"This is quite an honor," remarked Chester, "to have a company of soldiers come to meet us, and to be escorted into town by music like this. How didtheyknow?"
"Know what?" escaped from Lucy before she discerned his meaning.
"Why, you silly man," she replied, "the honor is for the kittens!"
Uncle Gilbert met them at the door. "Your father is sleeping—getting along fine," he explained. "Now then, young man, did you kiss the Blarney Stone?"
"Why—no—I—"
"You didn't! You missed the greatest opportunity in your life."
"Oh, no, I didn't." replied Chester. "Far from it."
Lucy, rosy red, fled past her teasing uncle into the house.
A warm, gentle rain was falling. No regrets or complaints were heard at Kildare Villa, for, as Uncle Gilbert said, the farmers needed it, he and his people were comfortably housed, and the excursionists—meaning Chester and Lucy—would do well to remain quiet for a day.
The minister had so far recovered that he walked unaided into the large living room, where a fire in the grate shed a genial warmth. Chester and Lucy were already there, she at the piano and he singing softly. At sight of her father, Lucy ran to him, helped him to a seat, then kissed him good morning.
"How much better you are!" she said.
"Yes; I am glad I am nearly myself again—thanks to Aunt Sarah," he said, as that good woman entered the room with pillows and footrest for the invalid, who was made quite comfortable. Then the aunt delivered him to the care of the two young people, with an admonition against drafts and loud noises.
"All right, daddy; now what can we do for you?" asked Lucy.
"You were singing—when I came in. * * * Sing the song again."
"But loud noises, you know."
"Sing—softly," he replied.
The two went back to the piano. Lucy played and both sang in well modulated, subdued voices,
"Jesus, I my cross have takenAll to leave and follow Thee;Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,Thou, from hence my all shall be.Perish every fond ambition,All I've sought, or hoped, or known,Yet how rich is my condition,God and heaven are still my own."
"Jesus, I my cross have takenAll to leave and follow Thee;Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,Thou, from hence my all shall be.Perish every fond ambition,All I've sought, or hoped, or known,Yet how rich is my condition,God and heaven are still my own."
They sang the three stanzas. The two voices blended beautifully. The father asked them to sing the song again, which they did. Then they sang others, some of which were not familiar to the listener.
"Oh, how lovely was the morning,Brightly beamed the sun above."
"Oh, how lovely was the morning,Brightly beamed the sun above."
"What was that last song?" inquired the father.
The two singers looked at each other as if they had been caught in some forbidden act.
"Why"—hesitated Lucy, "that's a Sunday School song."
"A 'Mormon' song?"
"Yes."
"Sing—it again," he said as he lay back on his pillows, closed his eyes and listened.
"Do you know any more—'Mormon' songs?"
Lucy, of course, did not know many. Chestermanaged "O, my Father," and one or two more. Then Lucy closed the piano and went back to her father, where she stood smoothing gently his gray hair. Thus they talked and read and sang a little more, while the rain fell gently without.
"This is a beautiful country," said Chester, looking out of the window. "I do not blame people who have money, desiring to live here." Lucy came to the window also, and they stood looking out on the rain-washed green. The father lay still in his chair, and presently he went to sleep. Chester and Lucy then retired to a corner, and carried on their conversation in low tones. Faint noises from other parts of the house came to them. From without, only the occasional shrill whistle of a locomotive disturbed the silence. The fire burned low in the grate.
Suddenly, the father awoke with a start. "I tell you he is my son," he said aloud. "I am his father, and I ought to father him—my heart goes out—my son—"
"What is it, father?" cried Lucy, running to him, and putting her arm around his shoulders.
The father looked about, fully awakened.
"I was only dreaming," he explained. "Did I talk in my sleep?"
Just then Uncle Gilbert came in. He announced that tomorrow he would of necessity have to leave for Liverpool. It would be a short trip only; he would be back in two or three days, during whichall of them should continue to make themselves comfortable.
"George, here, is getting along famously," he declared. "A few more days of absolute rest, and you'll be all right, eh, brother?"
"I think so."
Aunt Sarah now announced luncheon, and they all filed out of the room.
That evening the two brothers were alone. "I want to talk to you," the visitor had said; and his brother was willing that he should. Evidently, something weighed heavily on his mind, some imaginary trouble, brought on by his weakened physical condition.
"Now, what is it, brother," said Gilbert as they sat comfortably in their room.
"You know that in my younger days I had a little trouble"—began the minister, now speaking quite freely.
"I don't recall what you mean."
