"I had to do something, and that came first to me."
"Then you didn't go and drink with him?"
"Why no, of course not. I took him to his berth, and told him to stay there."
"Do you think he will?"
"Yes; until he sobers up."
"Well, I don't like drunken men."
"Neither do I."
"We're agreed on one thing then, aren't we?"
Chester laughed with her. Elder Malby was pacing the deck, awaiting the call for breakfast; but Chester did not join him.
"The man bothered me yesterday," she said, "and again last night. He wished to get acquainted, he claimed."
"You don't know him, then?"
"I've never seen him before. Papa has had to remain very quiet, and I haven't been around much. That fellow made me afraid."
"Well, he'll not bother you again. If he does, let me know."
"Thank you very much—"
The call for breakfast came to them faintly, then grew louder as the beaten gong came up from below to the deck.
"I must get papa and take him to breakfast. Let me thank you again, and good morning."
He might have accompanied her down, but he just stood there watching her. Elder Malby came up, and the two went down together.
The minister and his daughter got into their places more actively that morning. Chester wished heartily that his seat was not opposite. She was at too close range to allow of any careful observation. He could not very well help looking across the table, neither could she, although she had her father to talk to. Chester was really glad when breakfast was over that morning, and they all filed up to the sun-lit deck again.
Had Chester been a smoker, he would no doubt have taken consolation in a pipe with the majority of the men; but as it was, he withdrew as much as possible from others that he might think matters over and get to a proper footing; for truth to tell, he was in danger of falling in love again, and that, he said to himself, would never do. He avoided even Elder Malby that morning; but to do so he had to go down to the main deck forward out to the prow. He went to the extreme point, where from behind the closed railing he could stand as a look-out into the eastern sea. Gently and slowly the vessel rose and fell as it plowed through the long, gleaming undulations.
"What am I coming to," said Chester half-aloud as if the sea might hear and answer him. "Here I am running away from one heart entanglement only to go plump into another. She is not Julia, of course, but she has Julia's twin soul. A perfect stranger, an acquaintance of two days! The daughter of a minister, a minister of the world!" What was he thinking of? Who were they? He did noteven know her name. She was not a well girl, that he could see. The roses in her cheeks were not altogether natural and her face was pale; but those red lips, and that smile when turned to him! Well, the voyage was half over. Another four or five days and they would be in Liverpool, where they would go their different ways forever. He must keep away from her that long, seeing there was danger. No more playing with the fire that burns so deep. And all this which he seemed to feel and fear, might be undreamed of by her and very likely was. A girl like that would not take seriously a "steamer friendship." She was only doing what all young people do on such trips, making pleasant acquaintances with whom to pass away the monotonous days. "Sure, sure," said he, as if to clinch the argument, but nevertheless, deep within his soul there was an undercurrent of protest against such final conclusions.
Chester tried to seek refuge in Elder Malby, but as he was not to be found, he opened up a conversation with the missionary for Scandinavia. The missionary was but a boy, it seemed to Chester. The going from home and the sea-sickness had had their effects, and the young fellow was glad to have some one to talk to. He came from Arizona, he told Chester; had lived on a ranch all his life; had never been twenty miles away from home before,—and now all this at once! It was "tough."
"But I'm feeling fine now," he said. "Do you know, I've had a peculiar experience. All the way across the United States from home, somethingseemed to say to me, 'You can't stand this. You'll go crazy. You'd better go back home.' Of course, I was terribly homesick, and I guess that was the trouble. The cowardly part of me was trying to scare the better part. But all the time I seemed to hear 'You'll go crazy' until once or twice I thought I would.
"Well, it was the same in New York, and the same when we came aboard. I didn't care much one way or other while sea-sick, but when I got over it, there was the same taunting voice. At last I got downright angry and said, 'All right, I'm going right on and fill my mission,and go crazy!' From that moment I have ceased to be bothered, and am now feeling fine."
"Good for you," said Chester. "You'll win out. I wish I was sure about myself." He went no further in explanation, however.
Ship board etiquette does not require formal introductions before extended conversations may be carried on. The New England school ma'am and the German professor were in a deep discussion ten minutes after they had met for the first time. Many on the ship were going especially "to do Europe," so there were themes for conversation in common.
