A number of men and women were sitting on the promenade deck forward engaged in an earnest discussion. Just as Chester Lawrence came up and paused to listen, for it seemed to be a public, free-for-all affair, he noticed that Elder Malby was talking, directing his remarks to a young man in the group.
"What is your objective point?" the Elder asked. "What do you live and work for? What is your philosophy of life by which you are guided and from which you draw courage, hope, and strength?"
"Oh, I take the world as it comes to me day by day, trusting to luck, or to the Lord, perhaps I had better say, for the future," replied the young fellow.
"What would you think of a captain of a vessel not knowing nor caring to know from what port he sailed or what port was his destination? Who did not know the object of the voyage, knew nothing of how to meet the storms, the fog, the darkness of the sea?"
"Well, I'm not the captain of a ship."
"Yes, you are. You are the captain of your own soul, at least; and you may not know how many more souls are depending upon you for guidance in this voyage of life which we are all taking."
"That's right—true," agreed a number of by-standers.
"Say, mister," suggested one, "tell us what you think of the propositions. You seem able to, all right."
"Well," responded the elder, "I don't want to preach a sermon that will bore you; but if the ladies and gentlemen here are interested I shall be pleased to give my views."
"Sure—go on," came from others.
One or two found seats, as if they would rather sit through the ordeal, others following their example. "Yes; it's more comfortable," agreed Elder Malby, as they drew their chairs in a circle. Two people left, but two others came and took their places.
"I hope we are all Christians," began the speaker, "at least so far that we believe the Scriptures; otherwise my arguments will not appeal to you."
A number acknowledged themselves to be Christians.
"Then I may begin by saying that the purpose of this life-voyage of ours is that we might obtain the life eternal. 'This is life eternal' that we might know God and His Son Jesus Christ who was sent to us. If we know the Son we know the Father, for we are told that the Father has revealed Himself through the Son. This Son we know as Jesus Christ who was born into the world as we were. He had a body of flesh. He was like us, His brethren; yet this Being, the Scriptures tell us, was in the 'form of God;' that He was the 'image of the invisible God;' that He was 'in the express image of HisFather's person.' When Jesus lived on the earth, one of His disciples asked Him, 'Show us the Father.' 'He that hath seen me, hath seen the Father,' was the reply. 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh to the Father but by me.'"
At this point the Rev. Mr. Strong and his daughter came sauntering along the deck. They paused to listen, then accepted the chairs which Chester hurriedly found for them.
"I am not stating where in the Scriptures these quotations can be found," continued the elder, "though I shall be pleased to do so to any who wish to know. Well then, here we have a glorious truth: if we wish to know God, we are to study the Son. Jesus is the great Example, the Revealer of the Father. He is the Father's representative in form and in action. If Jesus, the Son, is meek and lowly, so also is the Father; if He is wise and good and forgiving, so is the Father; if the Son is long-suffering and slow to anger, yet not afraid to denounce sin and call to account the wicked, so likewise may we represent the Father. All the noble attributes which we find in the Son exist in perfectness in the Father.
"Picture this noble Son, the risen Redeemer, my friends, after His battle with death and His victory over the grave! In the splendid glory of His divine manhood, all power both in heaven and earth in His hand, He stands astheshining figure of the ages. Why? Because He is 'God With Us.'"
There was perfect stillness in the group of listeners.
"Thus the Father has shown Himself to us. There is no need for any of us to plead ignorance of our Divine Parent. The way is marked out, the path, though at times difficult, is plain. The Son does the will of the Father. 'My Father worketh hitherto, and I work,' said Jesus. 'The Son can do nothing of Himself, but what He seeth the Father do; for what things soever He doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise.' We, then, are to follow Christ, as He follows the Father. Isn't that plain?"
"Do I understand," asked one, "that you believe God to be in the form of man?"
"Rather that man is in the form of God, for 'God created man in His own image.'"
"In His moral image only. God is a spirit. He is everywhere present, and therefore cannot have a body, such as you claim," objected one.
"I claim nothing, my friend. I am only telling you what the Scriptures teach. They say nothing about a 'moral image.' What is a moral image? Can it have an existence outside and apart from a personality of form?"
There was no immediate response to this. Some looked at the minister as if he ought to speak, but that person remained silent.