"When I was studying for the ministry—a woman, you—"
"O, yes; I remember; but what of it? That's past and forgotten long ago."
"Past, but not forgotten. I have tried to forget, the Lord knows, by long years of service in the ministry. I hope the Lord has forgiven—but I forgotten, Oh, no."
"Look here, brother, you are over-sensitive just now because of your physical condition. You havenothing to worry over. That little youthful indiscretion—"
"But there was a child, Gilbert, a boy."
"Well, what of it?"
"That was my boy. I am his father. What has become of him? Where is he now? Flesh of my flesh, is he handicapped by the stigma I placed upon him? Is he, perchance, groveling in the gutter, because I cast him off—had no thought or care for him—"
"Now, look here—"
"Listen. I became a father, then shirked the responsibility of fatherhood. A new word rings in my ears, 'FATHERING.' I can see its mighty import. I who have spoken the words of the great Father for these many years, have not followed His example. Listen, brother: if that son of mine is alive, and I believe he is, I am going to find and claim him—and not once more do I preach until I do."
The brother was somewhat alarmed, showing it in his countenance.
"You may think I am out of my head; but I never was saner in my life. My thoughts are as clear as a bell, and now that I have said what I wanted to, I feel better. That's all—don't you worry about me. Now go to bed. You are to be off in the morning, you know. Good night."
As Gilbert walked out, his mind not altogether clear about his brother, Lucy was at the door waiting to bid her father good night.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"Yes; come along."
"I wanted just to say good night."
"That's right, my girl; and where is Chester?"
"He—I don't know. I think he's retired."
"You're looking so well, these days. Are you happy?"
"Yes, daddy; so happy—and so much better, I believe."
"All right—there now, good night. If Chester is without, tell him to come in a moment."
She kissed him again, then slipped out. Presently, Chester entered.
"Did you wish to see me, Mr. Strong?"
"Yes—that is, just to say good night—and to tell you that I am better—and also to thank you for taking such good care of Lucy."
"Why, I assure you—"
"Wait a moment. Stand right where you are, there in that light—you'll excuse a sick man's humors, I know; but someone told me today that we two look very much alike. I was just wondering whether it was a fancy only—but I can't tell, nor you can't tell. It always takes a third person to say."
"Yes; I suppose it does," laughed Chester. "But I don't object to the resemblance."
"Nor I, my boy. Come here. Continue to take good care of Lucy. She's a good, sweet girl." The man arose, as if to be off to bed. Chester put his arm around him.
"Let me help you," said the young man. "You are not very strong yet."
"Thank you." He put his arm about Chester's neck so that the stronger man could nearly carry the weaker. As they walked slowly across the room under the lamps anyone could see a striking resemblance between the two men. As they said good night and parted at the father's door, the older man's hand patted softly the young man's cheek. Chester felt the touch, so strange that it thrilled him. "That was for Lucy's sake," he said to himself as he sought the quietness of his own room.
There were no apparent reasons why Chester Lawrence should not accompany Uncle Gilbert to Liverpool, so neither Chester nor Lucy tried to find any. Plans for meeting in London and on the continent were fully matured and understood. The separation would be for a week or fortnight at most. Lucy and Aunt Sarah waved their goodbyes as the train drew out of Cork for Dublin.
Chester now understood why Ireland was called the Emerald Isle. Green, green, everywhere—fields and hedges, trees and bushes, bogs and hills—everything was green. Uncle Gilbert gave him full information on all points of interest.
At Dublin they had a few hours to wait for the boat, so they looked around the city, not forgetting the beautiful Phoenix Park. It was evening when they went on board the steamer and to bed. Nextmorning, they were awakened by the rattling of cables and chains as they slid into a dock at Liverpool.
Chester and Gilbert Strong parted company at Liverpool, the latter to attend to the business which had brought him there, the former to seek a place of lodging. First he found 42 Islington, the headquarters of the mission, introduced himself to the elders in charge, and asked them to direct him to some cheap, but respectable lodgings. He was shown to a nearby hotel where the missionaries usually put up, where he obtained a room. Then he went to the steamship company's office at the pier, obtained his trunk, and had it taken to his lodgings. After a bath, a general clean-up and change of clothing, he was ready for the town, or all England for that matter.
