CHAPTER XVI.
Chester got away from Lucy and Uncle Gilbert that morning, without betraying his father's secret, which had now also become his own. If his father had kept the secret so long, it was evidently for a purpose; he would try not to be the first to reveal it. He kissed Lucy somewhat hurriedly, she thought, as he left.
The sooner he got away the fewer of his strange actions he would have to explain. He did not look back when he walked away for fear that Lucy would be watching him from window or door.
He went back to his own lodgings rather more by instinct than by thought. He slipped into his room, looked aimlessly about, then went out again. He must be alone, yet not confined within walls. The park was not far away, but he walked by it also, on, on. This London is limitless, he thought. One could never escape it by walking. He met other men some hurrying as if stern duty called, others sauntering as if they had no purpose in life but quiet contemplation. He met women, and if he could have read through their weary eyes their life's story, he would not perhaps, have thought his own was the most cruel. A little boy was gathering dust from the pavement, and Chester was reminded of that other little fellow's structure which the carriage wheels had demolished. Well, he was under the wheel of fate himself. He had heard of this wheel, but never had he been under it until now!
Chester found himself a street or two from the mission office. He would call and perhaps have a talk with Elder Malby. Why had he not thought of that sooner? He quickened his steps, and in a few minutes he was ringing the bell. He heard it tingle within, but no one responded. He rang again, and this time steps were heard coming up from the basement. The housekeeper opened the door.
"Good morning," she greeted him with a smile.
"Good morning, is Elder Malby in?"
"No; none of the elders are in. They are out tracting, I think—but won't you come in?"
"No, thank you, I wanted to see Elder Malby."
"Well, he might be back at any time—come in and rest. You look tired."
"Well—I believe I will."
He followed the motherly housekeeper into the office parlor, where she bade him be seated. She excused herself as her work could not be neglected—Would he be interested in the London papers, or the latest Deseret News. She pointed to the table where these papers lay, then went about her work.
Chester looked listlessly at the papers, but did not attempt to read. Presently, the housekeeper came back.
"I'm having a bite to eat down in the dining room. Come and keep me company. The Elders don't eat till later, but I must have something in the middle of the day."
Chester went with her into the cool, restful room below, and partook with her of the simple meal. Not having had breakfast, he ate with relish. Besides, there was a spirit of peace about the place. His aching heart found some comfort in the talk of the good woman.
Shortly afterwards, Elder Malby arrived, and he saw in a moment that something was the matter with his young friend.
"How are the folks," he asked, "Lucy and her father?"
"He is not well," Chester replied.
"That's too bad. And you are worried?"
"Yes; but not altogether over that. There is something else, Brother Malby. I'll have to tell you about it. Will we be uninterrupted here?"
"Come with me," said the elder and he took him into his own room up a flight of stairs. "Now, then, what can I do to help you?"
"You will pardon me, I know; but somehow, I was led to tell you my story on ship-board, and you're the only one I can talk to now." Then Chester told the elder what he had learned. When he had finished, the elder's face was very grave.
"What ought I to do?" asked Chester; "what can I do?"
The other shook his head. "This is a strange story," he said; "but there can be no doubt that you are his son. You look like him. I noticed it on ship-board, but of course said nothing about it. But you do look like him."
"Do I?"
"Yes; but why he encouraged you to make love to your sister—that is beyond me—I—I don't know what to say."
"Oh, what can I do?"
There was a pause. Then the elder as if weighing well every word, said:
"My boy, you can pray."
"No; I can't even do that. I haven't said my prayers since this thing came to me. What can I pray about? What can I ask of God?"
"Listen. It is easy to pray when everything is going along nicely, and we are getting everything we ask for; but when we seem to be up against hard fate; when despair is in our hearts and the Lord appears to have deserted us, then it is not so easy; but then is when we need most to pray."
"Yes, yes, brother, true enough; but what's the use?"
"Look here, once before, in your life, you felt as you do now; and you told me yourself that not until you said both in your heart and to God 'Thy will be done' did you get peace. Try it again, brother. There is no darkness but the Light of Christ can penetrate, there is no seeming evil but the Lord can turn to your good. What did Job say of the Lord?"
