Chapter II: 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.