As it happened, Chester was alone again that afternoon and he met the minister and his daughter on the promenade deck. They were taking their exercise moderately, pausing frequently to look at any trifling diversion. Chester tipped his cap at them as they passed. At the next meeting in thewalk, the minister stopped and greeted the young man.
"I wish to thank you for your act of kindness to my daughter," he said. "She has told me about it."
"It was nothing, I assure you, sir," replied Chester. "I don't think the fellow will annoy her again."
"I hope not. On these ocean voyages one is thrown so closely into all kinds of company. We, of course, must suppose all our fellow-passengers are respectable people, until we find out otherwise—but let us sit down. Where are our chairs, Lucy?"
"They're on the other side, I believe, where we left them this morning."
"It's a little too windy there."
"I'll bring them around to you," said Chester. Lucy followed him, pointing out which of the chairs belonged to them.
"May I not carry one?" she asked.
"You do not appear strong enough to lift one."
Chester carried the two chairs around to the side of the sheltered deck, then found a vacant chair for himself which he placed with the other two.
"Thank you very much," said the minister, as they seated themselves. "The day is really fine, isn't it? After the sea-sickness, there is something glorious in a pleasant sea voyage. This is my third time across, but I don't remember just such a fine day as this. Are you a good sailor?" this to Chester.
"I've not missed a meal yet, if that's any indication."
"I envy you. I have often wished I could be ondeck in a bit of real bad weather. We had a little blow the other day, I understand, when that poor fellow lost his life."
"Yes; I saw the accident," replied Chester; whereupon he had to relate the details to them.
"Well, such is life—and death," was the minister's only comment on the story.
The minister did most of the talking. Perhaps that was because he was used to it, having, as he told Chester, been a preacher for twenty-five years. The daughter commented briefly now and then, prompting his memory where it seemed to be weak. Chester listened with great interest to the man's account of former trips to Europe and his description of famous places. The speaker's voice was pleasant and well-modulated. His clean-cut face lighted up under the inspiration of some vivid description. Chester found himself drawn to the man nearly as much as he had been to the daughter.
"You're an American," announced the minister, turning to Chester.
"Yes."
"A western American, too."
"Right again; how can you tell?"
"Easily enough. How far west?"
"My home is in Chicago."
"Well, Lucy and I can beat you. We came from Kansas City. Ever been there?"
"I've passed through twice."
"Through the Union Depot only?" asked Lucy.
"You must have received a very unpleasant impression of our city."
"Well, happily I did get away from that depot. I took a ride on the cars out to Independence, and I saw a good part of the city besides. It's beautiful out towards Swope Park—"
"There's where we live," exclaimed the girl. "I think the park's just grand. I live in it nearly all summer."
At this point of the conversation, a party to windward, among whom were the two Catholic Fathers, lighted their pipes, and the smoke streamed like from so many chimneys into the faces of those sitting near. The minister looked sharply towards the puffing men, while Lucy tried to push the denser clouds away with her hands; but no notice was taken of such gentle remonstrances.
"I'll speak to them," suggested Chester.
"No; don't. It would only offend them," said the minister. "They think they are strictly within their rights, and it does not dawn on their nicotine poisoned wits that they are taking away other peoples' rights,—that of breathing the uncontaminated air. We'll just move our chairs a bit," which they did.
"You don't smoke, I take it," continued the clergyman, addressing Chester.
"No; I quit two years ago."
"Good for you. It's a vile habit, and I sometimes think the worst effect smoking has on people is that it dulls the nice gentlemanlyness of a man's character. Now, those men over there, even theCatholic Fathers, are, no doubt gentlemen in all respects but one; it's a pity that the tobacco habit should make the one exception."
Chester agreed in words, Lucy in looks.
"You say you have passed through Kansas City," continued the father. "How far west have you been?"
"To the Pacific Coast."
"Lucy and I should have made this trip westward, but the doctor said we must not cross the mountains, because of her heart. So an ocean voyage was advised."
"And I did want so much to see the Rockies," added the young woman. "I have always had a longing to see our own mountains as well as those of Switzerland. Next summer we'll take that western trip."
