The reason why Chester permitted Lucy and his father to set out for
Ireland without him was because he trusted Uncle Gilbert--and the Lord;
however, it was no easy matter to be thus left behind. Surely, he would
be more of a help than a hindrance on the journey. He forced himself to
lie abed the morning they were to be off, until after the train left.
Then, knowing he was safe from doing that which his Uncle had desired
him not to do, he leisurely arose, very late for breakfast.
The problem with the young man now was what to do while he was waiting.
London sights, even those he had not seen before, were tame now. The
newly-found father and sister had already left him. Had it not been a
dream, and was he not now awake to the reality of his old life?
He found himself once more attracted to the Mission headquarters. Elder
Malby was at home that morning. Chester told him the latest development.
"Has she--have they--deserted me, do you think?" asked Chester.
"No--I don't think so," replied the elder thoughtfully. "Lucy did not
impress me as a girl who would do that. I see no reason for such
actions, but perhaps Uncle Gilbert was right. Your father needed to get
away from you to readjust himself to the new condition."
"Well, perhaps,--but what can I now do? this waiting will be terrible."
"You'll come with me this morning. I have some calls to make."
And so all that day Chester remained with Elder Malby, visiting Saints
and investigators, adjusting difficulties, and explaining principles of
the gospel. It was a splendid thing for the young man, this getting his
thoughts from self; and before evening, he had obtained so much of the
missionary spirit that he asked to be permitted to bear his testimony at
the street meeting. "The louder the mob howls and interrupts, the better
for me," he declared. "You remember the other evening when a young
fellow stood within a few feet of you and kept repeating: 'Liars, liars,
from Utah'?"
"Yes; I remember."
"I'd like to talk to that fellow tonight."
So Chester talked at the street-meeting that evening, but to a very
orderly lot of people. After the services, many pressed around him and
asked him questions. One young man walked with him and the elders to the
mission office. They talked on the gospel, and Chester forgot his own
heartache in ministering to another heart hungering for the truth.
The next morning, Chester tried again to remain in bed, but this time
without success. He was up in the gray awakening city, walking in the
park, listening to the birds near by and the rumbling beginnings of
London life. After breakfast, he went again to the Church office.
"You must excuse me for thus being such a bother," he explained to Elder
Malby, "but--but I can't keep away."
"I hope you never will," replied the elder, encouragingly. "It is when
men like you keep away that there is danger."
"What's the program today?"
"Tracting. Do you want to try?"
"Yes; I want to keep going. Yesterday was not bad. I felt fine all day."
That afternoon Chester had his first trial in delivering gospel tracts
from door to door. He approached his task timidly, but soon caught the
spirit of the work. He had a number of interesting experiences. One old
gentleman invited him into the house, that he might more freely tell the
young man what he thought of him and his religion, and this was by no
means complimentary. An old lady, limping to the door and learning that
the caller was from America, told him she had a son there--and did he
know him? Then there were doors slammed in his face, and some gracious
smiles and "thank you"--altogether Chester was so busy meeting these
various people that he had no time to worry over those who now should be
nearly to Kildare Villa in green Ireland.
While he was eating supper with the elders, which Elder Malby said he
had well earned, a messenger came to the door. Was one Chester Lawrence
there? Yes.
"A telegram for him, please."
Chester opened the message and read:
"Come to Liverpool in morning. All well. Tell me when and where to meet
you--Lucy."
Chester handed the message to Elder Malby.
"Once more, don't you see," said the elder, smiling, "all is well."
"Yes; yes," replied Chester in a way which was more of a prayer of
thanksgiving than common speech.
Early the following morning Captain Brown was rewarded for his gallant
lack of inquisitiveness regarding the sending and the receiving of
telegrams by Lucy coming to him with her sweetest smile and saying:
"Captain Brown, was that horse and carriage you used yesterday yours?"
"Oh no; that belongs to my neighbor--only when I am not using it. Do you
wish a drive this morning?"
"I want to meet the noon train from London at Lime Street Station; and
if it wouldn't be too much trouble--"
"Not at all. My neighbor is very glad to have me exercise the horse a
bit. Can you drive him alone?"
"I'm a little nervous."
"Will I do for coachman?"
"If you would, Captain?"
"Then that's settled. I'll go immediately and make arrangements;" which
he did.
"Papa," said Lucy to her father, "the captain will drive me to the
station. You'll be all right until we get back?"
