Romance of a Missionary, II: What Might Have Been

ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY. BY NEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF ADDED UPON, >> ",THE CASTLE BUILDER," ETC. II. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. Willard Dean was twenty-five years old the day he landed in Liverpool and wrote his name in the missionary record book, in the Church office. This had been his first long journey, and he felt that he had come a long way from home . The welcome and the instructions which he received from the president of the mission helped him somewhat to forget his homesickness and when he was ; assigned his field of labor, he entered upon his duties with the vim and enthusiasm characteristic of the young Latter-day Saint mis- sionary. His companion was Elder Walter Donaldson, a young man about his own age, who had been in the field six months. Willard was simply an average "Mormon" boy. He had been born and reared in one of the larger country towns of Utah; had worked on his father's farm in summer, and had attended school in the winter. His schooling had extended into the third year of the high school, and then it had ceased, because of pressing home duties. A few years of such life, and then the missionary call had come. — He responded willingly and here he was, young, inex- perienced, but eager to learn and willing to do his duty. The first few weeks had been very trying to him. Naturally reticent, he dreaded to approach people who did not fail to tell him by either word or action that neither he nor his doctrine was wanted. His first few days of tracting were days of keen mental suffering ; and oftentimes it took his utmost will power to still his fast beating heart and bring his reluctant steps to the door. His

114 IMPROVEMENT ERA. companion, remembering his own experiences, was patient with him and helped him with kind advice and reassuring words. But after that eventful street-meeting, Willard Dean under- went a wonderfully rapid transformation. He was surely "wet over" and stayed "wet." The missionary spirit burned within him, and drove out all fear. If the door was slammed in his face, he simply hummed softly a song,— usually, "School thy feelings, 0, my brother,"— and then went to the next door. Street-meet- ings grew on him, as they usually do on the energetic elder. After a time, he declared that he would rather hold a good street meet- ing than to eat one of Sister McDonald's splendid meals. There was something exhilarating to the soul to have a large company of people stand and listen to the message which he was sent to de- liver. There had been no trouble with mobs, and his meetings were not usually disturbed. One day, about two weeks after the meeting at which Willard had given his first talk, he remarked to his companion that recently the face of the little old woman in black had repeatedly come to him. "I wish I had taken her name and address," he said. "Why, I have it," exclaimed his companion, "I had forgotten all about it: she gave it to me while you were speaking. She was very much interested in what you were saying; and, now I am reminded of it, she asked us to call on her." "I feel that we ought to call just as soon as possible," said Willard. That same afternoon they set. out on their errand. It was a beautiful, warm day;— such a day that brings out into the open, in all its wretchedness and misery, the life in the slums, — for the woman's address led them through the city's most squalid quarter to its farther side. As they passed through the narrow, dirty, foul-smelling streets, they found that the dwellers in the wretched buildings on each side of the street had deserted their dark "holes" for the warm stones and pleasant sunshine of the street. The pavement swarmed with children, — dirty, ragged, puny children. They sprawled over the sidewalks onto the street on each side, until there was hardly room for the two men to pass over the middle of the street. Women lounged in the doorways, and on the steps. Willard looked at them in a sort of dazed horror. This

. ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY. 115 was his first experience in the slums. He was told that these women were the mothers of the children, and this fact explained much to him. The women gossiped with each other. Some were scolding their children, some were quarreling with their neigh- bors, some were talking and laughing in loud, harsh voices. Some were bringing ale from the corner dram shop, while others were drinking from their big earthen mugs and giving sips to the babes The two men breathed easier when the better streets were reached. They, however, passed by the number which they were seeking, and so had to retrace their steps. They found it in a very small side-street. It was more quiet there, as the street was too narrow to admit of any warming sunlight. The woman herself opened the door at their knock. She stood in the doorway a moment looking at the men. She was dressed in the same black gown, but her pale face was clean, and her gray hair was combed in an orderly way. She looked quite different from the great majority of her neighbors. "Come in," she said. "I am glad you have come. I have been waiting for you for many days. Come in." The room was small. Very dirty paper covered the walls, except were it had fallen off, when a dirtier wall beneath was dis- played. The little window had been recently washed, and a bit of clean, white curtain hung before it. There was a table, three chairs, and in two of the corners were piled up clothing, which at night was spread out for beds. The floor was bare but clean. In a small sideroom were a few kitchen utensils hanging on the wall, by the fireplace. The two missionaries were invited to occupy chairs, while the woman seated herself on the only remaining one. "We have a very poor place to invite gentlemen to," she said; "but I wanted to have a talk with you." "We are pleased to visit you," replied Elder Donaldson, "no matter how poor you are." "Thank you, sir — we were not always poor — we did not always live in this street." Both her speech and manner were evidences of the truth of this statement. "This young gentleman," she continued, turning to Willard, "put me very much in mind of a cousin of mine who went many