"I hope so, daughter."
"I assure you they are worth seeing," said Chester.
"No doubt about it. Lucy and I have planned it all for some day. Were you ever in Utah?"
"I lived for some time in Salt Lake City. Be sure to see that town on your trip."
The minister looked somewhat queerly at Chester for a moment. Then his gaze swept out to the water again as if a momentary disturbing thought was gotten rid of. Lucy was interested.
"Tell us about Salt Lake City, and, and the Mormons,'" pleaded she.
"Never mind the 'Mormons,' Lucy," admonished her father.
"It's difficult to speak of Utah and Salt Lake without mentioning the 'Mormons,'" added Chester.
"Then let's talk of something else, something more pleasant."
Evidently this minister was like all others, Chester concluded; sane and intelligent on all subjects but one,—the "Mormons." Well, he would set himself right before these two people, and do it now.
"I can say," said Chester, "that my experience among the 'Mormon' people has been among the most pleasant of my life. In fact, I don't know where I can go to find a more honest, God-fearing, virtuous people. I—"
"Young man," interrupted the clergyman, looking keenly at him, "are you a 'Mormon'?"
"Yes, sir; I have that honor."
Lucy gave a cry, whether of alarm or gladness, the young man could not then tell. The minister arose slowly. "Lucy," he said, "let us walk a little more," and without another word the two resumed their promenade.
But in Lucy's face there appeared concern. The tears, glittering in her eyes did not altogether hide the reassuring glance which she turned about to give Chester as he sat alone by the vacated chairs.
The next day was Sunday. Even on ship-board there are some indications that the seventh day is different from the rest. There is always a little extra to the menu for dinner, and then religious services are also held; and are not these two things frequently all that distinguish the Sabbath on the land?
That morning neither Lucy nor her father was at breakfast. Immediately after, Chester sought out the chief steward, and by insistency and the help of a small tip, he got his seat changed to the table occupied by Elder Malby and the two other missionaries. "No one shall be annoyed by my near presence, if I can help it," Chester said.
At the noon meal, the minister and his daughter appeared as usual. Chester watched them unobserved from his changed position. They looked at the vacant place opposite, but as far as Chester could determine, his absence was not discussed.
That afternoon services were held in three parts of the vessel at the same time. On the steerage deck a large company of Irish Catholics surrounded the two Fathers. One of the priests stood in the center of the group while the people kneeled on the deck. The priest read something in Latin, the others repeating after him. Then a glass of "holy water" was passed among them, the worshipers dippingtheir fingers in and devoutly crossing themselves. Chester watched the proceedings for a time, then he went to the second class deck where a revival meeting was in progress. The preacher was delivering the usual exhortation to "come to Jesus," while yet there was time. Presently, there came from the depths of the ship the sound of the dinner gong being slowly and solemnly beaten, no doubt to imitate, as nearly as possible, the peal of church bells. The steward who acted as bell ringer did his duty well, going into the halls and on to the decks, then disappearing again into the saloon. This was the official announcement to service. Chester and his friends followed. Quite a congregation had gathered. Two large pillows had been covered with a Union Jack to serve as a pulpit. A ship's officer then read the form prescribed for services on ship-board from the Church of England prayer book. It was all very dry and uninteresting, "Verily a form of godliness" and a lot of "vain repetition," said Elder Malby.
Then the minister—Chester's minister—arose. He had been asked, he said, to add a few words to the regular service, and he was pleased to do so. He called attention to the accident which had happened on their voyage, and felt to say something on the providence of God, and His watch-care over His children. The preacher's voice was pleasant, the ministerial tone not being so pronounced as to make his speech unnatural. Chester listened attentively,as also did Lucy who, Chester observed, was sitting well up towards the front.
"God is the source of the being of all men," said the preacher. "He has brought us all into existence, and made us in His own likeness, and is a Father to us in fact and in feeling. He owns us and owns His responsibility for us. He cares for us and overrules all things for our good. He is worthy of our love and confidence. Since we are His children, God desires us to be such in very deed—in fellowship and character, and is satisfied with us only as we are giving ourselves to the filial life. This relationship which we bear to God cannot be fully explained. There is a mystery in it beyond the understanding of finite minds; but of this we are sure that the God of Creation has brought us all forth into being, and He will take care of us if we will let Him. We cannot reasonably and reverently think otherwise of Him.