"The attributes of God, as far as we know them, are easily put into words; but try to think of goodness and mercy and love and long-suffering and wisdomoutside and apart from a conscious personality, an individual, if you please. Try it."
Some appeared to be trying.
"Pagan philosophers have largely taken from the world our true conception of God, and given to us one 'without body, parts, or passions.' The Father has been robbed of His glorious personality in the minds of men. Christ also has been spiritualized into an unthinkable nothingness. And so, to be consistent some have concluded that man also is non-existent; and it naturally follows that God and Christ and man, with the whole material universe, are relegated to the emptyness of a dream."
"If God is in the form of man He cannot be everywhere," suggested one of the ladies. "And that's not a pleasant thought."
"Our friend here," continued the speaker, nodding to Mr. Strong, "quoted a passage in his splendid sermon last Sunday which explains how God may be and is present in all His creations. Certainly God the Father cannot personally be in two places at the same time any more than God the Son could or can." The elder took a Bible from his pocket.
"I had better read the passage. It is found in the 139th Psalm. David exclaims, 'Whither shall I go from thyspirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence?' You will recall the rest of the passage. Is it not plain that the Lord is present by His Spirit always and everywhere. His Spirit sustains and controls and blesses all things throughout the immensity of space. Fear not, my friend, that thatSpirit cannot be with you and bless you on sea or on land. We cannot get outside its working power any more than we can escape the Spirit of Christ now and here, even if His glorified body of flesh and bones now sits on the right hand of His Father in heaven where Stephen saw it."
As is usual in all such discussions as this, some soon retire, others linger, eager not to miss a word. Lucy, you may be sure, was among those who remained. Her father also, sitting near to Chester, listened with deep interest.
"Just one more thought," continued the "Mormon" elder, "in regard to this lady's fear that God may not be able to take care of all His children always and everywhere. God is essentially a Father—our Father. The fathering of God gives me great comfort. By fathering I mean that He has not only brought us into existence, but He has sent us forth, provides for us, watches over us. In our darkness He gives us light, in our weakness He lends us strength. He rebukes our wrong actions, and chastens us for our good. In fact, He fathers us to the end. Is it not a great comfort?"
"It certainly is," said Lucy, unconscious to all else but the spirit of the Elder's words.
"In this world," said the Elder, "the God-given power of creation is exercised unthoughtfully, unwisely, and often wickedly. A good-for-nothing scamp may become a father in name; but he who attains to that holy title in fact, must do as God does,—must love, cherish, sustain and make sacrificesfor his child until his offspring becomes old enough and strong enough to stand for himself,—Don't you think so, Mr. Strong?"
All eyes were turned to the minister who was appealed to so directly. Had the reverend gentleman been listening, or had his thoughts been with his eyes, out to sea? His face was a study. But that was not to be wondered at. Was he not a dispenser of the Word himself, and had he not been listening to strange doctrine? However, he soon shifted his gaze from the horizon to his questioner.
"Certainly, I agree with you," he replied. "Father and fathering are distinct things. Happy the man who combines them in his life—happy, indeed."
The afternoon was growing to a close. The sun sank into the western sea. The Elder, carried along by the awakened missionary spirit, continued his talk. He explained that the Father had by means of the Son pointed out the way of life, called the plan of salvation, or gospel of Jesus Christ. He spoke of faith, repentance, and baptism for the remission of sins; for, said the Elder to himself, even the minister has need of these things.
Lucy drank eagerly the words of life. Her father sat unmoved, making no comment or objection. He had never been one to wrangle over religion; had prided himself, in fact, on being liberal and broad-minded; so he would not dispute even though he could not altogether agree. The Elder's words came to him in a strange way. Had he heard all this before? If so, it had been in some long-forgottenpast; and this man's discourse only awakened a faint remembrance as of a distant bell tolling across the hills. Away back in his youth, he must have heard something like this; or was it an echo of some pre-existent world—he had heard of such things before. Perhaps it was the man's tone of voice, his mannerism that recalled, in some way, some past impression.
The Elder stopped. Lucy touched her father's arm.
"Father," she said, "I believe you are cold. I had better get your coat."
The minister arose, as if stiffened in the joints by long sitting. He reached out his hand to the Elder. "I have enjoyed your gospel talk," he said. "May I ask your name, and to what Church you belong, for evidently you are a preacher."
