"With quare sinsashuns and palpitashuns,A kiss I'll venture here, Mavrone;'Tis swater Blarney, good Father Mahoney,Kissin' the girls than that dirty stone."
"With quare sinsashuns and palpitashuns,A kiss I'll venture here, Mavrone;'Tis swater Blarney, good Father Mahoney,Kissin' the girls than that dirty stone."
Lucy's father tapped her on the shoulder. "You're in a church. Behave yourself," he said. "Come, let's be going."
It was evident that, notwithstanding the good intentions which all persons concerned had of not overreaching in the sight-seeing business, Lucy, at least, was feeling its effects. That she would have to remain quiet for some days was the verdict of the physician which her father called. There was no immediate danger, said he to Chester, but the heart action was feeble. A week of absolute rest would remedy that.
Chester was packed off to Switzerland alone, contrary to the program he had looked forward to. Uncle Gilbert did not care to go. Mr. Strong would have to remain with Lucy, so if Chester was to see Switzerland, he would have to try it alone. When Chester heard of the arrangement, he demurred; but when Lucy's father suggested to him that perhaps it would be best for her, he said no more.
After Chester's departure, the three settled down to the business at hand, that of resting. That was easy enough for Lucy and her father, but Uncle Gilbert was hale and hearty, so he continued to make short daily excursions to points of interest. They had pleasant quarters, not too near the noise of the city. The semi-private hotel had but few guests, so the back garden in which dinner was usually served, proved a desirable lounging-place.
Uncle Gilbert was away that afternoon. Lucy was resting in her room. The Rev. Mr. Strong paced nervously back and forth in the garden for a time, then dropped heavily into an easy chair. The French maid, stepping quietly about placed a pillow under his head, which kindness he accepted gratefully. The garden was still. There were no sharp near-noises, the city's activity coming merely as a faint distant hum.
The minister closed his eyes, but he did not go to sleep. His mind was too active for that, his nerves were tingling again. The bright, gay life about him did not exist for him. That afternoon he lived in the past. He marshalled for review contending thoughts, that had for many years fought for supremacy. Out of the chaos of conflict no order had yet come. He was getting old before his years justified it.
Why should he, a minister of the word of God, be so easily moved by strange religious ideas? Faintly as if from some distant, mostly forgotten past, there came to him this idea, that the truth, the whole, clean, simple truth as it exists in Christ Jesus had been told him, and he had rejected it. Why he had done this was not clear to him. He seemed to have lived in periods of alternating darkness and light. Then later, he had come in contact with so-called "Mormonism." Strange to say, its teachings had the same ring as that which he had heard before; but this time he rejected it because of its evil name. Once again, a little later, these same doctrineshad come to him, but they were not welcomed when he learned that those who taught them and lived them were simple, ofttimes uneducated people, usually called the "scum" of the earth.
The Rev. Mr. Strong had actually given up his pastorship in two places, moving westward until he reached Kansas City.—Here for a number of years, he had experienced peace, a sort of indifferent peace, he admitted, due more to callousness of soul than to anything else. Then came Lucy's adventure with the "Mormon" elders on the streets, and her visit to "Mormon" meetings. She had brought "Mormon" literature home, and he had read it, read it all. He had asked her to bring more. He had often sat up till midnight to finish a book, then had railed at Lucy for bringing it into the house. And now the conflict was on again, harder than ever. He closed his eyes, saying, "No, no;" then opened them again to the beautiful light. He stopped his ears, crying, "I will not hear;" then listened to the sweet music. With all the force of his life's training, he railed against the doctrine; then in silence contemplated its glorious truths. He drove the thought of it out of his mind; then welcomed it eagerly back. Back and forth, in and out, in doubt and fear, in faith and hope his soul had suffered and wrought.
What was the outcome to be? Evidently, the end was not yet; for had he not purposely taken this trip abroad, to get away from some of these things, and had he not run hard against that which he had hoped to escape. And in what form had itnow come? In that of his son, his only son, the child of his younger days! Surely God was in this thing. "Yes," the man muttered, "God is watching me. I cannot escape. His hand is over me. '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!'"
Uncle Gilbert came in, humming lightly a tune he had caught from the band in the cafe. He stopped when he saw his brother apparently asleep. He was about to retreat when his brother, opening his eyes, called:
"Don't go; come here. I want to talk with you. I want your opinion on a matter."
Uncle Gilbert seated himself to listen.
"You might think it a strange thing for me to ask you about doctrines of religion," began the brother, "but sometimes a layman has a clearer, more unbiased view than one who has studied one system, and—and has made his living from preaching it."