"Is it not a comfort to think that we cannot get away from the ever-present watchfulness of God? As the Psalmist puts it: 'Whither shall I go from thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not fromthee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.' Yes, yes, my friends, 'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear—'"
Somehow, what the minister said after that came very indistinctly to Chester Lawrence. He heard the words, but was aware only of a peculiar feeling, a dim perception of where he was and what he was hearing. There seemed to him to be a genuine feeling in the voice that uttered those beautiful words of scripture. They clung to his heart, and the minister himself became transfigured for an instant into some other being,—stern of countenance, yet loveliness in the depths of his soul, spiritually far away, yet heart yearning with nearness of love. Chester came fully to himself only when Elder Malby took his arm and together they paced a few turns around the deck.
That same Sunday evening as Chester stood alone on the promenade deck watching the moonlight lay as a golden coverlet on the placid sea, his attention was attracted to the figure of a girl mounting the steps leading to the deck where he stood. She paused half way as if to rest, then came slowly up to where he was standing. Her breath came heavily, and she looked around to find a place to rest. Chester instinctively took her arm and led her to a deck chair.
"O thank you," said Lucy, "I—my heart bothered me pretty badly that time. I am forbiddento climb stairs, but I couldn't find you on the lower deck."
"Did you wish to see me?" asked Chester.
"Yes; I—you'll not think me over bold, will you, but I had to find you—won't you sit down here—I can't talk very loudly tonight."
Chester drew a chair close to hers. A light wrap clung about her and the moonlight streamed on head and face. The young man, in the most matter-of-course-way adjusted the wrap to the girl's shoulders as he said:
"You are not well, tonight."
"Oh, I'm as well as usual—thank you." She smiled faintly. "Will you forgive us?"
He was about to reply, "Forgive you for what?" but he checked himself. Somehow, he could not feign ignorance as to what she meant, neither could he use meaningless words to her.
"We were very rude to you yesterday, both father and I; and I wanted to make some explanations to you, so you would understand. I am so sorry."
"You and your father are already forgiven. If there were a grain of ill-feeling against him this afternoon, it all completely vanished when I heard him talk at the services."
"You were there?"
"Yes. Now don't you worry." He was nearly to say "Little Sister;" but again he checked himself. "I am a 'Mormon,'" he continued. "I am not ashamed of it, because I know what it means. Only those who don't know despise the word."
"Neither am I ashamed of it," she said as she looked him fairly in the face. "I know a little—a very little—about the 'Mormons,' but that which I know is good."
"What do you know?"
"I'll tell you. One evening, in Kansas City I stopped to listen to two young men preaching on the street. They were just boys, and they did not have the appearance of preachers. You must know that I have always been interested in religion, and religious problems. Perhaps that is natural, seeing my father is a minister. I read his books, and many are the discussions I have had with him over points of doctrine,—and we don't always agree, either. He, however, usually took my little objections good naturedly until one day he asked me where I had obtained a certain notion regarding baptism. In reply I handed him the booklet I had received at the 'Mormon' street meeting. He looked at it curiously for a moment, wanted to know where I had obtained it, then locked it up in his desk. He was really angry; as that was something he had never been before over any religious question, I was surprised and impressed. I had, however, read carefully the booklet. Not only that, but I had been secretly to one of the 'Mormon' services. I there learned that an acquaintance of mine belonged to the 'Mormon' Church, and depend upon it, I had her tell me what she knew."
"And your father?"
"He objected, of course. At first, I told him everything. He had always let me go to any andall religious gatherings without objection. He even laughingly told me I could don the Salvation lassie's bonnet and beat a drum in the street, if I wanted to; but when it came to the 'Mormons,' O, he was angry, and forbade me from ever going to their meetings or reading their literature. I thought it strange."
"It's not strange at all,—when you understand," remarked Chester, who was intensely interested in her story. "I suppose you obeyed your father."
"Well, now, you want me to tell you the truth, of course—I—I wasn't curious—"
"Certainly not."
