Chester went back into the park. There was room to breathe there and some freedom from fellow beings. He left the beaten paths. Oh, that he could get away from everybody for a time! Old Thunder out among the Rocky Mountains would be an ideal place just now.
The wheels of thought went surely and correctly. There was no slipping of cogs now.The Rev. Thomas Strong was his father.
Every link in the chain of evidence fitted. There was no break. He went over the ground again and again. There came to him now facts and incidents which he had heard from his foster parents, and they all fitted in other facts and strengthened his conclusions. Now he also remembered and understood some of his mother's remarks about ministers. Yes, Thomas Strong was his father! Lucy's father! Why, he and Lucy were brother and sister!
It is quite useless to try to tell all that was in Chester Lawrence's thoughts and heart from then on all that afternoon. He did not know, neither did he care how long he lay on the grass in the park, but there came a time when his solitude became unbearable, so he walked with feverish haste into the crowded streets. The lamps were being lighted when he came to the Thames Embankment, where he watched for a time the black, sluggish water being sucked out to sea by the outgoing tide. Then he walked on. St. Paul loomed high in the murky darkness. He got into the ridiculously narrow streets of Paternoster Row, where he had on his first visitbought a Bible. The evening was far spent and the crowds were thinning when he recognized the Bank of England corner.
Realizing at last that he was tired, he climbed on top of a bus going in the direction of his lodgings, where he arrived somewhere near midnight. He went to bed, but not to sleep for many hours.
"Lucy, you are my sister. I love you as that—but my wife you never can be—" yes; he would have to tell her that. But why had this father of his let him and Lucy go on as they had? He had told his father the secret of his life. He remembered distinctly his father's actions how he had even called him "son," which he had thought at the time was for Lucy's sake. Knowing him and Lucy to be brother and sister, why had he permitted them to form ties such as had been formed? Was it a plot on his father's part to again bring misery to human souls, to make to suffer those that were of his own flesh and blood? No, no; that was impossible. Surely he was not that kind of man.
More clearly now the panorama of his life came before him. Where was the Lord in all this? He had thought the Lord had led his steps wonderfully to so meet one who made his life supremely happy—but now—the darkness and the despair of soul came again—was this not a hideous nightmare? The day would bring light and peace.
Towards morning, Chester dozed fitfully, and at last when he awoke the day was well advanced. He and Uncle Gilbert had been in the park—uncle inreality now. Yes; it all came to him again. It had been no dream.
Chester got up, soused himself in cold water, then as he was dressing said to himself. "Well, what's to be done? I must make this thing sure one way or another." Perhaps there may be a mistake, though he could not understand how. He would go direct to Thomas Strong and ask him.
He had no appetite for breakfast, so he ate none. As early as he thought wise, he set out. How should he meet Lucy? What could he say? If he could only evade her.
No; Lucy was watching for him, with a worried expression on her face, which deepened when she saw Chester's.
"I must see your father," he said with no effort to even take her hand.
"Papa is not any better, I fear."
"But I must see him. Where is Uncle Gilbert?"
"Shall I call him?"
"Yes,please."
Lucy returned, and Uncle Gilbert met Chester in the hall.
"He is very nervous again this morning, and I don't think you ought to excite him," explained the brother.
"I must see him—just for a minute. I'll not engage him in any extended conversation."
"That you cannot do as he can hardly speak. His trouble affects him in that way."
"Let me see him just for a moment—alone, please. Is he awake?"
"Oh yes; he's not that bad. Go in a moment, then, but be careful."
Chester passed in where the minister sat in an arm chair, propped up with pillows, signs of Lucy's tender care. As Chester entered, the man smiled and reached out his hand. The resentment in the young man's heart vanished, when he saw the yearning in the suffering man's face. Yet he stood for some time rooted to the spot, looking at the man who was no doubt his father. Every line of that face stood out boldly to Chester. How often, in his boyhood days he had pictured to himself what his father was like—and here he was before him. In those days he had nursed a hatred against that unknown sire, but now there was no more of that. If only,—Chester kneeled by the side of the minister's chair, letting the old man cling to his hand. He looked without wavering into the drawn face and said:
"Are you my father?"