"I fear, brother, you are worrying too much about such things"—
"Not at all—not too much. It's necessary to worry sometimes. I suppose that's God's way of arousing people. I am worrying—have been worrying for many years—just now I want someone to talk to—I want you to listen."
"I'll do that, if that will help you," said the brother as he placed his hat and stick on a table and shifted himself into a comfortable position. Themaid peeped in, but seeing the two men, retired again.
"I have preached hundreds of sermons on the being and nature of God," said the minister, now sitting erect and looking at his brother. "I have spoken of Him as a Father, our Father, and all the time He has been out in time and space, formless, homeless, unthinkable. He has never appealed to heart or brain. Will God ever be more to me than a force in and through all nature? Shall we ever see His face? Shall we ever feel the cares of His hand and hear His voice, not in a figurative sense, but in reality."
"Now brother"—said Uncle Gilbert again.
"Don't interrupt. You do not need to answer my questions—you couldn't if you wanted to. Listen. What do you think of this: God is our Father, in reality as we naturally understand it—Father of our spirits. We are, therefore, His children. That is our relationship. Consequently we are of a family of Gods. Admit that our Father is God, and that we are His children, the conclusion is absolute. We are not worms of the dust, only so far as we degrade our divine nature to that lowness.
"This Father of ours has in the past eternities trod through time and space, learning,—yes, suffering, overcoming, conquering, becoming perfect, until now He sits in the midst of glory, power, and eternal lives. In might and majesty perfect, He can and does hold us all as in the hollow of His hand. Thislittle earth of ours, and all the shining worlds on high are His workmanship. He holds them also by His allwise power. And yet, my brother, come back to this simple proposition, we are that great Being's sons and daughters, and if we walk in the way in which He walked, we are heirs to all that He has! I am one of a great family, so are you,—all of us. Our Father has but gone before and we follow. The difference between us is only in degree of development and not in kind.
"'O God, I think thy thoughts after Thee,' said Kepler, and thoughts lead to deeds.
"Again, the Son, whom we know as Jesus Christ, came to reveal to us this Father. He was in 'the form of God.' He was the 'image of the invisible God.' Further, this Son was in the express image of the Father's person. Jesus Christ was a man like unto us as far as outward form is concerned. He is one of this great family, the first-born and foremost of the children, it is true, yet one of us—He acknowledged us as His brethren. Now, then listen: Jesus follows His Father. '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.' Also, this Son said: 'My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.' Now, if we follow in the steps of the Son, as He has commanded us to do, and that Son follows in the steps of His Father, where is our final destination?"
The brother listened in wonder. The doctrine was, indeed, strange, but it was too clear and logicalto be the result of a weak mind. The minister saw the perplexity in his listener's face and said:
"No, brother, I am not crazy. My mind has never been clearer. I feel fine now. I tell you, there is manna for a hungry soul in these things.
"And now again: This life is a school. From the puny, helpless infant to old age, life is a development of the attributes with which we come into the world. We get all our education through our senses. No faculty of mind or body is useless. The perfect man has these all perfectly developed. We have at least one example of a perfect man, the resurrected Son of God. What was He like? When He appeared to His disciples He said, 'Handle me and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have.' He also ate with His brethren. Here, then, we have, one of us, carrying with Him into the celestial world His body of flesh and bone. And, mind you, He is the pattern. If we follow Him, we also shall take with us these bodies, changed, purged, and glorified of course, but yet bodies in every sense. Will not the eye then see perfectly, the ear hear every sound in the celestial key? Not only every attribute of the mind, but every organ of the body will be prefect in its operation. Think what that will mean!"
The speaker paused as if to let his listener arrive at the inevitable conclusion in his own mind.
"What will it mean?" he asked again.
"I don't know," replied Uncle Gilbert.
"It will mean fatherhood—eternal, celestializedfatherhood. We shall be like Him our Father, not only to beget, but tofathera race! Think of that! Did you ever think of that? No, of course not—and I—musn't—I who—have never yet made a beginning—how can I expect"—
The head fell back on the pillow as Uncle Gilbert quickly came to his brother's side. The minister's face was pale, his eyes were closed for a moment. Then he opened them, sat upright, ran his hand over his face, and smiled at his brother.
"Don't be alarmed," he said, "it was nothing. I'm all right."
He walked about while the maid came in and set the table for dinner. The minister linked his arm into his brother's. "Say, brother," he asked, "would you not be lonesome up in heaven without Aunt Sarah?"
Uncle Gilbert was seriously alarmed. He had in mind to call Lucy, when, providentially she came to them.
