The Way of a Missionary.
The trip to New York was a great pleasure to Betty. A number of missionaries traveled together, and most of the time she was on the observation platform, enjoying the scenery and chatting with her companions.
When they reached New York, Betty's excitement was at its height. At last she was in that Great New York—the city that she had dreamed of for years—and the city where Dr. Cadman lived. As she came out of the Hudson Terminal building, the noise and clamor seemed to deafen her. Two missionaries from Brooklyn, met the party to take them to headquarters in Brooklyn. Betty clung to the arm of one of her traveling companions, and allowed herself to be led, silent and dazed, through the winding streets to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was just six o'clock when all the Brooklyn men were returning from their business in New York. The clamor of gongs and rushing of people frightened Betty and made her ask an Elder what had happened.
"O, that's only Brooklyn Bridge at rush hour," replied the Elder, smiling. "You'll get used to that soon. Sounds queer after Utah, doesn't it?"
"It isn't like this everywhere, is it?" she asked disappointed.
"O, no!" laughed the Elder, "There are some quiet nooks."
Betty felt herself lifted off her feet and with the crowd, pushed into a trolley. The seats were all taken by those who "knew how," but Betty took hold of a strap, and looked around for her companions. They were jammed in at the other end of the car, and though they waved to her, she suddenly felt strangely alone. For the first time, a feeling of homesickness crept over her. This great crowded city with human beings like flies, and big tall buildings towering over narrow streets—was this New York? For twenty minutes the car dragged, and every little while stopped to crowd more in, until everyone was pushing the next. The crowd took it all as though accustomed to it. Not a word or look of anger was given. Some of the passengers appeared to be pale and tired, but all were tolerant.
Betty's mind traveled back to Ephraim's openness and ease, and then came back to present surroundings. She looked out to see the streets through which they passed. She only got a glimpse of the river, but it gave her a cool breath of air that was refreshing. Then came narrow business streets, with screeching elevated rail roads overhead.
"Trains traveling through the air! How strangely awful!" thought Betty. But it was exciting, even though she hated it. At last the car turned into a quiet, residential street, and Betty breathed once more.
When the car stopped and the whole missionary party alighted, Betty was again her calm composed self.
"This is our Church, and next to it, is the Mission House," explained one of the Elders.
Everyone looked at the beautiful white stone church with interest and admiration, and then at the large, red brick house beside it.
"How homelike it is!" exclaimed Betty, feeling her depression leaving her. "Do we missionaries live there?"
The Elder looked at her with pity.
"Not much!" he said, laughing, "We're scattered all over—wherever we can get a room,—but we always like to come here and get warmed up, you know!"
All the young people laughed.
"Sister Emmit, don't think that missionaries have it easy," said one young, rosy-cheeked girl, who looked as though hardship would be fun for her.
"I didn't mean it to be easy," returned Betty, flushing hotly, "I simply asked a question."
At this time they had reached the door of the mission home, which was opened to receive them. There, in the doorway, stood a stout, portly looking man of about forty years. His round, candid face was full of good nature and hospitality. His keen, blue eyes scanned the party with interest.
"Come right in," he said, heartily, "Guess you're all tired, eh? Well, you've come to a good resting place, and the dinner's about ready for all."
Betty's heart went right out to this jovial Mission President, and she felt "cheered up," as she afterwards expressed it.
The party found a warm welcome and a good dinner. The President's wife was no less hospitable than President Gladder himself, and everyone seemed merry and happy.
About nine o'clock, Betty and Dell Siegler were escorted by one of the Elders to a house not far from the Mission House.
"This will be your home, until President Gladder has assigned you your companion and field of labor," he explained, as he rang the bell.
"When will that be?" asked Betty.
"In a day or so," he answered.
The door was opened by a neat, thin little old lady. Introductions over, the Elder left them.
"I'll take you right to your room, young ladies,—follow me."
The tone was kindly polite, but to Betty's sensitive ears, it sounded strangely business-like. They followed the old lady up three flights of stairs, and then into a square back room.
Betty watched her light the "welsbach," which was quite a curiosity to her.
"Put the gas out carefully when you go to bed," she said. "Sometimes it turns all the way round and the gas escapes," and with this admonition and a pleasant "goodnight," she was gone.
Dell and Betty looked around the room, and then at each other.
"It's stuffy, don't you think? Let's open the windows," said Dell.
"What is that for?" asked Betty curiously, looking at one corner of the room.
"O, that is a little cook stove—my sister told me she had one on her mission. See!" and Dell pushed aside a faded cretonne curtain. "Here are all the dishes and cooking utensils. We prepare our own meals, you know."
"Not in our bed-room, surely!" exclaimed Betty.
"Why, of course we do!" laughed Dell. "You don't seem to know much about missionaries' ways. Even the Elders have to live this way."
Betty felt ashamed to have expressed her feelings so, but she was ready to do anything for her mission work.
"I hope that you won't think me fussy," she said apologetically, "I'm willing to do anything for my mission. But it does seem strange at first, doesn't it?"
"It surely does," replied Dell, "and I guess you'll think of your roomy Ephraim home many times when you are eating, sleeping, and studying in one little coop like this."
"But we won't be in it much, will we?"
"That's the big part of it—we won't," laughed Dell.
The two girls got into bed and then thought of the gas.
"Betty, I don't understand gas-jets,—will you put it out?"
"I'm afraid to," returned Betty anxiously. "I know they're dangerous,—I saw her put a match over it. Wasn't that queer? But I'm not sure how to put it out."
"To be on the safe side," said Dell, practically, "Leave it alight. It may keep us awake a bit, but I'd just like a good talk or—"
"Or what?"
"O, I know I'll get homesick. Hurry up, Betty, talk! Just talk! I feel it coming on!"
"So do I," said Betty with quivering lips. "I don't believe Icantalk—much."
That was enough.
Dell's head dived into the pillow, and her little slim figure shook with sobs.