The man's hand dropped as if lifeless, but Chester picked it up again, holding it close.
"Tell me," he repeated, "are you my father?"
"Yes," came slowly and with effort, as tremblingly the father put his hands first on Chester's shoulders as he kneeled before him, then raised them to his head, asking, "Do—you—hate—me? Don't—" That seemed to be all he was able to articulate.
"No, no; I do not hate you; for are you not—are you not my father!"
"Yes."
The son put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him. The father patted contentedly the head of the young man, as a parent fondly caresses a child. They were in that position when Lucy tapped lightly on the door, opened it, and came in.
Chester got away from Lucy and Uncle Gilbert that morning, without betraying his father's secret, which had now also become his own. If his father had kept the secret so long, it was evidently for a purpose; he would try not to be the first to reveal it. He kissed Lucy somewhat hurriedly, she thought, as he left.
The sooner he got away the fewer of his strange actions he would have to explain. He did not look back when he walked away for fear that Lucy would be watching him from window or door.
He went back to his own lodgings rather more by instinct than by thought. He slipped into his room, looked aimlessly about, then went out again. He must be alone, yet not confined within walls. The park was not far away, but he walked by it also, on, on. This London is limitless, he thought. One could never escape it by walking. He met other men some hurrying as if stern duty called, others sauntering as if they had no purpose in life but quiet contemplation. He met women, and if he could have read through their weary eyes their life's story, he would not perhaps, have thought his own was the most cruel. A little boy was gathering dust from the pavement, and Chester was reminded of that other little fellow's structure which the carriage wheels had demolished. Well, he was under thewheel of fate himself. He had heard of this wheel, but never had he been under it until now!
Chester found himself a street or two from the mission office. He would call and perhaps have a talk with Elder Malby. Why had he not thought of that sooner? He quickened his steps, and in a few minutes he was ringing the bell. He heard it tingle within, but no one responded. He rang again, and this time steps were heard coming up from the basement. The housekeeper opened the door.
"Good morning," she greeted him with a smile.
"Good morning, is Elder Malby in?"
"No; none of the elders are in. They are out tracting, I think—but won't you come in?"
"No, thank you, I wanted to see Elder Malby."
"Well,hemight be back at any time—come in and rest. You look tired."
"Well—I believe I will."
He followed the motherly housekeeper into the office parlor, where she bade him be seated. She excused herself as her work could not be neglected—Would he be interested in the London papers, or the latestDeseret News. She pointed to the table where these papers lay, then went about her work.
Chester looked listlessly at the papers, but did not attempt to read. Presently, the housekeeper came back.
"I'm having a bite to eat down in the dining room. Come and keep me company. The Elders don't eattill later, but I must have something in the middle of the day."
Chester went with her into the cool, restful room below, and partook with her of the simple meal. Not having had breakfast, he ate with relish. Besides, there was a spirit of peace about the place. His aching heart found some comfort in the talk of the good woman.
Shortly afterwards, Elder Malby arrived, and he saw in a moment that something was the matter with his young friend.
"How are the folks," he asked, "Lucy and her father?"
"He is not well," Chester replied.
"That's too bad. And you are worried?"
"Yes; but not altogether over that. There is something else, Brother Malby. I'll have to tell you about it. Will we be uninterrupted here?"
"Come with me," said the elder and he took him into his own room up a flight of stairs. "Now, then, what can I do to help you?"
"You will pardon me, I know; but somehow, I was led to tell you my story on ship-board, and you're the only one I can talk to now." Then Chester told the elder what he had learned. When he had finished, the elder's face was very grave.
"What ought I to do?" asked Chester; "what can I do?"
The other shook his head. "This is a strange story," he said; "but there can be no doubt that you are his son. You look like him. I noticed it onship-board, but of course said nothing about it. But youdolook like him."