IMPROVEMENT ERA. 116 years ago to Utah. We were told that Utah was a place out in s America where people could not get back from, and as we never heard of my cousin Mary, we concluded that it was all true; but when I heard this young man tell of his mother, I was sure that she must be my cousin." Willard looked in astonishment at the woman, and then he saw again the resemblance which he had noted at their first meet- ing. "What is your name?" he asked. "My name is Nancy Loring, and my father was Edward Mar- chant. My father had a brother John. His daughter Mary must be your mother." "My mother was Mary Marchant, sure enough," replied the young man. And now he remembered more of his mother's story of her early days in England. "Yes; I thought so," continued the woman, "and that's why I have been waiting so eagerly to see you." And then there was a lot of explaining, and much history to tell on both sides. Willard told her where and how they lived in Utah. He told of his father and his brothers and sisters. Other relatives of the woman there were none, as his mother had been the only one of her family to join the Church. Then she told him many details of her life's history, and a sad story it was. She and the young elder's mother had been girls together, had gone to the same school, had worked in the same mill. They had been dear friends. "One evening— I remember it as distinctly as if it were yesterday," said the woman, placing her thin hands on the table in front of her, and looking intently at Willard, "your mother and I were walking the street with a crowd of young people. I think it was on a Saturday night, and as I remember it, as wet as was the night I heard you preach. There was a street meeting going on, and we two girls stopped to listen. An elderly man was telling very much the same as you told us, sir. I was not interested, but your mother was. I could hardly get her away. I could see noth- ing in what he said, but your mother seems to have been converted there and then." "Thank God," said Willard Dean to himself.

ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY. 117 "Well, that was the beginning. Cousin Mary, your mother, could not rest until she had hunted up that man and had a talk with him. She got some of his books and sat up nights a reading them. She attended some meetings, held by the preacher down on Legum Street. I went with her a number of times. Very few people attended, and these were strangers to us; but the preaching and singing were beautiful — I remember that — especially the sing- ing. Many's the time that I have tried to recall some of those hymns, but I never could succeed." She raised the corner of her apron to her eye as if to wipe away a tear. "Good Mother," said Elder Donaldson, "we will sing you a song or two to see if you can remember them." She consented gladly, and the two missionaries sang, in a modulated tone, a number of "Mormon" hymns. The woman listened with a beaming countenance. "The very ones! the very ones!" she exclaimed, with a clasp of her hands. "Yes, I have never heard such beautiful singing since. He was an old man, that first preacher, and he hadn't a strong voice either, but somehow his hymn went directly to the heart and stayed there. Well, to be brief, your mother was bap- tized into the Church. Then, what a time she had! Everybody turned against her. Her mother scolded her, her father threat- ened her, her brothers and sisters scorned and mistreated her. She came to me one day when she was in sore distress. Poor girl, how she did carry on! She thought I believed some of this new gospel, and so she came to me as an only friend; but she went away uncomforted. Although I could see that what she believed in was true, I was afraid to say so. I was afraid to do anything that would class me with the "Mormons." I wasn't so brave as your mother, young man. was fearful of the talk, of the ill-will I of my folks, and especially was I afraid of a young man I was keep- ing company with. Shortly after this, your mother went away, and that was the last we heard of her." Willard's heart went out to the woman as he listened to her narrative. "And then what has been your story, auntie, I may — call you auntie, may I not?" — "Bless your soul, yes but my story is quite different from