"My name is George Malby, and I am an elder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, commonly known as 'Mormons.'"
"A 'Mormon!'" a number of voices chorused.
Some confusion followed, and the party broke up. Lucy, her father, and Chester, still lingered.
"Father," said Lucy, "I had intended to introduce you to Elder Malby, but I wanted you to hear, unprejudiced, what he had to say. What he has been teaching is 'Mormonism,' and you'll admit now that it is not at all bad. You never would listen nor read."
"Lucy—that will do. Good evening, gentlemen. Come Lucy."
Later that same evening when most of the passengers had retired, the Rev. Mr. Strong came up on deck again. He took off his cap so that the breeze might blow unhindered through the thin, gray locks. He paced slowly the length of the promenade deck with hands behind his back and eyes alternatingly looking into the dark sky and to the deck at his feet. The old man's usual erect form was bent a little as he walked, his step broke occasionally from the rhythmatical tread. There was war in the minister's soul. Conflicting emotions fought desperately for ascendency. Memories of the past mingled with the scenes of the present, and these became confused with the future. As a minister of the gospel for half a lifetime, he had never had quite such a wildly disordered mind. He wiped the perspiration from his brow. He groaned in spirit so that moans escaped from his lips. The sea was beautifully still, but rather would he have had it as wild and as boisterous as that which was within his heart.
The man paused now and then at the rail. The Irish coast was not far away, and the lights of ships could be seen, westward bound. The minister tried to follow in his mind these little floating worlds; but they were too slow. Like the lightning he crossed the Atlantic and then with the same speed flew half way across the American continent to a big, black, busy city roaring with the traffic of men. Then out a few miles to the college, where he as a young divinity student had spent some yearsof his early manhood—and there and then he had met her—Also, years later, the woman whom he had married—and at each big milestone in his journey of life there had been "Mormons" and "Mormonism."
"'Mormonism,' 'Mormonism,'" the man whispered hoarsely. "Anna—Clara—Lucy—Chester—and now—and now what! O, my God!"
It was nearly midnight when Lucy, becoming alarmed at her father's long absence from his state room, came slowly on deck, stopping now and then to rest. She saw him by the rail, went up to him, took him by the arm and with a few coaxing words led him down into his room. As he kissed her good-night with uncommon fervor, he looked into her upturned face and said:
"Are you going to love this young man—Chester Lawrence?"
"Father," she cried, "what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I am not blind. I made him promise not to seek your company or talk religion to you. Tomorrow I shall relieve him from that promise."
"O, father!"
"There now, child,—and Lucy, he may talk of religion and love all he wants. I think those two things, when they are of the right kind and properly blended, are good for the heart, don't you?"
"Yes, thank you, dear daddy—we are so near England now that I may call you daddy."
"Then good-night, my girl;" and he kissed her again in the doorway.
But next morning there was no time to talk of either love or religion for Chester and Lucy.
The coast of Ireland had been sighted earlier than had been expected, and there was the usual straining of eyes landward. Chester was among the first to see the dark points on the horizon which the seamen said was the Irish coast, and which as the vessel approached, expanded to green hills, dotted with whitened houses. This then was Europe, old, historic Europe, land of our forefathers, land of the stories and the songs that have come down to us from the distant past.
"Good morning. What do you think of Ireland?" Lucy touched his arm.
"Oh, good morning. You are up early."
"I am feeling so fine this morning that I had to get up and join in the cry of 'Land ho.' No matter how pleasant an ocean voyage has been, we are always pleased to see the land. Besides, we get off at Queenstown."
"What!" exclaimed Chester. "I thought you were bound for Liverpool?"
"Yes, later; but we are to visit some of our people in Ireland first. Papa has a brother in Cork. We intend to remain there a few days, then go on to Dublin, Liverpool, London, Paris, etc., etc.," laughed the girl.
Chester's heart sank. The separation was coming sooner than he had thought. Only a few more hours, and this little sun-kissed voyage would end. He looked at the girl by him; that action was not under embargo. Yes; she was uncommonly sweet that morning. Perhaps it was the Irish blood in her quickening at the nearness of the land of her forefathers. Cheeks and lips and ears were rosy red, and the breeze played with the somewhat disheveled hair. There was a press of people along the rail which caused Lucy's shoulders to snuggle closely to his side. Chester was silent.