This was too much for Betty. For a few moments she stroked the fair head of her companion, with admirable self-control, but when Dell pulled her over and hugged her close, Betty's tears came thick and fast.
At last Dell sat up in bed with determination.
"We're fine missionaries, Betty, to act like this!" she said sternly.
"Don't worry about that," said Betty, smiling through her tears. "They say that the best surgeons are those who faint at the first operation!"
"That's so!" agreed Dell, "I wouldn't go back, would you?"
"Of course not!" replied Betty, "We're out on the Lord's work! But we're only girls, after all, and we'll feel lots better to cry it out. I guess everyone does, but don't tell anyone, will you?"
"Of course not!" promised Dell.
"Come, let's get to sleep before—"
"All right,"—and the two girlish heads were soon lying quietly close together with their tear-stained faces up-turned to the bright light of the mysterious "welsbach."
*****
In the morning Betty roused her companion.
"I'm so hungry, Dell. Let us hurry to the Mission Home for breakfast."
On their way out they asked the landlady to turn off the gas.
"Land!" exclaimed the old lady indignantly. "You didn't burn my gas all night? And gas is expensive, too, I'll tell you!"
Betty stood dumb, while Dell apologized.
"I thought the West knew gas when they saw it!" snapped the old lady as she shut the door in their faces.
Dell and Betty walked out of the house in silence.
When in the street, Betty laughed.
"Quite motherly, wasn't she? Dell, I do hope you'll be my companion. We'll start a diary together."
The bright morning air made them both laugh with the zest of youth.
As they entered the mission home, Mrs. Gladder kissed them both.
"Sleep well, girls?"
"O yes, thank you," answered the girls, looking at one another with a smile that one of the Elders passing them, was sure to detect.
As Mrs. Gladder led the way to breakfast; he said to the girls in a stage whisper,
"Never mind, girls! they all do it!"
"Do what?" asked Betty demurely.
"Oyouknow,—but don't feel embarrassed. Every night you'll feel better."
Sister Gladder turned. "Brother Eldridge," she said laughing, "if you don't stop teasing, I'll have to report you to President Gladder!"
At this, the young man laughed heartily, and the girls joined in.
The second night they decided that they had been foolish, and laughed themselves to sleep, with the gas turned off and the moonlight streaming in at their little high windows.
*****
Betty's New Friends.
Betty's hand trembled as she took off the receiver of the phone at the Mission Home. She gave the number of Dr. Cadman's office. After all these years she was going to speak with this friend, her ideal of manhood.
"Is this Dr. Cadman?" she asked of the pleasant "Hello."
"It is," came the answer.
"This is Betty Emmit," replied Betty in dignified tones. "I just arrived in Brooklyn yesterday."
"Why, Betty," came in jovial tones. "I'm real glad to hear your voice. Where are you anyway?"
"At Mission Headquarters. Could you come over to see me?"
"Not until about eight this evening. Will that do?"
"Yes," returned Betty delightedly. "By then I will know just what I'm going to do."
"Very well. Tonight at eight. Good-bye, Betty."
"Good-bye, Dr. Cadman," was returned.
Betty hung up the receiver, with a great happiness filling her girlish heart. New York didn't seem lonesome after all!
"So you have a friend in New York?" pleasantly asked President Gladder, from his desk where he sat writing.
"O yes, a friend who is going to help me with my missionary work."
"Tell me about him," said the mission president, and he listened thoughtfully to Betty's story of her friendship with Dr. Cadman.
"Sounds good," he declared, smiling as she finished her recital, "But don't forget the missionary rules. Whenever he takes you, along goes your companion. Perhaps you would like to know who your companion is to be? I have decided that Dell Siegler and you would be just about suited to one another."
"O, I'm so glad," exclaimed Betty. "We did so hope that we could be companions."
President Gladder had a way of beaming on the young people, when he had made them happy.
"That's good," he returned happily. "Now, Betty, you can be a great power in the mission field, if you put your whole mind and soul on your work."
"I will, President Gladder," promised Betty seriously.
"I want you to labor in New York for about one month. This Dr. Cadman, will doubtless make it easy for you to be introduced there. After that, you and your companion must go to Boston. So make the most of your one month here and get a room in New York as soon as possible." And with a kindly nod of dismissal, President Gladder resumed his writing, and Betty left the room.
"Only one month in New York!" she thought with disappointment. "Well, Betty, you're out for work, not pleasure," she said to herself, bravely.
That evening at eight o'clock, Dr. Cadman, called.
Betty never forgot the delight of that first interview. He was so kind to her and so delighted with everything at the Mission Home. She felt very proud as she introduced him to the president and his family, for Dr. Cadman was strikingly attractive, and she could see that President Gladder took an instant liking to him.
For about an hour they chatted and then on going, the arrangement was made for Betty and her companion to meet Dr. Cadman the following day, and he would help them to find a place to live.
That night Betty retired with a heart full of thankfulness—for just exactly what, she couldn't say herself.
"You look beamingly happy," remarked Dell, as they undressed to retire.
"I feel so," returned Betty brightly.
When the light was out, and Dell fast asleep, Betty lay awake for a long time, watching the moon slowly rise over the housetops.
"He's just more wonderful than ever!" she declared to herself. "I must think of my mission, though, and not of him. I wonder—" and there Betty left off her thinking and sank into a sweet dreamy rest.
*****
The next day, Betty and Dell met Dr. Cadman, as appointed—at his office.
"Now, girls," he said, happily, after greetings were exchanged, "I'm going to take you right up to a friend of mine. I telephoned to her this morning that you were coming, and maybe she knows of a place for you."
Driving along Fifth avenue and Riverside Drive, in Dr. Cadman's machine, made New York appear very different from the view presented to the girls when coming out of the Hudson terminal into crowded streets. The city seemed to Betty a most wonderfully attractive place at this stage of her experience.
At last they drew up in front of Edith's home, a beautiful house in the West Eighties.
