Sister Agatha lost not a moment. "Rejoice, dear Carmen," she said. "A
Brother has just arrived who brings intelligence that your father still
lives!" And with a most unwonted excitement in her manner, she led
Carmen to the door of the sitting-room. Tremblingly the girl entered,
and saw by the clear light of the lamp an old, bent man who had, at
this moment, no power to rise to his feet, but could only stretch out
his longing arms to his dearly-loved daughter. The next moment she lay
sobbing on his breast. The child had not forgotten the sweet
expression of those eyes, and she read in the dear features the fact
that she was not an orphan.
"Father! my dear, dear father!"
His eyes bedewed her brow with tears of joy as with loving tones he
murmured again and again: "My child! my darling!" In her warm embrace
he again felt the happiness which had been denied him during so many
weary years. After a little while, he gently turned her face up
towards him, and examined her features.
"Just like Inez! You are your mother over again, as I first saw her
under the palms and fell in love with her. In you I have found both of
my lost ones!" he said, and he smiled through happy tears.
"You will stay with me now, dear father? You will never leave me
again?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes, I will remain here, Carmen, in the dear old home, where I have
come, a worn-out pilgrim to rest."
"Poor father! how much you must have endured, working so far away from
us all! You have been all alone, no one to succor or help you; and
nothing has been heard of you for so long; all efforts to find you have
proved useless," said Carmen, as she lovingly stroked the withered
cheek. "You had vanished so utterly that they all gave you up as dead;
only my heart could never believe it. Why have you never sent us any
tidings?"
"I did indeed send some, my child, but they never reached you. I was
on the banks of the Ganges at the time, but shortly afterwards I went
farther into the country, towards the north, attempting to penetrate a
defile in the Himalayas. There the savages seized me and made me a
slave. For years I have served in the most menial and degrading
capacity; my tired back often bruised with their lashes, and only the
stony ground on which to rest. At length I escaped on horseback, and
succeeded in reaching the Mongolian steppes. There I have been
wandering about, with various tribes, for two years; have tended their
flocks and performed the commonest labor; all the time trying to teach
them the Gospel. But only the spirit of unrest reigned within me, and
an intense longing impelled me to turn my face homeward. So I took my
staff and passed on foot through Siberia, into Russia, begging my way
from door to door. I, who possess hundreds of thousands! Finally I
reached Sarepta, ragged and barefooted, and almost dead from
exhaustion. There the Brothers wanted me to remain with them, to be
nursed and cared for; but this uncontrollable longing did not suffer me
to tarry. After reaching Europe I felt as if I was on the threshold of
home, and I grew more impatient than ever. I obtained a loan of money
from the Brothers, and was thus enabled to ride the rest of the
journey, and get some suitable clothing; but I sickened on the road and
was forced to lay up in a Polish town, where I remained until nearly
all my money was gone. Afterwards I was again obliged to travel on
foot--and here I am. Now all will go well, since I am again at home,"
he concluded, smiling contentedly at the last thought.
Sister Agatha had, meanwhile, brought refreshments for the weary old
man. What a heart-felt joy, this first meal with his daughter in the
old familiar room! And how much he had to relate, while regaling
himself, of wonders and adventures in distant lands! It was very late
when, strengthened by the good cheer, and comforted by the presence of
his child, he bade good-night to Carmen and Sister Agatha, and betook
himself to the lodging-house to seek repose.
* * * * * *
"Have you heard the news? Brother Mauer, whom we thought dead and
buried, is here!" passed from lip to lip in the settlement the next
morning. The wonderful event occupied every mind, and filled the
Brothers and Sisters with amazement. But no one except Carmen had seen
him as yet. He had slept until near noon, recovering some of his lost
strength, and his daughter had sat quietly watching by him during the
whole morning, so that his first waking glance might fall on her.
Afterwards they took breakfast together in his room, each recounting
the occurrences of the past years, and drawing happy plans for the
future. He proposed to buy a house in the settlement, and Carmen
should keep house for him, nothing but death ever separating them again.