118 IMPROVEMENT ERA. that of your mother, quite different. I may tell you a little of it. Have you time to listen to an old woman's not very pleasant talk?" "We have plenty of time," said Willard, as he moved his chair up closer to the table. "I did not marry the young man that I was keeping company with when your mother left; but some years after I married George Loring. He died some ten years ago. I have had five children. Two are dead. My oldest son lives just around the corner. He has a large family. My other son lives in London. My youngest girl lives here with me She works in the mill at the . bottom of the next street. My husband was a dyer, and made good wages for many years. Then he took to drink, and became very bad. For years it was a terrible struggle to live. Our home became poorer and poorer, as we had to move into cheaper and cheaper lodgings. * * * He died, and we came here. We have lived in these rooms for two years. I am too old to work, and so our living depends on the earnings of my daughter, Nora. Times are poor now. The mill hands often work but half time, and so her earnings are not large." "You said you had a son living near by," suggested Willard. "Yes, but his children would be better off in the work house, because both their father and their mother drink up every penny they can spare; yes, and many a one that they ought not to spare, if they considered that their children needed bread and clothes. Of times we have to share our bread with the hungry children." Just then a young woman opened the door, but hesitated at sight of the two strange men. "Here is my daughter Nora, now," said Mrs. Loring. "Come in, Nora.This is the man from Utah that I spoke to you about. He and his friend have called to see us. This young man is my cousin, Mary Marchant's son." The young woman came into the room and took the mission- aries' proffered hands. "I am pleased to meet and know you," said Willard. "I suppose if your mother and mine are cousins, we are cousins also." The girl did not reply, but looked rather timidly at the two

ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY. 119 well-dressed men. She was a tall girl, taller than the average English mill girl. She looked older than twenty, but it would be hard to say how much. Her hair was black, her eyes were dark brown. Although her face was pale and colorless, it was not an ugly one by any means. The mother and daughter went into a side room where a hur- ried consultation was held.The daughter went out again, as the mother came into the room. "You will stay and have a cup of tea with us, will you not? Nora thought it would be presumptuous to ask you, but I said for your mother's sake you would. I am sure I am right, am I not?" "You are, auntie, though you must not go to any inconven- ience for us. And let me explain," he continued. "We mission- aries do not drink tea, but if you will give us the hot water and let us put the milk and sugar in without the tea, we shall like it just as well." The woman was somewhat astonished at this, but she agreed' to humor them. A clean white cloth was spread on the table, on. which was placed a few dishes. Then Nora came back with a number of paper parcels, and there was a further consultation in the other room where the kettle was already singing. The pecu- liar drinking habits of these men from "Mormonia" were no doubt explained to the credulous daughter. When all was ready, the three chairs were drawn up to the table, and a stool was brought from the other room. Nora took the rather unsteady stool, and Willard tried to have her exchange with him; but she would not consent. On the table there were the usual thin, buttered slices of bread. The cold sliced meat and the jam were no doubt extras for that occasion. As the working day was drawing to a close, men and women were coming home, and there was a clatter of shoes and a babel of voices in the street. The half opened door was a number of times pushed open by neighbors who looked in with astonishment at the company around the table, and then quickly withdrew. Nora got up, closed the door tightly, then went back to her place. She was very silent, and it was some time before the two elders could get her to answer at any length some of their questions. After the meal was over and the table was cleared, Elder

120 IMPROVEMENT ERA. Donaldson was given an opportunity to talk. In a quiet, careful way he introduced the first principles of the gospel. He opened his Bible on the table, and the others sat around listening intently to what he said. The evening twilight crept into the little room; but the daylight did not altogether fade away, and so there was no need of the lamp. The noises without grew less disturbing. They sat for a long time under the spell of earnest speech uttering eternal truths. " 'Tis the same, the same," exclaimed the mother. "It brings me back to my girlhood days. The truth of what you have been saying has been with me all these years. Nora, my daughter, listen, is it .not beautiful!" But Nora made no comment on what had been said. She be- came quieter than ever, as if fearful of speaking her thoughts. A little later when the conversation turned on general topics, the question of whether or not she had ever met and become acquainted with a certain man was asked her. "A man, did you say?" she exclaimed, with startling sudden- ness. "I know no men. I have no recollection of ever having — known any. I know only brutes yes, once I knew a man, for a little while, but he — ." She stopped, choking a little in her speech. "No, I know no men — they are all brutes," she reiter- ated. As the two men walked homeward that evening, Willard Dean said to his companion, "I have always been on the lookout for things to be grateful for. Today I ha ye found the greatest of them all. What if my mother had not possessed the courage to receive the gospel when she did? If she had weakened, had given up, think of the possibil- ities! She, her husband and her children, might have been what we have seen today. What might have been, but which is not, makes me love my mother all the more, and makes me grateful beyond words to my heavenly Father." [to be continued.]