"I think your father's not well, Lucy?" said Uncle Gilbert, as she took her father's other arm.
"What's the matter, papa?" she asked.
"I am well," protested the father—"as well as I ever was. I've just been telling brother here some things—some gospel truths in fact, and I guess they're beyond you yet," he said to his brother.
"Well," replied Uncle Gilbert, "I'll admit I've never heard you talk like that before."
"Why, I've preached these things scores of times from the pulpit, and my congregations have thoughtthem fine. I didn't tell, however, where my inspiration came from."
"Where did it come from?" asked Lucy.
"From your books, my dear."
"My books?"
"Yes; from your books on 'Mormonism'."
Had not dinner just then been announced, it is hard to say what would have become of Uncle Gilbert's astonishment. Across the table he saw Lucy's reassuring smile from which he himself took courage that all was well.
My Dear Lucy:—I am writing this in my room high up on the hillside of Lucerne, (Luzern) pronounced as if there were a "t" before the "z." The day is closing. The light is yet bright on the mountains, but the lake lies in shadows. The lamps are being lighted down below in the town and along the promenade. I hear faintly the arrival of the steamer at the pier.
But let me begin at the beginning, and tell you what I have seen and done up to the present. This telling is a poor substitute for the reality, I assure you; but as you have never been in Switzerland, you might be interested in the sights here—through my eyes! Let me say now, before I forget, that at every point of beauty and interest, I said in my heart, "O that Lucy could be here to enjoy this!" It really seemed selfish in me to be alone. And then, you know, the pleasure of sight seeing is materially enhanced when one has a sympathetic companion to whom one may exclaim: "Isn't that grand!"
We entered Switzerland at Basel, then journeyed on to Zurich. This is Switzerland's largest city, and in my opinion, it is one of the most beautiful large cities I have ever seen. Of course, I hunted up the Church headquarters, where I was fortunate to meet a friend I had known in Salt Lake. He kindly gaveme the information I desired about the city and even took a few hours off duty to accompany me to points of interest.
That evening we went to the Opera house, where Faust was being played. I had a great desire to see Faust in the original, and though my German is not up to Goethe's standard, I could follow the plot somewhat, and I was eagerly watching for Margaret to make her appearance on the stage. After a long evening, the curtain went down, and all the people got up and left—yet no Margaret had appeared. I was puzzled; but my friend explained that the play was only half over. If I desired to see the rest, I would have to come back the following evening. What do you think of that? Well, I didn't go back—I went to Lucerne, next morning.
I wanted to see the Alps, of course, and we got a distant view only of them from Zurich. Here, at Lucerne, we have them in all their grand beauty.
I don't mind admitting to you that my purse would not allow my stopping longer at the Schweizerhof, than to merely take a good look at the exterior. I had with me the Lucerne elders' address, and easily found them. They directed me to a friend who had cheap rooms, and it is here I am writing to you. The view is just as fine from my window as from the big hotel—nay, finer, for I am higher up; and after all, Lucy, the five francs' out-look on a beautiful world is enjoyed quite as much as if it cost fifteen. I can see the cap or the collar of Mt. Pilatus better perhaps than the fat,cross, silk-clad lady I saw on the boat yesterday, can see them. (By "cap" is meant a cloud resting on top, by "collar" the cloud encircling Pilatus' head.)
This brings me to my trip on Lake Lucerne day before yesterday. We started early. The tourist season has hardly begun yet, so we were not crowded. There was rain threatening. The mountain tops were hidden by clouds, and the prospect was not assuring. However, by the time we landed at Brunnen, the clouds had lifted, the sun came out, and the day became pleasantly warm. From Brunnen, it was our plan to walk along the Axenstrasse, to Fluelen, a distance of five or six miles. There were three of us, with an elder for guide. I wish you could have spent that afternoon with us—with me, strolling along that wonderful road, cut out of the mountain side bordering the lake. The post cards I am enclosing will give you an idea of the scenery, and I assure you the blueness of the lake is not overdone in the picture.
The road leads along gently sloping hill-sides, covered with farms, then it pierces the sheer rock, then again borders the cliff, fifty or one hundred feet from the lake below. The trees are in full leaf and some are in bloom. The grass is high where we walked, but up towards the tops of the mountains, the snow still lies. One of the strange sights is to see large, splendid hotels perched in some cranny away up near the summit of the peaks. Cog railways now take the tourists up some of the mountains.