"Yes;" she went on, "there's dear old Ireland. You see, this is my second visit, and it's like coming home. You go on to Liverpool, I understand."
"I have a ticket to Liverpool," he said; "but I suppose they would let me off at Queenstown, wouldn't they?"
"Why, certainly—how fast we are nearing land. I'll have to go down now and awaken father. We haven't much time to get ready."
He would have held her, had he dared. She was gone, and there were a hundred and one questions to ask her. She must not get away from him like this. He must know where they were going—get addresses by which to find them. He had no plans but what could be easily changed. Seeing Europe without Lucy Strong would be a dull, profitless excursion. Chester's thoughts ran along this line, when Lucy appeared again. The color had left her face.
"Father is very sick," she said to Chester. "He seems in a stupor. I can't wake him. Will you find the doctor?"
"I'll get him," he said. "Don't worry. We'll be down immediately."
Chester and the doctor found Lucy rubbing her father's hands and forehead, pleading softly for him to speak to her. The doctor after a hurried examination, said there was nothing serious. A nervous break-down of some kind only—no organic trouble—would be all right again shortly.
"But doctor, we get off at Queenstown," explained Lucy.
"Well, I think you can manage it. By the time you are ready to leave, he will be strong enough. This young man seems able to carry him ashore, if need be. Are you landing also," he asked of Chester.
"Well—yes."
Lucy looked at the young man, but said nothing. The doctor promised to bring some medicine, then left.
"But Mr. Lawrence—" began Lucy.
"I'll listen to no objections," interrupted he. "I couldn't think for a moment of leaving you two in this condition. You're hardly able to lift a glass of water, and now you father's ill also. No; I am going with you, to be your body guard, your servant. Listen! I'm out to see the old world. I should very much like to begin with Queenstown and Cork."
The father moved, opened his eyes, then sat up He passed his hand over his face, then looked at the two young people. "It's all right," he muttered, then lay down again on the pillow. The doctor came with his medicine. There were now heard the noise of trunks being hoisted from the hold and the bustle of getting ready to leave the ship.
"Father," said Lucy. "We must soon get ready to leave. Will you be able?"
"Yes, yes, child"—it seemed difficult for the old man to speak.
"And Chester—Mr. Lawrence—here is to go with us and help us."
"Yes." He nodded as if it was easier to give assent in that way.
"We'll make all things ready, daddy. Don't you worry. Rest as long as you can. It will be some time yet before you will need to get up."
The sick man nodded again.
"I'll remain here while you get ready," said Chester. "Then you may attend while I do what little is necessary. I'll let my trunk go right on to Liverpool.
Lucy hurried away and Chester sat down by the bed. As he smoothed out the coverlet, the minister reached out and took Chester's hand which he held in his own as if to get strength from it. There came into the old man's face an expression of contentment, but he did not try to talk.
Lucy returned, and Chester hurried to his own room where he soon packed his few belongings andwas ready. He found the elders on deck watching the approach to Queenstown, and explained to them what had happened to change somewhat his plans. "I'll surely hunt you up," he said to Elder Malby, "and visit with you;" and the Elder wished him God-speed and gave him his blessing.
Slowly the big ship sailed into Queenstown harbor, and then stopped. The anchor chains rattled, the big iron grasped the bottom, and the vessel was still. What a sensation to be once more at rest! Now out from the shore came a tender to take Queenstown passengers ashore. Small boats came alongside from which came shrill cries to those far above on deck. A small rope was thrown up which was caught and hauled in by the interested spectators. At the end of the small rope there dangled a heavier one, and at the end of that there was a loop into which a good-sized Irish woman slipped. "Pull away," came from below, and half a dozen men responded. Up came the woman, her feet climbing the sides of the steamer. With great good-nature the men pulled until the woman was on deck. Then she immediately let down the lighter rope to her companion in the small boat, where a basket was fastened and drawn up. From the basket came apples, or "real Irish lace," or sticks of peculiar Irish woods, all of which found a ready sale among the passengers.
From one of the lower decks of the steamer, a gang-way was pushed on to the raised deck platform of the tender, and even then the incline wasquite steep. This bridge was well fastened by ropes, and then the passengers began to descend, while their heavier baggage was piled on the decks of the tender.