"Do I?"
"Yes; but why he encouraged you to make love to your sister—that is beyond me—I—I don't know what to say."
"Oh, whatcanI do?"
There was a pause. Then the elder as if weighing well every word, said:
"My boy, you can pray."
"No; I can't even do that. I haven't said my prayers since this thing came to me. What can I pray about? What can I ask of God?"
"Listen. It is easy to pray when everything is going along nicely, and we are getting everything we ask for; but when we seem to be up against hard fate; when despair is in our hearts and the Lord appears to have deserted us, then it is not so easy; but then is when we need most to pray."
"Yes, yes, brother, true enough; but what's the use?"
"Look here, once before, in your life, you felt as you do now; and you told me yourself that not until you said both in your heart and to God 'Thy will be done' did you get peace. Try it again, brother. There is no darkness but the Light of Christ can penetrate, there is no seeming evil but the Lord can turn to your good. What did Job say of the Lord?"
"I don't know."
"'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' And you are not yet as Job. He lost everything.You have gained a father and a sister. That, certainly, is something."
"Yes, it is; and yet in the finding of these two, I have lost—well—you know—"
"Yes; I know; but the Lord can even make that right. Trust Him, trust Him, always and in everything. That's my motto for life. I can not get along without it."
"Thank you so very much."
They talked for some time, then they went out for a walk.
"But you haven't time to spend on me like this," remonstrated Chester.
"I am here to do all the good I can, and why should my services not be given to those of the faith as well as to those who have no use for me nor my message? Come along; I want to tell you of another letter which I received from home,—yes, the twin calves are doing fine."
Chester smiled, which was just what his companion wanted. "You remain here today," continued the elder. "The boys will be in after a while, and then we shall have dinner. After that, if you are still thinking too much of your own affairs, we'll take you out on the street and let you preach to the crowd."
"That might help," admitted Chester.
"Help! It's the surest kind of cure."
Chester remained with the elders during the afternoon and evening, even going out with them on the street. He was not called on to preach, however,though he would have attempted it had he been asked.
Chester slept better that night. He felt so sure of himself next morning that he could call on Lucy, and do the right thing. He did not forget or neglect his prayers any more, and he was well on the way of saying again, "Thy will be done," in the right spirit.
Uncle Gilbert met Chester at the door, not very graciously, however. He replied to Chester's inquiries sharply:
"My brother is quite ill, brought about, I have no doubt, by your unwise actions of yesterday morning. What was the matter with you? I don't understand you."
Chester did not attempt any explanation or defense.
"And Lucy, too, was quite ill yesterday—no; she is not up yet—no; I don't think you had better come in. I shall not permit you to see my brother again until he is better."
"I'm very sorry," said Chester. "I must see Lucy, however, and so I'll call again after a while." He walked away. He did not blame Uncle Gilbert, who was no doubt doing the best he knew, although somewhat in the dark. He walked in the park for an hour and then came back.
Lucy met him at the gate. She was dressed as if for walking. Her face betrayed the disturbance in her soul, and Chester's heart went out in pity for her.
"Yes," she said simply, "I was going out to findyou, I heard Uncle Gilbert send you away. Shall we walk in the park?"
"Yes; I am glad you came out. Is your father worse this morning?"
"I don't think he is worse. He is simply in the stage of his attacks when he can't talk. I'm sure he'll be all right in a day or two; but Uncle Gilbert don't understand."
"And you, Lucy—you must not worry."
"How can I help it? Something is the matter with you. Why do you act so strangely?"
They found the bench on which they were wont to rest, and seated themselves.
Chester could not deny that he had changed; yet how could he tell her the truth? She must know it, the sooner the better. It might be many days before her father could tell her, even if he were inclined to do so. The situation was unbearable. She must know, and he must tell her.
"Lucy," he said after a little struggle with his throat, "I have something to tell you,—something strange. Oh, no, nothing evil or bad, or anything like that."
