The next day was Sunday. Even on ship-board there are some indications
that the seventh day is different from the rest. There is always a
little extra to the menu for dinner, and then religious services are
also held; and are not these two things frequently all that distinguish
the Sabbath on the land?
That morning neither Lucy nor her father was at breakfast. Immediately
after, Chester sought out the chief steward, and by insistency and the
help of a small tip, he got his seat changed to the table occupied by
Elder Malby and the two other missionaries. "No one shall be annoyed by
my near presence, if I can help it," Chester said.
At the noon meal, the minister and his daughter appeared as usual.
Chester watched them unobserved from his changed position. They looked
at the vacant place opposite, but as far as Chester could determine, his
absence was not discussed.
That afternoon services were held in three parts of the vessel at the
same time. On the steerage deck a large company of Irish Catholics
surrounded the two Fathers. One of the priests stood in the center of
the group while the people kneeled on the deck. The priest read
something in Latin, the others repeating after him. Then a glass of
"holy water" was passed among them, the worshipers dipping their
fingers in and devoutly crossing themselves. Chester watched the
proceedings for a time, then he went to the second class deck where a
revival meeting was in progress. The preacher was delivering the usual
exhortation to "come to Jesus," while yet there was time. Presently,
there came from the depths of the ship the sound of the dinner gong
being slowly and solemnly beaten, no doubt to imitate, as nearly as
possible, the peal of church bells. The steward who acted as bell ringer
did his duty well, going into the halls and on to the decks, then
disappearing again into the saloon. This was the official announcement
to service. Chester and his friends followed. Quite a congregation had
gathered. Two large pillows had been covered with a Union Jack to serve
as a pulpit. A ship's officer then read the form prescribed for services
on ship-board from the Church of England prayer book. It was all very
dry and uninteresting, "Verily a form of godliness" and a lot of "vain
repetition," said Elder Malby.
Then the minister--Chester's minister--arose. He had been asked, he
said, to add a few words to the regular service, and he was pleased to
do so. He called attention to the accident which had happened on their
voyage, and felt to say something on the providence of God, and His
watch-care over His children. The preacher's voice was pleasant, the
ministerial tone not being so pronounced as to make his speech
unnatural. Chester listened attentively, as also did Lucy who, Chester
observed, was sitting well up towards the front.
"God is the source of the being of all men," said the preacher. "He has
brought us all into existence, and made us in His own likeness, and is a
Father to us in fact and in feeling. He owns us and owns His
responsibility for us. He cares for us and overrules all things for our
good. He is worthy of our love and confidence. Since we are His
children, God desires us to be such in very deed--in fellowship and
character, and is satisfied with us only as we are giving ourselves to
the filial life. This relationship which we bear to God cannot be fully
explained. There is a mystery in it beyond the understanding of finite
minds; but of this we are sure that the God of Creation has brought us
all forth into being, and He will take care of us if we will let Him. We
cannot reasonably and reverently think otherwise of Him.
"Is it not a comfort to think that we cannot get away from the
ever-present watchfulness of God? As the Psalmist puts it: 'Whither
shall I go from thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence?
If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell,
behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in
the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and
thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover
me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not
from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light
are both alike to thee.' Yes, yes, my friends, 'God is our refuge and
strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear--'"
Somehow, what the minister said after that came very indistinctly to
Chester Lawrence. He heard the words, but was aware only of a peculiar
feeling, a dim perception of where he was and what he was hearing. There
seemed to him to be a genuine feeling in the voice that uttered those
beautiful words of scripture. They clung to his heart, and the minister
himself became transfigured for an instant into some other being,--stern
of countenance, yet loveliness in the depths of his soul, spiritually
far away, yet heart yearning with nearness of love. Chester came fully
to himself only when Elder Malby took his arm and together they paced a
few turns around the deck.
That same Sunday evening as Chester stood alone on the promenade deck
watching the moonlight lay as a golden coverlet on the placid sea, his
attention was attracted to the figure of a girl mounting the steps
leading to the deck where he stood. She paused half way as if to rest,
then came slowly up to where he was standing. Her breath came heavily,
and she looked around to find a place to rest. Chester instinctively
took her arm and led her to a deck chair.
"O thank you," said Lucy, "I--my heart bothered me pretty badly that
time. I am forbidden to climb stairs, but I couldn't find you on the
lower deck."
"Did you wish to see me?" asked Chester.
"Yes; I--you'll not think me over bold, will you, but I had to find
you--won't you sit down here--I can't talk very loudly tonight."
Chester drew a chair close to hers. A light wrap clung about her and the
moonlight streamed on head and face. The young man, in the most
matter-of-course-way adjusted the wrap to the girl's shoulders as he
said:
"You are not well, tonight."
"Oh, I'm as well as usual--thank you." She smiled faintly. "Will you
forgive us?"