As they entered and Dr. Cadman introduced them to Edith Esterbrook, both girls felt slightly embarrassed at the strangeness of this New York home.
"It's all so grand and formal," thought Betty.
But Edith soon had the girls feeling quite at ease, entering into their plans and work with real interest.
"So you are looking for a home for one month?" asked Edith kindly.
"Just one room," answered Betty shyly. "Do you know anyone with a house-keeping room we could rent?"
Edith and Dr. Cadman exchanged smiles.
"I can't say I do," returned Edith amused. "None of my friends rent rooms. But I'm going to ask you both to spend a month here,—as my visitors. Of course, you'll be busy all the time, I know, but you may come and go as you wish, and you'll feel you have a home to come to instead of a stranger's house."
"Do you really mean it?" exclaimed Betty, forgetting her shyness, and becoming her old bright, impulsive self.
Dell looked happy, but rather doubtful.
"Betty, it's awfully kind of Miss Esterbrook, but don't you think that we ought to have it harder?"
At this, Dr. Cadman and Edith laughed heartily.
"My dears, you'll have all the hardships you wish before you get through. Just take the sunshine while you can get it—and then, you know, I want you to tell us all about 'Mormonism,' and my friends, too. It will take almost a month to tell everyone that I introduce you to."
Dr. Cadman was not much surprised at Edith's offer. He was accustomed to having her do what her friends called "odd." Only a month ago, she housed three Salvation Army lassies for a week.
Betty's eyes shone with enthusiasm.
"Dear Sister Esterbrook," she said, "we will come and be so glad to. And if we can bring you the gospel, I know that you will be more than repaid for your kindness—our religion is the greatest thing in the world—the greatest joy that we could bring anyone!"
Edith gazed at the earnest girl before her, and then, rising, took both her hands lovingly,
"New York needs just such girls as you," she said kindly. "I see your religion is a vital one. Yes, I know that we will be friends. Let Dr. Cadman take you home; get what things you need, and come back tonight."
Dr. Cadman looked on with a studious smile.
"I knew that you'd be a real friend, Edith, but hardly expected this." Then, more lightly he turned to the missionaries. "You don't realize just how lucky you are, girls, to have Edith Esterbrook as your hostess. Come, we'll carry the good news to President Gladder."
So Betty found herself driving home, with a still lighter heart, and happier thoughts.
Her mission! O, what a joy—no sacrifice as yet!
*****
"God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the wise." ***
The month at the Esterbrcok home was something to be remembered, by both young missionaries. In spare hours, Dr. Cadman would often call and take the two girls out for a drive, showing them the city in detail, and making it as interesting as possible.
Even Alma Lambert was persuaded by Edith to have the missionaries call, and Betty and Alma became great friends. Alma drank in, gladly, all the truths that Betty brought to her. She had never been religious, but now that the world had suddenly lost all its attractions for her, her thirsty soul was eager to be refreshed with thoughts that could make more bearable the loss of her husband, whom she loved more devotedly now than ever before.
Dr. Cadman encouraged her in listening to Betty, more for professional reasons—to take her mind off of herself and her sorrow; for, with a doctor's eye, he could see Alma was on the verge of melancholia.
Edith, too, was greatly interested in all that the girls had to say, but she was also interested in the preparations for her wedding, which was to take place shortly, and her attention was divided. She grew to care for the two girls with more than ordinary affection. Betty especially, wound herself around Edith's heart in a lasting friendship.
"I wonder why," said Edith thoughtfully, "I have known you only a short time, and yet I love you as though you had been near to me all your life."
"That seems clear to me," said Betty, happily. "We believe, in the pre-existent state, we loved our friends, and when we meet them here love takes up the broken thread."
"That is a beautiful thought and seems to explain it. Betty, I have asked our minister to have an interview with you girls. He didn't seem very anxious at first, but at last he graciously consented to talk to one of you. Would you like to tell him about 'Mormonism?' He is a Presbyterian, you know, and has had all kinds of 'anti-Mormon' lecturers preach in his church."
Betty's eyes shone with the enthusiasm of her mission.
"Indeed I would love to talk with him. When may I go?"
"He said tomorrow morning."
So, the next morning Betty went joyously to call upon Dr. McLeod of the Presbyterian church.
As she entered the Parish house, she sensed the refinement and comfort of her surroundings. The two first rooms were large and well-furnished with green velvet furniture to match the heavy green velvet carpet and draperies.
From a large mahogany desk in the center of the room, a tall, slim young lady arose, and advanced to greet Betty.
"I have an appointment with Doctor McLeod," said Betty simply.
"Your card, please?"
Betty had forgotten her card.
"I haven't a card," replied Betty, suddenly feeling chilled at formalities. "My name is Miss Emmit—I'm a 'Mormon' missionary."
"O, I will tell Dr. McLeod," said the lady frigidly. And she left the room with a quiet and well trained dignity, that Betty thought matched the furniture.
She was ushered into Dr. McLeod's private study.
A tall, thin man, with a correspondingly thin face and deep-set, gray eyes, sat writing at his desk, which was littered with papers and books.
His high, intellectual forehead was surmounted by an abundance of iron-gray hair.
He looked up quickly, as Betty entered, and then eyed her from head to foot with amused surprise.
"So you are the 'Mormon' missionary," he said, pleasantly. "I'm glad to meet Miss Esterbrook's friend," he added, "Be seated, please."
"Yes," said Betty in calm, happy tones, "My friend says that you would like to hear something of 'Mormonism.'"
Dr. McLeod cleared his throat.
"Well, not exactly that, my dear young lady. What I know of it, doesn't make me feel very anxious to know any more. I thought, may be, I might show you the error of belonging to such a church, and make your life happier."
For a moment Betty was speechless. She had joyously expected a man eager to learn. She felt weak in the presence of this learned man. Her heart sent up a little silent prayer, and suddenly she felt a great calm strength.
