Story of Chester Lawrence

CHAPTER XV.

Lucy gained in strength so rapid­ly that with­in a week it was thought safe to let her be bap­tized. Her fa­ther, Un­cle Gilbert, Chester, the house­keep­er at head­quar­ters and one oth­er sis­ter were present at the Baths. El­der Mal­by per­formed the or­di­nance. Three oth­ers were al­so bap­tized at the same time.

Un­cle Gilbert was very cu­ri­ous as al­so a lit­tle ner­vous at what he called the “dip­ping.” He couldn't see why the cer­emo­ny re­quired a whole swim­ming pool when a few drops sprin­kled on the fore­head, had, as long as he had any rec­ol­lec­tion, been suf­fi­cient. The fa­ther wit­nessed the or­di­nance un­moved. Lucy went through the or­deal brave­ly, and when she came out from the dress­ing room where the sis­ters had helped her, he kissed her placid­ly on the fore­head.

The par­ty took a cab to the mis­sion head­quar­ters, where a sim­ple ser­vice was held of singing and prayer, El­der Mal­by mak­ing a few re­marks on the mean­ing and pur­pose of the or­di­nance of bap­tism. The new­ly bap­tized were then con­firmed mem­bers of the Church of Je­sus Christ of Lat­ter-​day Saints. Then the house­keep­er in­vit­ed them all down to the din­ing room, and again there were a few sim­ple spe­cial fea­tures in cel­ebra­tion of the hap­py oc­ca­sion.

And it was a hap­py time in the one on­ly way which comes from du­ty done. A sweet, qui­et peace abode in ev­ery heart. Was not the Heav­en­ly Fa­ther well pleased with these as He had been when the Son had done like­wise. And the Holy Ghost, the Com­forter from heav­en rest­ed up­on them soft­ly as a dove,--that was the se­cret of their supreme joy.

As Lucy had pre­dict­ed, Un­cle Gilbert's cu­rios­ity brought him to Chester for more in­for­ma­tion re­gard­ing Utah and the “Mor­mons.” The very next day af­ter the bap­tism, Un­cle Gilbert met Chester be­fore he en­tered the house. They greet­ed each oth­er pleas­ant­ly, and then Chester in­quired about Lucy, and how she was feel­ing.

“Lucy seems to be all right,” was the re­ply, “though her fa­ther isn't so well this morn­ing. He had a bad night but is sleep­ing now. That's why I met you here, so that he might not be dis­turbed by the bell.”

“I'm sor­ry,” said Chester. “These at­tacks seem to be com­ing fre­quent­ly.”

“My broth­er has not been well for years. For a long time he has had to fight hard with him­self and his nerves. Some­times they get the best of him for a time, and, of course, as he gets old­er, he has less strength. I wish we could get him to Kil­dare Vil­la. He would be him­self again down there.”

“We were to have gone in a day or two, were we not?”

“Yes; but he can't leave yet--Do you want to see Lucy?”

“Just for a few mo­ments; she'll be busy with her fa­ther.”

Un­cle Gilbert went in the house, con­sid­er­ate­ly send­ing her out alone. She was ra­di­ant­ly beau­ti­ful to Chester that morn­ing in her soft white dress, fluffy hair, and glow­ing eyes; but he on­ly looked his love for her, and said:

“Good morn­ing, _Sis­ter_ Strong.”

“Good morn­ing, _Broth­er_ Lawrence,” she re­spond­ed.

“How are you feel­ing?”

“I am feel­ing fine. But poor pa­pa--”

“Yes; Un­cle Gilbert told me.”

“We'll have to re­main here un­til he gets over the at­tack. Un­cle is anx­ious to get home, and I must ad­mit I'd rather be at Kil­dare Vil­la than here.”

Then Un­cle Gilbert came out with hat and cane. He was go­ing for a walk with Chester, he said, for it would be wis­er not to dis­turb the sleep­er. He ex­plained to Lucy that her fa­ther was get­ting a much need­ed rest, and that she was to see to it that he was not dis­turbed. Chester would “keep” with his Un­cle Gilbert for a few hours.

The morn­ing was fair, so the two men struck out for Hyde Park. They walked across the big stretch­es of grass, then rest­ed on a seat by the Ser­pen­tine. As yet, not many peo­ple were about, and the Lon­don hum had not risen to its high­est pitch.

Un­cle Gilbert want­ed to know about Utah, and Chester en­tered in­to a de­tailed de­scrip­tion of the state and her peo­ple.

“I have, of course, heard of the Mor­mon peo­ple; but I will ad­mit my ideas are some­what vague. My broth­er, as a preach­er, must of course, have come in con­tact with all sorts of re­li­gious pro­fes­sions. He seems to know con­sid­er­able about Mor­monism. Where did he learn that?”

Chester ex­plained what part Lucy had played in this.

“Well, he agrees very much with her be­lief, for I have heard con­ver­sa­tions which lead me to that con­clu­sion. Of course, all that is their busi­ness, not mine par­tic­ular­ly. Let's walk out in the mid­dle of the park where we can make be­lieve we are not in Lon­don, but out in the beau­ti­ful green coun­try which God has made.”