He was about to reply, "Forgive you for what?" but he checked himself.
Somehow, he could not feign ignorance as to what she meant, neither
could he use meaningless words to her.
"We were very rude to you yesterday, both father and I; and I wanted to
make some explanations to you, so you would understand. I am so sorry."
"You and your father are already forgiven. If there were a grain of
ill-feeling against him this afternoon, it all completely vanished when
I heard him talk at the services."
"You were there?"
"Yes. Now don't you worry." He was nearly to say "Little Sister;" but
again he checked himself. "I am a 'Mormon,'" he continued. "I am not
ashamed of it, because I know what it means. Only those who don't know
despise the word."
"Neither am I ashamed of it," she said as she looked him fairly in the
face. "I know a little--a very little--about the 'Mormons,' but that
which I know is good."
"What do you know?"
"I'll tell you. One evening, in Kansas City I stopped to listen to two
young men preaching on the street. They were just boys, and they did not
have the appearance of preachers. You must know that I have always been
interested in religion, and religious problems. Perhaps that is natural,
seeing my father is a minister. I read his books, and many are the
discussions I have had with him over points of doctrine,--and we don't
always agree, either. He, however, usually took my little objections
good naturedly until one day he asked me where I had obtained a certain
notion regarding baptism. In reply I handed him the booklet I had
received at the 'Mormon' street meeting. He looked at it curiously for a
moment, wanted to know where I had obtained it, then locked it up in his
desk. He was really angry; as that was something he had never been
before over any religious question, I was surprised and impressed. I
had, however, read carefully the booklet. Not only that, but I had been
secretly to one of the 'Mormon' services. I there learned that an
acquaintance of mine belonged to the 'Mormon' Church, and depend upon
it, I had her tell me what she knew."
"And your father?"
"He objected, of course. At first, I told him everything. He had always
let me go to any and all religious gatherings without objection. He
even laughingly told me I could don the Salvation lassie's bonnet and
beat a drum in the street, if I wanted to; but when it came to the
'Mormons,' O, he was angry, and forbade me from ever going to their
meetings or reading their literature. I thought it strange."
"It's not strange at all,--when you understand," remarked Chester, who
was intensely interested in her story. "I suppose you obeyed your
father."
"Well, now, you want me to tell you the truth, of course--I--I wasn't
curious--"
"Certainly not."
"You're laughing at me. But I wasn't, I tell you. I was interested.
There is something in 'Mormonism' that draws me to it. I don't know much
about it, to be sure, for it seems that the subject always widens out to
such immensity. I want you to tell me more about Joseph Smith, the Book
of Mormon and the new revelations."
"But your father will object. What would he say if he knew you were
sitting here in this beautiful moonlight talking to a 'Mormon'?"
"I'm of age, I guess. I'm doing nothing wrong, I hope."
"I hope not. Far be it for me to harm you--or any living soul. But I
don't know much about the gospel as we call it--for you must know it is
the simple gospel of Jesus Christ revealed anew. There are three other
'Mormons' on board, missionaries going to Europe. One of them at least
could tell you much."
"But I'd be pleased to hear you tell me--is, is that father? I wonder if
he is looking for me."
Chester looked in the direction indicated. A man came up, then passed
on; it was not the minister. The girl crouched into the shadow, and as
she did so her shoulder pressed against Chester's. Then she sprang up.
"Well, I was foolish," she exclaimed, "to be afraid of dear old daddy!"
Chester also arose, and the two walked to the railing. They stood there
in the moonlight. Great clouds of black smoke poured from the ship's
funnels, and streamed on to windward, casting a shadow on the white
deck. They looked out to the water, stretching in every direction into
the darkness. Then as if impelled by a common impulse, they looked at
each other, then blushed, and lowered their eyes. The girl's hands lay
on the railing. Chester saw their soft shapeliness, and noted also that
there were no rings on them.
"I'm glad I've met you," said Chester honestly.
"And I'm glad, too," she breathed. "Some other time you must tell me so
much. I've so many questions to ask. You'll do that, won't you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Now I must go to father. He may be uneasy." She held out her hand.
"Good night--what _do_ you think of me? Am I a rude girl?"
"I heard your father call you Lucy. That's your name, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And I may call you that, may I not? You know these ship-board
acquaintances don't wait on ceremony."
"But I don't know your name, either. Think of it, how we have been
really confidential and we don't even know each other's name."
"I know yours."
"Only half of it. I've two more. How many have you?"
"Only two."
"And they are?"
"Chester Lawrence."
"Well, mine is Lucy May Strong--and now, goodnight."
He took her arm and helped her down the steps, gently, for she seemed
such a frail being, one who needed just such stout arms as Chester's to
lean upon. He risked the danger of meeting the father by helping her
down the second flight of steps to the state-room deck.
"Good night, Lucy."
"Good night--Brother Lawrence."