Lucy and her father soon appeared. Chester met them below and helped the sick man up, along the deck, and down the gang-way to the tender, where he found a seat. Lucy followed, stewards carrying their hand baggage. From their new position they looked up to the steamer. How big it was!
The day was beautifully warm. Well wrapped in his coat, the father rested easily, watching with some interest the busy scene around him. He being among the last to leave the liner, they were soon ready to be off. The gang-way was drawn in again, and the tender steamed away towards the inner harbor. The big ship weighed its anchor, then proceeded on its course to Liverpool, carrying away its little world of a week's acquaintance, to which Chester and Lucy waved farewell.
Queenstown, in terraced ranks, now rose before them. The pier was soon reached, from which most of the travelers continued their journey by rail. The minister and his party, however, took passage again on a small boat for Cork. Everything being new to Chester, and the father being quite unable to do anything, the initiative, at least, rested on Lucy. With Chester's help, she managed quite well.
For an hour they sailed on the placid waters of the harbor and up into the river Lee. The woodedhills, on either hand, dotted with farm-houses and villas, presented a pleasing picture. The boat drew up to a landing at St. Patrick's Bridge, where Uncle Gilbert met them, greatly surprised and alarmed at his brother's condition.
Carriages were waiting. Chester was introduced by Lucy in a way which led to the inference that he was a particular friend of the family picked up, perhaps, in their time of need. Bag and baggage was piled in besides them and they drove away through the streets of Cork and into the suburbs. Slowly the horse climbed the hill, but in a short time they were at Uncle Gilbert's home, one of the beautiful ones situated among the green of rolling hillside and the deeper green of trees.
There was another warm welcome by Aunt Sarah, who took immediate and personal charge of the sick man.
"It's a break-down through overwork," she declared. "You Americans live at such fever heat that it is no wonder you have no nerves. They're burned out of you. But it's rest only he wants, poor man; and here's where he'll get it. Don't you worry, Lucy."
Aunt Sarah's masterful treatment of cases such as these took much care and anxiety from them all. Away from the bustle and roar of hurrying humanity and traffic, resting amid the soothing green, and breathing the mild air of the country; the minister ought surely to get well again soon.
He would not go to bed, but chose to sit in abig chair with a pillow under his head, looking out of the upstairs window which afforded a view of the town. The sun came in rather strongly during the afternoon and the father motioned Lucy to partly draw the blind. She did so, then drew a stool to his chair and seated herself near him. He placed his hands on her head, patted it caressingly, smiled at her, but said nothing. It was still difficult for him to speak.
Presently, there came a light tap at the door. Lucy arose. It was Chester.
"Excuse me," he said, "but the people below are somewhat confused over the trunks. I came to inquire."
"Come in," said Lucy. "Let the 'confusion' continue for a little while. Come in to where there is peace. Father is feeling better, I am sure."
The invalid turned towards the speakers, then with a movement of his head told them to come near. Lucy took her former position, while Chester drew up a chair. Yes; he did seem better, there being some color in his face to add life to his faint smile.
"Chester," he whispered with effort, as he reached out and took the young man's hand, "Chester—my boy—I—am—so—glad—you—came—with—us."
While the father was resting quietly at Kildare Villa, as Uncle Gilbert's home was called, Chester and Lucy spent a few days in looking about.
"Are there any sights worth seeing around here?" asked Chester of Lucy.
"Are there?" she replied in surprise. "Did you ever hear of the Blarney Stone?"
Yes; he had.
"Well, that's not far away; and those were the Shandon bells you heard last evening,
'The bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee,'"
'The bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee,'"
she quoted.
The fact of the matter was that Chester was quite content to remain quietly with Lucy and her father and the other good people of the place. Traveling around the country would, without doubt, separate them, and that disaster would come soon enough, he thought; but when Lucy announced that she was ready for a "personally conducted tour to all points of interest," he readily agreed to be "conducted." She was well enough to do so, she said; and in fact it did look as if health were coming to her again.
The morning of the second day at Kildare VillaChester and Lucy set out to see the town, riding in Aunt Sarah's car behind the pony. There had been a sprinkle of rain during the night, so the roads were pleasant. Lucy pointed out the places of interest, consulting occasionally a guide book.