"You're laughing at me. But I wasn't, I tell you. I was interested. There is something in 'Mormonism' that draws me to it. I don't know much about it, to be sure, for it seems that the subject always widens out to such immensity. I want you to tell me more about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon and the new revelations."
"But your father will object. What would he say if he knew you were sitting here in this beautiful moonlight talking to a 'Mormon'?"
"I'm of age, I guess. I'm doing nothing wrong, I hope."
"I hope not. Far be it for me to harm you—or any living soul. But I don't know much about the gospel as we call it—for you must know it is the simple gospel of Jesus Christ revealed anew. There are three other 'Mormons' on board, missionaries going to Europe. One of them at least could tell you much."
"But I'd be pleased to hear you tell me—is, is that father? I wonder if he is looking for me."
Chester looked in the direction indicated. A man came up, then passed on; it was not the minister. The girl crouched into the shadow, and as she did so her shoulder pressed against Chester's. Then she sprang up.
"Well, I was foolish," she exclaimed, "to be afraid of dear old daddy!"
Chester also arose, and the two walked to the railing. They stood there in the moonlight. Great clouds of black smoke poured from the ship's funnels, and streamed on to windward, casting a shadow on the white deck. They looked out to the water, stretching in every direction into the darkness. Then as if impelled by a common impulse, they looked at each other, then blushed, and lowered their eyes. The girl's hands lay on the railing. Chester saw their soft shapeliness, and noted also that there were no rings on them.
"I'm glad I've met you," said Chester honestly.
"And I'm glad, too," she breathed. "Some other time you must tell me so much. I've so many questions to ask. You'll do that, won't you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Now I must go to father. He may be uneasy." She held out her hand. "Good night—whatdoyou think of me? Am I a rude girl?"
"I heard your father call you Lucy. That's your name, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And I may call you that, may I not? You know these ship-board acquaintances don't wait on ceremony."
"But I don't know your name, either. Think of it, how we have been really confidential and we don't even know each other's name."
"I know yours."
"Only half of it. I've two more. How many have you?"
"Only two."
"And they are?"
"Chester Lawrence."
"Well, mine is Lucy May Strong—and now, goodnight."
He took her arm and helped her down the steps, gently, for she seemed such a frail being, one who needed just such stout arms as Chester's to lean upon. He risked the danger of meeting the father by helping her down the second flight of steps to the state-room deck.
"Good night, Lucy."
"Good night—Brother Lawrence."
All Monday forenoon, Chester sat on deck reading a book which he had obtained from the ship's library. It was a most interesting story, and yet the world of gray-green water and changing clouds drew his attention from the printed page. He was beginning to realize what the fascination for the sea was which took hold of men. It would have been difficult for him to analyze or explain this feeling, but it was there; and it seemed to him that he would have been content to live out his life on that boundless ocean which presented a symbol of eternity continually before his eyes.
"Good morning."
Chester started, then turned. It was Lucy's father who found a chair and drew it up to Chester's.
"Is the book interesting?" inquired the minister.
"Not so interesting as this wonderful sea and sky," was the reply.
"You are right," said the other, following the young man's gaze out to the distance. "Our universe is now but water and air, and we are but specks floating between the two layers."
"But we know that ocean and air are not all. We know there are plains and mountains, forests and growing fields; so after all our universe must include not only all we can see with our eyes, but all that comes within view of our comprehension. Doyou know," resumed Chester after a pause, "I have come to this conclusion, that our universe is limited only within the bounds of our faith. As we believe, and strive to convert that belief into a living faith, so shall we know and realize."
The preacher looked keenly at the "Mormon," as if he would see the fountain of these thoughts. Chester continued:
"But you, as a minister of the gospel, understand all these things. However, I like to think about them and express them to those who will listen"—and as the minister was listening, the young man went on:
"I reason it out this way: The Spirit of God—that is, His presence in influence and knowledge and power, as you so beautifully put it yesterday at the services, is everywhere in the universe. There is no place in heaven or hell, or in the uttermost bounds of space but God is there. As you also stated, we may not fully understand this infinite magnificence of God, but this has been done to help us: the Father has revealed Himself to us through his Son. The Son we can comprehend, for He was one of us. We learn from scripture that this Son had all power both in heaven and earth given him; that He was, in fact, 'heir of all things.' Now, when that fact is fixed in my mind, I connect this other with it, that we, God's children also, are joint heirs with Christ; and in fact, if we continue on in the way He trod, we shall be like Him. Now, then, what does this chain of argument lead us to? That we may followin the footsteps of God, and where He has gone, or shall go, we may go. Think of it—no, we can't. Only for an instant can our minds dwell upon it, then we drop to the common level again, and here we are, a speck on the surface of the deep."
