FATHER AND DAUGHTER
Jennie slept late that morning, and was finally awakened by the
cessation of the motion to which she had been accustomed day and night
for the last nine days.
She started up and looked out.
The ship was at anchor in the fine cove of Cork, and the window of her
stateroom commanded the harbor. She knew there was a crowd of people on
deck, but she felt no disposition to join them; so after she had washed
and dressed her child and herself she sat down and waited until the kind
stewardess brought her some breakfast.
“Well, here we are at Queenstown,” said the good woman, as she set down
the breakfast tray.
“Thank you for bringing my breakfast, Mrs. Hopkins. How long will we
remain here?” inquired Jennie.
“Only a few hours. The bride and groom—Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay, you
know—have got off. I know they took their tickets for Liverpool, and
here they have got off at Queenstown. Now they will go to London by way
of Holyhead.”
“Ah,” said Jennie, only because she felt that she must say something.
“Very queer, I call it, for gentlemen and ladies to sacrifice their
passage money in that way. But when people have more money than they
know what to do with they do fling a good deal away, that’s certain.”
Jennie began to drink her coffee to avoid the necessity of speaking. She
did not think it was queer that the pair should have left the steamer at
Queenstown, for she understood very well that Kightly Montgomery dared
not face her father at Liverpool.
“Are they really off, Mrs. Hopkins?” she inquired at last. “Are you sure
they have actually gone?”
“Went ashore in the boat half an hour ago. Took all their baggage from
the stateroom, but left that which is in the hold—big trunks that must
go to Liverpool, where they will claim them at the custom house, when
they themselves get there by the mail route,” replied the stewardess.
This was a great relief to Jennie. To know that Kightly Montgomery was
really gone from the steamer, not to return, gave her a sense of freedom
and security which she had not experienced since she had discovered his
baleful presence on board. She felt now that she could go freely on the
deck and take her child there, and enjoy all the delights of the voyage
across the channel and up the Mersey, without the fear of meeting him or
his deceived bride.
“I do not think, Mrs. Hopkins, that I shall trouble any one to bring my
meals to me here after this. I shall go to the public table,” she said.
“It would be much better for you, my dear,” the stewardess replied.
“And now that I have finished breakfast, I will take baby and go up on
deck.”
“That will be better for you, too, my dear. Let me help you.”
“Oh, no. I am quite well and ever so much stronger than I was yesterday.
Besides, the ship is quite still, so you see I can walk steadily and
carry baby.”
But the stewardess resolutely took the child from the arms of the young
mother and carried it up before her.
The deck was a crowded and busy scene. All the passengers were up there,
gazing out upon the beautiful scenery. But crowded as it was, the people
were nearly all standing, so it was easy for the stewardess to find a
good seat for the mother, to whom, when comfortably arranged, she gave
the child.
Her fellow passengers took but little notice of Jennie now; they were
too much interested in other matters. She sat there and enjoyed the
scene until the ship got under way again and stood out for the mouth of
the Mersey.
This last day on board Jennie enjoyed the voyage very much. She spent
nearly the whole day on deck, and left it with reluctance at night to
retire to her stateroom. That night she could scarcely sleep for the
excitement of anticipating her meeting with her father.
Nevertheless, she was up and out on deck early the next morning.
They were near the mouth of the Mersey. As soon as she had breakfasted
she packed up all her effects, so as to be ready to go on shore as soon
as the ship should land.
Then she sat on deck to watch the shores until at last the steamer drew
near to the great English seaport and came to anchor.
A steam tender from the piers was rapidly approaching the _Scorpio_.
A great crowd of people were on board the tender, apparently coming to
meet friends on the _Scorpio_.
Many field glasses were in active use in the hands of voyagers trying to
make out the persons of their friends.
Jennie had no glass, but as she stood bending forward, straining her
eyes to see, a gentleman near her said:
“Will you take my glass?”
She thanked him, and took it, adjusted the lenses to her sight, and held
the instrument up to her eyes.
A cry of joy had nearly broken from her lips. She saw her father
standing on the deck of the coming tender, looking well and happy. He,
too, had a glass, and was using it. She saw that he had seen her; he
took off his hat and waved it to her. She waved her hands.
The tender was drawing very near, and now came a general waving of
handkerchiefs in salutation from the passengers on both steamers.
In another minute the tender was alongside, the gangplank thrown down,
and the rush of friends to meet each other made a joyous confusion.
Jennie found herself in her father’s arms, scarcely knowing how she got
there in such a crowd and confusion.
“My daughter! my daughter! welcome! welcome! welcome! welcome to my
heart!” the father cried, in a breaking, choking voice, as he pressed
her fondly to his breast.
“My own beloved father! Oh, thank the Lord—thank the Lord, that I see
you again! And my mother!—my darling mother!—how is she?” cried Jennie,
sobbing for joy.
“Well, my dearest, well, thank Heaven! Sends fondest love to you, my
child, and waits your return with a joyful heart.”
“Oh! how have I deserved this love and tenderness, this divine
compassion and forgiveness? Oh! my father, I ought to fall—not on your
neck—but at your feet, and say—what I feel! what I feel!—‘Father, I have
sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be
called thy child.’”
“Hush! my darling, hush! We will talk later. Let us go away from here as
soon as possible. Where is your babe, Jennie?”
“In my stateroom, dear father, fast asleep. Will you come down with me
and see her?”
“Yes, dear.”