"Dr. McLeod," she said kindly without hesitation; "no minister has anything better to give a 'Mormon' than what he, or she, possesses. The restored Gospel is the greatest glory in the world today. I have come to tell you about it."
Dr. McLead colored with annoyance.
"I presume, Miss Emmit, you are about nineteen or twenty?"
"Yes."
"And you come to teach a minister of thirty years' experience on religious matters?"
"No, Dr. McLeod," the girl replied humbly, "I can teach you nothing. You are far more learned than I ever hope to be. But prophecy tells us that in the latter days, God will teach the wise men of the world through the weak. God speaks to you through me. It is His own peculiar way—cannot you understand?"
Dr. McLeod smiled.
"You have a good tactful way of answering," he said tersely. "Where in the Bible do you find such a prophesy? Please show me."
Betty walked over to the big Bible on his desk and turned to I Cor. 1:27. In her clear young voice she read:
"But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and the weak to confound the strong."
"Well, I declare!" Mr. McLeod said more kindly. "You can hold your own, can't you? Where did you study theology?"
"Study theology?" asked Betty surprised.
"Yes,—what college do they send their missionaries to, before they come East?"
"We study our Bible in Sunday school and church," said Betty, simply. "It seems when we get out here, the Lord tells us just what to say,—our little learning goes a great way."
Dr. McLeod eyed Betty with growing interest. He never expected a missionary in the form of a young, inexperienced girl.
"Are there many like you that come out?"
"Oh, yes," replied Betty brightly. "We are, as a rule, young ladies or young men. Have you never met a missionary before?"
"No, several times they have asked to see me, but I have told my secretary that I was too busy."
"And yet you have allowed other people to preach against us, and you didn't know us?"
The girl's tone was sadly reproachful as she looked at the preacher earnestly.
Dr. McLeod was annoyed with himself for feeling embarrassed before this slip of a girl.
"Well, yes, you see, these lecturers are very well-known and intelligent people. I have to rely on other brains sometimes. I'm a very busy man."
"They may be well-known and intelligent, Dr. McLeod, but they are very wicked people—for they don't tell the truth about us."
"Would you be willing to face one with that accusation?" asked Dr. McLeod thoughtfully.
"Yes, indeed, I would."
"Come then tomorrow at two, and hear an anti-'Mormon' lecture, by a woman, who has been among the 'Mormons,' and has preached in almost every Presbyterian church but mine. It is only fair that you should have a chance to talk, too. After she has finished speaking, you may have the platform for thirty minutes."
Betty's amazed delight found expression in a joyous, "O, thank you! How can I show my appreciation, Dr. McLeod?"
There was no doubting her sincerity and enthusiasm. The minister studied her expressive countenance with a kindly scrutiny.
"I think I understand the influence of you young missionaries. You influence more by what you feel, than by what you know. Emotionalism is a good hypnotist."
"O, but we do know our religion," returned Betty earnestly.
"Maybe,—we'll see tomorrow. I would like to prolong this interview, but I have an appointment. I shall listen and try to learn tomorrow," he said smilingly.
And Betty left him with joyous anticipations.
The Treachery of the World.
Betty and Dell, accompanied by Edith, were among the first to be at the anti-"Mormon" lecture in Dr. McLeod's church.
The minister greeted them kindly, being especially deferential to Edith who was evidently one of the most faithful members of his church.
Edith was very much attached to her church, and her minister, too. He had married her parents in this same church, and so Edith's religious life was first developed here, under the influence of Dr. McLeod, who was a spiritual man, and kindly in disposition. However, his pride in his position as a popular minister in the Presbyterian church, was his one weakness, which would bar him from sacrificing too much for truth.
"Well, Miss Emmit, I see you have come early to the fray," he said smilingly. "So this is your companion? Glad to meet you, Miss Siegler. Another young girl as missionary! Really, I don't see just how your church persuades you, young people, to leave home as you do. We couldn't get many from our church to do it, could we, Miss Edith?"
"I think not," acknowledged Edith. "The young people of today seem to be more indifferent to religion than those of any other age. I wonder why?"
"The temptations of the world, my dear," he said decidedly. "Come, sit right up front, and watch your audience enter," and he led the three girls to the front row, facing the platform.
Dell clasped Betty's hand.
"I'm awfully nervous, Betty. Aren't you?"
"Not in the least," returned Betty. "I'm just anxious to see this wicked woman."
Dr. McLeod had excused himself, and so the three girls silently watched the congregation assemble. It was composed of principally women and children. Now and then a man, or boy, entered, with an expression of indifferent curiosity, but the women seemed full of anticipation, as though a great treat was in store for them.
Betty observed them with a wondering sadness. Suddenly her eyes brightened and with an eager smile, she grasped Edith's hand. "Look! Look! Edith! Just look who's coming!"
"Who?" asked Edith surprised. Following Betty's gaze, she saw entering the other side of the church, a rather tall mannish looking woman.
"Why, it's Mrs. Catt! That dear Mrs. Catt that I told you about!" she exclaimed in a delighted whisper. "See! Dr. McLeod is taking her to the platform. May I go and speak with her?"
"Why, yes,—I suppose—" and before Edith could say more, Betty had started for the platform with enthusiasm quite oblivious to onlookers.
Mrs. Catt had just taken a seat besides the minister, when she looked up to see Betty draw near, with both hands outstretched.
"O, Mrs. Catt! Is it really you! Don't you know me? Betty Emmit, of Ephraim, Utah? Betty, your little girl of eight years ago?"
Dr. McLeod looked on, amazed and interested. He saw the color rise to the temples of the worthy Mrs. Catt, and perceived the nervous twitching of her thin lips.
For a moment she regarded Betty coldly. Then with wonderful self-control, she smiled brightly as she took the girls hands in hers.
"Why, of course, I do! Betty Emmit! Well, well, how you have grown, and what are you doing in New York, Betty?"