"What is that book you are reading?" asked the minister. He had evidently also dropped to the "common level;" or perhaps he had not soared with his companion.
"This? O, this is Kipling's 'Plain Tales from the Hills.' I like Kipling, but I wish he hadn't written some very untruthful things about my people."
"Has he?"
"Yes. It seems he made a flying visit through Salt Lake City, and took for gospel truth the lurid stories hack drivers tell to tourists so that they may get their money's worth."
"Well, I don't know;—but that brings me to the point of my errand. I sought you out especially today to ask you not to talk religion to my daughter. I understand she and you had a discussion on 'Mormonism' last evening, and she slept very little all night as a result."
"You are mistaken, sir; I said nothing to her about 'Mormonism.' She told me a little about—"
"Well, whatever it was, she was and is still ill over it. Let me tell you,—and I am sure you will believe me,—my little girl is all I have. She has been ailing for years, heart trouble mostly, with complications. A comfortable voyage with no over-excitement might help, the doctors said; and that'sthe main reason for this trip. She has always been interested in religious questions, which I naturally encouraged her in; but when she got mixed up somewhat with the 'Mormons,' that was quite another matter."
"Why, may I ask?"
"Well, it excited her. It brought her in contact with undesirable people, people not of her class and standing—"
"Like me, for instance."
"I did not say that."
"You inferred it. But pardon me. I would not, for the world, do anything that would unfavorably affect your daughter."
"I knew you would look at the matter sensibly. Perhaps it would be for the best if you did not meet her oftener than possible. I know it is difficult on ship-board, but for her sake you might try."
"For her sake, why certainly, I'll do anything—for I want to tell you, Mr. Strong, you have a good, sweet daughter."
"I'm glad you think so."
"And I think a whole lot of her, I may just as well tell you. We have met but a few times, but some souls soon understand each other."
"What! You don't mean—!"
"That we have been making love to each other," laughed Chester. "O, no; not that I know; but there is such a thing as true affinity of souls, nevertheless, the affinity which draws by the Spirit of God.And so I say again plainly, that you may understand, I regard your daughter highly."
"Young man, I thank you for your open manner and speech, but I beseech of you not to encourage any deeper feeling towards my daughter. She can never marry. She lives, as it were, on the brink of the grave. Now, I have been plain also with you."
"I appreciate it, sir; believe me; I am profoundly sorry for her and for you; but, let me say this, seeing we are speaking plainly, if I loved your daughter, and we all knew she would die tomorrow, or next month, that knowledge would make only this difference, that my love would become all the holier. If she returned that love, we would be happy in knowing that in the life beyond we would go on and bring that love to a perfect consummation."
The minister looked closely again at the young man. Then, giving voice to his thoughts, asked: "Have you studied for the ministry? Are you now a 'Mormon' missionary?"
"I am not an authorized 'Mormon' missionary. My studying has been no more than is expected of every 'Mormon.' Every member of our Church is supposed to be able to give a reason for the hope that is within him,—and I think I can do that."
"Do you live in Utah?"
"No, sir; my home is in Chicago."
"Chicago!—well, I—are there 'Mormons' in Chicago?"
"A few, as I suppose there are a few in KansasCity. I joined the 'Mormon' Church in Chicago, but I was converted in Utah."
"You have been to Utah, then?"
"O, yes; I spent some time there and got very well acquainted with the people; and they are a good people, I tell you, sir. I know—"
"Yes, well, Mr.——, Lucy did tell me your name, but I have forgotten it."
"My name is Lawrence—Chester Lawrence."