He took her hands which were trembling.
"You must promise me that you will take this news quietly."
"Just as quietly as I can, Chester."
"Well, you know how excitement affects your heart, so I shall not tell you if you will not try to be calm."
"And now, of course, I can be indifferent, can I,even if you should say no more? Oh, Chester, what is it? The suspense is a thousand times harder than the truth. What have you got to tell me? What passed between you and papa last evening? Is it—have you ceased to love me?"
"No, no, Lucy, not that. I love you as much as ever, more than ever for something has been added to my first love—that of a love for a sister."
"Yes, Chester I know. When I was baptized—"
"No; you don't know. I don't mean that."
"Whatdoyou mean?"
Oh, it was so hard to go on. One truth must lead to another. If he told her he was her brother in the flesh as well as in the spirit, she would want to know how, why; and the explanation would involve her father. He had not thought of that quite so plainly. But he could not now stop. He must go on. He felt about for a way by which to approach the revelation gradually.
"You have never had a brother, have you?" he asked.
"No."
"Would you like to have one?"
"I've always wanted a brother."
"How would I do for one?"
She looked at him curiously, then the sober face relaxed and she smiled.
"Oh, you'd make a fine one."
"You wouldn't object."
"I should think not."
"But, now, what would you think if Iwasyour real brother, if my name was Chester Strong?"
"I'd think you were just joking a little."
"But I'm not joking, Lucy; I am in earnest. Take a good look at me, here at this profile. Do I look like your father?"
She looked closely. "I believe you do," she said, still without a guess at the truth. "Your forehead slopes just like his, and your nose has the same bump on it. I never noticed that before."
"What might that mean, Lucy?"
"What might what mean?"
"That I look like your father."
He had turned his face to her now, but she still gazed at him, as if the truth was just struggling for recognition. The smile vanished for an instant from her face, and then returned. She would not entertain the advance messenger.
"I don't object to your looking like my papa, for he's a mighty fine looking man."
"Lucy, you saw what your father and I were doing last night?"
"Yes."
"What did you think—what do you now think of us?"
"Again, Chester, I don't object to you and father spooning a bit. In fact, I think that's rather nice."
Chester laughed a little now, which loosened the tension considerably; but he returned to the attack:
"Lucy, what would you think if your father hada son who had been lost when a baby, and that now he should return to him as a grown man?"
"Well, I would think that would be jolly, as the English say."
"And that his son's name was Chester Lawrence?" he continued as if there had been no interruption.
Now the cog in Lucy's mental make-up caught firmly into the machinery that had been buzzing about her for some time.
"Are you my brother?" she asked.
"Yes; I am your brother."
"My real, live, long lost brother?"
"Yes."
"Now I see what you have been driving at all this time. You say you are my brother, that my father is your father. Now explain."
"That's not so easy, Lucy. I would much rather your father would do that. But I can tell you a little, for it's very little I know—and, Lucy, that little is not pleasant."
"But I must know." Her face was serious again. She was bracing herself bravely too.
"I was born outside the marriage relation, and your father was my father!"
That was plain enough—brutally plain. The girl turned to marble. Had he killed her?
"Go on," she whispered.
"No more now—some other time."
"Go on, Chester."
Chester told her in brief sentences the simple facts, and what had led to his discovery of the truth just the other day. It was this that had caused the change she had noticed in him.
"Lucy, I was not sure," he said, "so I went to your father last night and asked him pointedly, directly, and he said 'Yes.' That explains the situation you found us in. My heart went out to my father, Lucy; and his heart went out to his son."
"The son to which his heart has been reaching for many long years, Chester. Yes, I see it plainly.... You have told the truth ... you are my brother—you—"
She trembled, then fell into his arms; but she controlled herself again, and when he kissed her pale face and stroked her hair, she opened her eyes and looked steadily up into his face. Thus they remained for a time, heedless of the few passers-by who but looked at a not uncommon sight. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them Chester was struggling hard to keep back the tears.
