The Three Comrades Part 7

"And what did the lady where you lived formerly tell you about her?"

"That she left father and me because she loved the theatre more than us, and because sometimes the people hitched themselves to wagons instead of horses, and gave her beautiful jewels."

"And you believed it?" retorted Palko, with clouded face.

"No, I did not believe it, because I loved her, loved her very much."

"You are right; don't you believe it. Bacha Filina told me that she went away because your father's family did not like her because she was not of n.o.ble birth as themselves. But she went to the theatre only because she could not make her living otherwise. Your father brought her from a very great distance to which she could not return. What could she do? What the theatre is, I do not know. Only that she sang there beautifully. Perhaps that would not have been so bad if she had known the Lord Jesus as we know Him. He would surely have advised and helped her otherwise, and if that which she did was wrong, when she once knows Jesus and asks Him to forgive her, He will do so. But we must tell her about Him, you and I."

"We? But she is far away, very far."

"Do not believe it, Ondrejko. The Lord Jesus sent her back as far as here. The lady at our cottage--that is she."

"You say that is she?" Ondrejko jumped up.

"Yes, yes; that is she."

"She was just like her, and had the same kind of a voice! And so it aroused in my heart remembrances of long ago when she spoke and when I looked at her. It seems to me I recognized her, but she didn't know me," sadly sighed the boy, and his eyes filled with tears.

"But how could she have recognized you in those farmer's clothes? We too, Petrik and I, hardly recognized you."

"Do you think so?" Ondrejko calmed down. "Palko, take me to her; she doesn't know that I am her Andreas. She doesn't know me."

"She knows already. Uncle Filina was there. He told her the truth."

"Oh, then take me with you, because I have made her very sad--till she almost died."

"I don't care. Come, then. Surely the Lord Jesus wants it so."

No matter how long Ondrejko Gemersky lives he will never be able to forget how it was when the doors in the cottage opened and a beautiful lady in a light blue dress, the color of forget-me-nots, stepped out.

In her hands she carried a broad hat, but she dropped it with a cry, "My Ondrejko!" as she ran toward them. He flew like an arrow to meet her.

"Mother, my mother!"--and already held her around the neck. She, kneeling, hugged him to her breast. They both cried, and Palko with them.

"Oh, mother, my mother, how I love you! Verily I am yours, and surely you will keep me now," begged Ondrejko with tears. He stroked the beautiful face and forehead of the lady.

"Yes, you are mine." She jumped up. "I will not give you up any more to anyone, anyone in the world. But no, come, my son, we have to go to Bacha Filina. He will take care of it, that no one can take you away from me."

Surely Ondrejko will never forget this, nor how they walked together to the sheepcote, how well they were received there, what a good time they had that afternoon and evening, because Ondrejko's mother slept together with Aunty Moravec in his hut. Bacha counted on that. He took counsel with Aunty and sent Stephen to the cottage to bring whatever was necessary for the lady, especially sheets, covers, etc. Thus Ondrejko sat beside his mother in the evening when Joe roasted the lamb over the fire, and Petrik helped Aunty to cook soup in the pot.

Bacha told them about the life at the sheepcotes, and many interesting things from his experiences with the flocks. Then they had supper together, there in the open. Then they sang the evening song, prayed, and Palko read from his Book. At Filina's request he read the 15th chapter of the Gospel of Luke, about a good shepherd, about a woman who lost her coin, and about a prodigal son who had a good father, but nevertheless ran away from him, and how badly he fared in the world until he returned to his father. During the reading Palko made many beautiful remarks, as he usually did. They all loved to hear him. When he closed, only the fire crackled, and the stars in the heavens were sparkling like a mult.i.tude of eyes. The moon lit up the tops of the mountains and woods. Often one of the sheep rang its bell in the fold.

Bacha suddenly lifted up his bowed head, and spoke with a voice such as they had never heard before: "That lost and found sheep am I, my children. The gracious Lord G.o.d forgave all my sins. The Lord Jesus sought and found me, and I have surrendered myself to Him altogether, including our huts. Let us pray."

He took his hat off, folded his hands, and prayed thus, "Our Father,"

in such a manner, that n.o.body had ever heard such a prayer before.

Never will Ondrejko de Gemer forget that moment, but I think that none of the others present there will ever be able to forget it either.

When in the huts everything quieted down--not even the dogs barked that night--Bacha, as his custom was, walked all around to see if there was any danger anywhere, before he betook himself to rest. He walked also around the wooden hut and suddenly stopped. There on Ondrejko's little bench, under the window, wrapped up in a shawl, Madame Slavkovsky sat in the moonlight. Her hands were twined around her knees, and she was thoughtfully looking into the beautiful starry night. He coughed, that she might not be startled. She turned her head, and with a motion indicated her wish that he should take a place beside her. He obeyed.

"You said, Bacha Filina, that that lost and found sheep was you," she began in her sweet, sad voice. "That woman who lost that coin is also I. More than that even, I am the prodigal daughter."

"What do you mean by that, lady?" asked Filina seriously.

"When Palko explained how good that father was and how the naughty boy left him, I thought that I did just that to my good dear father; and therefore, from that time on, what sad experiences I have had!" She sighed deeply.

"Tell me all about it. I am an old man and could be your father. I shall understand you."

"Yes, I will tell you everything, because if you had not saved my poor child he would not have had anybody. Did you not care for him like a father?"

"We lived on a beautiful farm in America," she went on. "My grandfather and grandmother came from Bohemia as a young couple. They bought a small farm and worked diligently, and G.o.d blessed them. They were good people, who trusted in G.o.d. They had one son and a daughter.