The minister had arisen as if about to go, but he now sat down again. Chester did not understand the strange twitching of the minister's lips or the pallor of his face. What had he said or done to agitate the man so much?
"Chester Lawrence!" repeated Mr. Strong under his breath.
"You have never met me before, have you? Perhaps—"
"No; I have never met you before. No, no; of course not. There was just something come over me. I'm not very well, and I suppose I—"
He stopped, as if he lacked words.
"May I get you anything, a drink of water?" suggested Chester.
"No, no; it was nothing. Sit down again"—for Chester also had arisen—"and tell me some more about yourself. I am interested."
"Well, my life has been very uneventful, and yet in a way, I have lived. As a boy in Chicago, I suppose, my young days passed as others; but it waswhen I went out west and met the 'Mormons' that things happened to me."
"Yes, yes."
"I don't mean that I had any adventures or narrow escapes in a physical way. I lived in the mountains as a miner for a time, but there are no wild animals or Indians there now, so my adventures were those of the spirit, if I may use that expression,—and of the heart. Isn't that your daughter coming this way?"
Sure enough, Lucy had found them, and came up to them beaming. Chester failed to see in her any symptoms for the worse, as her father had indicated. In fact, there certainly was a spring to her step which he had not seen before.
"Well, I've found you at last, you run-away papa. Good morning," she nodded to Chester, who returned the greeting. "Don't you know, papa, you have kept me waiting for half an hour or more to finish our game."
"I'll go right now with you," said the father, rising.
"Well, I don't care so much now, whether it's finished or not. I believe someone else has it anyway."
"Oh, we'll go and finish the game," persisted Mr. Strong.
"Perhaps Mr. Lawrence will come along," suggested the girl, as it seemed very proper to do.
"Not now, thank you," replied Chester. "I must finish my book before the lunch gong sounds."
The minister took his daughter's arm and they went along the deck to where a group was laughing merrily over the defeat and victory in the games. Chester watched them mingle with the company, then he opened his book again; but he did not complete his story at the time he had appointed.
To those who can possess their souls in peace, life on ship-board in pleasant weather is restful, and may be thoroughly enjoyed. A little world is here compactly put together, and human nature may be studied at close range. From the elegant apartments of the saloon to the ill-smelling quarters of the steerage, there is variety enough. Representatives are here from nearly "every nation under heaven:" every creed, every color; every grade of intelligence and worldly position, from the prince who occupies exclusively the finest suite of rooms, to the begrimed half-naked stoker in the furnace room in the depths of the vessel; every occupation; every disposition. And yet, even in this compact city in a shell of steel, one may seclude himself from his fellows and commune solely with his own thoughts or his books.
The three "Mormon" elders, reticent and quiet, had made few acquaintances. The Rev. Mr. Strong and his daughter, not being very well, had not been active in the social proceedings of the ship's company.
Chester Lawrence had formed an acquaintancewhich seemed to him to fill all requirements, so that he cared not whether he learned to know any more of his fellow travelers. And now further association with this pleasant acquaintance must stop. Well, once again he said to himself, he would be glad at sight of Liverpool, and again some deeply hidden voice protested.
Chester tried to keep his word with Mr. Strong. He made no efforts to see Lucy or talk with her, and he even evaded her as much as possible. This he could not wholly do without acting unmannerly. All were on deck during those beautiful days, and twice on Tuesday Lucy and Chester and the elders had played deck quoits, the father joining in one of them. Lucy beamed on Chester in her quiet way until she noted the change in his conduct towards her. The pained expression on the girl's face when she realized this change, went to Chester's heart and he could have cried out in explanation.
That evening Lucy found Chester in a corner of the library pretending to read. There was no escape for him as she approached. What a sweet creature she was, open-hearted and unafraid! His heart met her half way.
"What is the matter with you, Brother Lawrence?" she asked.
"There is nothing the matter with me."
"Then what haveIdone?" She seated herself, and Chester laid his book on the table. He would be plain and open with this girl. In the end nothingis gained by mystery and silence. He told her plainly what had taken place between himself and her father. She listened quietly, the tears welling in her eyes as he progressed. Then for a moment she hid her face in her hands while she cried softly.