To tell the truth, both of them cried a little about that time, and it did them good too. They got up, walked about on the grass for a time until they could look more unmovedly at their changed standing to each other. Then they talked more freely, but things were truly so newly mixed that it was difficult to get them untangled. At last Lucy said she would have to go back to her father—our father, she corrected.
"And he knows, remember," said Chester to her. "I and you also know. We know too," he added,"that the Lord is above, and will take care of us all."
"Yes," said Lucy.
Then they went back. The father was still very ill. Chester did not try to see him, for Uncle Gilbert had not relented.
"I'm going to see Elder Malby this afternoon," said Chester. "This evening I shall call again. Meanwhile"—they were alone in the hall now—"you must keep up your courage and faith. I feel as though everything will yet turn out well."
He took her as usual in his arms, and she clung to him closer than she had ever done before.
"Chester," she said, "I can't yetfeelthat there is any difference in our relationship. You are yet my lover, are you not?"
"Yes, Lucy; and you are my sweetheart. Somehow, I am not condemned when I say it. What can it be—"
"Something that whispers peace to our hearts."
"The Comforter, Lucy, the Comforter from the Lord."
The delay in getting back to Kildare Villa was making Uncle Gilbert nervous. In his own mind, he blamed Chester Lawrence for being the cause of much of the present trouble, though in what way he could not clearly tell. The young man's presence disturbed the usual placid life of the minister. Why such a disturber should be so welcomed into the family, the brother could not understand. Perhaps this new-fangled religion called "Mormonism" was at the root of all the trouble.
In his confusion, Uncle Gilbert determined on a very foolish thing: he would get his brother and Lucy away with him to Ireland, leaving Chester behind, for at least a few days. Of course, a young fellow in love as deeply as Chester seemed to be, would follow up and find them again, but there would be a respite for a time. With this idea in mind, Uncle Gilbert, the very next day, found Chester at his lodgings; and apparently taking him into his confidence, told him of his plan. Chester was willing to do anything that Uncle Gilbert and "the others" thought would be for the best. Chester was made to understand that "the others" agreed to the plan, and although the thought sent a keen pang through the young man's heart, he did not demur.
It must also be admitted that Uncle Gilbert was not quite honest with Lucy, for when he proposed toher to get her father to Ireland as soon as possible, she understood that Chester was lawfully detained, but would meet them perhaps in Liverpool. Though she, too, felt keenly the parting, yet she mistrusted no one.
So it came about that Lucy and her father were hurried to the station early next morning to catch a train for Liverpool. The minister was physically strong enough to stand the journey, but he mutely questioned the reason for this hasty move. Chester had absented himself all the previous day, and he did not even see them off at the station. Lucy could not keep back the tears, though she tried to hide them as she tucked her father comfortably about with cushions in the first class compartment which they had reserved.
Uncle Gilbert's victory was short lived, however; no sooner did the ailing man realize that Chester was not with them than he become visibly affected. He tried hard to talk, but to no avail. He looked pleadingly at Lucy and at his brother as if for information, but without results. Lucy's pinched, tear-stained face added to his restlessness, and there was a note of insincerity in Uncle Gilbert's reassuring talk that his brother did not fail to discern.
That ride, usually so pleasant over the beautiful green country, was a most miserable one. It was so painful to see the expression on the minister's face that Uncle Gilbert began to doubt the wisdom of the plan he was trying. Lucy became quite alarmed, and asked if they ought not to stop at one of themidland cities; but Uncle Gilbert said they could surely go on to Liverpool.
"But we can't cross over to Ireland. Father could not possibly stand the trip," she said.
The uncle agreed to that. "We'll have to stop at Liverpool for a day or so—I have it!" he exclaimed, "Captain Andrew Brown is now at home. He told me to be sure to call, and bring you all with me. He has a very nice house up the Mersey—a fine restful place. We'll go there."