"I'm on a mission for the Church. And you?"
Mrs. Catt looked at Dr. McLeod and smiled.
"Poor child! I suppose she must know the truth, Dr. McLeod," she said sweetly.
Dr. McLeod turned to Betty seriously.
"Mrs. Catt is our lecturer for the afternoon. If you will resume your seat, Miss Emmit, we will begin!"
Betty dropped the woman's hands and looked from one to the other blankly.
"I don't understand—you don't mean—"
"Mrs. Catt is to lecture now on 'Mormonism,'" said Dr. McLeod, a trifle impatiently.
Betty grasped the table with a tight clinch and faced Mrs. Catt with a face as white as death.
"You don't mean that you would talk against us?" she gasped.
Dr. McLeod hastily crossed the platform and took Betty's arm.
"Come, Miss Emmit, this is no time nor place for personalities. See! the congregation is wondering now. Don't abuse the privilege I am giving you."
And he led her to her seat beside Edith. Edith anxiously questioned her, but received only a silent shake of the head.
The meeting began, Betty stared fixedly at Mrs. Catt, who never once looked her way.
It seemed all like a horrible dream to poor Betty.
After singing a few good, old hymns, the audience settled down comfortably to listen to this wonderful lecturer, who was known to not only interest, by her wonderful morbid experience, but who had the genius to make whole audiences weep with her depiction of scenes in "Mormon" life.
Mrs. Webster Catt arose and then began her thirty minutes talk on "Conditions in Utah."
She depicted many evils in that awful Godless area of America, but, most of all, she dwelt on the awful depravity of the women and girls, and beseeched the women to send money to the missionaries to alleviate, if possible, their slavedom and misery.
As Betty listened, her blood seemed to freeze. Dell noticed her eyes blazing indignation at the speaker, and she whispered, "Betty, didn't you expect it? I did. Don't get so fussed. Your turn will come."
But Dell didn't know the cyclone that was raging in Betty's heart. Here was her ideal Easterner, found at last a traitor to Ephraim and all she held dear!
Mrs. Catt proceeded boldly. She told of her trip to Ephraim, the sin that she had found there, and the awful conditions of the wives and mothers and daughters.
Betty could stand it no longer.
Rising from her seat, she approached the lecturer.
"How dare you tell these lies? My mother housed you and helped you—for what? To have you come East and lie about us. Shame! Shame on you! How can you be so wicked!"
There was a murmur of disapproval throughout the audience. A man arose importantly.
"As a member of this congregation, I would kindly ask that this girl leave the church. She has disturbed a public meeting!"
Dr. McLeod arose quietly.
"This is most unfortunate. Miss Emmit. You have embarrassed your friends, who would have been fair to you."
Edith quietly left her seat and approached Betty. Dell followed.
"Come," said Edith, lovingly putting her arm about Betty's trembling form, and leading her out before the astonished audience.
"Edith Esterbrook! What next will she do?" thought each one, with a feeling of tolerance or scorn, according to their like and dislike of this strange girl, so socially well-known.
*****
"I think, Betty, you'll have to apologize to Dr. McLeod," said President Gladder kindly.
"But should I sit and hear my dear Ephraim spoken so vilely of, and never say a word?" asked Betty surprised.
"Dear girl, I understand just exactly how you felt. And what you did, was prompted by the best of feelings. But, my dear, you are too impulsive, you must hold your feelings in with a tight rein, and let them go at the right time. You broke into a public meeting. That is not right, you know. Suppose you had waited; can't you see the good that you might have done in your lecture afterwards? This newspaper article is infamous," and he pointed to the headlines—"The Boldness of a Trained 'Mormon' Missionary."
Betty flushed hotly, and tears of shame came to her eyes.
"Yes, it's more than mean," continued President Gladder. "It's cowardly. But the papers are waiting, eagerly, to find some chance to glare a 'Mormon's' mistake. We have to watch our step or—the Church is harmed."
"I'm sorry, President Gladder. I'll see Dr. McLeod this afternoon. May I go alone?"
"Yes. And, my dear girl, then forget it. You have done more good in your one month, than most girls do in six. Next week, I want you to go to Boston. Will you be ready?"
"Yes, President Gladder," said Betty with a great lump in her throat. She mustn't let him see how hard it was for her to go.
So Betty left the mission home for the first time really unhappy. The affair of two days ago had upset her sensitive mind, and made it harder to part with those that she had grown fond of. Even old Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook who had returned from a trip a few days ago, had won Betty's heart by their kindness. And then there was Dr. Cadman! More and more she anticipated his calls and his kindness. She grew daily more fond of this wonderful friend and she realized she was deeply in love with him in spite of her interest in her mission work.
"Perhaps it is best that I am going away," she thought sadly, as she neared Dr. McLeod's church. "I do want to do God's work with real zeal, and he certainly distracts my thoughts."
Dr. McLeod received her kindly.
"I've come to apologize for disturbing your meeting," she said with embarrassment.
"I accept the apology," replied the minister smiling. "Sit down, won't you? I have just a few minutes. Please tell me about Mrs. Catt."
"O, Dr. McLeod, can't you please stop her awful preaching? She came to Utah and almost every town entertained her, and she was so delighted with everything. We all thought she was lovely,—except Sister Heller. She is an Indian, and she warned me,—but I only scolded her for her suspicions. Can't you do something, Dr. McLeod?"
"The minister met her earnestness with a grave shake of the head.
"I would like to help you, my dear girl. I don't like unfairness, myself. I won't have her preach in my church again, but otherwise there is nothing I can do. Prejudice runs so high here, you know."
"But could not you defend the 'Mormons' in your pulpit, and expose Mrs. Catt?"
"How? I have no proof. I have never been to Utah. She has. I don't like the woman, and I like you. That is no material for an exposure, is it? All Christendom is against 'Mormonism.' I would only be disliked for my trouble."
So with great kindness Dr. McLeod bade goodbye to Betty and wished her happiness in Boston.