"While viewing the scenery, it is highly educational to get the proper information," said Lucy as she opened her book. "It states here that Cork is a city of 76,000 people. According to one authority it had a beginning in the seventh century. Think of that now, and compare its growth with that of Kansas City, for instance."
"I have always associated this city with the small article used as stoppers for bottles," said Chester.
"You thought perhaps the British needed a cork to stop up their harbor," said Lucy, gravely; "but you are entirely mistaken. The book says the name is a corruption of Corcach, meaning a marsh. The town has, however, long since overflowed the water, and now occupies not only a large island in the river, but reaches up the high banks on each side."
They were evidently in Ireland.
"A most noticeable peculiarity of Cork is its absolute want of uniformity, and the striking contrasts in the colors of the houses. The stone of which the houses in the northern suburb is built is of reddish brown, that on the south, of a cold gray tint. Some are constructed of red brick, some are sheathed in slate, some whitewashed; some reddened, some yellowed. Patrick may surely do as he likes with his own house. The most conspicuous steeple in theplace, that of St. Ann, Shandon's, is actually red two sides and white the others,
'Parti-colored, like the people,Red and white stands Shandon steeple.'
'Parti-colored, like the people,Red and white stands Shandon steeple.'
and there it is before us," said Lucy.
The tower loomed from a low, unpretentious church. The two visitors drove up the hill, stopped the horse while they looked at the tower and heard the bells strike the hour.
"What Father Prout could see in such commonplace things to inspire him to write his fine poem, I can not understand," said Lucy. "There is a peculiar jingle in his lines which stays with one. Listen:
"'With deep affectation and recollectionI often think of the Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhoodFling round my cradle their magic spells—On this I ponder, where'er I wander,And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork of theeWith thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.'"
"'With deep affectation and recollectionI often think of the Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhoodFling round my cradle their magic spells—On this I ponder, where'er I wander,And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork of theeWith thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant waters of the river Lee.'"
Lucy read the four stanzas.
"It's fine," agreed Chester; "and I think I can answer your question of a moment ago. Father Prout, as he says, listened to these bells in childhood days, those days when 'heaven lies about us' andglorifies even the most common places, and the impressions he then received remained with him."
Lucy "guessed" he was right.
Then they drove by St. Fin Barre's cathedral, considered the most noteworthy and imposing building in Cork. "'It is thought probable the poet Spenser was married in the church which formerly stood on the site,'" Lucy read. "'His bride was a Cork lady, but of the country, not of the city. Spenser provokingly asks:
"'Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye seeSo fayre a creature in your town before?Her goodlie eyes, like sapphyres shining bright;Her forehead, ivory white,Her lips like cherries charming men to byte.'"
"'Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye seeSo fayre a creature in your town before?Her goodlie eyes, like sapphyres shining bright;Her forehead, ivory white,Her lips like cherries charming men to byte.'"
"Well," remarked Chester as they drove homeward, and he thought he was brave in doing so. "I don't know about the merchants' daughters of Cork, but I know a minister's daughter of Kansas City, Missouri, U.S.A., who tallies exactly with Spenser's description."
"Why, Mr. Lawrence!"
"I might say more," he persisted, "were it not for some foolish promises I made that same minister a few days ago—but here we are. Where shall we go after lunch?"
"I thought we were to go to Blarney Castle."
"Sure. I had forgotten. That's where the Blarney Stone is?"
"Sure," repeated the girl mischievously.
So that afternoon they set out. It was but a short distance by train through an interesting country. Lucy was the guide again.
"Do you have an Irish language?" asked Chester. "I heard some natives talking something I couldn't understand."
"Of course there's an Irish language," explained his fair instructor. "Anciently the Irish spoke the Gaelic, a branch of the Celtic. In this reign of Queen Elizabeth, the Irish language was forbidden. The English is now universal, but many still speak the Gaelic. In recent years there has been an awakening of interest in the old tongue. 'One who knows Irish well,' an Irish historian claims, 'will readily master Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian;' and he adds that to the Irish-speaking people, the Irish language is 'rich, elegant, soul-stirring, and expressive.'"
"I can well believe the latter statement when I remember the actions of those using it," said Chester.
"Here we are," announced Lucy, as they alighted and walked to the entrance of the park. "It will cost us six pence to get in."