The father and daughter struggled through the pressing crowd, and made
their way slowly and with difficulty down into the cabin, which was now
all “upside down” with ladies and ladies’ maids, and gentlemen and
valets, stewards and stewardesses, getting together their “traps” and
making ready to go on shore.
Jennie took her father directly to her stateroom, where the pretty babe
lay sleeping on the lower berth.
Jennie lifted the babe and placed it in her father’s arms.
The minister received the child, raised his eyes, and solemnly invoked
God’s blessing on it, then stooped and pressed a kiss upon its brow.
Finally he returned the babe to its mother, saying:
“Wrap her up, my dear. We must hurry, or we shall miss the first return
trip of the tender and have to wait for the second, which would cause us
to lose our train.”
Jennie quickly folded the baby in the warm white cloak and hood which
had been given her by the Duncan children.
“Now I will take her again and carry her for you. Do you take up your
hand-bag and parasol. I will speak to have the other things brought
after us,” said Mr. Campbell, as he led the way to the deck, carrying
the babe, and followed by his daughter.
The passengers had all left the steamer.
Men were carrying baggage on board the tender. Mr. Campbell spoke to one
of them, directing him to the stateroom of his daughter. Then, holding
the babe on one arm, he gave the other to Jennie, and led her across the
gangplank and on board the tender, where by this time all the passengers
were gathered.
In a few minutes the tender put off from the ship and steamed to the
piers, where she soon arrived. The passengers swarmed out.
Mr. Campbell called a cab, put his daughter and her child into it,
followed them and gave the order: To the Lime Street Railway Station.
When they reached the place the minister stopped the cab, got out and
took the babe from her mother’s arms, and led the way into a
second-class waiting-room.
“You will stay here, my dear,” he said, “while I go back to the custom
house and get your baggage through. You will not mind?”
“Oh, no, dearest father. I shall not mind anything, except missing the
sight of your dear face, even for a minute. It seems to me as if I
should never bear to lose sight of you again.”
“I shall come back as soon as possible, my dear,” said the minister; and
he found for her a comfortable seat, placed the baby in her arms, and so
left her in the waiting-room.
Jennie sat there without feeling the time pass wearily, after all; her
mind was too full of delightful anticipations of homegoing.
Nearly an hour passed, and then her father came hurrying in.
“It is all done, my dear. Your trunks are rescued from the custom house
and deposited on the train, and now we have five minutes left in which
to take some refreshments, if you would like,” he said cheerfully.
“I want nothing, dear papa, for I have not very long since breakfasted.
But you?” she inquired.
“No, dear; nothing for me. And now, my dear child, I have at length
found breathing space in this hurry and confusion to ask about your
husband. You did not name him at all in your letter, from which I argued
ill; and if there had been time, I should have written to you for some
explanation; but I knew that you were then to sail in a few days, and
that you would reach Liverpool before my letter could get to New York.
Now, my dear, I must ask you some very serious questions.”
“Yes, papa.”
“How is it that you, the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of
England, and the wife of an ex-captain in her majesty’s army, should
have been confined in the charity ward of a public hospital?”
Jennie shuddered, but did not answer.
“How was it that you had to be indebted to alms for your outfit and
passage to this country? Why did you not mention your husband’s name in
your letter to me? Why are you here alone? Where is your husband? Tell
me, child. Do not fear or hesitate to tell your father everything,” he
said, tenderly taking her hand.
“Oh, papa, your goodness goes to my heart. He has left me, papa,” she
said, and then suddenly lifting her soft, dark eyes, full of truth and
candor, to meet her father’s pitying gaze, she added: “But do not mind
that, dear papa. I do not. The best thing he ever did for me was to
leave me.”
“Jennie!”
“Yes, papa dear, it was, indeed. I am not saying this from pride or
bravado, but because it is the very truth itself, that the best thing he
ever did for me was to leave me.”
“Oh, Jennie!”
“Yes, papa.”
“You do not care for him, then?”
“No, dear papa.”
“And yet, my child, he is your husband still,” said the minister.
“Unhappily, yes; but he has left me. It is the kindest act of his life
toward me.”
“And you never wish to see him again, Jennie?”
“Never, nor to hear of him. I am happy now in a quiet way. I wish for
nothing better on earth than to live in a quiet way at the darling
little parsonage with you and dearest mamma and my blessed baby.”
Suddenly into the pathos and gravity of Jennie’s face came a ripple of
humor as she spoke of her child and looked at her father.
The Rev. James Campbell was certainly the youngest grandfather in
England, if not in Europe. He was really but thirty-eight years old, and
might have been taken for a mere boy, for he was of medium height and of
slight and elegant form, with a shapely head, pure, clean-cut classic
features, a clear, fair complexion and dark chestnut hair, parted in the
middle, cut rather short and slightly curling. He wore neither beard nor
mustache. His dress was a clerical suit of black cloth of the cheapest
quality and somewhat threadbare; but it perfectly fitted his faultless
figure; but his linen collar and cuffs were spotless even after a
railway journey in the second-class cars and his gloves were neatly
mended.
Altogether he looked very young and even boyish, as we said, though he
was in middle life and a grandfather.
But for the close resemblance between the father and daughter, their
fellow passengers in the waiting-room must have taken them for a married
pair, and “o’er young to marry also.”
“But about this man, Jennie,” he said, seeing that she paused. “Where is
he now?”
“In Ireland, I believe, papa. It is a long story I have to tell when we
get home. And—here is our train.”
The whistle sounded, and the minister took his grandchild from his
daughter and carried it, followed by its mother, to their seats in one
of the second-class carriages.