"I don't know."
"'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' And you are not yet as Job. He lost everything. You have gained a father and a sister. That, certainly, is something."
"Yes, it is; and yet in the finding of these two, I have lost—well—you know—"
"Yes; I know; but the Lord can even make that right. Trust Him, trust Him, always and in everything. That's my motto for life. I can not get along without it."
"Thank you so very much."
They talked for some time, then they went out for a walk.
"But you haven't time to spend on me like this," remonstrated Chester.
"I am here to do all the good I can, and why should my services not be given to those of the faith as well as to those who have no use for me nor my message? Come along; I want to tell you of another letter which I received from home,—yes, the twin calves are doing fine."
Chester smiled, which was just what his companion wanted. "You remain here today," continued the elder. "The boys will be in after a while, and then we shall have dinner. After that, if you are still thinking too much of your own affairs, we'll take you out on the street and let you preach to the crowd."
"That might help," admitted Chester.
"Help! It's the surest kind of cure."
Chester remained with the elders during the afternoon and evening, even going out with them on the street. He was not called on to preach, however, though he would have attempted it had he been asked.
Chester slept better that night. He felt so sure of himself next morning that he could call on Lucy, and do the right thing. He did not forget or neglect his prayers any more, and he was well on the way of saying again, "Thy will be done," in the right spirit.
Uncle Gilbert met Chester at the door, not very graciously, however. He replied to Chester's inquiries sharply:
"My brother is quite ill, brought about, I have no doubt, by your unwise actions of yesterday morning. What was the matter with you? I don't understand you."
Chester did not attempt any explanation or defense.
"And Lucy, too, was quite ill yesterday—no; she is not up yet—no; I don't think you had better come in. I shall not permit you to see my brother again until he is better."
"I'm very sorry," said Chester. "I must see Lucy, however, and so I'll call again after a while." He walked away. He did not blame Uncle Gilbert, who was no doubt doing the best he knew, although somewhat in the dark. He walked in the park for an hour and then came back.
Lucy met him at the gate. She was dressed as if for walking. Her face betrayed the disturbance in her soul, and Chester's heart went out in pity for her.
"Yes," she said simply, "I was going out to find you, I heard Uncle Gilbert send you away. Shall we walk in the park?"
"Yes; I am glad you came out. Is your father worse this morning?"
"I don't think he is worse. He is simply in the stage of his attacks when he can't talk. I'm sure he'll be all right in a day or two; but Uncle Gilbert don't understand."
"And you, Lucy—you must not worry."
"How can I help it? Something is the matter with you. Why do you act so strangely?"
They found the bench on which they were wont to rest, and seated themselves.
Chester could not deny that he had changed; yet how could he tell her the truth? She must know it, the sooner the better. It might be many days before her father could tell her, even if he were inclined to do so. The situation was unbearable. She must know, and he must tell her.
"Lucy," he said after a little struggle with his throat, "I have something to tell you,—something strange. Oh, no, nothing evil or bad, or anything like that."
He took her hands which were trembling.
"You must promise me that you will take this news quietly."
"Just as quietly as I can, Chester."
"Well, you know how excitement affects your heart, so I shall not tell you if you will not try to be calm."
"And now, of course, I can be indifferent, can I, even if you should say no more? Oh, Chester, what is it? The suspense is a thousand times harder than the truth. What have you got to tell me? What passed between you and papa last evening? Is it—have you ceased to love me?"
"No, no, Lucy, not that. I love you as much as ever, more than ever for something has been added to my first love—that of a love for a sister."
"Yes, Chester I know. When I was baptized—"
"No; you don't know. I don't mean that."
"What do you mean?"
Oh, it was so hard to go on. One truth must lead to another. If he told her he was her brother in the flesh as well as in the spirit, she would want to know how, why; and the explanation would involve her father. He had not thought of that quite so plainly. But he could not now stop. He must go on. He felt about for a way by which to approach the revelation gradually.
"You have never had a brother, have you?" he asked.
"No."
