The Russells Did Not Go to Church

By Edith Russell

Chapter 3 (of 3)

England is so rarely prodigal of sunshine, I remember that beautiful morning as though it belonged only to yesterday. The sun spilled gold on the dusty windows of the ugly office building to which I daily turned my steps, and a great armada of white clouds sailed before a stiff breeze blowing in from the North Sea.

I had no premonition of what the day might hold, beyond the usual galaxy of accounts, ledgers, the bevy of tired, middle-aged women making their contribution to the war effort, and another evening at home, reading before the fire while my mother knitted and waited expectantly for Antony’s step on the path.

At the office I took off my coat and prepared for the day. The sunshine lighted up the faces of my “school” of women; there were some eager and animated, others there were who were anxious and old. I knew how it felt when letters from the front were delayed.

As I smiled and said “Good morning,” the door of the classroom opened to admit the elderly person of the office manager followed by a younger and vigorous man in his late twenties.

“Good morning, Miss Russell,” the manager said. “Please to meet Mr. Gregory Miner, late of the King’s Own Royal Rifles. I wish you would be good enough to give him some insight as to the function of your school. He is to learn the business and will need to know.” Mr. Miner bowed. He was possessed of a fine healthy color, a somewhat stocky physique, and he exuded an atmosphere of fastidious cleanliness. I liked him at once, and as soon as the manager had retired, I gave him into the charge of a nice homely matron, at whose desk I could conveniently observe and instruct him.

I was near enough to see that on his left hand he wore a most peculiar ring— a great silver Indian head— a rather vulgar trinket, I thought, on the person of an Englishman. It flashed in the sunlight and I wondered why he wore it and from where it came. It seemed a trifle incongruous compared to the quiet conservative quality of the rest of his appearance.

A little before lunch I approached his desk to inquire after his progress. The ring flashed silver in the morning sun and smiling, he covered it with his hand.

I smiled, too.

“What an unusual ring!” I remarked, and he lifted it for my examination.

“But here is one even more unusual,” he volunteered, and from his pocket he withdrew a dull gold object, shaped like a shield and covered with peculiar hieroglyphics I could not understand. It was not vulgar like the Indian head, but apparently this was not valued for its ornamentation, but for something deeper and more significant.

“This ring,” said Gregory Miner, “I won for achieving.”

“Indeed?” I replied, “What exactly do you mean— achieving? Achieving what?”

Gregory Miner seemed to inhale a deep breath.

“Miss Russell,” he said, and his eyes looked directly into mine, “what do you think of a Church which has for one of its maxims, ‘The glory of God is intelligence’?”

The room, filled with thirty women industriously engaged with accounts and figures, endured one of its rare moments of silence. I could hear the old office clock ticking on the wall and for some reason I thought of time and its relation to eternity.

I had a momentary and entirely incomprehensible vision of the vicarage at St. Matthews and a woman called Hannah Shuttleworth with her illegitimate child, then a peculiar sensation of warmth suffused my whole being, the same one feels on beholding an old and intimate friend with a familiar greeting on his lips.

I gave Gregory Miner look for look.

“I knew I wasn’t wrong,” he said, and my heart gave a great bound as though for a moment it had almost ceased to beat for fear I should give any other answer but this.

Gregory Miner smiled, too, also with relief.

“I knew I wasn’t wrong,” he said.

“What Church is this to which you refer?” I wanted to know.

“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. No? You have not heard of it? Well, then, the Mormon Church, perhaps?” He regarded me quizzically.

I believe I made a reply, but actually I was no longer in that dusty office schoolroom. I was six years removed, watching Michael, my brother, waiting for him to pick up a book my mother had forbidden; a book in which were lurid tales about a strange people called Mormons.

That evening I was home late for dinner. The hungry Antony whooped for joy when I entered the cottage, but my mother was concerned lest my delay had been occasioned by anything disastrous.

“Of course not, darling,” I reassured her, as we sat down. “As a matter of fact—“ I was magnificently offhand— “As a matter of fact, I have been talking to a Mormon in town.”

“You have been— what?” Horror expressed itself in every line of my mother’s features.

Antony helped himself to more vegetables and inquired: “You mean he was in a circus, or something?”

I could feel my mother’s eyes fixed upon me, but I avoided them and waived Antony’s question. “He is a very charming fellow. Mother,” I said anxiously. “I feel sure he is perfectly respectable. He is being taught the business at the office, and he— he has only one wife.”

I was concentrating upon the food on my plate. I heard my mother say in a cold, shocked voice: “How do you know?”

