by Gale Sears
She knocked.
Immediately the door was thrown open and Sarah Ann flew into her arms. “Oh, Auntie Eliza! It’s not possible. It’s not possible!”
Eliza’s heart twisted as she heard her own words of distress echoed by Lorenzo’s second wife. She held the young woman tightly. “Calm yourself, Sarah Ann. Calm yourself.” She stepped back and held the girl at arm’s length. “Let’s see what we can do, shall we?”
Sarah Ann’s bowed head wagged back and forth. “There’s nothing. The doctor said there is nothing we can do.”
Eliza gently nudged Sarah Ann into the house and shut the door behind her. She hurriedly greeted the other members of the family. Their absent stares spoke of shock and disbelief. “Is the doctor with her?”
“He is,” Sarah Ann answered dully. “But he says there is nothing we can do.”
“I don’t understand. I saw her just the other day. She was well. She was healthy,” Eliza said. “What happened?”
Sarah Ann’s crying increased. “We don’t know.”
“You sleep in the same room, Sarah Ann. Was she complaining of any illness last night?”
“No. And then today she said she felt a little dizzy, and then . . . and then she collapsed.”
Charlotte’s daughter Roxcy began crying for attention, and Sarah Ann stumbled over to pick her up. Eliza turned and walked to the bedroom, opening the door quietly and stepping inside. An older gentleman with wispy hair and wire spectacles looked up from monitoring Charlotte’s pulse. He studied Eliza’s face for a moment and then shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Sister Snow. Truly sorry. What with Elder Snow so far away.”
Eliza’s gaze was fixed on Charlotte’s face. There was no imprint of pain, or telltale signs of fever. In fact, her sister-in-law seemed only to be sleeping—deeply sleeping. Her skin color was chalky, but her beautiful face was composed, her body relaxed. Eliza shook her head, attempting to bring reality to the situation. “I don’t understand, Doctor Prescott. What is the diagnosis? What is wrong with her?”
The doctor laid his patient’s hand gently on the bed. “I am not sure. It may be a stroke, or something to do with her heart. She has not regained consciousness, so I have not been able to ask her questions.”
“But she’s only twenty-six, and she’s always been healthy.” A coil of frustration wound itself around Eliza’s heart. “How can she be dying? She walked across the country!”
“I know, my dear. Sometimes there are no answers.”
Eliza was impatient with that response. “There has to be something we can do.”
“Pray,” the doctor said simply.
She was impatient with that answer also, but moderated her reply. “Do you mind if I spend a few minutes alone with her?”
“Not at all. I must go out and speak with the family. Arrangements must be made.”
Eliza felt a jab of pain in her heart.
Doctor Prescott moved to the door and hesitated. “Alert me if there’s any change.”
Eliza nodded and the door closed. She slumped down by the side of the bed, bowing her head and praying fervently for a miracle. She had seen many miracles during her life in the Church and knew that faith could intervene, even in death. Eliza poured out her heart to the Lord, seeking reassurance, seeking answers, pleading that Charlotte’s life might be saved. In mid-thought, her words stopped, replaced by other words. Be at peace. She is fulfilling a covenant. Eliza felt movement and looked up to see Charlotte’s eyes opening a slit. She moved quickly to sit on the bed and take her sister-in-law’s hand. “Charlotte?”
“They tell me that all will be well,” came the whispered words.
“They?”
“All will be well.”
“Oh, Charlotte.”
“Tell . . . my . . . Lorenzo.”
