CHAPTER XVIII.
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.