"And, girlie," he said in parting, "send me some of your literature. I would like to know a little more about a church that owns Betty Emmit!"
As Betty left the Parish House, her heart beat high once more. It was a wonderful joy to do missionary work after all. She would try to take a better spirit with her to Boston, and see how much she could accomplish.
*****
"All you have told me sounds very reasonable, Betty, but somehow I have not the testimony you say I ought to have." Edith's violet eyes met Betty's questioning ones, with a puzzled expression. "It is just as though I had been listening to a beautiful fairy tale, and couldn't find any fault with it, and yet"—here she paused, then added, "really, I can't explain myself."
"I think I understand," said Betty, eagerly. "Edith, down in your heart you know it is the truth, but it has not become part of you yet."
"Maybe that is it," said Edith doubtfully. "It seems as though I had been waiting for a church like yours, and yet something holds me back."
"Perhaps it is Mr. Hester's aversion to us that influences you," suggested Betty quietly.
"My dear girl, do not think Mr. Hester has an aversion to 'Mormonism,'" replied Edith blushing. "He isn't religious, and fears my joining anything new, because he knows how enthusiastically I go in for everything. But if you really knew him, you would know how very tolerant about everyone he is."
"Yes, I know he is," said Betty, "and doubtless the time will come when he will be interested too. You will write me regularly, won't you, Edith? It will be so hard to leave you."
"It will be hard for me to part with you, Betty. Of course I will write regularly. Can't you possibly come down for my wedding?"
"O, I wish I could! But I know I won't be allowed to leave the mission field. But how I shall think of you at that time!"
Edith took Betty in her arms, and, fondling her curls, kissed her again and again. Usually, Edith was undemonstrative.
"My little sunshine Betty, you really must come back to New York soon. I know I shall long for you, when I'm really, truly married."
And so Betty, loved by all, left for Boston to labor in another field. Dr. Cadman was at the boat to see her off, and filled her arms with flowers and candy.
"Good luck to you, girlie," he said, fondly. "When Alma and Harold are baptized, I'll write you all about it. I expect that will be very soon."
During that day and the next, Betty seemed to feel his presence, though she had left him, waving her out of sight. His tender concern of her, seemed to enwrap her with a dreamy satisfaction, and determination to live up to the best that was in her.
Indifference begets indifference. Love begets Love.
Two months from the time that Edith announced her engagement, her marriage took place. It was an exceedingly quiet wedding, as Edith especially wished. George was invited, but much to Edith's disappointed, he sent his regrets.
Edith was radiantly happy. Howard never flagged in his absolute devotion to her, and her very slightest wish seemed anticipated.
Her parents, contemplating her exceptional joy, grew quite enthusiastic over the union, and life seemed full of sunshine.
On her return from their honeymoon, a beautiful country home awaited Mrs. Howard Hester.
There she spent three months, returning in the winter to a home still more attractive.
Edith spent the summer in a dream, extolling every act of Howard's with an exaggeration born of her own goodness. She also laid plans for a very busy winter, devoted to charitable work. To all, Howard smilingly acquiesced as usual.
His plans were of an entirely different nature. Outside of business hours, his time would be spent in the pursuit of pleasure. He mapped out the winter with keen delight, and Edith in turn smiled assent to all his wishes.
What could be more perfect than this ideal marriage,—each one ready to let the other live an individual life. Edith would prefer not to have so much gayety, but if Howard desired it, surely she ought to accompany him everywhere. He was always so considerate of her!
When Howard was occupied in business, she could do all the wonderful things that she had dreamed of.
Added to all this happiness, a greater happiness finally came to Edith. This was the knowledge that she was to become a mother. For several months she kept the secret to herself, planning a general surprise for her husband and parents.
Howard, she told first, and met with her first disappointment in married life. He was not pleased, as she had expected him to be; in fact he was quite the reverse.
"I wish Edith, it hadn't happened so soon," he said gravely; "It will tie us down fearfully, and after all the plans that I have made! It's really too bad!"
"But, Howard, just think of our having a wee little life sent to us to care for and love. It seems so beautiful to me. I cannot understand your not rejoicing."
"You are quite enough for me to care for and love, my dear," he replied, giving her a slight caress. "I can't help thinking that children are a nuisance, but it's no use worrying over what is done."
Seeing a shadow flittering over her face, he added quickly, "There Edith, don't you worry about it and spoil your pretty smiles. You shall not be tied down, never fear. I shall see that you are as free as the air, if you have a dozen children," he said laughing.
"I was not thinking about that, Howard," she replied quietly. "I would so love to care for the little one—my own baby!—It seems too good to be true! but I do wish you were as glad as I am over it!"
"Well, perhaps I shall be, if it is as pretty as its mother, and does not become the proverbial nuisance," he returned, smilingly dismissing the subject.
Edith's mind traveled back to a conversation with Betty.
"You know, Edith dear," Betty had said, "in Ephraim, everyone has a large family, and the parents love their children above everything else. It makes everyone, young and old, so happy and busy."
But Edith's disappointment found consolation in the unbounded joy of her parents. In their anticipation of having a grandchild, they promised all kinds of wonderful things for its reception into the world, and its journey through it. However, they were not destined to have their fond hopes realized.
Two months before the eagerly looked-for date, Mrs. Esterbrook became seriously ill. Their own family physician seemed unable to diagnose the case. Frankly admitting the fact, he called for a consultation, after which the doctor smilingly assured Edith and Mr. Esterbrook, that he hoped for a speedy recovery. In spite of his optimism, Mrs. Esterbrook became steadily worse. Specialist after specialist was called in, all pronouncing new ailments and agreeing to disagree. These were fearfully trying days to Edith, but she did not realize any real danger for her mother.
She was more concerned about her father, whose heart was hardly able to bear the worry of his wife's long illness and suffering.
Finally, Mrs. Esterbrook seemed to take a decided turn for the better.
