The Christian | Page 3

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