He went back to "42" for further information. He noticed that the slum district of the town pressed closely on to the office quarters, and he saw some sights even that first afternoon which shocked him: dirty, ragged children, playing in the gutters; boys and girls and women going in to dram shops and bringing out mugs of beer; men and women drunken. One sight specially horrified him: a woman, dirty, naked shoulders and arms; feet and legs bare; a filthy skirt and bodice open at the breast; hair matted and wild; reeling along the pavement, crying out in drunken exclamations and mutterings. It was the most sickening sight the young man hadever seen, and with perhaps the exception of a fight he witnessed some days later between two such characters, the worst spectacle of his life.
All this sordid life so strange and new, drew the attention of the young westerner. Especially did 42 Islington interest him; for this was an historic spot for "Mormonism." From here the early missionaries had sent forth the message of salvation to Great Britain, in fact, to the whole of Europe. Here within these dingy rooms had trod the strong, sturdy characters of the pioneer days of the Church. Perhaps in some of these rooms Orson Pratt had written his masterly presentation of the gospel. In those days, very likely, there were not so many noises of traffic and restless humanity. Perhaps such men could take with them the peace and sublime solitude of their home in the Western Mountains into the confusing din of the big city, and remain undisturbed. And these were happy, even as the present elders were, laboring, with a clear conscience for the salvation of souls. There came to Chester, as he thought of these things, an expression he had read: "Outside things cannot make you happy, unless they fit with something inside; and they are so few and so common that the smallest room can hold them."
That same evening there was a meeting of the Saints which Chester attended. The congregation was small, much smaller even than those of Chicago. Most of the people present appeared to be of the humbler, working classes; but there was the samelight in their faces as that which shone in faces on the other side of the world, when enlightened by the Spirit of God. Everywhere, Chester noticed, this Spirit was the same, giving to rich and poor, learned and unlearned alike, the joy of its presence.
"Come around tomorrow, and we'll take a look about the city," said one of the elders to Chester. "Sitting cramped over a desk day after day, makes it necessary for me to get out once in a while."
The afternoon of the following day, Chester called for his friend in the office, and they set out. "I want you to get rid of the first impressions of Liverpool," explained the elder. "I want you to get away from the noise and dirt to the green and quiet and beauty of the town."
First they took a car to the Botanical Gardens, looked at the flower beds and inspected the palm-house. Then they walked across the open to the farther side, followed a short street or two into the big, open grass-covered Wavertree Playground. Thence it was a short walk to Sefton Park with its varied and extensive beauties. They watched the children sail their toy crafts on the lake. There were some men even, trying out model boats. The bird cage was interesting. The grotto, as usual, was hard to find. The palm-house took a good part of their time, for the beautiful statue of Burn's Highland Mary, gleaming white from a bed of green, took Chester's attention, as also the historical figures surrounding the house. One of these was of Columbus with an inscription claiming that hehad very much to do with the making of Liverpool, which is no doubt true.
The weather was fine, the air was balmy; many people were out. Chester and his companion strolled about the walks and across the velvety stretches of grass. They watched for a time, a "gentlemanly game of cricket," but it was too slow altogether for the Americans.
It was well towards sundown when the two young men took a car back to Islington. "Another day we'll see Newsham Park, and the country around Knotty Ash way. Then again, there is some beautiful country up the Mersey and across to Birkenhead." The visitor was grateful for these offers.
That evening Chester addressed some post-cards to his few friends in Chicago, one to Hugh Elston, one to Elder Malby in London, and one to Lucy May Strong, Kildare Villa, Cork, Ireland. He lingered somewhat over this latter, lost somewhat in wonder at recent events. Was not this ocean trip and the Irish experience a dream? The noise and smoke about him were surely that of Chicago, and he was sitting in his room there in his normal condition of homelessness and friendlessness? Had he not that day been out with an elder from the Chicago Church office to Lincoln Park and the lakeside? Surely Lucy and the minister, and Kildare Villa and Blarney were figments of a pleasant dream! Chester walked back and forth in the small room. He stopped before a dingy map of Great Britain on the wall. His finger touched Ireland,moved southward, and stopped at Cork. Yes; therewassuch a place, any way, so there must be Shandon Bells and the Blarney Stone, and a rustic seat under the trees at Blarney Castle. Well, if all else under the sun were imaginary, that hour of bliss at Blarney when Chester told Lucy he loved her, and Lucy told Chester the same sweet words—that was real. He would live in that reality, for it far surpassed his dreams.
Chester looked again at the post-card he had addressed to Kildare Villa, placed it aside, and wrote in its place a long letter.