Edith returned to her home to attend to necessary duties, which she had neglected during the month past. During that time, she had watched almost constantly by her mother's bedside.
It was a cold dreary day when Edith, fatigued with her day's work, sought her pillow for a short sleep.
"Just an hour," she said to herself, "and then I will dress and go to mother's."
But she could not rest. Evidently she was overtired. She lay upon her couch, gazing dreamily through the window at the heavy snow-drifts without. It was March, The wind blew the fluffy white specks in all directions, and made a cold, dreary scene. Edith's heart was strangely heavy. She ought to be joyous at her mother's change for the better, but somehow her heart held a chill forboding, and she began to weep softly. She felt very much alone today. Her husband had been away for one week—a combination of business and pleasure had taken him. He was compelled to go, but he might have returned two days sooner, if he had not accepted an invitation to a week-end.
Of course she could no go, but that was no reason why he should not.
Edith agreed to this. She was always with her mother anyway. She could not wish him to stay at home for her, yet, today she wished he had—she was so lonely! "I never could have enjoyed it without Howard," she thought restlessly.
"O, but men are different," she assured herself. "I guess I am growing selfish. He will surely come tomorrow,—" and she aroused herself from her despondency and began to dress.
Near the completion of her toilet, the maid entered with a card.
She took it absently, then started when she read,—Dr. Cadman.
"Wishes to see me?" she asked the maid, wonderingly.
"He didn't ask to see you, madam, asked for Mr. Hester. When I said he was not at home, he took no notice of me, but stood gazing out of the window, just thinking like, so I thought I would bring the card to you."
"Quite right. I will be down very soon," returned Edith, putting the finishing touches to her toilet.
Experiencing a warm glow of welcome for her old friend, her spirits rose.
She hastened down and entered the parlor softly.
George stood with his back to her, looking gravely out of the window, watching the storm. He did not even hear her enter. The scene seemed to have the same fascination for him that it had for her a while ago.
"George," she said gently.
He started from his reverie and turned.
Speechless he stood, with an expression never to be forgotten.
His full direct glance shot momentarily joy intermingled with passionate longing. Then he swept her with a look, filled with a great penetrating compassion. His strong features were softened by unfathomable sorrow, and Edith, not understanding, yet felt the influence of his soul strength.
At first came an exultant glow—a reaction from her lonely mood. Then came a sudden fear, in answer to his great over-powering sympathy.
"George, what has happened?" she exclaimed, feeling the surety of his expressive countenance.
His expression changed. He came to her, and taking her hand he said kindly:
"Edith, it is several months since I have seen you. It is such a pleasant surprise to do so now. I asked for Mr. Hester, and Mrs. Hester appears."
She looked at him wonderingly. Could he change so in one minute?
"George, you are evading my question. Do not keep me in suspense. What have you to tell me?" she asked earnestly.
"What makes you imagine that I have any news for you, Edith?" he gravely returned.
"I cannot tell, but I am sure that you have," she answered.
"I came to speak with Mr. Hester," he returned evasively.
"Howard will not be home until very late tonight, possibly not until tomorrow."
George received this news with a perplexed frown.
"I'm more than sorry to hear that. It should be him and not I—Well, it is no use denying it. I have news of a serious nature. Do you feel strong and brave enough to hear it from my lips, instead of Howard's?"
George was not aware of her condition, though he guessed it. But he saw no excuse for himself to escape this trying ordeal.
"Tell me," answered Edith, and he read in her eyes a new sadness, born of constant anxiety.
He took both her cold hands, and held them in his strong warm grasp.
"Dear little friend," he said with a deep tenderness, "I wish that I could do all your suffering for you. I only heard of your mother's illness today. I hastened to her home to inquire concerning her. The maid told me that she was very low. I saw your father and he asked me to come to you."
Edith paled, but her eyes shone brightly.
"You should not have delayed a moment in telling me, George," she said gravely. "I will hurry quickly."
"You look pale. Will you allow me to accompany you?"
"Thank you, yes," she replied, hastily leaving the room and returning dressed for the street.
"It's only a few minutes' walk. Your father will be glad to see you so soon."
"Dear father!" exclaimed Edith. "He is far from well. I hope this relapse will be shorter than the last. I think mother bears these spells wonderfully well, don't you?"
He met her direct questioning glance, and he dared not meet it with an untruth. He must tell her now—there was no alternative.
"Would you not be glad when the time comes that will free your mother from these awful spells of agony? If she lives, she cannot be free."
"O, you do think there is doubt of her final recovery?" she asked fearfully.
"I do, indeed. How thankful we ought to be to have her at rest," he replied.
They were about to leave the house. She would need time to calm herself before going to her new scene of grief.
He drew her arm through his and gazed down into her face with a great fondness.
"Dear girl, be brave. You must meet the inevitable with all the resistance of your womanhood."
He waited for her to speak, but she was looking up at him in dumb despair.
His whole heart seemed conveyed in his next words. "Edith, as I entered your old home, your mother passed to rest."
Edith stood quite still. Her words came in little gasps.
You—mean—that—mother—is—gone?"
"Yes," he said softly. But your father awaits you. Be brave. We must hasten. He needs you more than ever now!"
She gave a smothered cry and tried to obey. But it was a futile effort.
With a heart-rending mute appeal, she leaned toward him.
He was eagerly ready. He caught her in his arms.
A deadly pallor overspread her sweet, fair face. Her eyes closed.
He looked down at her deathlike countenance, then gently carried her to the couch. "His in joy," he murmured, "and mine in sorrow."
*****
Friendship's Claim.
"Harold, you are getting to be quite a little man. I'm afraid you'll be one before I get my plans made for you. How would you like to go away to that military academy that I spoke of?"
The boy's eyes flashed and he looked up at George Cadman with keenest delight.
With the exception of deep-set eyes like Will's, he was the exact miniature of Alma.
The three: George, Alma and Harold—were sitting at the supper table in Alma's cozy dining-room.
