On the morning of the 9th of May, 18--, three persons important to
this story stood among the passengers on the deck of the Isle of Man
steamship _Tynwald_ as she lay by the pier at Douglas getting up steam
for the passage to Liverpool. One of these was an old clergyman of
seventy, with a sweet, mellow, childlike face; another was a young man
of thirty, also a clergyman; the third was a girl of twenty. The older
clergyman wore a white neckcloth about his throat, and was dressed in
rather threadbare black of a cut that had been more common twenty years
before; the younger clergyman wore a Roman collar, a long clerical
coat, and a stiff, broad-brimmed hat with a cord and tassel. They stood
amidships, and the captain, coming out of his room to mount the bridge,
saluted them as he passed.
“Good morning, Mr. Storm.”
The young clergyman returned the salutation with a slight bow and the
lifting of his hat.
“Morning to you, Parson Quayle.”
The old clergyman answered cheerily, “Oh, good morning, captain; good
morning.”
There was the usual inquiry about the weather outside, and drawing up to
answer it, the captain came eye to eye with the girl.
“So this is the granddaughter, is it?”
“Yes, this is Glory,” said Parson Quayle. “She's leaving the old
grandfather at last, captain, and I'm over from Peel to set her off, you
see.”
“Well, the young lady has got the world before her--at her feet, I
ought to say.--You're looking as bright and fresh as the morning, Miss
Quayle.”
The captain carried off his compliment with a breezy laugh, and went
along to the bridge. The girl had heard him only in a momentary flash
of consciousness, and she replied merely with a side glance and a smile.
Both eyes and ears, and every sense and every faculty, seemed occupied
with the scene before her.
It was a beautiful spring morning, not yet nine o'clock, but the sun
stood high over Douglas Head, and the sunlight was glancing in the
harbour from the little waves of the flowing tide. Oars were rattling up
the pier, passengers were trooping down the gangways, and the decks fore
and aft were becoming thronged.
“It's beautiful!” she was saying, not so much to her companions as to
herself, and the old parson was laughing at her bursts of rapture over
the commonplace scene, and dropping out in reply little driblets of
simple talk--sweet, pure nothings--the innocent babble as of a mountain
stream.
She was taller than the common, and had golden-red hair, and magnificent
dark-gray eyes of great size. One of her eyes had a brown spot, which
gave at the first glance the effect of a squint, at the next glance a
coquettish expression, and ever after a sense of tremendous power
and passion. But her most noticeable feature was her mouth, which was
somewhat too large for beauty, and was always moving nervously. When she
spoke, her voice startled you with its depth, which was a kind of soft
hoarseness, but capable of every shade of colour. There was a playful
and impetuous raillery in nearly all she said, and everything seemed
to be expressed by mind and body at the same time. She moved her body
restlessly, and while standing in the same place her feet were always
shuffling. Her dress was homely--almost poor--and perhaps a little
careless. She appeared to smile and laugh continually, and yet there
were tears in her eyes sometimes.
The young clergyman was of a good average height, but he looked taller
from a certain distinction of figure. When he raised his hat at the
captain's greeting he showed a forehead like an arched wall, and a
large, close-cropped head. He had a well-formed nose, a powerful chin,
and full lips--all very strong and set for one so young. His complexion
was dark--almost swarthy--and there was a certain look of the gipsy in
his big golden-brown eyes with their long black lashes. He was clean
shaven, and the lower part of his face seemed heavy under the splendid
fire of the eyes above it. His manner had a sort of diffident restraint;
he stood on the same spot without moving, and almost without raising his
drooping head; his speech was grave and usually slow and laboured; his
voice was bold and full.
The second bell had rung, and the old parson was making ready to go
ashore.
“You'll take care of this runaway, Mr. Storm, and deliver her safely at
the door of the hospital?”
“I will.”
“And you'll keep an eye on her in that big Babylon over there?”
“If she'll let me, sir.”
“Yes, indeed, yes; I know she's as unstable as water and as hard to hold
as a puff of wind.”
The girl was laughing again. “You might as well call me a tempest
and have done with it, or,” with a glance at the younger man, “say a
storm--Glory St---- Oh!”
With a little catch of the breath she arrested 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.