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 to her 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 the midland 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 twenty years 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 you _have_ to, 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's your
'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 ticking of 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, I _love 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 is _not_ my 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.