Everything looked the same as when Will had left the home. It was true that Alma was left penniless, but it was comparatively easy for George to disguise the fact, and not until very lately did Alma learn that he was supporting the home with its accustomed luxury.
With the knowledge came a feeling of intense shame. She had been so thoughtless, leaving every business detail to George, and shutting herself up to her own grief.
The last few days had been full of troubled thought. How could she do anything at all to become independent, and yet bring Harold up in the right atmosphere? There seemed no answer to this at all. She never realized how perfectly helpless she was until now. Brought suddenly face to face with real living, she found herself without a resource. She wept tears over it, but that did not solve the problem.
She had determined tonight to talk to him about it, and beg him to show her some way to help herself.
When George addressed Harold, she looked up in silent surprise. Just when she was about to carry out her resolves, he was proposing new obligations, which her boy was only too eager to accept.
"Dandy!" exclaimed Harold, with boyish enthusiasm. "You're a brick, cousin George. Ain't he Mus?"
Alma laughed confusedly. "If a brick means someone wonderfully good and kind, then he certainly is," she replied, looking smilingly from one to the other. "But what would poor Mus do with her dear boy away?"
"I'll write heaps of letters, and then you have Cousin George, you know," he returned confidently, "I'll never be a man, Mus, if I don't go into the world a bit," he added with the gravity of ten years.
George and Alma laughed.
"Well, my boy, a man we must make of you, so I guess we'll have to win Mus's consent, and persuade her to let me take good care of you."
Alma's blush made her look like her old self. Her pretty natural pink and white attractiveness had never returned since Will's death. More and more she dwelt upon his memory, and only her devotion to Harold kept her from absolute retreat.
Edith Esterbrook brought her great comfort, and the girl's choicest thoughts found fruitage in Alma's receptive nature. But nothing had stifled Alma' remorse and useless longing to live again her life with Will.
Supper over, Harold went to George and climbed up on his knee.
"Tell me all about the soldier place," he said coaxingly with wide expectant eyes.
George stroked the dark curly head, and for half an hour explained the life and doings of the academy.
Not once did he look toward Alma, who was regarding them intently. Restlessly she was thinking of similar evenings when Will had held their darling boy, and built all kinds of aircastles for his future career.
George grew animated, as he gazed into the boy's excited face. His strong affection for the child was reciprocated. Harold knew no time in his short life, when Cousin Walter was not a shining light to guide his boyish ambitions.
Finally the recital was over.
"Now boy, to bed; you have to sleep and grow, if you are going to be a soldier!"
Harold threw two little arms around George's neck.
"Yep!! I've got to sleep a whole lot to grow to be a big man. I want to be just like you."
George laughed.
"You must be an improvement on me, Harold. Every generation must strive to be a little better than the last."
Harold looked puzzled. He dropped his hands before him, and twisted his little fingers together in thought.
"What does generation mean?" he asked wonderingly.
"Generation? Well, let me see," replied George smiling down at him. "We all come into the world at a different time, you know. If two men are born at the same time, we say they belong to the same generation."
Harold sat earnestly thinking. Then he asked hesitatingly.
"Then do you and Mus belong to the same generation?"
He thought a moment again, then said vaguely, "But if you and Mus belong to just the same generation, you must belong to one another."
"Wonderful child logic!" exclaimed George laughing.
"He tries so hard to reason, but his conclusions are usually deplorable," remarked Alma, stretching out her hand to Harold with a smile of indulgence.
Harold jumped down from George's lap, and ran to his mother's arms, to receive the petting that he had not yet outgrown. So fond of his mother, he was almost effeminate in his caresses of her.
George smiled gently as he watched them.
When Alma and he were alone in the library, he asked earnestly, "Alma, can you think of anything that you would not do for Harold?"
"What a foolish question! Of course not," she replied, looking her surprise.
"I am doubtful of your willingness to do one thing," he said gravely.
"I tell you there is nothing," she said fervently. "He is all that I have now."
"Nothing? Absolutely nothing, Alma? Would you marry again,—someone who would gladly lay his fortune at your feet, and care for you and the child of his departed friend?"
Alma looked at him intently, and his meaning suddenly dawned upon her.
"Dear George," she said, and her voice trembled: "I believe that you would sacrifice anything for Will's sake. What a friend you have been!" she exclaimed gratefully.
"But you do not answer my question. Would you allow such a friend to have the only satisfaction in his life?"
She looked at him frankly, unabashed.
"No, George, I would not allow such a man as you to give his life for poor, broken-hearted me. Some other woman will surely give heart for heart, and awaken all the glorious love of your perfect manhood," she replied earnestly.
"Alma, it may surprise you to know that my heart is as broken a reed as yours. I have nothing to offer you, except what you can give in return—a lasting friendship. You have loved and lost, so have I. In the losing, you have learned to love the lost one more deeply than before. So have I. It is friendship for friendship, dear girl, and marriage vows for the world's good opinion and our dear Harold's future."
"You have loved and lost, George? You? Irrevocably lost,—are you sure?"
"Most irrevocably," he returned grimly. "Her marriage to another makes it even a forbidden hope."
"O, George, how strangely the world adjusts things! I have always dreamed of you being possessed with every earthly joy. You of all men deserve it!" she exclaimed.
"Then give me what is possible, Alma. To do for you and Harold would give me much joy in life, and help me to overcome a living death!" he said earnestly.
"You have suffered so, then?" she asked tenderly, placing her hand on his, affectionately.
"More than seems bearable at times. Will we help one another, Alma? For Harold's sake—will you?"
His fine eyes were eloquently persuasive. She met and seemed to lose what little resisting power she possessed.
"I will, George," she replied simply.
George leaned forward and reverently kissed her brow. Then he held her in his arms protectingly.
"What will Harold say?" said Alma, with a happy thought at the boy's delight.
"He will be satisfied that we belong to the same generation," replied George.