The grass be­ing dry, they could sit down on it to rest.

“As you are, I pre­sume, to be­come a mem­ber of the fam­ily some day,” said Un­cle Gilbert, "I am go­ing to tell you some­thing about my broth­er. It is not a pleas­ant sub­ject, but I have con­clud­ed that you can be told. It is a fam­ily se­cret, you must un­der­stand, and must be treat­ed as such. It is on­ly be­cause I be­lieve your knowl­edge of the truth may help my broth­er that I am telling you this.

Chester thanked him for his con­fi­dence. He would be glad to help in any way he could.

“Well, the sto­ry is this: My broth­er in his younger days be­fore he was mar­ried, had an un­for­tu­nate ex­pe­ri­ence with a young wom­an. There was a child as the re­sult. The wom­an, as near­ly as I can make out, mar­ried well enough, and lat­er, joined the Mor­mons and went to Utah. She did not take the child with her, for some rea­son un­known to me, at least; and so the boy--for it was a boy--be­came lost to his fa­ther, and as far as I know, to his moth­er al­so. I don't sup­pose all this wor­ried my broth­er as a young man; but re­cent­ly, with­in the past few years, I should say, his con­science seems to have pricked him severe­ly. He has some vig­or­ous views of fa­ther­hood and the obli­ga­tions flow­ing there­from--and I can't say but he is right--and now he wor­ries about his own great ne­glect. He has talked to me about it, so I know. Some­times he wor­ries him­self sick, and then his ner­vous trou­ble gets the over­hand.”

Chester lay on the grass look­ing up in­to the sky, com­pla­cent­ly chew­ing a spear of grass, while Un­cle Gilbert was talk­ing.

“What was the wom­an's name?” asked Chester.

“I can't re­call it just now. In fact, I don't think I ev­er heard it. Now, an­oth­er thing that you must know, and you must not be an­noyed at this: at times, I be­lieve he imag­ines you to be that boy of his.”

Chester sat up, and ex­act­ly at the mo­ment when he looked in­to the face of Un­cle Gilbert a cog in the ma­chin­ery of his own thoughts caught in­to a cog of the wheel with­in wheels which the man at his side had been re­veal­ing. The cog caught, then slipped, then caught again. Wheels be­gan to re­volve, bring­ing in­to mo­tion and view oth­er pos­si­ble de­vel­op­ments.

“That's on­ly when his ill­ness makes him dele­ri­ous,” con­tin­ued Un­cle Gilbert. “As I said, you must pay no at­ten­tion to him un­der those con­di­tions, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Yes; yes,” whis­pered the young man--“Thank you.” For him, Hyde Park and Lon­don had dis­ap­peared: all earth­ly things had be­come mist out of which he was try­ing to emerge.

“You don't know the wom­an's name,” Chester asked again, with dry lips--“Tell me her name.”

“I don't re­mem­ber. I'm not sure, but I be­lieve I have heard my broth­er, in his times of deleri­um speak of An­na.”

“An­na. An­na,” re­peat­ed Chester, as he stared in­to space. Un­cle Gilbert looked at the young man, and then re­pent­ed of telling him. He was a lit­tle an­noyed at his man­ner. He arose, brushed the grass from his clothes, and said:

“Well, let's be go­ing.”

Chester went along me­chan­ical­ly. At the Mar­ble Arch Un­cle Gilbert was about to hail a bus, when Chester stopped him.

“You'll ex­cuse me, wont you for not re­turn­ing with you--I--I--”

“But I gave my word to Lucy that I would bring you back.”

“Yes; I know, I'll come af­ter a while--but not now--you go on,--I--I--there's your bus now; you had bet­ter take it.”

Un­cle Gilbert, still a lit­tle an­noyed, climbed on the bus and left his com­pan­ion look­ing va­cant­ly at the line of mov­ing busses.

Chester went back in­to the park. There was room to breathe there and some free­dom from fel­low be­ings. He left the beat­en paths. Oh, that he could get away from ev­ery­body for a time! Old Thun­der out among the Rocky Moun­tains would be an ide­al place just now.

The wheels of thought went sure­ly and cor­rect­ly. There was no slip­ping of cogs now. _The Rev. Thomas Strong was his fa­ther._

Ev­ery link in the chain of ev­idence fit­ted. There was no break. He went over the ground again and again. There came to him now facts and in­ci­dents which he had heard from his fos­ter par­ents, and they all fit­ted in oth­er facts and strength­ened his con­clu­sions. Now he al­so re­mem­bered and un­der­stood some of his moth­er's re­marks about min­is­ters. Yes, Thomas Strong was his fa­ther! Lucy's fa­ther! Why, he and Lucy were broth­er and sis­ter!