Twenty miles out of London. The sun is shining, and the train glides along by green fields, hedges of hawthorn, and blossoming trees. England looks to be the huge, well-cared-for farm of a very rich man. This may be explained by the fact that England is an old country, having been plowed and planted and harrowed for close on to a thousand years before America was discovered. This long period of cultivation gives the country-side a mellowness and well-groomed look. The vaporous sunlight softens all the outlines, hides the harsh features, and gives the landscape its dreamy, far-away, misty loveliness. There seems to be no angles in the scene; field melts into field, and hedge into hedge, with here and there a ribbon of a road which seems to join them rather than to separate them. The houses are of brick or of stone, many partly hidden under the climbing ivy or roses.
Chester Lawrence is accompanying Elder Malby eastward from London through Kent to Margate and Ramsgate on the coast. Elder Malby is to attend to some Church duties, and Chester, by invitation, was glad to accompany him. It was the young man's policy to keep in touch as much as possible with the elders and their work, and he was getting somewhat of the missionary spirit himself. He wasgreatly enjoying this ride through the beautiful country.
"It's really wonderful," said Chester, looking out of the car window, "this coming from London into the country. Where are all the people? Are they all in town? Some cows are browsing in the pastures, and sheep scurry about as the train flies by, but where are the people who have made this great garden?"
"You must remember," explained Chester's companion, "all this has not been done hurriedly by many people within a short time. What the Englishman doesn't do today he can do tomorrow; and so centuries of work by a few men has produced what we see."
"Well, I do occasionally see a few slow-moving men and women, somberly clad in grays and browns. These, I suppose, are the sturdy supporters of their country."
"Here is something I clipped from an American magazine," said Elder Malby, "which impressed me with its peculiar truth." He read:
"'England is London says one, England is Parliament says another, England is the Empire says still another; but if I be not much mistaken, this stretch of green fields, these hills and valleys, these hedges and fruit trees, this soft landscape, is the England men love. In India and Canada, in their ships at sea, in their knots of soldiery all over the world, Englishmen must close their eyes at times, and when they do, they see these fields green andbrown, these hedges dusted with the soft snow of blossoms, these houses hung with roses and ivy, and when the eyes open, they are moist with these memories. The pioneer, the sailor, the soldier, the colonist may fight, and struggle and suffer, and proclaim his pride in his new home and possessions, but these are the love of a wife, of children, of friends; that other is the love, with its touch of adoration, that is not less nor more, but still different, that mysterious mingling of care for, and awe of, the one who brought you into the world.
"'This is the England, I take it, that makes one feel his duty to be his religion, and the England that every American comes to as to a shrine. When this is sunk in the sea, or trampled over by a host of invading Germans, or mauled into bankruptcy by pandering politicians and sour socialists, one of the most delightful spots in the whole world will have been lost, and no artist ever be able to paint such a picture again, for nowhere else is there just this texture of canvas, just this quality if pigment, just these fifteen centuries of atmosphere.' I think this sums it up nicely," commented Elder Malby.
"Ireland is a pretty fine country, too," said Chester, with far-away tone, still gazing out of the window.
Elder Malby laughed heartily, in which his companion joined. Chester had told him his Irish experiences.
Ramsgate is a pretty town on the east coast. It being Sunday, the shops were closed and the streetsquiet. After some enquiries and searching, the local elder was found in the outskirts of the town. The two visitors were warmly received. A good old-fashioned English dinner was served, after which the few Saints living in the vicinity gathered for meeting. Never before had Chester Lawrence experienced the comforting Spirit of the Lord as in that service when he partook with those simple, open-minded people the sacrament, and listened to their testimonies, in which he mingled his own.
After the services, there was the usual lingering to shake hands and exchange good words. In the midst of the confusion of voices and laughter, a large man appeared in the open doorway, and immediately there was a hush. It was the parish priest, round and sleek, yet stern of countenance. He looked about the room and found a good many of his neighbors present.
"Well, good people," said he, "what are you doing here?"
The local elder explained civilly the purpose of the gathering.
"But these men who are holding these services are 'Mormons,' and I come to warn you that they are wolves in sheep's clothing. Beware of them, let them alone," said the priest in rising accents.
The people stood about the room, quietly listening. Elder Malby and Chester were yet by the table which had served as a pulpit, and to them the priest advanced.
"Are you the 'Mormon' elders?" he demanded.
"We have that honor," serenely replied Elder Malby.
"You ought to be ashamed to come here to a Christian community with your vile doctrine. I warn you to keep away."
"Will you be seated, sir?" asked Elder Malby, who took charge of the situation. A number of people, who had evidently followed the priest to see the "fun," came in and gathered round.