The region around Lake Lucerne is historic, I am told. Here began the Swiss struggle for liberty which we read about. The scene of William Tell's exploits are laid here, and we are shown on the shore of the lake, Tell's Capelle, said to mark the spot where the apple-shooting patriot leaped ashore and escaped from the tyrant Gessler. I do not wonder at men, born and reared amid these mountains not submitting to the yoke of oppression.
In reading up on Lucerne, I came upon this, taken from "Romance and Teutonic Switzerland."
"The Swiss nation was born on the banks of Lake Luzern, and craddled upon its waters. First, the chattering waves told the news to the overhanging beaches; and they whispered it to the forests, to the lonely cedars on the uplands. The blank precipices smiled, the Alpine roses blushed their brightest, the summer pastures glowed, the glaciers and avalanches roared approval; and, finally, the topmost peaks promised to lend their white mantles for the baptism." That's rather nicely put, don't you think?
About half way along Axenstrasse, we discovered that we were hungry, so we proposed to try one of the farm houses for something to eat. Our guide, tried one that looked typical of what we wanted, and the rest of us waited by the road, for fully thirty minutes.
At last the elder returned, explaining that he had had no easy task. He had to plead with every member of the household, from grandmother to daughter, to get them to take us in; but at last hewas successful. We went into a most interesting room. The finish and furnishings were old and quaint, the woodwork bare of paint and scoured clean and smooth by years of scrubbing. In time we were served with bread (they were out of butter, they said) preserved cherries, walnuts, and hot milk. (Our guide said it was safer to have the milk boiled.) We enjoyed the meal amid the unique surroundings. The good people were profuse with thanks when we paid them in good-sized silver. I believe the elder left a gospel tract with them, so who can tell what will be the outcome of our visit?
From Fluelen we took steamer back to Lucerne.
Well, it's getting late. I'd better go to bed. I fear I shall tire you by my guide-book descriptions. But this for a good-night's thought: Here I am away from you, away from my world, as it were. I can look back on my short life, and I can see the hand of an allwise and merciful Father, shaping events, ever for my good. Was it chance that we two should have taken the same steamer and be thrown together as we were. Not at all. There is a power behind the universe—call it what we may—which directs. This power will not permit any honest, truth-seeking soul to be overcome and be destroyed. I thank the Lord for His blessings to me. Out of seeming darkness and despair He has led me to light and happiness. And may I say it, we two, because of our cleaving to the light as it has been made known to us, have been brought together. Is it not true? I wish and pray also that yourfather may soften his heart towards the truth. I sometimes fear that his heart does already accept the gospel, but that his will says no. There now, good night.
Good morning. I had a fine sleep. I dreamed that you were with me, and we were looking at the Lion of Lucerne. The dying lion roared, and you clasped me so tightly in your fright, that I awoke,—all of which reminds me that I have not told you much about this city or its sights.
The Lion, I suppose is Lucerne's most distinctive curiosity. As you will see by the card, it is a large figure of a lion carved out of the solid rock in the hillside. Thorwaldsen furnished the model. It was made to commemorate the bravery of the Swiss guards who fought in the service of Louis XVI at the outbreak of the French Revolution.
Switzerland is sometimes called the playground of Europe. Down on the promenades by the lakes, one may see people from "every nation under heaven" nearly. By the way, who do you think I met, day before yesterday? Why, our would-be gallant ship-board friend. Strange to say, he was sober, and more strange, he appeared pleased to see me. He wanted to take me to all kinds of places, and treat me to all kinds of good things; but further, strange(?) to relate, I shook him for the company of a few native saints, for there was a meeting that evening which I attended. I had to speak too, in English, of course, with one of the missionaries interpreting. It was an odd experience.
The postman has just been here with your note. I was very sorry the news from you was not better. I am blaming myself for tiring you out too much with my sight seeing. Send me at least a card everyday to this address,please. I have thought to go through the country to Bern, but I suppose all the lakes and mountains of Switzerland look much alike. I am quite satisfied with Lucerne. I was very much interested in what your father said about "Mormonism." If our prayers are of any avail, we'll "get him" yet.