"All right, yes; don't worry more about me. I'm getting strong faster
than I ever did before. See."
He paced back and forth with considerable vim in his movements. "Why,"
he continued, stopping in front of Lucy and kissing her gently on the
cheek, "I feel better right now than I have for a long time--better
inside, you know."
Lucy did not understand exactly what he meant by the "inside," but she
did not puzzle her head about it. She was happy to know that her father
was so well and that Chester was speeding to her. The day promised to be
fair, and the drive to the station would be delightful. She was looking
out of the window.
"Lucy," said her father, placing his hand on her shoulder, "you need not
tell Captain Brown the little secrets you have learned; and I think your
Uncle Gilbert need not know any more than he does. It is just as well
for all concerned that these things remain to outward appearances just
as they have in the past."
"All right, papa."
"We--Chester and you and I will know and understand and be happy. What
else matters?"
"What, indeed."
"Now, there's the captain already. He's early; but perhaps he intends
driving you about a bit first."
That was just it. The morning air was so invigorating, Captain Brown
explained, that it was a pity not to feel it against one's face. He knew
of a number of very pretty drives, round-about ways, to the station, and
the fields were delightfully green just then.
In a short time away they rattled down the graveled road, the father
waving after them. It was a good thing, said Lucy, that strong hands had
the reins, for the horse was full of life. They sped over the smooth,
hedge-bordered roads, winding about fields and gardens until they
arrived at Calderstone Park. Here the captain pointed out the Calder
Stones, ruins of an ancient Druid place of worship or sacrifice. Then
they drove leisurely through Sefton Park, thence townward to the
station.
They had a few moments to wait, during which the driver stroked the
horse's nose, talking to him all the while not to be afraid of the noisy
cars. The whistle's shrill pipe sounded and the train rolled in. The
captain stood by his horse, while Lucy went to the platform, and met
Chester as he leaped from the car.
"Oh, ho," said the captain to his horse, when he saw the meeting. A
partial explanation was given him of the "certain young man" whom they
were to meet.
The captain held the carriage door open to them like a true coachman.
"Take the back seat, please," he commanded, after the introduction; "in
these vehicles, the driver sits in front."
The captain drove straight home, so in a very-short time they were set
down at the steps.
"Go right in," he said. "I'll take the horse back, and be with you
shortly."
The housekeeper met them in the hall, took wraps and hats, and directed
them upstairs where the "gentleman" was waiting. Lucy had had no
opportunity to tell Chester the secret about herself, so she would have
to let his father do so. They walked quietly to the father's room and
opened the door softly. He appeared to be sleeping in his chair, so they
tip-toed into another room.
"Is he better?" asked Chester.
"Nearly well again." They did not seat themselves, but stood by the
table. She came close to him, smiling up into his face and said,
"_Everything's_ all right, Chester."
"Yes, of course," he replied. "You are looking so rosy and well, I
forget you are an invalid."
"Don't think of it. I'm going to live a long, long time, Chester--with
you. Listen, dear, and don't look so worried. Things have changed again.
I don't need to break good news gently, so I may tell you now, papa--I
mean, your father, has been telling me something I never dreamed
of--Chester, listen. I'm not your father's child--only by
adoption--you're not my brother, only of course in the brotherhood of
the faith."
"Lucy, what are you saying?"
"I am telling you the truth--as I was told it. He adopted me as a
baby--I was an orphan--I am not your sister. Chester--I--"
He seized her hands, and held her at arms length, while his eyes seemed
to devour her. She could not repress the tears, and when he saw them, he
drew her close and kissed her.
"Lucy, not my sister, but my sweetheart again, my little wife to
be--what--does it all mean?"
There came a loud knock at the door, and the father entered without
being bidden. He walked firmly up to them, placed a hand on each
shoulder, and said:
"My son, I have to ask your forgiveness again. I intended to tell you
about Lucy as soon as you learned the truth about yourself, but I was
hindered. Don't think, my boy, that I would purposely cause you
suffering. What Lucy has told you is true, and I am so glad that the
misunderstanding and the mixups no longer exist between us."
The three now found seats and talked over the new situation in which
they found themselves, not forgetting the part Uncle Gilbert had taken
in recent events, until the strenuous voice of Captain Brown had to
supplement the housekeeper's bell, before the three would come down for
luncheon.