And they did. Lucy could say nothing for or against, and the father was so ill by the time they reached Liverpool that he did not seem to realize what he was doing or where he was going. A cab took them all out from the noises of the city to the quiet of the countryside. It was afternoon, and the sun shone slantingly on the waters of the river, above which on the hills amid trees and flowering gardens stood the house of Captain Andrew Brown.
As the carriage rolled along the graveled path to the house, the captain himself came to meet them, expressing his surprise and delight, and welcoming them most heartily. The minister was helped out and into the house, where he was made comfortable. Lucy was shown to her room by the housekeeper. Uncle Gilbert made explanations to the captain of the reason for this untoward raid on his hospitality.
"I'm mighty glad you came," said the captain. "You couldn't possible have gone on, and as for stopping at a hotel—if you had, I should never have forgiven you."
The sick man would not take anything to eat. He lay as if half asleep, so he was put to bed. Lucy remained with him during the evening. Once in a while he would open his eyes, reach out his hand for hers and hold it for a moment. Poor, dear father, she thought, as she stroked his hair softly. What could Chester mean to leave his father, even for a few days? He ought to be here.... She could not understand. Was it all just an excuse to get away from them? to get away from this newly-found father and sister? She would not believe that of Chester. That couldn't be true, and yet, and yet—
She turned lower the light, went to the window, and looked out on the river. A crescent moon hung above the mist. The water lay still as if asleep, only broken now and then by some passing craft. The breeze played in the trees near the window and the perfumes of the rich flower beds were wafted to her. The girl stood by the window a long time as if she expected her lover-brother to come to her through the half darkness. Perhaps, after all, it was better he did not come. Perhaps he had acted wisely.
The father lay as if sleeping, so she continued to look out at the moon and the water. Her heart burned, but out of it came a prayer. Then she quietly kneeled by the window sill, and still looking out into the night she poured out the burden of her heart to the Father whose power to bless and to comfort is as boundless as the love of parent for child.
Captain Brown was not an old man, yet in his fine strong face there were deep lines traced by twentyyears on the sea. Ten years on the bridge basking in the sun, facing storm and danger had told their tale. He was in the employ of a great navigation company whose ships went to the ends of the earth for trade. He had built this home-nest for wife and child, to which and to whom he could set the compass of his heart from any port and on any sea. Three years ago wife and child had taken passage over the eternal sea. Now he came back only occasionally, between trips. His housekeeper always kept the house as nearly as possible like it was when wife and child were there.
"I have a week, perhaps ten days ashore," explained Captain Brown next morning at the breakfast table, "and I was just wondering what I could do all that time—when here you are! You are to remain a week. Tut, tut, business"—this to Uncle Gilbert who had protested—"you ought not to worry any longer about business. Aren't we making you good money? Oh, I see! Aunt Sarah; well, we'll send for her. Your father can't possibly be moved, can he, Miss Lucy?"
"He's very comfortable here," replied Lucy.
"To be sure he is—and you, too, look as though a rest would help you."
"I have to get back soon—ought to be in Cork tomorrow, in fact," said Uncle Gilbert.
"Well, now Gilbert, if youhaveto, I've no more to say—about you. Go, of course; but Lucy and her father are going to stay with me. I'm the doctor and the nurse. You go to Aunt Sarah, for that'syour 'business reason' and it's all right—I'm not blaming you—and in a week come back for your well brother."
"Yes, that might do," agreed Uncle Gilbert, with much relief in his manner of saying it. "I don't like to impose on you—"
"Look here—if you want to do me a favor, you go to your wife and let me take care of these people. In fact," he laughed, "I don't want you around bothering. The steamer sails for Dublin this evening."
Out of this pleasant banter came the fact that Uncle Gilbert could very well go on his way to Ireland. His brother was in no immediate danger—in fact that morning he was resting easily and his power of speech was returning. Gilbert spoke to his brother about the plan, and no protest was made. So that evening, sure enough, Uncle Gilbert was driven in to Liverpool by the captain, where he set sail for home.
