A warm, gentle rain was falling. No regrets or complaints were heard at
Kildare Villa, for, as Uncle Gilbert said, the farmers needed it, he and
his people were comfortably housed, and the excursionists--meaning
Chester and Lucy--would do well to remain quiet for a day.
The minister had so far recovered that he walked unaided into the large
living room, where a fire in the grate shed a genial warmth. Chester and
Lucy were already there, she at the piano and he singing softly. At
sight of her father, Lucy ran to him, helped him to a seat, then kissed
him good morning.
"How much better you are!" she said.
"Yes; I am glad I am nearly myself again--thanks to Aunt Sarah," he
said, as that good woman entered the room with pillows and footrest for
the invalid, who was made quite comfortable. Then the aunt delivered him
to the care of the two young people, with an admonition against drafts
and loud noises.
"All right, daddy; now what can we do for you?" asked Lucy.
"You were singing--when I came in. * * * Sing the song again."
"But loud noises, you know."
"Sing--softly," he replied.
The two went back to the piano. Lucy played and both sang in well
modulated, subdued voices,
"Jesus, I my cross have taken
All to leave and follow Thee;
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
Thou, from hence my all shall be.
Perish every fond ambition,
All I've sought, or hoped, or known,
Yet how rich is my condition,
God and heaven are still my own."
They sang the three stanzas. The two voices blended beautifully. The
father asked them to sing the song again, which they did. Then they sang
others, some of which were not familiar to the listener.
"Oh, how lovely was the morning,
Brightly beamed the sun above."
"What was that last song?" inquired the father.
The two singers looked at each other as if they had been caught in some
forbidden act.
"Why"--hesitated Lucy, "that's a Sunday School song."
"A 'Mormon' song?"
"Yes."
"Sing--it again," he said as he lay back on his pillows, closed his eyes
and listened.
"Do you know any more--'Mormon' songs?"
Lucy, of course, did not know many. Chester managed "O, my Father," and
one or two more. Then Lucy closed the piano and went back to her father,
where she stood smoothing gently his gray hair. Thus they talked and
read and sang a little more, while the rain fell gently without.
"This is a beautiful country," said Chester, looking out of the window.
"I do not blame people who have money, desiring to live here." Lucy came
to the window also, and they stood looking out on the rain-washed green.
The father lay still in his chair, and presently he went to sleep.
Chester and Lucy then retired to a corner, and carried on their
conversation in low tones. Faint noises from other parts of the house
came to them. From without, only the occasional shrill whistle of a
locomotive disturbed the silence. The fire burned low in the grate.
Suddenly, the father awoke with a start. "I tell you he is my son," he
said aloud. "I am his father, and I ought to father him--my heart goes
out--my son--"
"What is it, father?" cried Lucy, running to him, and putting her arm
around his shoulders.
The father looked about, fully awakened.
"I was only dreaming," he explained. "Did I talk in my sleep?"
Just then Uncle Gilbert came in. He announced that tomorrow he would of
necessity have to leave for Liverpool. It would be a short trip only; he
would be back in two or three days, during which all of them should
continue to make themselves comfortable.
"George, here, is getting along famously," he declared. "A few more days
of absolute rest, and you'll be all right, eh, brother?"
"I think so."
Aunt Sarah now announced luncheon, and they all filed out of the room.
That evening the two brothers were alone. "I want to talk to you," the
visitor had said; and his brother was willing that he should. Evidently,
something weighed heavily on his mind, some imaginary trouble, brought
on by his weakened physical condition.
"Now, what is it, brother," said Gilbert as they sat comfortably in
their room.
"You know that in my younger days I had a little trouble"--began the
minister, now speaking quite freely.
"I don't recall what you mean."
"When I was studying for the ministry--a woman, you--"
"O, yes; I remember; but what of it? That's past and forgotten long
ago."
"Past, but not forgotten. I have tried to forget, the Lord knows, by
long years of service in the ministry. I hope the Lord has forgiven--but
I forgotten, Oh, no."
"Look here, brother, you are over-sensitive just now because of your
physical condition. You have nothing to worry over. That little
youthful indiscretion--"
"But there was a child, Gilbert, a boy."
"Well, what of it?"