Before I close this long letter, and I must do so now—I want to tell you of an incident that occurred yesterday. I was taking a stroll up above the town, by myself, for I will admit I was in a "mood." There are a lot of monks in Lucerne. You can see them on the street, fat, rolly-poly looking men, bare, oddly-cropped heads, and outwardly clad in what looks like a dressing gown. Well, I was curious to see the convent where the monks live a life of ease, I suppose to get used to the eternal "rest" which they expect when they get to heaven, of which I have my "doubts." However, I did not find the convent, nor did I see any monks, but as I was walking along an unfrequently traveled road, I met a little boy and girl, walking towards me, hand in hand. They were crying. When they saw me, they wiped their eyes and stopped. I saw they were poorly clad, and, somewhat dirty. I became interested in them, but they were so shy that it was with difficulty I got them to remain. They looked at the coppers I heldout, but they did not move until I placed a silver piece beside them. Their eyes rounded out, then, and the little girl became brave enough to come and take them. Well, I tried my German on them, but they were, evidently, too Swiss to understand me—I was at the time making a whistle from a small willow which I had cut from the wayside. I seated myself on the bank and went on making my whistle. The children watched me pound the bark, then twist off the loosened peeling, and finish the whistle. When I blew it, they laughed. I handed it to the boy, who timidly put it to his lips. They sat down by me, and I made a whistle for the girl, then a third, bigger one, which I stuck into the boy's pocket, telling him to take it home. You ought to have seen the changed expression on those two dirty faces when they left me, blowing happily on their willow whistles.
I was lonesome no longer. What a little thing will bring joy into a dreary life!
Love to all with heaping measures for you, from
Yours as ever,
CHESTER.
A week of comparative quiet brought little change for the better to Lucy, so it was decided that they would by easy stages, get back to London, thence to Cork and Kildare Villa. Lucy kept Chester informed of their doings, saying as little as possible about her health. As she did not wish to deprive him of the full enjoyment of his visit to Switzerland, she did not send him word of their intentions, until they were ready to leave. They would go by way of Calais and Dover, the short-water route, she wrote him.
When Chester received this information he hastily cut short his sight seeing, and started for London by way of Rotterdam. The long ride alone was somewhat tiresome, and he was glad to meet again some of the elders in the land of canals and windmills.
Just before the train rolled into Rotterdam, Chester thought of Glen Curtis. It came to him as a distinct shock when he realized that he had entirely forgotten to enquire about Glen on his former visit. "Well," said he to himself, "so easily do our interests change from one person to another." But now he must find his old friend. He could freely talk to him now even about Julia Elston.
Chester learned from the elder in charge at the office, that Elder Curtis was released to return homein a few days. He would be in Rotterdam shortly. When? In a few days. But Chester could not wait that long, so he took train to the city where Glen was laboring, and found him making his farewell rounds.
"Well of all things," exclaimed the elder, as Chester took him firmly by the hand.
"I'm the last person on earth you expected to see here in Dutchland, I suppose?"
"You certainly are. And what are you doing here?"
Chester told him as they walked arm in arm along the quiet streets of the town.
"And now you're going home. We'll go together," exclaimed Glen.
"I wish we could," said Chester, "but I fear that my party is not ready, and Lucy is not well enough to make the trip, I fear."
"Lucy?"
Chester smiled goodnaturedly, then told him freely of Lucy. "And when you get home, you can tell Julia all about me and mine. It will please her, I am sure. By the way, how is it between Julia and you? I haven't heard lately."
"All right," said Glen.
"You're a lucky boy," declared Chester, "to get such a girl. There's justoneother I would rather have."
"I'm glad you think so."
"Of course you are—for—oh, for everybody's sake."
Chester had to return to Rotterdam the same day,so he claimed. Glen could not keep him longer, and reluctantly waved him off at the station.
The boat was slow from the Hook, at least it seemed so to Chester, and there was a high sea which nearly upset him. He got to London too late in the evening to call on the Strong's, but next morning he was out early.
Lucy met him in the hall with a cry of delight.
"You've come," she whispered as he pressed her close. "Oh, I thought you never would."
"My dear, why did you not say? Why did you let me leave you at all?"
"I didn't want you to miss anything on my account—but never mind that now—come in. Papa and uncle will be glad to see you. Do you know," she added with evident pleasure, "papa has beennearlyas anxious about you as I have,—has continually asked me about you,—and I had to let him read your lovely long letter."
"You did? Well, it's all right. There's no harm done, I'm sure. He might as well know everything."
"Oh, he knows a lot already."
They went into the house, and found seats until the others should appear.
"Your face shows signs of suffering, Lucy; but otherwise you look quite well."
"That's just it with my trouble. I usually deceive my looks; but I feel better already; and now, let me tell you something else: Father has nearly consented to my being baptized!"
"Lucy!"
"It's true. I've been pleading with him—and preaching to him too; and the other day he said he would think about it. That's a concession, for he has always saidhe would notthink of such a thing."
"I'm so glad so very, very glad, Lucy."
"And Chester, I believe it's you who have made the change in him. He's been so different since you have been with us. He hasn't been so angry with me when I talked of 'Mormonism.' He has let me read my books without any remonstrance. And do you know, even Uncle Gilbert is affected. He and papa must have had some profound discussions about us and our religion for he has asked me to lend him some books. He'll no doubt want to know from your all about Utah and the people out there."
