The Christian. Sir Hall Caine
the name before it was uttered by her impetuous tongue, and laughed again to cover her confusion. The young man smiled faintly and rather painfully, but the old parson was conscious of nothing.
“Well, and why not? A good name for you too, and you richly deserve it.—But the Lord is lenient with such natures, John. He never tries them beyond their strength. She hasn't much leaning to religion, you know.”
The girl recalled herself from the busy scene around and broke in again with a tone of humour and pathos mixed.
“There, call me an infidel at once, grandfather. I know what you mean. But just to show you that I haven't exactly registered a vow in heaven never to go to church in London because you've given me such a dose of it in the Isle of Man, I'll promise to send you a full and particular report of Mr. Storm's first sermon. Isn't that charming of me?”
The third bell was ringing, the blast of the steam whistle was echoing across the bay, and the steamer was only waiting for the mails. Taking a step nearer to the gangway, the old parson talked faster.
“Did Aunt Anna give you money enough, child?”
“Enough for my boat fare and my train.”
“No more! Now Anna is so——”
“Don't trouble, grandfather. Woman wants but little here below—Aunt Anna excepted. And then a hospital nurse——”
“I'm afraid you'll feel lonely in that great wilderness.”
“Lonely with five millions of neighbours?”
“You'll be longing for the old island, Glory, and I half repent me already——”
“If ever I have the blue-devils, grandpa, I'll just whip on my cape and fly home again.”
“To-morrow morning I'll be searching all over the house for my runaway.”
Glory tried to laugh gaily. “Upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber.”
“'Glory,' I'll be crying, 'Where's the girl gone at all? I haven't heard her voice in the house to-day. What's come over the old place to strike it so dead?'”
The girl's eyes were running over, but in a tone of gentle raillery and heart's love she said severely: “Nonsense, grandfather, you'll forget all about Glory going to London before the day after to-morrow. Every morning you'll be making rubbings of your old runes, and every night you'll be playing chess with Aunt Rachel, and every Sunday you'll be scolding old Neilus for falling asleep in the reading desk, and—and everything will go on just the same as ever.”
The mails had come aboard, one of the gangways had been drawn ashore, and the old parson, holding his big watch in his left hand, was diving into his fob-pocket with the fingers of the right.
“Here”—panting audibly, as if he had been running hard—“is your mother's little pearl ring.”
The girl drew off her slack, soiled glove and took the ring in her nervous fingers.
“A wonderful talisman is the relic of a good mother, sir,” said the old parson.
The young clergyman bent his head.
“You're like Glory herself in that though—you don't remember your mother either.”
“No-no.”
“I'll keep in touch with your father, John, trust me for that. You and he shall be good friends yet. A man can't hold out against his son for nothing worse than choosing the Church against the world. The old man didn't mean all he said; and then it isn't the thunder that strikes people dead, you know. So leave him to me; and if that foolish old Chalse hasn't been putting notions into his head——”
The throbbing in the steam funnel had ceased and in the sudden hush a voice from the bridge cried, “All ashore!”
“Good-bye, Glory! Good-bye, John! Good-bye both!”
“Good-bye, sir,” said the young clergyman with a long hand-clasp.
But the girl's arms were about the old man's neck. “Good-bye, you dear old grandpa, and I'm ashamed I—I'm sorry I—I mean it's a shame of me to—good-bye!”
“Good-bye, my wandering gipsy, my witch, my runaway!”
“If you call me names I'll have to stop your mouth, sir. Again—another——”
A voice cried, “Stand back there!”
The young clergyman drew the girl back from the bulwarks, and the steamer moved slowly away.
“I'll go below—no, I won't; I'll stay on deck. I'll go ashore—I can't bear it; it's not too late yet. No, I'll go to the stern and see the water in the wake.”
The pier was cleared and the harbour was empty. Over the white churning water the sea gulls were wheeling, and Douglas Head was gliding slowly back. Down the long line of the quay the friends of the passengers were waving adieus.
“There he is, on the end of the pier! That's grandpa waving his handkerchief! Don't you see it? The red-and-white cotton one! God bless him! How wae his little present made me! He has been keeping it all these years. But my silk handkerchief is too damp—it won't float at all. Will you lend me——Ah, thank you! Good-bye! good-bye! good——”
The girl hung over the stern rail, leaning her breast upon it and waving the handkerchief as long as the pier and its people were in sight, and when they were gone from recognition she watched the line of the land until it began to fade into the clouds, and there was no more to be seen of what she had looked upon every day of her life until to-day.
“The dear little island! I never thought it was so beautiful! Perhaps I might have been happy even there, if I had tried. Now, if I had only had somebody for company! How silly of me! I've been five years wishing and praying to get away, and now! … It is lovely, though, isn't it? Just like a bird on the water! And when you've been born in a place … the dear little island! And the old folks, too! How lonely they'll be, after all! I wonder if I shall ever. … I'll go below. The wind's freshening, and this water in the wake is making my eyes … Good-bye, little birdie! I'll come back—I'll. … Yes, never fear, I'll——”
The laughter and impetuous talking, the gentle humour and pathos, had broken at length into a sob, and the girl had wheeled about and disappeared down the cabin stairs. John Storm stood looking after her. He had hardly spoken, but his great brown eyes were moist.
II.
Her father had been the only son of Parson Quayle, and chaplain to the bishop at Bishopscourt. It was there he had met her mother, who was lady's maid to the bishop's wife. The maid was a bright young Frenchwoman, daughter of a French actress, famous in her day, and of an officer under the Empire, who had never been told of her existence. Shortly after their marriage the chaplain was offered a big mission station in Africa, and, being a devotee, he clutched at it without fear of the fevers of the coast. But his young French wife was about to become a mother, and she shrank from the perils of his life abroad, so he took her to his father's house at Peel, and bade her farewell for five years.
He lived four, and during that time they exchanged some letters. His final instructions were sent from Southampton: “If it's a boy, call him John (after the Evangelist); and if it's a girl, call her Glory.” At the end of the first year she wrote: “I have shortened our darling, and you never saw anything so lovely! Oh, the sweetness of her little bare arms, and her neck, and her little round shoulders! You know she's red—I've really got a red one—a curly red one! Such big beaming eyes, too! And then her mouth, and her chin, and her tiny red toes! I don't know how you can live without seeing her!” Near the end of