Chester paid the man at the gate a shilling. The castle loomed high on the side of a hill, its big, square tower being about all that now remains of the ancient structure. A woman was in charge of the castle proper.
"The stone that you kiss is away up to the top,"explained Lucy. "You will have to go up alone, as I dare not climb the stairs. I'll wait here. But stop a minute; the impressions will be more lasting if you get the proper information first. Here, we'll sit on this bench while I tell you about the castle."
Chester readily agreed to this.
"To sentimental people," began the girl, as she looked straight at the high walls in front, "Blarney Castle is the greatest object of interest in Southern Ireland; and, of course, the Blarney Stone is the center of attraction. It was built by Cormack McCarthy about 1446. Of the siege of the castle by Cromwell's forces, under Irton, we have the following picturesque account in verse, which, I must say, has a Kipling-like ring."
She opened her book and read:
"'It was now the poor boys of the castle looked over the wall,And they saw that ruffian, ould Cromwell, a-feeding on powder and ball,And the fellow that married his daughter, a-chawing grape-shot in his jaw,'Twas bowld I-ray-ton they called him, and he was his brother-in-law.'
"'It was now the poor boys of the castle looked over the wall,And they saw that ruffian, ould Cromwell, a-feeding on powder and ball,And the fellow that married his daughter, a-chawing grape-shot in his jaw,'Twas bowld I-ray-ton they called him, and he was his brother-in-law.'
"The word 'Blarney' means pleasant, deludin' talk, said to have originated at the court of Queen Elizabeth. McCarthy, the then chieftain over the clan of that name who resided at Blarney, was repeatedly asked to come in from 'off his keeping.'He was always promising with fair words and soft speech to do what was desired, but never could be got to come to the sticking point. The queen, it is told, when one of his speeches was brought to her, said: 'This is all Blarney; what he says, he never means.'
"Now, this is the reason for kissing the stone up there in the tower. Listen:
"'There is a stone there, whoever kisses,Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent;'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,Or become a Member of Parliament.A clever spouter, he'll sure turn out, orAn "out—an'—outer" to be let alone;Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him,Sure, he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone.'
"'There is a stone there, whoever kisses,Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent;'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,Or become a Member of Parliament.A clever spouter, he'll sure turn out, orAn "out—an'—outer" to be let alone;Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him,Sure, he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone.'
"Now, then, these are the facts in the case," concluded Lucy. "Proceed to do."
Chester climbed the long stairs to the top. From the western edge, he looked down and waved at Lucy, then hurriedly scanned the beautiful prospect about him. The wonderful stone then drew his attention. It is set in the parapet wall, being one of the under stones in the middle of the tower. This parapet does not form part of the wall, but is detached from it, being built out about two feet and supported by a sort of scaffolding brace of masonry. This leaves a space between the battlement and the wall, which in olden times, enabled the defenders to drop stones and other trifles on to the heads ofassailants one hundred twenty feet below. Two iron bands now reach around the famous stone, spanning the open space, and fastened to the wall. The aspirant who wishes to kiss the stone, must grasp these irons, one in each hand, and hang on for dear life. As the stone is underneath the parapet, the feat of kissing it is not easy. In the first place, one must lie on one's back, then with head extended over the wall, the head must be bent down and back far enough to touch the lips to the stone. To perform the feat safely, there must be assistants at hand who must hold one's legs in steady grip, and others who must sit on the lower part of the body to assure the proper equilibrium.
Being entirely alone, it is needless to say, Chester did not kiss the Blarney Stone. He was satisfied with reaching under and touching it with his hand. Then he returned to Lucy.
"You did not kiss the stone," she immediately declared.
"You know, don't you, that it takes two to kiss—the Blarney Stone?"
"I've heard it so stated. I've never been up to it."
The park around the castle is very inviting, especially on a fine, warm afternoon. There are big trees, grass, and neatly kept walks. Chester and Lucy sauntered under the trees. A tiny brook gurgled near by, the birds were singing. Lucy chattered merrily along, but Chester was not so talkative. She noticed his mood and asked why he was so silent.
"I was thinking of that promise. I fear I am not doing right."
"O, that reminds me—Father, of course could not—"
"Could not what?"
"Well, the night before he became so ill on the boat he told me he was going to release you from any promise not to meet me and talk religion to me."