No sooner was his brother well out of the way than Lucy's father called to her. He had been up and dressed all afternoon. He was now reclining in the captain's easy chair by the window. Lucy came to him.
"Yes, father," she said.
He motioned to her to sit down. She fetched a stool and seated herself by him, so that he could touch her head caressingly as he seemed to desire.
"Where is Chester?" he asked slowly, as was his wont when his speech came back.
"In London," she replied. "He could not come with us."
"So—Gilbert said;—but I—want him."
"Shall we send for him?"
"Yes."
The father looked out of the window where shortly the moon would again shine down on the river. He stroked the head at his knee.
"Lucy, you—love me?"
"Oh, father, dear daddy, what a question!"
"I—must—tell you—something—should—have told you—long ago—"
It was difficult for the man to speak; more so, it appeared, because he was determined to deliver a message to the girl—something that could not wait, but must be told now. Impatient of his slow speech, he walked to the table and seated himself by it.
"Light," he said; and while Lucy brought the lamp and lighted it he found pencil and paper. She watched him curiously, wondering what was about to happen. Was he writing a message to Chester?
From the other side of the table she watched him write slowly and laboriously until the page was full. Then he paused, looked up at Lucy opposite, reached for another sheet and began again. That sheet was also filled, and the girl's wonder grew. Then he pushed them across the table, saying, "Read;" and while she did so, he turned from her, his head bowed as if awaiting a sentence of punishment.
A little cry came from the reader as her eyes ran along the penciled lines. Then there was silence, broken only by her hard breathing, and the tickingof the clock on the mantel. Then while the father still sat with bowed head, the girl arose softly, came up to him, kneeled before him, placed a hand on each of his cheeks, kissed him, and said:
"You are my father anyway—always have been, always will be—the only one I have ever known. Thank you for taking me an outcast, orphaned baby and adopting me as your own. Oh, Ilove you daddy for that!
Just a few days before a son had found a father at this man's knee; now by the same knee Lucy first realized that this man was her father only in the fact that he had fathered her from a child; but as that, after all, is what counts most in this world, she thought none the less of him; rather, her heart went out to the man in a way unknown before.
"Chester doesn't know this?" she asked. "Chester isnotmy brother?"
"No."
"Oh, he must know this—he must know right away," she panted.
"Yes—I meant to tell—but I couldn't—" said he.
"I know daddy dear; I know, don't worry. We'll send for him right away—poor boy. There's Captain Brown now. I'll run down and ask him to send a telegram. Yes, I have his address."
She kissed him again, holding his head between her palms, and saying softly, "Daddy, dear daddy." Then she sped down to where the Captain was talking in the hall. The Rev. Thomas Strong looked up, listened to their conversation, and then smiled.
The reason why Chester permitted Lucy and his father to set out for Ireland without him was because he trusted Uncle Gilbert—and the Lord; however, it was no easy matter to be thus left behind. Surely, he would be more of a help than a hindrance on the journey. He forced himself to lie abed the morning they were to be off, until after the train left. Then, knowing he was safe from doing that which his Uncle had desired him not to do, he leisurely arose, very late for breakfast.
The problem with the young man now was what to do while he was waiting. London sights, even those he had not seen before, were tame now. The newly-found father and sister had already left him. Had it not been a dream, and was he not now awake to the reality of his old life?
He found himself once more attracted to the Mission headquarters. Elder Malby was at home that morning. Chester told him the latest development.
"Has she—have they—deserted me, do you think?" asked Chester.
"No—I don't think so," replied the elder thoughtfully. "Lucy did not impress me as a girl who would do that. I see no reason for such actions, but perhaps Uncle Gilbert was right. Your father needed to get away from you to readjust himself to the new condition."
"Well, perhaps,—but what can I now do? this waiting will be terrible."
"You'll come with me this morning. I have some calls to make."