"I shall not ask you to break your promise," she said at last, "but I did so want to learn more of the gospel—the true restored gospel. It isn't true that a discussion of these things affects me unfavorably. I am never so well as when I am hearing about and thinking of them. Perhaps father thinks so, however; I shall not misjudge him."
"So I shall keep my word," said he, "and if I keep it strictly, I should not now prolong my talk with you. But I have a way out of your trouble. You know Elder Malby. He is a wise man and knows the gospel much better than I. He will gladly talk to you."
"Thank you. That's a good suggestion; but you—"
"I shall have to be content to look from afar off, or perchance to listen in silence. Good night."
And so it happened that the very next morning when the passengers were looking eagerly to the near approach to Queenstown, Lucy and Elder Malby were seen sitting on deck in earnest conversation. Chester promenaded at a distance with some envy in his heart; but he kept away. For fully an hour the girl and the elderly missionary talked. Then the minister, coming on deck saw them. He, no doubt, thought she was well out of harm's wayin such company, for he did not know Elder Malby. When he caught sight of Chester he went up to him, took him by the arm and fell into his stride.
Their conversation began with the common ship-board topics. Then the minister asked his companion more about himself and his life. It seemed to Chester that he purposely led up to his personal affairs, and he wondered why. There were some parts of his history that he did not desire to talk about. What did this man wish to know?
"How long did you live in Utah?" asked the minister, after receiving little information about Chester's birth and parentage.
"Altogether, about a year."
"And you liked it out there?"
"Very much. The mountain air is fine; and that is truly the land of opportunity."
The two swung around the deck, keeping in step. Chester pressed his companion's arm close. They reached in their orbit the point nearest to Lucy and Elder Malby, then without stopping went on around.
"I knew a man once by the name of Lawrence," said the minister. "I wonder if he could be related to you."
Chester did not reply.
"I don't know whether or not he ever went to Utah."
"My parents were not with me in Utah. I went alone, after I was a grown man. My mother had lived there many years before, but had left. She lived in Chicago the latter part of her life; but shemade a trip to Utah when she was old and feeble,—and she died there. * * * * Her grave is there now."
The minister now was silent. His lips twitched again. Chester once more wondered why such things should affect him. The man's arm clung to Chester firmly as if he wished support; and Chester's heart warmed to him. Was he not Lucy's father? Should he not know all he desired to know about the man who had expressed deep regard for his daughter?
"I think you are tired," said Chester. "Let's sit here and rest."
"Yes; all right."
"The man Lawrence whom you knew was not my father," continued Chester. "That was my mother's maiden name. I don't know—I never knew my father; and shall I say, I have no wish to know a man who could treat my mother and his child the way he did. No; much as I have longed to know a father's love and care, I cannot but despise a man who becomes a father, then shirks from the responsibility which follows—who leaves the burden and the disgrace which follow parenthood outside the marriage relation to the poor woman alone. Such baseness, such cowardice, such despicable littleness of soul!—do you wonder why I don't want to know my father?"
Well, he had done it. Lucy's father knew the truth of his dishonorable beginning. This highly cultured Christian minister was no doubt shockedinto silence by his outburst of confidence. But he must know also that this occurred among a Christian community, long before either of the parties concerned knew of or were connected with the "Mormons." So Chester explained this to the man at his side, who sat as if deaf to what was being said. His gaze was fixed far out to sea. His lips did not now quiver, but the lines in his face were rigid.
Chester beckoned to the daughter, and when she came, he said:
"I think your father is not well. Perhaps he ought to go below and rest."
"Father," cried the somewhat frightened girl, "what is it? Are you ill?"
The father shook himself as if to be freed from some binding power, looked at Chester and then at Lucy, smiled faintly, and said:
"Oh, I'm all right now, but perhaps I ought to rest a bit. Will you go down with me, Lucy?"
The daughter took his arm and was about to lead him away. He stopped and turned again to Chester.
"Excuse me," he said, "but what was your mother's full name?"
"Anna Lawrence."
"Thank you. All right, Lucy. Let's be going."
Chester watched them disappear down the companionway, then looked out to sea at the black smoke made by a steamer crawling along the horizon, from Liverpool outward bound.