sadden you though," he said.

"Oh! no: I'm resigned to everything now. My time will not be very long, and I know the good G.o.d in whom I trust has done all for the best. But the loss of my son was a great blow; then my husband's death."

"Why, Mrs McGregor, do you make that distinction? You talk of your husband's death, but always speak of poor Harvey's _loss_."

"Because, Mr Smith, I saw my husband die; my son went away, and ah!

foolish though it may be, I cherish half a hope he may yet return to close his mother's eyes."

"Well, well, I daresay stranger things may have happened," said the solicitor, thoughtfully looking and pretending to read a fortune in the grounds of his tea-cup.

Now, the fact is, that no sooner had Harvey McGregor left Mr Steve's than he had hurried up to town, and called on Mr Smith, the only man-at-law he knew. He speedily convinced that gentleman of his ident.i.ty, and got his mother's address. Heedless Harvey would have hurried away home--as he called it--at once, but wise Mr Smith would not hear of it.

"Come a day after me," he had advised. "I'll go down and break the news, for, don't you know, my boy, that joy can kill?"

Hence Mr Smith's present visit to the old castle.

"Whose fortune are you trying to read in that tea-cup?" said Mrs McGregor, with a strange ring in her voice, a strange sparkle in her eye. "Give me the cup," she added.

She turned it round and round.

"I see," she said; "my boy's barques sailing everywhere over the world.

Sometimes they are wrecked, but _he_ is never drowned. I see the prows of these s.h.i.+ps pointing everywhere, but never homeward. My boy is proud. Ah I at last here comes one, and my boy, my boy is in it!"

She almost dashed down the cup as she spoke, and sprang to her feet.

"Smith," she cried, "you cannot deceive me; there is something in my breast, born of a mother's love, that tells me Harvey has come."

Mr Smith hummed and haa'ed, as the saying is, and muttered something about a letter.

"No, no, no," she cried; "you only thought you ought to break the news gently to me, but I saw strange joy in your eye as soon as you entered.

Now, dear Mr Smith, I appreciate all your kindness, but you see I can bear joy as well as grief. Tell me all about it."

And the solicitor did so. At the conclusion she took out her handkerchief, and sobbed just a little.

Then she abruptly rose and left the room.

Mr Smith said never a word. He knew she had gone to pray.

Next evening they were seated together--mother and son--mother and "prodigal son," as Harvey would persist in calling himself.

Mr Smith respected their feelings. He went away to fish, and did not return till dinner-time.

But that evening the trio had much to talk about, many business matters to discuss.

"Alva shall return to its rightful owner," exclaimed Mr Smith. "I'm determined on that, if Steve were nineteen times an American millionaire. It was sold for half, nay, but fourth its value. It was sold to pay London debts of honour forsooth. Turf and otherwise. Bah!

The money shall be raised to repay Mr Steve, and out he shall go, as sure as I belong to the great family of Smith. I'll employ London counsel that will astonish him. You'll see I'll do it. _Can_ and _shall_. And I won't let the gra.s.s grow under my feet either."

Nor did the worthy solicitor.

He started for London the very next day, leaving Harvey and his mother alone.

Harvey felt, and almost looked, a boy again. He had so much to speak about, so much to tell of his hard adventurous life in search of fortune; and it is so pleasant to be listened to by one who loves you!

No wonder Harvey McGregor felt happy. All the past blotted out and forgiven, all the future as hopeful as the past had been dark and oftentimes dismal.

With many, if not most, of his adventures, the reader is already familiar, but of his voyage home from New York I have said nothing.

Harvey then was possessed of some little money, and this he determined to convey home on his person. He might have had bills of exchange, but he was but little conversant with such aids to the transaction of business. Would he take it in gold and wear it in a waist-belt round his body? He was too old a sailor to do any such thing. For in event of being cast into the water he knew well that nothing sinks a man sooner than gold. It is the greed of gold, by the way, that sinks men on sh.o.r.e.

But Harvey knew the sight and feel of a crisp Bank of England note. He got these and sewed them into a waterproof bag, and this he put into a waist-belt, which he wore by night and by day.

He worked his pa.s.sage home. He was no idler, and preferred work to play.

The vessel was a sailing s.h.i.+p, not a steamer, and bound for Glasgow.

With fair winds she would fly across the wide Atlantic. And oh! how wide the Atlantic does seem to those who are homeward bound, I for one can tell from experience!

The winds _were_ fair for a time; then they became baffling.

Often the _Marianne_, as she was called, had to lie to for days in a gale of wind; then fair weather would come again and all would be life and joy, fore and aft. Then round the wind would chop once more, and the sea wax fretful, angry, vicious, hitting the poor s.h.i.+p such vengeful blows, that she bent her head, and reeled and creaked in every timber.

Well, such is a seaman's life in a sailing s.h.i.+p at almost any time, and Harvey would not have minded it a bit, only he was going home, and every day was precious.

Near the coast at long last. They would (d.v.) round the Mull of Cantyre in another day, then hurrah! and hurrah! for the beautiful Clyde.

But all at once the weather waxed dark and stormy, and the wind headed round. The gla.s.s came tumbling down, and at sunset things looked black and serious.

How the waves did dash and beat to be sure, and how the wind did rave and roar through the rigging and shrouds!