"And I shall be pleased to tell him," said Chester.
The father stood as if hesitating, in the doorway.
"Come in, papa," said Lucy. "Chester's come."
"Yes; I see he has," replied the father as he came to greet the young man, and shake his hand warmly.
"I'm glad, with Lucy to see you with us again."
"And I am glad to be with you," said Chester honestly.
The morning was spent together. The beginnings of a London fog kept them in doors, which was no hardship, as the three seemed to have so much to talk about. After lunch, the fog changed its intentions, lifted, disappeared and let the sun have full sway. To be sure, some smoke still lingered, but out wherethe Strongs were staying it only mellowed the distances.
That afternoon it occured to Chester that the relationship now existing between him and Lucy called for a further understanding with the father. He knew, of course, that the father's attitude toward him had changed; Lucy's words and the father's actions justified him in the thought.
Chester managed to accompany the father in his stroll in the park that afternoon, and without delay, he broached the subject so near his heart. The minister listened quietly to the young man plead his case, not interrupting until he had finished. They seated themselves on a bench by the grass. The father looked down at the figures he was drawing with his cane on the ground and mused for a moment. Then he said:
"Yes; I have given my consent, by my actions, at least. I have no objection to you. I like you very much. Lucy does too, and fathers can't very well stop such things. But there still remains the fact that Lucy is not well. There is no telling how long she can live, and yet I have heard of cases like hers where marriage has been a great benefit."
"I thank you for your kind words," said Chester. "Let me assure you I shall be controlled by your judgement as to marriage. We are neither of us ready for that. Of course, I sincerely hope she will get stronger. I think she will; but meantime you have no objection to my loving her, and doing all for her that my love can do?"
"Certainly not, my boy, certainly not." The father placed his hand on the young man's shoulder as he said it. Chester noted the faint tremor in voice and hand, and his heart went out to him.
"You are a comfort and a strength to Lucy—and to me," continued Mr. Strong. "We miss you very much when you are away. Can't you stay with us right along. Perhaps that's not fair to ask—your home and friends—"
"I have no home, my dear sir; and my friends, are few. I told you, did I not, my history?"
"Yes, you told me, I remember."
"And remembering, you think no less of me."
"Not a bit—rather more."
"Let me serve you then, you and Lucy. If you need me, I equally need you. Let me give what little there is in me to somebody that wants me. My life, so far, has been full of change and somewhat purposeless. I have drifted about the world. Let me now anchor with you. I feel as though I ought to do that—"
The man clung closer to Chester, who, feeling a thrill of dear companionship, continued:
"Let me be a son to you always, and a sister to Lucy, until it can be something more."
"Yes, yes, my boy!"
Others were out basking in the warm sun that afternoon. Those that walked leisurely and took notice of events about them, were impressed by the affectionate behavior of the two men. Lucy Strong was herself out. She was curious to know what hadbecome of Chester and her father, besides, the sun was inviting. She soon found them, herself undiscovered. She paused, examined the flower beds, and became interested in the swans in the lake. Her face beamed with happiness when she saw them, for their shoulders were close together and Chester had her father's hands clasped firmly in his own. She tiptoed up behind them on the grass, then slipped her hands over each of their eyes.
"Guess," she laughed.
"A fairy princess," said Chester.
"Mother Goose," responded the father.
They moved apart and let her sit between them.
"The rose between," suggested Chester.
"The tie that binds," corrected the girl, placing an arm about each of them.
Then they all laughed so merrily, that the infection reached a ragged urchin playing on the gravel-path near by.
"My dear," said the father. "Chester has promised to stay with us, and be—"
"Your man—about—the—house," finished Chester.
"Which we certainly need," agreed Lucy. "Two people, Strong by name, but mighty weak by nature, as my old nurse used to say, require some such a man. I'm glad father picked you."
"He chose us, rather, Lucy," said the father.
"Well, either way."
"Both," affirmed Chester, at which they all laughed again.
A carriage with liveried coachman and footman, and containing two ladies drove by. The little boy had to leave his gravel castle while the wheels of the carriage crushed it to the level. The boy looked at the ruins a moment, then at the departing vehicle. Then he started his building anew safely away from wheel tracks.
"A young philosopher," remarked the minister, observing the occurrence.
"Papa," said Lucy, after a pause of consideration, "you have made me so happy to-day. You can make my joy complete by granting me one other thing."
"What's that?" asked he unthinkingly.