"Would you like to have one?"
"I've always wanted a brother."
"How would I do for one?"
She looked at him curiously, then the sober face relaxed and she smiled.
"Oh, you'd make a fine one."
"You wouldn't object."
"I should think not."
"But, now, what would you think if I was your real brother, if my name was Chester Strong?"
"I'd think you were just joking a little."
"But I'm not joking, Lucy; I am in earnest. Take a good look at me, here at this profile. Do I look like your father?"
She looked closely. "I believe you do," she said, still without a guess at the truth. "Your forehead slopes just like his, and your nose has the same bump on it. I never noticed that before."
"What might that mean, Lucy?"
"What might what mean?"
"That I look like your father."
He had turned his face to her now, but she still gazed at him, as if the truth was just struggling for recognition. The smile vanished for an instant from her face, and then returned. She would not entertain the advance messenger.
"I don't object to your looking like my papa, for he's a mighty fine looking man."
"Lucy, you saw what your father and I were doing last night?"
"Yes."
"What did you think—what do you now think of us?"
"Again, Chester, I don't object to you and father spooning a bit. In fact, I think that's rather nice."
Chester laughed a little now, which loosened the tension considerably; but he returned to the attack:
"Lucy, what would you think if your father had a son who had been lost when a baby, and that now he should return to him as a grown man?"
"Well, I would think that would be jolly, as the English say."
"And that his son's name was Chester Lawrence?" he continued as if there had been no interruption.
Now the cog in Lucy's mental make-up caught firmly into the machinery that had been buzzing about her for some time.
"Are you my brother?" she asked.
"Yes; I am your brother."
"My real, live, long lost brother?"
"Yes."
"Now I see what you have been driving at all this time. You say you are my brother, that my father is your father. Now explain."
"That's not so easy, Lucy. I would much rather your father would do that. But I can tell you a little, for it's very little I know—and, Lucy, that little is not pleasant."
"But I must know." Her face was serious again. She was bracing herself bravely too.
"I was born outside the marriage relation, and your father was my father!"
That was plain enough—brutally plain. The girl turned to marble. Had he killed her?
"Go on," she whispered.
"No more now—some other time."
"Go on, Chester."
Chester told her in brief sentences the simple facts, and what had led to his discovery of the truth just the other day. It was this that had caused the change she had noticed in him.
"Lucy, I was not sure," he said, "so I went to your father last night and asked him pointedly, directly, and he said 'Yes.' That explains the situation you found us in. My heart went out to my father, Lucy; and his heart went out to his son."
"The son to which his heart has been reaching for many long years, Chester. Yes, I see it plainly.... You have told the truth ... you are my brother—you—"
She trembled, then fell into his arms; but she controlled herself again, and when he kissed her pale face and stroked her hair, she opened her eyes and looked steadily up into his face. Thus they remained for a time, heedless of the few passers-by who but looked at a not uncommon sight. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them Chester was struggling hard to keep back the tears.
To tell the truth, both of them cried a little about that time, and it did them good too. They got up, walked about on the grass for a time until they could look more unmovedly at their changed standing to each other. Then they talked more freely, but things were truly so newly mixed that it was difficult to get them untangled. At last Lucy said she would have to go back to her father—our father, she corrected.
"And he knows, remember," said Chester to her. "I and you also know. We know too," he added, "that the Lord is above, and will take care of us all."
"Yes," said Lucy.
Then they went back. The father was still very ill. Chester did not try to see him, for Uncle Gilbert had not relented.
"I'm going to see Elder Malby this afternoon," said Chester. "This evening I shall call again. Meanwhile"—they were alone in the hall now—"you must keep up your courage and faith. I feel as though everything will yet turn out well."
He took her as usual in his arms, and she clung to him closer than she had ever done before.
"Chester," she said, "I can't yet feel that there is any difference in our relationship. You are yet my lover, are you not?"
"Yes, Lucy; and you are my sweetheart. Somehow, I am not condemned when I say it. What can it be—"
"Something that whispers peace to our hearts."
"The Comforter, Lucy, the Comforter from the Lord."