It is quite use­less to try to tell all that was in Chester Lawrence's thoughts and heart from then on all that af­ter­noon. He did not know, nei­ther did he care how long he lay on the grass in the park, but there came a time when his soli­tude be­came un­bear­able, so he walked with fever­ish haste in­to the crowd­ed streets. The lamps were be­ing light­ed when he came to the Thames Em­bank­ment, where he watched for a time the black, slug­gish wa­ter be­ing sucked out to sea by the out­go­ing tide. Then he walked on. St. Paul loomed high in the murky dark­ness. He got in­to the ridicu­lous­ly nar­row streets of Pa­ter­nos­ter Row, where he had on his first vis­it bought a Bible. The evening was far spent and the crowds were thin­ning when he rec­og­nized the Bank of Eng­land cor­ner.

Re­al­iz­ing at last that he was tired, he climbed on top of a bus go­ing in the di­rec­tion of his lodg­ings, where he ar­rived some­where near mid­night. He went to bed, but not to sleep for many hours.

“Lucy, you are my sis­ter. I love you as that--but my wife you nev­er can be--” yes; he would have to tell her that. But why had this fa­ther of his let him and Lucy go on as they had? He had told his fa­ther the se­cret of his life. He re­mem­bered dis­tinct­ly his fa­ther's ac­tions how he had even called him “son,” which he had thought at the time was for Lucy's sake. Know­ing him and Lucy to be broth­er and sis­ter, why had he per­mit­ted them to form ties such as had been formed? Was it a plot on his fa­ther's part to again bring mis­ery to hu­man souls, to make to suf­fer those that were of his own flesh and blood? No, no; that was im­pos­si­ble. Sure­ly he was not that kind of man.

More clear­ly now the panora­ma of his life came be­fore him. Where was the Lord in all this? He had thought the Lord had led his steps won­der­ful­ly to so meet one who made his life supreme­ly hap­py--but now--the dark­ness and the de­spair of soul came again--was this not a hideous night­mare? The day would bring light and peace.

To­wards morn­ing, Chester dozed fit­ful­ly, and at last when he awoke the day was well ad­vanced. He and Un­cle Gilbert had been in the park--un­cle in re­al­ity now. Yes; it all came to him again. It had been no dream.

Chester got up, soused him­self in cold wa­ter, then as he was dress­ing said to him­self. “Well, what's to be done? I must make this thing sure one way or an­oth­er.” Per­haps there may be a mis­take, though he could not un­der­stand how. He would go di­rect to Thomas Strong and ask him.

He had no ap­petite for break­fast, so he ate none. As ear­ly as he thought wise, he set out. How should he meet Lucy? What could he say? If he could on­ly evade her.

No; Lucy was watch­ing for him, with a wor­ried ex­pres­sion on her face, which deep­ened when she saw Chester's.

“I must see your fa­ther,” he said with no ef­fort to even take her hand.

“Pa­pa is not any bet­ter, I fear.”

“But I must see him. Where is Un­cle Gilbert?”

“Shall I call him?”

“Yes, _please_.”

Lucy re­turned, and Un­cle Gilbert met Chester in the hall.

“He is very ner­vous again this morn­ing, and I don't think you ought to ex­cite him,” ex­plained the broth­er.

“I must see him--just for a minute. I'll not en­gage him in any ex­tend­ed con­ver­sa­tion.”

“That you can­not do as he can hard­ly speak. His trou­ble af­fects him in that way.”

“Let me see him just for a mo­ment--alone, please. Is he awake?”

“Oh yes; he's not that bad. Go in a mo­ment, then, but be care­ful.”

Chester passed in where the min­is­ter sat in an arm chair, propped up with pil­lows, signs of Lucy's ten­der care. As Chester en­tered, the man smiled and reached out his hand. The re­sent­ment in the young man's heart van­ished, when he saw the yearn­ing in the suf­fer­ing man's face. Yet he stood for some time root­ed to the spot, look­ing at the man who was no doubt his fa­ther. Ev­ery line of that face stood out bold­ly to Chester. How of­ten, in his boy­hood days he had pic­tured to him­self what his fa­ther was like--and here he was be­fore him. In those days he had nursed a ha­tred against that un­known sire, but now there was no more of that. If on­ly,--Chester kneeled by the side of the min­is­ter's chair, let­ting the old man cling to his hand. He looked with­out wa­ver­ing in­to the drawn face and said:

“Are you my fa­ther?”

The man's hand dropped as if life­less, but Chester picked it up again, hold­ing it close.

“Tell me,” he re­peat­ed, “are you my fa­ther?”

“Yes,” came slow­ly and with ef­fort, as trem­bling­ly the fa­ther put his hands first on Chester's shoul­ders as he kneeled be­fore him, then raised them to his head, ask­ing, “Do--you--hate--me? Don't--” That seemed to be all he was able to ar­tic­ulate.

“No, no; I do not hate you; for are you not--are you not my fa­ther!”

“Yes.”

The son put his arms around his fa­ther's neck and kissed him. The fa­ther pat­ted con­tent­ed­ly the head of the young man, as a par­ent fond­ly ca­ress­es a child. They were in that po­si­tion when Lucy tapped light­ly on the door, opened it, and came in.