"That was my boy. I am his father. What has become of him? Where is he
now? Flesh of my flesh, is he handicapped by the stigma I placed upon
him? Is he, perchance, groveling in the gutter, because I cast him
off--had no thought or care for him--"
"Now, look here--"
"Listen. I became a father, then shirked the responsibility of
fatherhood. A new word rings in my ears, 'FATHERING.' I can see its
mighty import. I who have spoken the words of the great Father for these
many years, have not followed His example. Listen, brother: if that son
of mine is alive, and I believe he is, I am going to find and claim
him--and not once more do I preach until I do."
The brother was somewhat alarmed, showing it in his countenance.
"You may think I am out of my head; but I never was saner in my life. My
thoughts are as clear as a bell, and now that I have said what I wanted
to, I feel better. That's all--don't you worry about me. Now go to bed.
You are to be off in the morning, you know. Good night."
As Gilbert walked out, his mind not altogether clear about his brother,
Lucy was at the door waiting to bid her father good night.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"Yes; come along."
"I wanted just to say good night."
"That's right, my girl; and where is Chester?"
"He--I don't know. I think he's retired."
"You're looking so well, these days. Are you happy?"
"Yes, daddy; so happy--and so much better, I believe."
"All right--there now, good night. If Chester is without, tell him to
come in a moment."
She kissed him again, then slipped out. Presently, Chester entered.
"Did you wish to see me, Mr. Strong?"
"Yes--that is, just to say good night--and to tell you that I am
better--and also to thank you for taking such good care of Lucy."
"Why, I assure you--"
"Wait a moment. Stand right where you are, there in that light--you'll
excuse a sick man's humors, I know; but someone told me today that we
two look very much alike. I was just wondering whether it was a fancy
only--but I can't tell, nor you can't tell. It always takes a third
person to say."
"Yes; I suppose it does," laughed Chester. "But I don't object to the
resemblance."
"Nor I, my boy. Come here. Continue to take good care of Lucy. She's a
good, sweet girl." The man arose, as if to be off to bed. Chester put
his arm around him.
"Let me help you," said the young man. "You are not very strong yet."
"Thank you." He put his arm about Chester's neck so that the stronger
man could nearly carry the weaker. As they walked slowly across the room
under the lamps anyone could see a striking resemblance between the two
men. As they said good night and parted at the father's door, the older
man's hand patted softly the young man's cheek. Chester felt the touch,
so strange that it thrilled him. "That was for Lucy's sake," he said to
himself as he sought the quietness of his own room.
* * * * *
There were no apparent reasons why Chester Lawrence should not accompany
Uncle Gilbert to Liverpool, so neither Chester nor Lucy tried to find
any. Plans for meeting in London and on the continent were fully matured
and understood. The separation would be for a week or fortnight at most.
Lucy and Aunt Sarah waved their goodbyes as the train drew out of Cork
for Dublin.
Chester now understood why Ireland was called the Emerald Isle. Green,
green, everywhere--fields and hedges, trees and bushes, bogs and
hills--everything was green. Uncle Gilbert gave him full information on
all points of interest.
At Dublin they had a few hours to wait for the boat, so they looked
around the city, not forgetting the beautiful Phoenix Park. It was
evening when they went on board the steamer and to bed. Next morning,
they were awakened by the rattling of cables and chains as they slid
into a dock at Liverpool.
Chester and Gilbert Strong parted company at Liverpool, the latter to
attend to the business which had brought him there, the former to seek a
place of lodging. First he found 42 Islington, the headquarters of the
mission, introduced himself to the elders in charge, and asked them to
direct him to some cheap, but respectable lodgings. He was shown to a
nearby hotel where the missionaries usually put up, where he obtained a
room. Then he went to the steamship company's office at the pier,
obtained his trunk, and had it taken to his lodgings. After a bath, a
general clean-up and change of clothing, he was ready for the town, or
all England for that matter.
He went back to "42" for further information. He noticed that the slum
district of the town pressed closely on to the office quarters, and he
saw some sights even that first afternoon which shocked him: dirty,
ragged children, playing in the gutters; boys and girls and women going
in to dram shops and bringing out mugs of beer; men and women drunken.
One sight specially horrified him: a woman, dirty, naked shoulders and
arms; feet and legs bare; a filthy skirt and bodice open at the breast;
hair matted and wild; reeling along the pavement, crying out in drunken
exclamations and mutterings. It was the most sickening sight the young
man had ever seen, and with perhaps the exception of a fight he
witnessed some days later between two such characters, the worst
spectacle of his life.