"Did he say that?" They paused in their walk.
"Yes; and he meant it—he means it now, if he could but say as much."
"I thank you for telling me * * * Let us sit down here on this rustic seat. Do you know, I believe your father has gotten over his first dislike for me."
"O, yes, he has. I think he likes you very much."
"I was not surprised at his actions when I told him I was a 'Mormon.' He can hardly be blamed, in view of the life-long training he has had. And then, knowing that you have been in danger from that source before made him over-sensitive on the point. I marvel now that he treats me so well."
Lucy looked her happiness, rather than expressed it. The guide book lay open on her lap. Chester picked it up, looked at a picture of Blarney Castle, and then read aloud:
"'There's gravel walk there,For speculation,And conversationIn sweet solitude.'Tis there the loverMay hear the dove, orThe gentle ploverIn the afternoon.'
"'There's gravel walk there,For speculation,And conversationIn sweet solitude.'Tis there the loverMay hear the dove, orThe gentle ploverIn the afternoon.'
"Lucy," said Chester, as he closed the book, "I'm going to call you Lucy—I can't call you Miss Strong in such a lovely place as this. We have an hour or two before we must return, and I want to talk over a few matters while we have the chance. In the first place, I want you to tell me where you are going when you leave Ireland. I want to keep track of you—I don't want to lose you. If your father would not object, I should like to travel along with you."
"Father may remain here a long time, so long that we may not get to see much of Europe, and of course, you can't wait here for us."
"Now listen, Lucy.Youare Europe to me. I believe you are the whole world."
She did not turn from him, though she looked down to the grass where the point of her sunshade now rested. Her face was diffused with color.
"Forgive me for saying so much," he continued, "for I realize I am quite a stranger to you."
"A stranger?" she asked.
"Yes; we have not known each other long. You don't know much about me."
"I seem to have known you a long time," she said, looking up. "I often think I have met youbefore. Sometimes I imagine you look like the young missionary whom I first heard on the streets of Kansas City; but of course, that can't be."
"No; I never was on a mission. But I'm glad you think of me as you do, for then you'll let me come and see you in London, in Paris and wherever you go. I assure you, it would be rather uninteresting sight-seeing without your presence, if not always in person, then in spirit. After all, much depends on the condition of the eyes with which one looks on an object whether it is interesting or not."
Then the talk led to personal matters. He spoke of his experiences in Utah—some of them—and she fold him her simple life's story. Her mother had died many years ago; she had no very distinct recollection of her. She and her father had lived with housekeepers for many years. What with school and home, the one trip before to Europe, a number of excursions to various parts of her own country, her life had passed very smoothly and very quietly among her friends and books. As Chester listened to her he thought how like in some respects her story was to that of Julia Elston's. And as she sat there under the trees, she again looked like Julia, yet with a difference. Somehow the first girl had vanished but she had left behind in his heart a susceptibility to a form and face like this one beside him. Julia had come into his heart, not to dwell there, but to purify it, adorn it, and to make it ready for someone else;—and that other person had come. She filled the sanctuary of his heart. Peace and love beyond thetelling were inmates with her. Had he not come to his own at last.
That afternoon, as he sat with Lucy under the trees at Blarney, listening to her story, told in simplicity with eyes alternating between smiles and tears, he felt so near heaven that his prayers went easily ahead of him to the throne of mercy and love, bearing a message of praise and gratitude to the Giver of all good.
These two were quite alone that afternoon. Even the care-taker went within the thick walls of the castle, remembering, perhaps, that she also had been young once. Birds may have eyes to see and ears to hear, but they tell nothing to humans.
On the way back to Cork there was only one other passenger in the car,—an Irish girl carrying a basket in which were two white kittens. About half way to the city, the train stopped, and much to the travelers' surprise, a company of about two hundred Gordon Highlanders boarded the train, filling the cars completely.
"What," asked Chester. "Have the Scotch invaded Ireland?"
"I suppose it's a company just out for a bit of exercise," suggested Lucy.
Their bare, brown legs, kilts and equipment were matters of much interest to Chester. When the train arrived in Cork, the soldiers formed, and with bagpipes squeeling their loudest, they marched into St. Patrick's street. Chester and Lucy and the girl with the basket followed.