"I'll not sit down. I'll deliver my message to you all," he declared as he turned to the people. "You may not believe what I say about these men, that they are not what they pretend; but let me read to you from an American paper—printed in their own land. Listen:
"'So fully apparent is the pernicious activity of "Mormonism" of late, that a general campaign of opposition is being urged against them in various parts of the country. It has been conclusively shown, by students of the question, that the "Mormon" Church is simply a great secret society, engaging in criminal practices under the cloak of their religion—"
There was a hum of protest in the room. Elder Malby raised a hand of warning to let the intruder proceed.
"'The attitude of "Mormonism" towards moral questions and its disregard for the laws, have been shown again and again. "Mormon" missionaries are now making a systematic canvas of every state in the Union, as well as in Great Britain and otherforeign countries. Every home, especially of the poor and uneducated is to be visited. It would therefore be the part of wisdom to give a timely word of warning. This is a time to cry aloud and spare not, lest many be led astray by these pernicious teachings.'"
The minister followed up this reading by a stream of personal abuse against "Mormons" in general and Elder Malby—whose name he knew—in particular. Chester watched with keen interest the proceedings. Elder Malby's face was a study. The angry priest paused, then stopped.
"Are you through, sir?" asked Elder Malby quietly. There was no reply, so he continued. "If you are, I wish to say a word. You are entirely mistaken, my dear sir. I have not come here to mislead or to teach any such doctrine as you claim. True, I am now an American citizen, but I was born an Englishman. This is my native country, and I have as much right to be here as you have; and, thank God, this country provides for free speech and allows every man to worship God according to the dictates of his conscience. I love this, my native land—I love these, my people. That's why I am here to preach to them the gospel of Jesus Christ."
"You're a farmer, and not a minister," sneered the priest.
"Peter was a fisherman and Paul was a tent-maker," replied the Elder calmly. "I suppose, sir, that if either of these men came here to preach, you would look upon their occupation as a reproach."
There was no reply, so the "Mormon" continued. "It is true I am a farmer. Some of my friends here know that, because sometimes I assist them in the fields. And I have given them some helpful American hints too, have I not, Brother Naylor?"
"Aye, that you have."
"Religion is not a thing apart from daily life," said Elder Malby, speaking more to the listening people than to the priest. "A truly religious person works with hands and brains as well as prays with lips and heart. Let me tell you, good people, the 'Mormons' have shown to the world that heart and hand, faith and works must go together. A religion which withdraws itself apart from the common people into seclusions of prayer and contemplation alone is of no value in this world. The activities of this life and this world is the proper field for religion, for it is here that we prepare for a future life. The "Mormon" minister can plow, if he is a farmer, as well as preach. He digs canals, makes roads through the wilderness, provides work and play for those who look to him for guidance. Again, let me call your attention to something the "Mormon" preacher does: he preaches for the love of the souls of men, and not for a salary."
"You're a tramp," said the priest.
"Not exactly, my friend," replied the Elder, looking into the priest's face. "I pay my way, from money earned at home on my farm. Most of the people here know me, but some are strangers. Let me tell you, briefly, my story."
"Go on," some one near the door shouted.
"I was born a few miles from here. My parents were very poor, but honest and respectable. I had a longing to go to America, so by dint of long, hard work and saving, I obtained the passage money. On the way I became acquainted with the Mormons.' I knew they were the people of God, and I went with them to the West, which was a new country then. I was a pioneer. I took up wild, unbroken land, built me a cabin and made me a farm. It was hard work, but, the exhilaration of working for one's self gives courage and strength. Now I have a good farm, and a good house. I am not rich in worldly wealth. We must still economize carefully. Here—would you like to see my home in America?"
He took from his pocket a photograph and handed it to the nearest person, who passed it on. "That house I built with my own hands, most of it. Those trees I planted. I made the fence and dug the water ditch. That's my wife standing by the gate—yes, the only one I have, or ever had—that's my youngest child on the porch, the only one at home now. The others have married and have homes of their own. Here, I remember, I received a letter from my wife yesterday. Would you like to read it, sir?" addressing the priest who was now preparing to leave.
"The letter will prove that I am not a tramp, sir. Read it aloud to these people." The Elder held the letter in his extended hand.
"I'll have nothing further to do with you. I don't want to read your letter," retorted the priest.
"Read it, read it," came from a number; but the priest, unheedingly passed out of the door and down the path. The gate clicked.