All this sordid life so strange and new, drew the attention of the young
westerner. Especially did 42 Islington interest him; for this was an
historic spot for "Mormonism." From here the early missionaries had sent
forth the message of salvation to Great Britain, in fact, to the whole
of Europe. Here within these dingy rooms had trod the strong, sturdy
characters of the pioneer days of the Church. Perhaps in some of these
rooms Orson Pratt had written his masterly presentation of the gospel.
In those days, very likely, there were not so many noises of traffic and
restless humanity. Perhaps such men could take with them the peace and
sublime solitude of their home in the Western Mountains into the
confusing din of the big city, and remain undisturbed. And these were
happy, even as the present elders were, laboring, with a clear
conscience for the salvation of souls. There came to Chester, as he
thought of these things, an expression he had read: "Outside things
cannot make you happy, unless they fit with something inside; and they
are so few and so common that the smallest room can hold them."
That same evening there was a meeting of the Saints which Chester
attended. The congregation was small, much smaller even than those of
Chicago. Most of the people present appeared to be of the humbler,
working classes; but there was the same light in their faces as that
which shone in faces on the other side of the world, when enlightened by
the Spirit of God. Everywhere, Chester noticed, this Spirit was the
same, giving to rich and poor, learned and unlearned alike, the joy of
its presence.
"Come around tomorrow, and we'll take a look about the city," said one
of the elders to Chester. "Sitting cramped over a desk day after day,
makes it necessary for me to get out once in a while."
The afternoon of the following day, Chester called for his friend in the
office, and they set out. "I want you to get rid of the first
impressions of Liverpool," explained the elder. "I want you to get away
from the noise and dirt to the green and quiet and beauty of the town."
First they took a car to the Botanical Gardens, looked at the flower
beds and inspected the palm-house. Then they walked across the open to
the farther side, followed a short street or two into the big, open
grass-covered Wavertree Playground. Thence it was a short walk to Sefton
Park with its varied and extensive beauties. They watched the children
sail their toy crafts on the lake. There were some men even, trying out
model boats. The bird cage was interesting. The grotto, as usual, was
hard to find. The palm-house took a good part of their time, for the
beautiful statue of Burn's Highland Mary, gleaming white from a bed of
green, took Chester's attention, as also the historical figures
surrounding the house. One of these was of Columbus with an inscription
claiming that he had very much to do with the making of Liverpool,
which is no doubt true.
The weather was fine, the air was balmy; many people were out. Chester
and his companion strolled about the walks and across the velvety
stretches of grass. They watched for a time, a "gentlemanly game of
cricket," but it was too slow altogether for the Americans.
It was well towards sundown when the two young men took a car back to
Islington. "Another day we'll see Newsham Park, and the country around
Knotty Ash way. Then again, there is some beautiful country up the
Mersey and across to Birkenhead." The visitor was grateful for these
offers.
That evening Chester addressed some post-cards to his few friends in
Chicago, one to Hugh Elston, one to Elder Malby in London, and one to
Lucy May Strong, Kildare Villa, Cork, Ireland. He lingered somewhat over
this latter, lost somewhat in wonder at recent events. Was not this
ocean trip and the Irish experience a dream? The noise and smoke about
him were surely that of Chicago, and he was sitting in his room there in
his normal condition of homelessness and friendlessness? Had he not that
day been out with an elder from the Chicago Church office to Lincoln
Park and the lakeside? Surely Lucy and the minister, and Kildare Villa
and Blarney were figments of a pleasant dream! Chester walked back and
forth in the small room. He stopped before a dingy map of Great Britain
on the wall. His finger touched Ireland, moved southward, and stopped
at Cork. Yes; there _was_ such a place, any way, so there must be
Shandon Bells and the Blarney Stone, and a rustic seat under the trees
at Blarney Castle. Well, if all else under the sun were imaginary, that
hour of bliss at Blarney when Chester told Lucy he loved her, and Lucy
told Chester the same sweet words--that was real. He would live in that
reality, for it far surpassed his dreams.
Chester looked again at the post-card he had addressed to Kildare Villa,
placed it aside, and wrote in its place a long letter.