CHAPTER III.
On the morning of the fourth day out, Chester Lawrence stood watching the antics of a young man, who, coatless and hatless, and made brave by too many visits to the bar, was running up the rope ladders of the mast to a dangerous height. He climbed up to where the ladder met the one on the other side, down which he scrambled with the agility of a monkey. The ladies in the group on deck gasped in fright at his reckless daring. The fellow jumped to the deck from the rail, and made a sweeping bow to the spectators:
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "'tis nothing at all, I assure you. On shore I am a circus performer, an' I was just practicing a little. Have no fear. See—"
He was about to make a second exhibition when a ship's officer seized him, threatening to lock him up if he did not desist.
"O, certainly, if its against the rules," he replied meekly. His hat and coat were lying on a chair by some ladies. He put these on again, and then sat down and began talking to the one nearest him. Chester, who had followed the fellow's capers with some interest, gave a start when he saw that the lady with whom the man was trying to carry on a conversation was the minister's daughter. She was visibly annoyed, and looked about as if for help. Chester thought her eyes fell on him, and without hesitation he determined to assist her. He went up to them, and without appearing to see the girl, reached out his hand to the man, saying:
"Halloo Jack! Didn't know you were on board till I saw your capers just now. I want to talk to you a moment. Come along and have a drink first."
The fellow stared at Chester and was about to deny any acquaintanceship with him, when the insistent manner of the greeting changed his mind. He excused himself to the lady, arose and followed. Chester took his arm as they walked along.
"Which is your state-room?" asked Chester.
"It's 340; but what you want to know for? Aren't we going to have a drink?"
"Not just now, my man. You're going to your room, and to bed. You got up too early. Listen,"—as the sobering man began to resent the interference,—"there's an officer looking at us. He will do nothing if you will go along quietly with me, but if you make a scene I'll hand you over to him."
They found the man's room and he willingly went in and lay down. "Now," said Chester to him, "remain below until you're sober. And don't bother that young lady again—do you hear. Don't you do it."
Chester went on deck again, somewhat in wonder at his own conduct. He was not in the habit of interfering in other people's business, and never mixed with drunken affairs. But this surely was different. No man would have refused that appeal for help. Yes; he was sure she had pleaded with her eyes. Perhaps he ought to go back and receive her thanks, but he resisted that impulse. He walked to the extreme rear of the boat and stood looking at the broad white path which the ship was making in the green sea. He stood gazing for some time, then turned, and there sitting on a coil of rope was the girl who had been in his mind. She saw his confusion and smiled at it.
"I—I came to thank you," she said; "but I did not like to disturb your meditations, so I sat down to rest."
"The sea has used you up quite badly, hasn't it?"
"O no; I was dreadfully ill before I came aboard. This trip is to make me well, so papa says."
"I hope so." There was a pause, during which Chester found a seat on a bit of ship furniture. This girl's voice was like an echo from far-away Utah and Piney Ridge Cottage. And there was something about the shapely head now framed in wind-blown hair and the face itself that reminded him of someone else. Just how the resemblance came in he could not tell, but there it was. Perhaps, after all, it was just the look in her eyes and the spirit that accompanied her actions and words that moved him.
"Is that man a friend of yours?" she asked.
"You mean that drunken fool? No; I've never met him before."
"That was just a ruse then—that invitation to drink."
"I had to do something, and that came first to me."
"Then you didn't go and drink with him?"
"Why no, of course not. I took him to his berth, and told him to stay there."
"Do you think he will?"
"Yes; until he sobers up."
"Well, I don't like drunken men."
"Neither do I."
"We're agreed on one thing then, aren't we?"
Chester laughed with her. Elder Malby was pacing the deck, awaiting the call for breakfast; but Chester did not join him.
"The man bothered me yesterday," she said, "and again last night. He wished to get acquainted, he claimed."
"You don't know him, then?"
"I've never seen him before. Papa has had to remain very quiet, and I haven't been around much. That fellow made me afraid."
"Well, he'll not bother you again. If he does, let me know."
"Thank you very much—"
The call for breakfast came to them faintly, then grew louder as the beaten gong came up from below to the deck.
"I must get papa and take him to breakfast. Let me thank you again, and good morning."
He might have accompanied her down, but he just stood there watching her. Elder Malby came up, and the two went down together.
The minister and his daughter got into their places more actively that morning. Chester wished heartily that his seat was not opposite. She was at too close range to allow of any careful observation. He could not very well help looking across the table, neither could she, although she had her father to talk to. Chester was really glad when breakfast was over that morning, and they all filed up to the sun-lit deck again.
Had Chester been a smoker, he would no doubt have taken consolation in a pipe with the majority of the men; but as it was, he withdrew as much as possible from others that he might think matters over and get to a proper footing; for truth to tell, he was in danger of falling in love again, and that, he said to himself, would never do. He avoided even Elder Malby that morning; but to do so he had to go down to the main deck forward out to the prow. He went to the extreme point, where from behind the closed railing he could stand as a look-out into the eastern sea. Gently and slowly the vessel rose and fell as it plowed through the long, gleaming undulations.
"What am I coming to," said Chester half-aloud as if the sea might hear and answer him. "Here I am running away from one heart entanglement only to go plump into another. She is not Julia, of course, but she has Julia's twin soul. A perfect stranger, an acquaintance of two days! The daughter of a minister, a minister of the world!" What was he thinking of? Who were they? He did not even know her name. She was not a well girl, that he could see. The roses in her cheeks were not altogether natural and her face was pale; but those red lips, and that smile when turned to him! Well, the voyage was half over. Another four or five days and they would be in Liverpool, where they would go their different ways forever. He must keep away from her that long, seeing there was danger. No more playing with the fire that burns so deep. And all this which he seemed to feel and fear, might be undreamed of by her and very likely was. A girl like that would not take seriously a "steamer friendship." She was only doing what all young people do on such trips, making pleasant acquaintances with whom to pass away the monotonous days. "Sure, sure," said he, as if to clinch the argument, but nevertheless, deep within his soul there was an undercurrent of protest against such final conclusions.
Chester tried to seek refuge in Elder Malby, but as he was not to be found, he opened up a conversation with the missionary for Scandinavia. The missionary was but a boy, it seemed to Chester. The going from home and the sea-sickness had had their effects, and the young fellow was glad to have some one to talk to. He came from Arizona, he told Chester; had lived on a ranch all his life; had never been twenty miles away from home before,—and now all this at once! It was "tough."
"But I'm feeling fine now," he said. "Do you know, I've had a peculiar experience. All the way across the United States from home, something seemed to say to me, 'You can't stand this. You'll go crazy. You'd better go back home.' Of course, I was terribly homesick, and I guess that was the trouble. The cowardly part of me was trying to scare the better part. But all the time I seemed to hear 'You'll go crazy' until once or twice I thought I would.
"Well, it was the same in New York, and the same when we came aboard. I didn't care much one way or other while sea-sick, but when I got over it, there was the same taunting voice. At last I got downright angry and said, 'All right, I'm going right on and fill my mission, and go crazy!' From that moment I have ceased to be bothered, and am now feeling fine."
"Good for you," said Chester. "You'll win out. I wish I was sure about myself." He went no further in explanation, however.
Ship board etiquette does not require formal introductions before extended conversations may be carried on. The New England school ma'am and the German professor were in a deep discussion ten minutes after they had met for the first time. Many on the ship were going especially "to do Europe," so there were themes for conversation in common.
As it happened, Chester was alone again that afternoon and he met the minister and his daughter on the promenade deck. They were taking their exercise moderately, pausing frequently to look at any trifling diversion. Chester tipped his cap at them as they passed. At the next meeting in the walk, the minister stopped and greeted the young man.
"I wish to thank you for your act of kindness to my daughter," he said. "She has told me about it."
"It was nothing, I assure you, sir," replied Chester. "I don't think the fellow will annoy her again."
"I hope not. On these ocean voyages one is thrown so closely into all kinds of company. We, of course, must suppose all our fellow-passengers are respectable people, until we find out otherwise—but let us sit down. Where are our chairs, Lucy?"
"They're on the other side, I believe, where we left them this morning."
"It's a little too windy there."
"I'll bring them around to you," said Chester. Lucy followed him, pointing out which of the chairs belonged to them.
"May I not carry one?" she asked.
"You do not appear strong enough to lift one."
Chester carried the two chairs around to the side of the sheltered deck, then found a vacant chair for himself which he placed with the other two.
"Thank you very much," said the minister, as they seated themselves. "The day is really fine, isn't it? After the sea-sickness, there is something glorious in a pleasant sea voyage. This is my third time across, but I don't remember just such a fine day as this. Are you a good sailor?" this to Chester.