"Let me be baptized," she replied softly.
The father's body stiffened perceptibly, and his face sobered.
"Believe me, papa, Iamsorry to have to annoy you so much on the matter; but I can't help it. Something within me urges me on. I can't get away from the testimony which I have, any more than I can get away from my shadow."
"You can get away from your shadow," said the minister.
"Yes; by going into the dark, and that I do not want to do. I want to live in the light,—the beautiful gospel light always."
Chester listened in pleased wonder to Lucy's pleadings. He added nothing as she seemed able to say all that was necessary. In time the father'sface softened again, and he turned to Chester to ask:
"What do you think of such arguments?"
"They're splendid—and reasonable—and true, sir."
"Of course, you would say so. Well, I'll think about it, Lucy."
"But, papa, you've been thinking about it a lot, and time is going. Say yes today, now—here with Chester and me—and the Lord alone. Besides, papa, now I ought to be one with Chester ineverything. That's right, isn't it?"
"Yes; that's right."
"So you consent?"
"I didn't say that."
"You must. I'm of age anyway, and could do it without your consent; but I don't want to. I want your blessing instead of your disapproval on such an important step."
"Could she stand the ordeal, do you think?" asked the father of Chester.
"In a few days when she gets a little stronger—yes."
"Well, let's walk a bit. You two go ahead. I must think."
The two did as they were told nor looked back. The one was not thinking clearly and logically, so much as he was fighting over the eternal warfare of conviction against policy. He also knew. He had received more of a testimony than he ever admitted, even to himself. If he should do as his innermost conscience told him, he also would join Lucy in baptismof water for the remission of sins; but that thought he pushed from him. He, an old man in the ministry, to now change his faith—to cut himself off from his life's work—no, that would never do. It was different with Lucy, quite another thing. She had set her heart on it and on Chester, and it would be best for her—yes, it would be best for her.
When Chester was saying good-night to Lucy that evening, the father came out into the hall to them.
"Chester," said he, "tell Elder Malby I should like to see him to morrow. He is the one that attends to baptism into the Mormon Church, isn't he?"
"Yes," replied Chester. "I shall tell him."
"Oh, papa, you dear, good papa!" exclaimed Lucy throwing her arms about him.
"There, there now, behave—say good-night to Chester."
But she clung to him and kissed him through her tears of joy. Then she went to Chester.
The father turned to go.
"Wait a moment, papa," said Lucy: "I want to go with you."
With a parting kiss for Chester, and a murmured good night, she took her father's arm and led him in.
Lucy gained in strength so rapidly that within a week it was thought safe to let her be baptized. Her father, Uncle Gilbert, Chester, the housekeeper at headquarters and one other sister were present at the Baths. Elder Malby performed the ordinance. Three others were also baptized at the same time.
Uncle Gilbert was very curious as also a little nervous at what he called the "dipping." He couldn't see why the ceremony required a whole swimming pool when a few drops sprinkled on the forehead, had, as long as he had any recollection, been sufficient. The father witnessed the ordinance unmoved. Lucy went through the ordeal bravely, and when she came out from the dressing room where the sisters had helped her, he kissed her placidly on the forehead.
The party took a cab to the mission headquarters, where a simple service was held of singing and prayer, Elder Malby making a few remarks on the meaning and purpose of the ordinance of baptism. The newly baptized were then confirmed members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then the housekeeper invited them all down to the dining room, and again there were a few simple special features in celebration of the happy occasion.
And it was a happy time in the one only way which comes from duty done. A sweet, quiet peace abodein every heart. Was not the Heavenly Father well pleased with these as He had been when the Son had done likewise. And the Holy Ghost, the Comforter from heaven rested upon them softly as a dove,—that was the secret of their supreme joy.
As Lucy had predicted, Uncle Gilbert's curiosity brought him to Chester for more information regarding Utah and the "Mormons." The very next day after the baptism, Uncle Gilbert met Chester before he entered the house. They greeted each other pleasantly, and then Chester inquired about Lucy, and how she was feeling.
"Lucy seems to be all right," was the reply, "though her father isn't so well this morning. He had a bad night but is sleeping now. That's why I met you here, so that he might not be disturbed by the bell."
"I'm sorry," said Chester. "These attacks seem to be coming frequently."
"My brother has not been well for years. For a long time he has had to fight hard with himself and his nerves. Sometimes they get the best of him for a time, and, of course, as he gets older, he has less strength. I wish we could get him to Kildare Villa. He would be himself again down there."
"We were to have gone in a day or two, were we not?"
"Yes; but he can't leave yet—Do you want to see Lucy?"