"I'll read it," volunteered a man, one of the strangers who had come in later. He took the letter, and read so that all might hear, which was not difficult in that quieted room:
"'Dear George: By this time I suppose you are in Old England again, and have fairly started in your missionary work. We received your card from Chicago and your letter from New York. I hope you had a pleasant voyage across the ocean, and were not seasick.
"'We are all well at home, only a bit lonesome, of course. Janie misses you very much. She hardly knows what to do with herself in the evening. I was over to George's last night, and when I came in the door the baby cried "grandpa" before she saw who it was. The little thing looks all around and can't understand why you don't come. Lizzie's baby has the measles, but is getting along nicely.
"I drove around by the field from meeting last Sunday. The wheat is growing fine. The Bishop said it was the finest stand he had ever seen. George and Henry are now working on the ditch, and they said they'd work out your assessment while they were about it. We have had a good deal of rain lately.
"'I spoke to Brother Jenson about those twosteers. He said prices were low at present and advised me to wait a little while before selling them. If you need the money very soon, of course I'll tell him to take them next time he calls. My eggs and butter help us out wonderfully, as we two don't require much. The Sunday eggs, you know, go towards the meeting house fund, and Janie claims the "Saturday crop." She needs a new school dress which Lizzie has promised to make.
"'Now, that's about all the news. I hope your health will continue good and that you are enjoying your mission. Don't worry about us. The Lord will provide. We want to do our part in sending the gospel to those who have it not. Our faith and prayers are always with you.
"'Your loving wife,
"'JANE MALBY.
"'P.S. I forgot to tell you that the Jersey cow you bought from Brother Jones has had twin calves, both heifers. Isn't that fine? J.M.'"
The reader folded the letter and handed it back to its owner. The postscript saved the situation, for the wet eyes found relief in the merry laugh which it brought forth.
On Chester's return to London, he found the following note from Lucy:
"We're all coming—father and Uncle Gilbert and I. What do you think of that? Father is well enough to travel, and he has prevailed upon his brother to accompany us. In fact, I think that Uncle imagines we are two invalids and need his care—I'm glad he does. I'm so busy packing, I haven't time to write more. Will tell you all about it when I see you. Meet us at St. Pancras station Thursday, at 6 p.m.
"With love from
"LUCY."
Elder Malby accompanied Chester to the station to meet his friends from Ireland. The two brothers were fairly well acquainted with London, so they had no trouble in finding a hotel in a quiet part of the city. Lucy's father seemed himself again. He walked with a cane, which, however, may have been his regular European custom. Lucy was uncommonly well, declaring that the long journey had not tired her a bit.
Plans were discussed in the hotel that evening, and it was finally decided to go to Paris by way of Rotterdam, Antwerp and Brussels. The stageswould have to be easy for the sake of the "two invalids," as Uncle Gilbert put it, to which Chester heartily agreed.
Late the next morning, for the travelers needed the rest, Chester called for them, and the party of four saw a little of London from the top of a 'bus. The weather continued fair, and as the summer was well advanced, the air was warm. The sightseers had a simple luncheon at a small cafe which Uncle Gilbert knew near the British Museum, and then they continued their rambles until the close of the afternoon, when Chester put them down at the "Mormon" mission headquarters.
Elder Malby received them warmly, provided easy seats for Lucy and her father, and took hats and wraps under protestations that they were not going to stay. A number of missionaries came in and they were introduced. Lucy beamed with delight, her father unreservedly told the young men they were from America,—and western America at that; but Uncle Gilbert was not quite at his ease among the new company. He knew, of course, that these people were "Mormons," and his knowledge of "Mormons" and their ways, although somewhat vague, was not reassuring.
When the good-natured English housekeeper announced that supper was ready, it seemed impossible to do otherwise than to follow her and Elder Malby down to the large basement room. In fact, Lucy, without any ifs or ands took her father's arm andled him along. Uncle Gilbert thought he had never seen her in such a bold frame of mind.
Certainly, Chester, Elder Malby, and the housekeeper must have plotted to bring about that little supper party. The dining room was severely bare, but scrupulously clean. That evening the threadbare table cloth had been replaced by a new one. The usual menu of bread, milk, and jam was augmented by slices of cold meat, a dish of fruit, and a cake. Two small bouquets adorned the ends of the long table.
"Visitors," whispered one of the elders to another.
"Extraordinary visitors," replied the other. "Just like home when Uncle John came to see us."
The housekeeper even furnished tea for the Rev. Mr. Strong and his brother. Lucy said she liked milk better, so she filled her glass along with Chester's and the other "Mormons." She chatted freely with the young elder near her, learned that he was from Idaho, that he had been away six months, that he had not been home-sick, and that he was not married. The elders were to hold street meetings that evening after supper.