Their son wanted to study, so they sent him to school. As he did not work on the farm they had to take a helper, and he also came from the old country. They took a liking for him at once because he fitted in so well in the family. Once when grandfather was so seriously ill that he thought he would die, he called his helper and asked him, since he was single and without relatives in the land, if he would marry his daughter. He would be more easy if he knew in whose hands he had left his daughter and wife. That the daughter liked the good-looking and good-hearted young man, they knew well. But the young man asked for some time to think it over, and then told their daughter his history from the old country. What it all was I don't know, and when she, in spite of it all, was willing to take him, he acceded to my grandfather's wish, and none of them were ever sorry for it. My father was very kind to my mother. She had no reason to be sorry that she had married him. Grandfather recovered from his illness. For many years after that he worked together with his son-in-law and everything went well, so that with his help the small farm became a large one. My recollections are only of the big farm. I was their only child. My uncle Vojta was at that time a professor in New York, was married, and advised my parents to send me to him there, that I might go to school and become a lady. Grandfather approved of this; thus I was at home only in the summer, and over the winter at Uncle's in school till I was really trained. My Uncle noticed that I had a talent for singing, and the teachers confirmed it. Without the knowledge of my home folks he sent me to learn to sing. I loved to sing, but loved still more the praise showered upon me by the audiences at the school-concerts.

"In the meantime, so great a change transpired in my home that I hardly recognized it when they called me to grandfather's deathbed.

Our farm was not far from the mountains. In those mountains was a mission conference for several weeks. Our whole family used to go to listen to those speakers who held religious lectures there--and all of them, as it was well-known about there, turned to Christ. I shall never forget how happy grandfather died, how he blessed us all, and with what fort.i.tude grandmother bore her loss. For the first time I was really glad to be able to run away from my dear parents to my Uncle's. My beloved ones started a family altar at home. They sang songs to the honor of the Lamb who, they claimed, had delivered them from their sins. Well, I did not like to sing those songs. It seemed to me as if even the walls of our house would fall down on me.

"My splendid, kind father let me go sadly. I had half-a-year more school to complete, and one more examination. My dear parents rejoiced that then I would be wholly their's, because they had only me, and for me they worked and saved. My Uncle agreed with me in everything. Like me, he did not want to enter the narrow path which leads to glory.

With the conclusion of the school-year, my study of singing also ended, and I returned home with the intention of persuading my parents to permit me to enter the opera--that means, to become a singer. More than half-a-year I fought at home with pleas and tears, but in vain. My father was wonderfully patient and kind to me. Mother and grandmother were often not so patient, but, like these grand mountains, they would not move, nor could anyone move my father to break his word that he would never give me permission to go. Well, what he did not give me, I took myself."

"What did you do?" compa.s.sionately asked Bacha. The lady broke out crying.

"I left home, leaving a letter behind saying that I loved the world, in which and for which, I wanted to live, and I loved the glory of the world and did not want to bury myself on the farm. I ran away to my Uncle's. My dear father came at once for me. He begged and pled, but I didn't want to go back with him, and did not do so.

"'When you find out that the world is as vain as soap-bubbles, and your heart is full of disillusionment, ready to despair, then remember that you have a father and a home to return to,' said father. 'Until that time you cannot count yourself one of us. We are standing on two different paths: the one we go on is narrow and leads high; the other, which you have chosen, is broad and will lead you from the heights to a deep abyss. Our prayers will surround you always like a fiery wall.

I know that you will have to suffer much evil and much sorrow, but our prayers will prevent you from sinning as grievously as you will see others do around you.'

"Those were his last words. Oh, Bacha Filina, I went over that broad path. In a short time I was a famous singer. The people carried me on their arms. Though I was a simple farmer's daughter, because of the courses of the good schools which I had attended, the doors of high society opened to me, and I, like the prodigal, very soon forgot my parents, and especially my good father. Then Lord Gemer came into my life, and I married him, being ready to leave everything for him, even my fame. He promised me that even when I was his wife, he would agree to my keeping on with my singing. He kept that promise while we were in America and Italy. But in his native country it was impossible.

"And then everything began to turn out just as my dear father foretold. But I don't want to talk about that. I just wanted to say that I am that prodigal son."

"That you are, my lady, but only half-way; because the son returned, and you haven't returned yet."

"No, you are right. I haven't returned yet. When I had forsaken the man who betrayed me, I was ashamed, for I was forsaken, betrayed, and robbed of all means to return home. When I asked my uncle to help me, though he sent me some money, he also sharply admonished me either to return to my husband or to go back to my parents and do penance, but this I did not want to do. It seemed to me that all sinned against me, and I only was innocent. I had to live. And so I began to sing again, though with a broken heart. In a short time I had the world again lying at my feet, but, being so forsaken, I soon recognized its whole rottenness. How right my father was; I could not sin as I saw others around me doing. Therefore I had to suffer much till I could go on no longer. Since my health broke down, I cancelled my contract and betook myself to search for my son. I wanted to see him, at least once more, before I died. That is all."

"That is not everything," said Filina kindly with a smile as he rose. "The end will be only when the daughter returns, first to her heavenly, and then also to her earthly father. He that received me, will surely receive you too. But now come and go to rest, and think how perhaps in a distant land your father is praying just now for you, and that the heavenly Father loved us so much that He gave His only Son for us. Goodnight!"

In a little while the stars shone down upon a quiet place while the people slept.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The doctor came the next day, just as Bacha Filina had expected him.

He came in his coach as far as the sheepcotes, and before Ondrejko realized it, he carried away his mother, and also Bacha Filina. Before they went they arranged for Ondrejko to remain longer with Bacha, and he would go to his mother only for visits.