"Just for a few moments; she'll be busy with her father."
Uncle Gilbert went in the house, considerately sending her out alone. She was radiantly beautiful to Chester that morning in her soft white dress, fluffy hair, and glowing eyes; but he only looked his love for her, and said:
"Good morning,SisterStrong."
"Good morning,BrotherLawrence," she responded.
"How are you feeling?"
"I am feeling fine. But poor papa—"
"Yes; Uncle Gilbert told me."
"We'll have to remain here until he gets over the attack. Uncle is anxious to get home, and I must admit I'd rather be at Kildare Villa than here."
Then Uncle Gilbert came out with hat and cane. He was going for a walk with Chester, he said, for it would be wiser not to disturb the sleeper. He explained to Lucy that her father was getting a much needed rest, and that she was to see to it that he was not disturbed. Chester would "keep" with his Uncle Gilbert for a few hours.
The morning was fair, so the two men struck out for Hyde Park. They walked across the big stretches of grass, then rested on a seat by the Serpentine. As yet, not many people were about, and the London hum had not risen to its highest pitch.
Uncle Gilbert wanted to know about Utah, and Chester entered into a detailed description of the state and her people.
"I have, of course, heard of the Mormon people; but I will admit my ideas are somewhat vague. Mybrother, as a preacher, must of course, have come in contact with all sorts of religious professions. He seems to know considerable about Mormonism. Where did he learn that?"
Chester explained what part Lucy had played in this.
"Well, he agrees very much with her belief, for I have heard conversations which lead me to that conclusion. Of course, all that is their business, not mine particularly. Let's walk out in the middle of the park where we can make believe we are not in London, but out in the beautiful green country which God has made."
The grass being dry, they could sit down on it to rest.
"As you are, I presume, to become a member of the family some day," said Uncle Gilbert, "I am going to tell you something about my brother. It is not a pleasant subject, but I have concluded that you can be told. It is a family secret, you must understand, and must be treated as such. It is only because I believe your knowledge of the truth may help my brother that I am telling you this.
Chester thanked him for his confidence. He would be glad to help in any way he could.
"Well, the story is this: My brother in his younger days before he was married, had an unfortunate experience with a young woman. There was a child as the result. The woman, as nearly as I can make out, married well enough, and later, joined the Mormons and went to Utah. She did not take the childwith her, for some reason unknown to me, at least; and so the boy—for it was a boy—became lost to his father, and as far as I know, to his mother also. I don't suppose all this worried my brother as a young man; but recently, within the past few years, I should say, his conscience seems to have pricked him severely. He has some vigorous views of fatherhood and the obligations flowing therefrom—and I can't say but he is right—and now he worries about his own great neglect. He has talked to me about it, so I know. Sometimes he worries himself sick, and then his nervous trouble gets the overhand."
Chester lay on the grass looking up into the sky, complacently chewing a spear of grass, while Uncle Gilbert was talking.
"What was the woman's name?" asked Chester.
"I can't recall it just now. In fact, I don't think I ever heard it. Now, another thing that you must know, and you must not be annoyed at this: at times, I believe he imagines you to be that boy of his."
Chester sat up, and exactly at the moment when he looked into the face of Uncle Gilbert a cog in the machinery of his own thoughts caught into a cog of the wheel within wheels which the man at his side had been revealing. The cog caught, then slipped, then caught again. Wheels began to revolve, bringing into motion and view other possible developments.
"That's only when his illness makes him delerious," continued Uncle Gilbert. "As I said, you mustpay no attention to him under those conditions, but I thought you ought to know."
"Yes; yes," whispered the young man—"Thank you." For him, Hyde Park and London had disappeared: all earthly things had become mist out of which he was trying to emerge.
"You don't know the woman's name," Chester asked again, with dry lips—"Tell me her name."
"I don't remember. I'm not sure, but I believe I have heard my brother, in his times of delerium speak of Anna."
"Anna. Anna," repeated Chester, as he stared into space. Uncle Gilbert looked at the young man, and then repented of telling him. He was a little annoyed at his manner. He arose, brushed the grass from his clothes, and said:
"Well, let's be going."
Chester went along mechanically. At the Marble Arch Uncle Gilbert was about to hail a bus, when Chester stopped him.
"You'll excuse me, wont you for not returning with you—I—I—"
"But I gave my word to Lucy that I would bring you back."
"Yes; I know, I'll come after a while—but not now—you go on,—I—I—there's your bus now; you had better take it."
Uncle Gilbert, still a little annoyed, climbed on the bus and left his companion looking vacantly at the line of moving busses.