"I should like to go with you," she said; but Chester, overhearing the conversation, told her that for various reasons, such a course would not be wise.
Afterwards, there was some singing in the office-parlor, then Chester went with the party to their hotel.
"I believe papa is being favorably impressed,"said Lucy to Chester before they parted. "I wish he could see as I do."
"That would indeed be something to be thankful for," agreed Chester.
The following afternoon the continental party took the train to Harwich, then boat for the Hook of Holland, where they arrived next morning. A short ride by rail brought them to Rotterdam.
Uncle Gilbert had seen the city before, but the quaint town interested the others for the first time. "Everything is clean in Holland but the canals," some one has said. In Rotterdam, the ancient windmills, with huge spreading arms, stand in the midst of modern shops, and the contrast is strange.
Uncle Gilbert directed the party to the Delftshaven church, explaining that in this ancient building the Pilgrim Fathers worshiped before they set sail for the New World. Then the sight-seers took train for The Hague, ten miles away. They visited the House of the Woods, where the Peace Congresses are held, observed Queen Wilhelmina's residence from without, looked at some of the famous paintings in the art gallery, then shuddered over the instruments of torture on exhibition in the "Torture Chamber" found in the old prison. There were some gruesome articles here.
"All in the name of religion," remarked the minister, shaking his head. "It seems to me that in those days men taxed their ingenuity to find new and more terrible means of inflicting pain. And men suffered in those days because of religious belief."
Someone had expressed himself on the subject in these lines, which they read from a card:
"By my soul's hope of rest,I'd rather have been born, ere man was blessedWith the pure dawn of revelation's light;Yea; rather plunge me back into pagan nightAnd take my chances with Socrates for bliss,Than be a Christian of a faith like this."
"By my soul's hope of rest,I'd rather have been born, ere man was blessedWith the pure dawn of revelation's light;Yea; rather plunge me back into pagan nightAnd take my chances with Socrates for bliss,Than be a Christian of a faith like this."
Out from the depressing gloom of the prison, they took the electric car to Scheveningen, the famous sea-side resort. The season was hardly begun yet, so there were but few visitors. However, the sands dotted with their peculiar wicker shelters and the beautiful blue North Sea were there. Out on the water could be seen the little "pinken"—the fishing boats, their sails red and taut or white and wing-like, speeding before the wind. The waves swept in long straight lines, and broke on the sands in muffled sound. The scene was restful, so the party was served with something to eat and drink on a table within sound and sight of the open sea.
That evening, back in Rotterdam, Chester and Lucy, while the two brothers took their ease "at home," found the Mission headquarters, introduced themselves to the elders, and spent a few hours very pleasantly with them. They learned from the missionaries that the Dutch were for the most part, an honest, God-fearing people, quite susceptible to the gospel. There were no meetings that evening, butin lieu thereof, the presiding elder took them out and introduced them to some of the Saints. Then, when they came back to the office, the housekeeper served them with cool milk, white bread, sweet butter, and whiter cheese.
The next day the tourists went on to Brussels, stopping a few hours only at Antwerp, which city was a surprise. As Chester said, "I remember seeing such a place on the map, but I had no idea it was such a fine, large city.
They saw many wide streets lined with the most unique houses, many of them having "terraced gables" facing the street.
"This is certainly the town for fancy 'gingerbread' decorations," commented Chester, as they observed the net-work of cornices and forest of pinnacles. There was even a full-sized mounted charger on the topmost point of a seven-story building. The Cathedral, with its tall sculptured tower, was no doubt an architectural marvel. A brief visit was made to the art gallery, "full of Ruben's fat women," as Uncle Gilbert expressed it.
"'Anvers,'" read the minister from a post-card. "I thought this was Antwerp?"
"Antwerp is the English of it," explained Uncle Gilbert.
"Well, I think names—names of cities and countries, at least, should be the same in all languages. At any rate, they could be spelled alike. If this town is Anvers, why not call it that?"