Those were golden days to Chester, Lucy, and the Rev. Thomas Strong. Out
of restless uncertainty, doubts, fears, and heart-aching experiences
they now had come to a period of peaceful certainty. Out of straits they
had come to a quiet sun-kissed harbor.
Captain Brown looked on all this happiness approvingly. His shore leave
was going splendidly. The neighbor's horse and carriage were often
brought into requisition, and the father would not be denied his share
of these drives. The captain's own boat, long since unused, was put into
commission, and with the captain at the tiller the whole family sailed
over the placid Mersy. The moon grew rounder, and as the evenings were
warm, the boat often lingered in the moonlight. Then songs were sung,
Chester and Lucy singing some which the father recognized as "Mormon,"
but which the captain knew only as beautiful and full of sweet spirit.
During those days when the visitors remained with the captain rather
more for his own sake than for any other reason, there was just one
little cloud in Chester's and Lucy's sunlight. That was that the father
took no abiding interest in the religion which now meant so much to
them. Once or twice the subject had been carefully broached by Chester,
but each time the father had not responded. He made no objections. The
young man sometimes thought there would be more hope if he did. However,
he and Lucy were not discouraged. They reasoned, with justice, that it
was no easy matter to change a life-long habit of belief and practice.
They comforted each other by the hope that all would be well in the end.
Had they not already ample evidence of God's providence shaping all
things right.
It was plainly to be seen, however, that the father took great comfort
in his new-found son; and well any father might, for Chester was a
strong, open-spirited, clean young man. Father and son strolled out
together, Lucy sometimes peeping at them from behind the curtain, but
denying herself of their company. Chester, by his father's request, told
him more of his life's story. The father wished to live as much as could
be by word-telling the years he had missed in the life of his son; and
the father, for his part, acquainted Chester with his more recent years.
"I married quite late in life," said the father, "a sweet girl who did
much for me. That we had no children was a great disappointment to both
of us, and when we saw that very likely we never would have any of our
own, we found and adopted Lucy. She would never have known the truth
about that had not you come and compelled me to tell it. But it's all
right now, and the Lord has been kinder to me than I deserve."
"'God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform,'"
quoted Chester.
"'He plants his footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm,'"
mused the father.
At another time the father said to Chester:
"My boy, it would please me if you would take my name. You need not
discard the one you already have, but add mine to it--yours by all
that's right."
"Yes, father."
"I have no great fortune, but I have saved a little; and when I am gone,
it will be yours and Lucy's--I'll hear no objections to that--for can't
you see, all that I can possibly do for you will only in part pay for
the wrong I have done. You say you have no definite plans for the
future. Then you will come with us to Kansas City, where I expect to
take up again my labors in the ministry, at least for a time."
Lucy came upon them at this point.
"Chester has promised to take my name," explained the father.
"That will make it unnecessary for you to change yours," said Chester,
as he put his arm around her.
A week passed as rapidly as such golden days do. Chester sent the latest
news to Elder Malby. Uncle Gilbert, always impatient, wrote from Kildare
Villa, asking when they were "coming home." Captain Brown had made a
number of trips of inspection to the docks to see how the loading of his
ship was progressing.
At the captain's invitation they all visited the vessel one afternoon.
"Why," exclaimed Lucy in surprise, when she saw the steamer at the dock,
"you have a regular ocean liner here. I thought freight boats were small
concerns."
"Small! well, now, you know better. Come aboard."
He led the way on deck, and then below.
"This ship is somewhat old," explained Captain Brown, "but she is still
staunch and seaworthy. As you see, she has once been a passenger boat,
and in fact, she still carries passengers--when we can find some who
would rather spend twelve days in comfort than be rushed across in six
or seven by the latest greyhounds. I say, when we can find such sensible
people," repeated the captain, as he looked curiously at his guests.
The dining room was spacious, the berths of the large, roomy kind which
the grasp for economy and capacity had not yet cut down.
"This is a nicer state room than I had coming over," declared Lucy. "Why
can't we return with Captain Brown?"
"I should be delighted," said the captain. "The booking offices are on
Water Street."
"When do you sail?" asked the father.
"In three days, I believe we shall be ready."
"And your port?"
"New York."
"Your cargo?"
"Mixed."
"Any passengers?"
"A dozen or so--plenty of room, you see. We'll make you comfortable,
more so than on a crowded liner. Think about it, Mr. Strong."
"We shall," said Lucy and her father in unison.