I took a deep breath. “Because I asked him,” I said, and my face burned at the memory.

I was dreadfully conscious that somewhere in this innocent conversation lay an issue so great I was afraid even to contemplate it. I lifted my eyes to meet those of my mother.

“Perhaps Antony will bring in the dessert,” she said, “I think we have all had enough of this course.”

Miserably, I looked at her face. How I hated to feel her disapproval. Why did I not simply laugh and tell her that if I met a thousand Mormons, it was a matter of no consequence? Why? Why? Why?

The next few weeks passed in a strange atmosphere of discovery. The young Mr. Miner was an assiduous missionary. Every day brought new explorations into the strange new world of religion. There were obstacles, of course, mental and aesthetic obstacles; a Prophet who was an American; who spoke in the same idiom as that of the cinema, and other facts at first disconcerting to me.

And, always, on the face of the woman I loved above all else in the world, that look of sorrow, disgust, shame, and inarticulate protest.

I told her, one evening, that I would be baptized. She said nothing at first.

“Mother,” I blurted out, desperately, ‘’Would you— I mean— do you think you might— come to the Church and see me— see me baptized?”

Her look froze me. “I shall not come to see you baptized,” she said with such finality my heart sank. “I didn’t want to discuss it, but I do want you to know this. You have made this decision of your own free will and against my wishes. I will have no part in it. Ever since you were a little girl I have been proud of you, proud of your achievements both in school and out. But, I am ashamed of you now. I don’t wish to refer to the matter again. I have written to Michael as I feel he should know.”

I went out and walked through the village, up the hill towards beautiful old St. Matthews. It lay like a painted thing against the flaming glory of the sunset. I went into the churchyard and sat down upon a tombstone, my heart heavy. The Gothic beauty of the old church struck me afresh, seemed to address itself to me in poignant appeal.

But it isn’t any use, I gave answer. You only have a part of the truth. I love— and always shall— your turrets and your bells, and your windows— but I can’t feed the soul of me only on these. That’s why I’m leaving you— for something whole and complete. I came to you, once, looking for God— remember? I found him— in part. But I’m greedy. A part isn’t enough. So— I’m following my star ….

A week later, the day of my baptism dawned. I was to be baptized in the afternoon at three, and in the morning, at the office, Mr. Miner asked me concerning my mother.

“She will be in Church to see you baptized,” he assured me, confidently.

I laughed, derisively. He didn’t know my mother. He didn’t know that the Russells did not go to church. He had no conception of the extent of my disloyalty.

Luncheon, at home, that day, was an awkward session. Excitement had taken away my appetite, but I strove to eat so as not to irritate my mother further. Antony, intrigued by thoughts of someone having the temerity to “duck” his sister, asked embarrassing questions throughout the meal.

But at last it was over. I escaped to my room and put the few things I should need into my bag. I could hear my mother dressing in her room.

“I’m going, Mother!’‘ I called. “Goodbye!”

Her voice, a little strained and unfamiliar, came back to me. “Wait for me! I’m going into the city, too We may as well go together.”

She appeared a moment later, and without further conversation, we went out into the street where the bus was waiting.

The vehicle was very full and, though we sat together, we did not talk. My thoughts were filled with the wonder of what was going to happen to me. A part of me ached for the sweet woman beside me, but withal, I was gloriously happy.

As the Church came into view, I rose to my feet and turned to my mother. “Goodbye, darling . . .”

She, too, was on her feet.

“Mumsie, where—?”

“Hurry,” she said. “The bus is stopping.”

A moment later, we stood together on the pavement— a pavement suddenly paved with gold. The bus swung away, citywards.

“Mumsie— where are you going?” Incredulity was in my voice. A sob, too, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t care.

“Going?” Incredulity was in my mother’s voice, too. “Why— I’m going to Church!” Bless her dear heart, she was as surprised as I was!

“But—“ I was staring, dumfounded.

“I know— the Russells.” My mother actually laughed and the sound rang in my heart like a peal of bells. She slipped the little bag I carried from my grasp. In it lay a precious white gown and a missionary’s copy of the Book of Mormon.

“We’d better hurry,” she said, “or we’re going to be late.”

-ooOoo-

Edith was baptized in life, and later went to the Salt Lake Temple. I know all the rules, and understand the reason for the rules, and ordinarily follow the rules … but when I discovered a few years ago that Edith’s mother had outlived Edith, so that our girl had never been sealed to her mother … well, I may have done the paperwork, and my Relief Society president may have slipped over to the Salt Lake Temple on her lunch hour one day. Edith is sealed to her parents.