Sunday evening brought the party to Brussels, orBruxelles, in the original. The life and gaity of the city were in full swing, and most of the shops were doing their usual business. Uncle Gilbert did not want to remain long, but Lucy said she wished to visit the battle-field of Waterloo, and one or two points of interest in the city. So the evening and the next day were consumed. The battle-field is reached by train from the city. From the Waterloo station, there is a mile or two of walking or riding in carriages to the immediate field of battle. A great pyramid of earth covered with grass to its summit marks the spot where the conflict raged the fiercest. From the top of this monument a fine view is had. What was once a bloody battle-field was that day decked with growing fields, dotted with feeding kine. Lucy had again to be denied the pleasure of the view from the top. She sat in the wagon below and got what she could from the man who had been left with the horses. It was all very interesting, but Lucy was so tired when they got back to the hotel that she could not see more of Brussels.
Next morning they went on to Paris. All but Chester had been in this gay city before. The weather was getting quite warm, so the two brothers did not care to follow the strenuous pace set by Chester in his sight seeing. During the heat of the day they kept quietly within their rooms or strolled leisurely along the shaded boulevards. Chester, by promising to take the utmost care of Lucy, was permitted to take her with him to visit some of thesights. She knew enough French to make herself fairly well understood, and that was a great help.
So these two rode and rambled about Paris for nearly a week, sometimes with the father, sometimes with Uncle Gilbert, but more often by themselves. The days were fine. The parks and boulevards were gay with people. They made purchases in the shops along Rue de Rivoli and at the Bon Marche, the great department store which Lucy declared they could equal in Kansas City. They gazed for hours in the Louvre Art Gallery, coming back time and again to look once more at some picture. The Venus de Milo had a fascination about it which drew them into the long gallery, where at the extreme end, the classic marble figure stands alone.
They rode on the Seine, wondering at its clear waters. They walked about the open squares and gardens all of them of historic significance. They promenaded, very quietly, it is true, along the Champs Elysees. They lingered about the Petit Palais, one of the most beautiful of Paris buildings because of its newness, its clean, chaste finish, and the artistic combination of marble, pictures, and flowers. Was it any wonder that amid all this interesting beauty Chester's and Lucy's eyes and hands frequently met to express what words failed to do?
The four sight-seers were at Napoleon's Tomb, admiring the wonderful light effect.
"Every time I visit this place," said Uncle Gilbert, "I like to read a summary of Napoleon's careerwhich I found and clipped. Would you like to hear it?"
The others said they would, so Uncle Gilbert read:
"Egyptian sands and Russian snows alike invaded; a revolution quelled, an empire created; his own brethren seated on thrones of vassal kingdoms; a complete code of jurisprudence formed for France from the wrecks of mediæval misrule; the most profound strategist of the ages; denounced by nations as the 'disturber of the peace of the world;' violating the marriage law of God and man; himself a dwarf in height, and lowering the physical stature of a generation of his countrymen through the frightful carnage of wars undertaken largely for his personal aggrandizement; succumbing in the moment of final victory to insidious disease; twice expatriated, dying in exile across the seas, after twenty years; in life, the idol of a race and the detestation of the rest of the continent; and now, a handful of dust, his spirit in the presence of its Maker.'"
This reading furnished a text for the minister, who talked rather more freely than he had recently done. Notre Dame lay in their route that afternoon, so naturally enough, they went in, Uncle Gilbert remarking that this was a fit place for the minister to conclude his sermon.
"What a dark, musty place," said Lucy.
"It fits in very well with their religion," suggested Chester. "A lot of outward show, but within, dark and dead."
Uncle Gilbert, though living in Ireland, was not a Catholic, so he took no offense at this remark.
Then while they were "doing" churches, they visited that of St. Sulpice, a very large edifice, in the floor of which is a brass line which marks the Meridian of Paris. At the left of the entrance sits St. Peter in life-sized bronze, in possession of the Keys. The naked big toe of this figure is easily reached by the worshipers.
"I have heard of people kissing images of the Saints," said Chester, "but I have never seen anything of the kind. Let us rest here a while, to see if anything happens."
Lucy was glad of the suggestion as she was more tired than she wished to acknowledge. The big church was cool and quiet. Worshipers singly and in twos were coming and going. Presently, a woman, and presumably her daughter, came in, and as they passed St. Peter they leaned forward and kissed the shining, metal toe. They passed on to a confessional where the priest could be seen and faintly heard behind the latticed window.
All this was exceedingly interesting to the young people. The two brothers were absorbed more in the building itself than what was going on within; even to what their two young people were doing. Chester, surely was prompted by a spirit of sacriledge when he took from an inner pocket a picture post-card he had bought in Ireland.
"The kissing of the toe reminded me of it," said he, as he handed the card to Lucy, who looked atthe picture of an Irishman in the act of kissing his sweetheart, Blarney Castle being shown in the distance. Underneath was the following: