CHAPTER XIX.
And thus it came about that the party of three visiting with Captain Andrew Brown, decided to sail with him to New York. A few more days on the water was of no consequence, except as Chester said to Lucy, to enjoy a little longer the after-seasickness period of the voyage. As for Chester himself, he was very pleased with the proposition.
A visit to the company's office in Water Street completed the arrangement. "Yes," said the agent, "we can take care of you. There will be a very small list of passengers, which gives you all the more room. Besides, it's worth while to cross with Captain Brown."
As the boat did not lay up to the Landing Stage, but put directly to sea from the dock, the passengers were stowed safely away into their comfortable quarters the evening before sailing. When they awoke next morning, they were well out into the Irish sea, the Welsh hills slowly disappearing at the left. Chester was the first on deck. He tipped his cap to Captain Brown on the bridge as they exchanged their morning greetings. The day was bright and warm, the sea smooth. Chester stood looking at the vanishing hills, glancing now and then at the companionway, for Lucy. As he stood there, he thought of the time, only a few days since, when he had caught his first sight of those same green hills. What a lot had happened to him between those two points of time! A journey begun without distinct purpose had brought to him father and sweetheart. Outward bound he had been alone, empty and void in his life; and now he was going home with heart full of love and life rich with noble purpose.
Chester's father appeared before Lucy. The son met him and took his arm as they paced the deck slowly. The father declared to Chester that he was feeling fine; and, in fact, he looked remarkably well.
"I am sorry we did not hear from Gilbert before we sailed," said the father; "but I suppose the fault was ours in not writing to him sooner."
"He barely had time to get the letter," said Chester.
"I suppose so. But it doesn't matter. We should only have just stopped off at Kildare Villa to say goodbye, any way."
"It's a pity we don't stop at Queenstown. He could have come out on the tender."
"Perhaps he would, and then perhaps he wouldn't. It would depend on just how he felt—halloo, Lucy—you up already?"
"I couldn't lay abed longer this beautiful morning," exclaimed Lucy as she came up to them. "Isn't this glorious! Is Wales below the sea yet?"
"No; there's a tip left. See, there, just above the water."
"Goodbye, dear old Europe," said Lucy, as she waved her handkerchief. "I've always loved you—I love you now more than ever."
Father and son looked and smiled knowingly at her. Then they all went down to breakfast.
Just about that same time of day, Thomas Strong's delayed letter reached his brother in Cork. Uncle Gilbert read the letter while he ate his breakfast, and Aunt Sarah wondered what could be so disturbing in its contents; for he would not finish his meal.
"What is it, Gilbert?" she asked.
"Thomas, Lucy, and that young fellow, Chester Lawrence are going to—yes, have already sailed from Liverpool with Captain Brown."
"And they're not coming to see us before they leave?"
"Didn't I say, they're already on the water—or should be—off to New York with Captain Brown—and he doesn't touch at Queenstown, and in that boat—"
Uncle Gilbert wiped his forehead.
"I'm sorry that they did not call," commented Aunt Sarah complacently; "but I suppose they were in a hurry, and Captain Brown will take care of them."
"In a hurry! No. Captain Brown—" but the remark was lost to his wife. He cut short his eating, hurried to town, and, in faint hopes that it might be in time, sent a telegram to his brother in Liverpool which read:
"Don't sail with Captain Brown. Will explain later."
This telegram was delivered to Captain Brown's housekeeper, who sent it to the steamship company's office, where it was safely pigeon-holed.
The morning passed at Kildare Villa. The telegram brought no reply. In foolish desperation, hoping against hope, Uncle Gilbert took the first fast train northward, crossed by mail steamer to Holyhead, thence on to Liverpool, where he arrived too late. The boat had sailed. He went to the steamship company's office in Water Street, and passed, without asking leave, into the manager's office. That official was alone, which was to Gilbert Strong's purpose.
"Why did you permit my brother to sail with Captain Brown?" asked he abruptly.
"My dear Mr. Strong," said the manager, "calm yourself. I do not understand."
"Yes, you do. You know as well as I do that his ship is—is not in the best condition. You ought not to have allowed passengers at all."
"Sit down, Mr. Strong. The boat is good for many a trip yet, though it is true, as you know, that she is to go into dry dock for overhauling on her return. Has your brother sailed on her?"
"He has, my brother, his daughter and her young man. I suppose there were other passengers also?"
"Yes; a few—perhaps twenty-five all told. Don't worry; Captain Brown will bring them safely through."
"Yes," said Gilbert Strong, as he left the office, "yes, if the Lord will give him a show—but—"
He could say no more, for did he not know full well that at a meeting of company directors at which he had been present, it had been decided to try one more trip with Captain Brown in command, and the fact that the boat was not in good condition was to be kept as much as possible from the captain. A little tinkering below and a judicious coat of paint above would do much to help the appearance of matters, one of the smiling directors had said. And so—well, he would try not to worry. Of course, everything would be well. Such things were done right along, with only occasionally a disaster or loss—fully covered by the insurance.
But for all his efforts at self assurance, when he went home to Aunt Sarah he was not in the most easy frame of mind.
The little company under Captain Brown's care was having a delightful time. The weather was so pleasant that there was very little sickness. Chester again escaped and even his father and Lucy were indisposed for a day or two only. After that the long sunny days and much of the starry nights were spent on deck. The members of the company soon became well acquainted. Captain Brown called them his "happy family."
And now Chester and Lucy had opportunity to get near to each other in heart and mind. With steamer chairs close together up on the promenade deck where there usually were none but themselves, they would sit for hours, talking and looking out over the sea. "Shady bowers 'mid trees and flowers" may be ideal places for lovers; but a quiet protected corner of a big ship which plows majestically through a changeless, yet ever-changing sea, has also its charms and advantages.
On the fourth day out. The water was smooth, the day so warm that the shade was acceptable. Chester and Lucy had been up on the bridge with Captain Brown, who had told them stories of the sea, and had showed them pictures of his wife and baby, both safe in the "Port of Forever," he had said. All this had had its effect on the two young people, and so when they went down to escape the glare of the sun on the exposed bridge, they sought a shady corner amid-ships. When they found chairs, Chester always saw that she was comfortable, for though well as she appeared, she was never free from the danger of a troublesome heart. The light shawl which she usually wore on deck, hung loosely from her shoulders across her lap, providing a cover behind which two hands could clasp. They sat for some time that afternoon, in silence, then Lucy asked abruptly:
"Chester, you haven't told me much about that girl out West. You liked her very much, didn't, you?"
"Yes," he admitted, after a pause. "I think I can truthfully say I did; but this further I can say, that my liking for her was only a sort of introduction to the stronger, more matured love which was to follow,—my love for you. I think I have told you before that you bear a close resemblence to her; and it occurs to me now that therein is another of God's wonderful providences."
"How is that?"
"Had you not looked like her I would not have been attracted to you, and very likely, would have missed you and my father, and all this."
"I'm glad your experience has been turned to such good account. Now, I for example, never had a beau until you came."
"What?"
"Oh, don't feign surprise. You know, I'm no beauty, and I never was popular with the boys. Someone once told me it was because I was too religious. What do you think of that?"
"Too religious! Nonsense. The one thing above another, if there is such, that I like about you is that your beauty of heart and soul corresponds to your beauty of face—No; don't contradict. You have the highest type of beauty—"
"Beauty is in the eyes that see," she interrupted.
"Certainly; and in the heart that understands. As I said, the highest type of beauty is where the inner and the outer are harmoniously combined. I think that is another application of the truth that the spiritual and the mortal, or 'element' as the revelation calls it, must be eternally connected to insure a perfect being. Somehow, I always sympathize with one whose beautiful spirit is tabernacled in a plain body. And yet, my pity is a hundred times more profound for one whom God has given a beautiful face and form, but whose heart and soul have been made ugly by sin—but there, if I don't look out, I'll be preaching."
"Well, your congregation likes to hear you preach."
Space will not permit the recording of the number of times emphasis was given to various expressions in this conversation by the hand pressure under the shawl.
"Now," continued he, "I can't conceive of your not having any admirers."
"I didn't say admirers—I said beaux."
"Well, I suppose there is a difference," he laughed.
"Of course, I have known a good many young men in my time, but those matrimonially inclined usually passed by on the other side."
"Perhaps they knew I was coming on this side."
"Perhaps—There's papa. He looks lonesome. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves to hide from him as we did yesterday."
"I agree; but he'll find us now."
Lucy drew the father's attention, and he found a chair near them.
"Isn't the sea beautiful," said Lucy, by way of beginning the conversation properly, now a third person was present. "And what a lot of water there is!" she continued. "What did Lincoln say about the common people? The Lord must like them, because he made so many of them. Well, the Lord must like water also, as He has made so much of it."
"Water is a very necessary element in the economy of nature," said the father. "Like the flow of blood in the human body, so is water to this world. As far as we know, wherever there is life there is water."
"And that reminds me," said Lucy eagerly, as if a new thought had come to her, "that water is also a sign of purity. Water is used, not only to purify the body, but as a symbol to wash away the sins of the soul. Paul, you remember, was commanded to 'arise, and be baptized, and wash away thy sins'." Lucy looked at Chester as if giving him a cue.
"In the economy of God," said Chester, "it seems necessary that we must pass through water from one world to another. In like manner, the gateway to the kingdom of heaven is through water. 'Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the Kingdom of God' is declared by the Savior himself."
Whether or not the father understood that this brief sermonizing was intended primarily for him, he did not show any resentment. He listened attentively, then added:
"Yes; water has always held an important place among nations. Cicero tells us that Thales the Milesian asserted God formed all things from water—Out in Utah, Chester," said the father, turning abruptly to the young man, "you have an illustration of what water can do in the way of making the desert to blossom."
"Yes; it is truly wonderful, what it has done out there," agreed Chester. Then being urged by both his father and Lucy, he told of the West and its development. He was adroitly led to talk of Piney Ridge Cottage and the people who lived there, their home and community life, their trials, their hopes, their ideals. Ere he was aware, Chester was again in the canyons, and crags and mountain peaks, whose wildness was akin to the wildness of the ocean. Then when his story was told, Lucy said:
"I know where I could get well."
"Where?" asked Chester.
"At Piney Ridge Cottage."
Chester neither agreed nor denied. Just then a steamer came into sight, eastward bound. It proved to be an "ocean grayhound," and Captain Brown coming up, let them look at it through his glass.
"She's going some," remarked the captain; "but I'll warrant the passengers are not riding as easy as we."
"Somehow," said the father, "a passing steamer always brings to me profound thoughts. Now, there, for example, is a spot on the vast expanse of water. It is but a speck, yet within it is a little world, teeming with life. The ship comes into our view, then passes away. Again, the ship is just a part of a great machine—I use this figure for want of a better one. Every individual on the ship bears a certain relationship to the vessel; the steamer is a part of this world; this world is a cog in the machinery of the solar system; the solar system is but a small group of worlds, which is a part of and depends on, something as much vaster as the world is to this ship. This men call the Universe; but all questions of what or where or when pertaining to this universe are unanswerable. We are lost—we know nothing about it—it is beyond our finite minds."
Captain Brown stood listening to this exposition. His eyes were on the speaker, then on the passing steamer, then on the speaker again.
"Mr. Strong," said he, "at the last church service I attended in Liverpool, the minister was trying to explain what God is,—and just that which you have said is beyond us, that vast, unknown, unknowable something he called God."
"Oh," exclaimed Lucy, involuntarily.
"I'll admit the definition is not very plain," continued the captain. "We get no sense of nearness from it. I would not know how to pray to or worship such a God; but what are we to do? I have never heard anything more satisfactory, except—well, only when I read my Bible."
"Why not take the plain statement of the Bible, then?" suggested Chester.
"I try to, but my thinking of these things is not clear, because of the interpretation the preachers put upon them—excuse the statement, Mr. Strong; but perhaps you are an exception. I have never heard you preach."
The minister smiled good-naturedly. Then he said, "Chester here, is quite a preacher himself. Ask his opinion on the matter."
"I shall be happy to listen to him. However, I have an errand just now. Will you go with me?" this to Chester.
Chester, annoyed for a moment at this unexpected turn, arose and followed the captain into his quarters.
"Sit down," said the captain. "I was glad Mr. Strong gave me an opportunity to get you away, for I have a matter I wish to speak to you about, a matter which I think best to keep from both Mr. Strong and Lucy—but which you ought to know."
"Yes."
The officer seated himself near his table on which were outspread charts and maps. About the table hung a framed picture of the captain's wife and child, a miniature of which he carried in his breast pocket.
"In the first place," began Captain Brown, "I want you to keep this which I tell you secret until I deem it wise to be published. I can trust you for that?"
"Certainly."
Always in the company of the passengers, Captain Brown's bearing was one of assurance. He smiled readily. But now his face was serious, and Chester saw lines of care and anxiety in it.
"I am sorry that I ever suggested to you and your friends—and my dear friends they are too," continued the captain, "that you take this voyage with me, for if anything should happen, I should never forgive myself. However, there is no occasion for serious alarm—yet."
"What is the matter, captain?"
"I have been deceived regarding the condition of this ship. I was made to understand that she was perfectly sea-worthy—this is my first trip with her—but I now learn that the boilers are in a bad state and the pumps are hardly in a working condition. There is—already a small leak where it is nearly impossible to be reached. We are holding our own very well, and we can jog along in this way for some time, so there is no immediate danger."
Chester experienced a sinking at the heart. From the many questions which thronged into his mind, he put this:
"When might there be danger?"
"If the leak gets bad and the pumps can not handle it. Then a rough sea is to be dreaded."
"What can we do?"
"At present, nothing but keep cool. You are the only one of the passengers that knows anything about this, and I am telling you because I can trust you to be wise and brave, if necessary. If things do not improve, we shall soon be getting our boats in shape. We shall do this as quietly as possible, but someone might see and ask questions. We shall depend on you—and I'll promise to keep you posted on the ship's true condition."
"Thank you, sir."
"And now," said the captain as his face resumed its cheerful expression, "I must make a trip below. When you see me on the bridge again, come up and make that explanation which Mr. Strong said you were able to do. I shall be mighty glad to listen to you."
Chester protested, but the captain would not hear it. "I'll be up in the course of half an hour," said the seaman. "Promise me you'll come?"
"Of course, if you really wish it?"
"I was never more earnest in my life. My boy, let me tell you something'. I have listened at times to your conversation on religious themes—you and Lucy have talked when I could not help hearing—and I want to hear more—I believe you have a message for me."
There was a smile on the captain's face as he hurried away. And Chester's heart also arose and was comforted, as he lingered for a few moments on the deck and then joined Lucy and his father.