Carmen's heart grew light as a bird. She was so delighted to have her
father restored to her--so happy in the security of a love which would
always shelter and protect her! It would shield her even against
Brother Jonathan's love, which was so abhorrent to her; and she took
counsel with herself whether or no it would be best to tell the old man
all the terror she had suffered a short time before. Truly a promise
of silence had been given; but ought she not to make her father an
exception? She could not see clearly what was the right thing to do,
and therefore resolved not to mention Jonathan at all.
The latter had gone on a short journey a few days previously, and she
would thus have time to consider the matter, and wait for some quieter
hour in which to make her disclosure.
In the afternoon, when service was held in the chapel, everybody
hastened thither, intent upon seeing Brother Mauer, and hearing about
his mission work and adventures. He sat among the widowers; devoutly
singing, his eyes cast down, as if he felt that all eyes were gazing
upon him.
When the hymn was ended, the principal elders and teachers came up to
Mauer, greeting him with cordial hand-shakings, and leading him, with
words of hearty welcome, to a more prominent seat, from which he could
address the congregation. He bore himself with a firmer carriage
to-day, and the dignity of his tall figure was more conspicuous than on
the evening before. With a happy smile, he let his glance roam over
the assembly of Brothers and Sisters, many of whom were unknown to him;
indeed, the large majority were strange, yet he held each and all dear,
as forming a part of his home surroundings. As he passed up the aisle,
between the two elders who conducted him, the door of the chapel
opened, and a tardy member entered. It was Brother Jonathan Fricke.
His manner was even humbler than usual, and his eyes wandered
restlessly around: perhaps he had heard of Brother Mauer's arrival, and
was looking for him. In the centre of the aisle, which was filled with
people, he met the three men. Jonathan's glance fell on the tall form
of his old friend; he stretched out his hand, and said in a low voice:
"Do the dead rise, Brother Michael?"
Mauer shrank back at the words; and as he recognized the speaker he
grew deathly pale, his eyes dilated with an expression of horror, and
he staggered forward.
"You here?" he asked hoarsely, and fell to the ground.
A general confusion ensued. It seemed but natural that the numerous
greetings should have exhausted the over-weary traveller; and then the
reunion with his old friend--it really had been too much for his
strength, and the general feeling of sympathy grew deeper.
As they carried him away Carmen, followed to his room; and after long,
untiring efforts the old man at last began to revive. Carmen begged
that she might be left alone with him, so that when he came fully to
himself he might be undisturbed and see no one but her, at the same
time declining all offers of medical assistance from Brother Jonathan.
The girl seated herself by the bedside; and when her father opened his
eyes, she noticed he looked anxiously around and then whispered:
"Child, who was that I last saw in the chapel and who spoke to me?"
"Do not trouble yourself, dear father. It was only your old friend,
Jonathan Fricke," replied Carmen, soothingly, holding his hand in hers.
She felt a shiver run through him as she mentioned the name.
"I did not know that he was here," he said with a groan.
"Can I help you in any way, dear father?" his daughter asked. "Are you
in pain?"
He shook his head in reply, and lay quite still, with closed eyes.
After a long time he looked again at Carmen in a troubled, sorrowful
way, and sighed deeply. "Tell me about him," he murmured. "I thought
he was still in Bethlehem, in America; how came he here, and how long
has he been among you?"
She told him everything, save the one horrible incident that haunted
her memory. His extreme agitation made her silent on that point. When
she ceased speaking, all was silence in the apartment except the soft
ticking of the clock. Occasionally a deeply drawn breath reached
Carmen's ear; her father had turned his face to the wall, and was so
quiet and motionless that she hoped he had fallen asleep from
exhaustion. Suddenly he began to whisper to himself:
"The old, old story, which will never die! The idea of home, with its
sweet repose and calm blessedness, was only a delusion after all!"
"What do you mean, father?" asked Carmen, bending over him. He closed
his eyes wearily; and she noiselessly resumed her seat near him.