"I've not missed a meal yet, if that's any indication."
"I envy you. I have often wished I could be on deck in a bit of real bad weather. We had a little blow the other day, I understand, when that poor fellow lost his life."
"Yes; I saw the accident," replied Chester; whereupon he had to relate the details to them.
"Well, such is life—and death," was the minister's only comment on the story.
The minister did most of the talking. Perhaps that was because he was used to it, having, as he told Chester, been a preacher for twenty-five years. The daughter commented briefly now and then, prompting his memory where it seemed to be weak. Chester listened with great interest to the man's account of former trips to Europe and his description of famous places. The speaker's voice was pleasant and well-modulated. His clean-cut face lighted up under the inspiration of some vivid description. Chester found himself drawn to the man nearly as much as he had been to the daughter.
"You're an American," announced the minister, turning to Chester.
"Yes."
"A western American, too."
"Right again; how can you tell?"
"Easily enough. How far west?"
"My home is in Chicago."
"Well, Lucy and I can beat you. We came from Kansas City. Ever been there?"
"I've passed through twice."
"Through the Union Depot only?" asked Lucy.
"You must have received a very unpleasant impression of our city."
"Well, happily I did get away from that depot. I took a ride on the cars out to Independence, and I saw a good part of the city besides. It's beautiful out towards Swope Park—"
"There's where we live," exclaimed the girl. "I think the park's just grand. I live in it nearly all summer."
At this point of the conversation, a party to windward, among whom were the two Catholic Fathers, lighted their pipes, and the smoke streamed like from so many chimneys into the faces of those sitting near. The minister looked sharply towards the puffing men, while Lucy tried to push the denser clouds away with her hands; but no notice was taken of such gentle remonstrances.
"I'll speak to them," suggested Chester.
"No; don't. It would only offend them," said the minister. "They think they are strictly within their rights, and it does not dawn on their nicotine poisoned wits that they are taking away other peoples' rights,—that of breathing the uncontaminated air. We'll just move our chairs a bit," which they did.
"You don't smoke, I take it," continued the clergyman, addressing Chester.
"No; I quit two years ago."
"Good for you. It's a vile habit, and I sometimes think the worst effect smoking has on people is that it dulls the nice gentlemanlyness of a man's character. Now, those men over there, even the Catholic Fathers, are, no doubt gentlemen in all respects but one; it's a pity that the tobacco habit should make the one exception."
Chester agreed in words, Lucy in looks.
"You say you have passed through Kansas City," continued the father. "How far west have you been?"
"To the Pacific Coast."
"Lucy and I should have made this trip westward, but the doctor said we must not cross the mountains, because of her heart. So an ocean voyage was advised."
"And I did want so much to see the Rockies," added the young woman. "I have always had a longing to see our own mountains as well as those of Switzerland. Next summer we'll take that western trip."
"I hope so, daughter."
"I assure you they are worth seeing," said Chester.
"No doubt about it. Lucy and I have planned it all for some day. Were you ever in Utah?"
"I lived for some time in Salt Lake City. Be sure to see that town on your trip."
The minister looked somewhat queerly at Chester for a moment. Then his gaze swept out to the water again as if a momentary disturbing thought was gotten rid of. Lucy was interested.
"Tell us about Salt Lake City, and, and the Mormons,'" pleaded she.
"Never mind the 'Mormons,' Lucy," admonished her father.
"It's difficult to speak of Utah and Salt Lake without mentioning the 'Mormons,'" added Chester.
"Then let's talk of something else, something more pleasant."
Evidently this minister was like all others, Chester concluded; sane and intelligent on all subjects but one,—the "Mormons." Well, he would set himself right before these two people, and do it now.
"I can say," said Chester, "that my experience among the 'Mormon' people has been among the most pleasant of my life. In fact, I don't know where I can go to find a more honest, God-fearing, virtuous people. I—"
"Young man," interrupted the clergyman, looking keenly at him, "are you a 'Mormon'?"
"Yes, sir; I have that honor."
Lucy gave a cry, whether of alarm or gladness, the young man could not then tell. The minister arose slowly. "Lucy," he said, "let us walk a little more," and without another word the two resumed their promenade.
But in Lucy's face there appeared concern. The tears, glittering in her eyes did not altogether hide the reassuring glance which she turned about to give Chester as he sat alone by the vacated chairs.