And so all that day Chester remained with Elder Malby, visiting Saints and investigators, adjusting difficulties, and explaining principles of the gospel. It was a splendid thing for the young man, this getting his thoughts from self; and before evening, he had obtained so much of the missionary spirit that he asked to be permitted to bear his testimony at the street meeting. "The louder the mob howls and interrupts, the better for me," he declared. "You remember the other evening when a young fellow stood within a few feet of you and kept repeating: 'Liars, liars, from Utah'?"
"Yes; I remember."
"I'd like to talk to that fellow tonight."
So Chester talked at the street-meeting that evening, but to a very orderly lot of people. After the services, many pressed around him and asked him questions. One young man walked with him and the elders to the mission office. They talked on the gospel, and Chester forgot his own heartache in ministering to another heart hungering for the truth.
The next morning, Chester tried again to remain in bed, but this time without success. He was up in the gray awakening city, walking in the park, listening to the birds near by and the rumbling beginnings of London life. After breakfast, he went again to the Church office.
"You must excuse me for thus being such a bother," he explained to Elder Malby, "but—but I can't keep away."
"I hope you never will," replied the elder, encouragingly. "It is when men like you keep away that there is danger."
"What's the program today?"
"Tracting. Do you want to try?"
"Yes; I want to keep going. Yesterday was not bad. I felt fine all day."
That afternoon Chester had his first trial in delivering gospel tracts from door to door. He approached his task timidly, but soon caught the spirit of the work. He had a number of interesting experiences. One old gentleman invited him into the house, that he might more freely tell the young man what he thought of him and his religion, and this was by no means complimentary. An old lady, limping to the door and learning that the caller was from America, told him she had a son there—and did he know him? Then there were doors slammed in his face, and some gracious smiles and "thank you"—altogether Chester was so busy meeting these various people that he had no time to worry over those who now should be nearly to Kildare Villa in green Ireland.
While he was eating supper with the elders, which Elder Malby said he had well earned, a messenger came to the door. Was one Chester Lawrence there? Yes.
"A telegram for him, please."
Chester opened the message and read:
"Come to Liverpool in morning. All well. Tell me when and where to meet you—Lucy."
Chester handed the message to Elder Malby.
"Once more, don't you see," said the elder, smiling, "all is well."
"Yes; yes," replied Chester in a way which was more of a prayer of thanksgiving than common speech.
Early the following morning Captain Brown was rewarded for his gallant lack of inquisitiveness regarding the sending and the receiving of telegrams by Lucy coming to him with her sweetest smile and saying:
"Captain Brown, was that horse and carriage you used yesterday yours?"
"Oh no; that belongs to my neighbor—only when I am not using it. Do you wish a drive this morning?"
"I want to meet the noon train from London at Lime Street Station; and if it wouldn't be too much trouble—"
"Not at all. My neighbor is very glad to have me exercise the horse a bit. Can you drive him alone?"
"I'm a little nervous."
"Will I do for coachman?"
"If you would, Captain?"
"Then that's settled. I'll go immediately and make arrangements;" which he did.
"Papa," said Lucy to her father, "the captain will drive me to the station. You'll be all right until we get back?"
"All right, yes; don't worry more about me. I'm getting strong faster than I ever did before. See."
He paced back and forth with considerable vim in his movements. "Why," he continued, stopping in front of Lucy and kissing her gently on the cheek, "I feel better right now than I have for a long time—better inside, you know."
Lucy did not understand exactly what he meant by the "inside," but she did not puzzle her head about it. She was happy to know that her father was so well and that Chester was speeding to her. The day promised to be fair, and the drive to the station would be delightful. She was looking out of the window.
"Lucy," said her father, placing his hand on her shoulder, "you need not tell Captain Brown the little secrets you have learned; and I think your Uncle Gilbert need not know any more than he does. It is just as well for all concerned that these things remain to outward appearances just as they have in the past."
"All right, papa."
"We—Chester and you and I will know and understand and be happy. What else matters?"
"What, indeed."
"Now, there's the captain already. He's early; but perhaps he intends driving you about a bit first."