“Tell Lorenzo? What do you want me to tell him?” Eliza waited for more words, but they did not come. A draft of air tickled the hair on her neck, and Eliza turned to stare at the chink where nearly a year before she had placed one of Charlotte’s braided plugs. On the logs were water marks where the rain had dripped. Her sight slid to the floor where Charlotte’s worn boots lay, then to the dresser, to her hairbrush and small bottle of lavender cologne. Charlotte’s lavender cologne. Slowly Eliza released Charlotte’s hand. How would she ever tell her brother of this sad occurrence? She had been given the gift of words, but Eliza knew of no combination of words that would make sense of this for her brother or lessen his pain. This was his dear one, as beautiful in death as she had been in life. Charlotte loved others with a sweet sincerity and so she was truly loved by all. The pain in Eliza’s chest increased, pouring from her body as tears and pitiful moaning. She moved numbly to the door and opened it.
“She’s gone. Our Charlotte is gone.”
Note
In Eliza Snow’s book Biography and Family Record of Lorenzo Snow, she relates added insight concerning Charlotte’s death. “On the mountain in Italy . . . on the same memorable day in which The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was there organized, Lorenzo, in the force of his spirit . . . and probably without realizing the weight of his covenant, told the Lord that he knew of no sacrifice he could possibly make he was not willing to offer, that the Lord might grant a request concerning the mission before him. When I received a copy of the report of the proceedings of the day, in which the above was included, I was deeply struck with the coincidence. Just at this time, as nearly as I could calculate by comparing dates and distances, the Lord removed, by the hand of death, from my brother’s family circle, one of the loveliest of women” (p. 233).
Chapter Seventeen
The Angrogna Valley
September 28, 1850
The orange, red, and yellow leaves of autumn adorned the mountainsides of the Piedmont with wonder, and though the harvesters of grain and the gatherers of fruit were diligent in their labor, it was not uncommon for industry to be momentarily forgotten for a drifting look at the enchanting vistas.
Madeleine Cardon lay on her stomach under a walnut tree at the edge of the meadow, tending the family’s cows and reading a small book of scripture. She glanced up periodically to make sure the cows were not invading her father’s vineyard and also to take in the beauty of her surroundings. This was her favorite time of year. She loved the cutting of the grain and the gathering of pears, apples, walnuts, and chestnuts. She loved the storing of potatoes and cabbages in the cold cellar, along with the rounds of cheese. She loved the chill in the night air that incited the glorious colors of the leaves.
Madeleine turned over and sat up. She hummed the song that she and Albertina were preparing to sing at the festival. She looked around when she heard the gonging of a cowbell at a close distance, laughing to see the silly antics of their best milk cow as the beast scratched her head on a tree stump. “Too bad you don’t have fingers!” she called to the cow. Madeleine looked out across the meadow to make sure their other animals were not wandering off, and caught sight of three men walking up the mountain path. She paid them little attention, as it was a common occurrence for people to be on the path, but when the three left the track and headed in her direction, she became concerned. She squinted to ascertain their identity, only to discover that they were strangers. Strangers? What were they doing on the mountain? Were they coming to speak to her? They drew closer and Madeleine lowered her head. Perhaps if she didn’t look at them, they would go away.
When she could hear their footfalls on the ground in front of her she stood and took a quick look at their faces. A calmness washed over her. She knew these faces.
“Don’t be frightened,” one of the men said in perfect French. “We are ministers of God and have come to preach His gospel.”
Madeleine looked directly at them and burst into tears. “Yes. Yes, I know you. I have seen you before.”
The three men looked startled at th
is pronouncement, each standing mute before the young Waldensian woman, trying to discern the meaning of her words. Finally, Elder Woodard spoke. “Have you seen us in the town, then?”
Madeleine swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “No, I haven’t. I haven’t been to town for many weeks.” She took a deep breath. “You see, I had a dream when I was six years old, and you three were in the dream.” She figured they would take her for a fool, so was surprised when they met her odd statement with acceptance and even reverence. “You don’t question my story?”
“No.” Elder Woodard said, looking at his companions, then back. “May we ask your name?” he said politely.
Madeleine nodded. “It is Madeleine Cardon. I am the daughter of Philippe Cardon and Marthe Marie Cardon.”
“We are honored to meet you, Madeleine. I am Monsieur Woodard, and this is Monsieur Stenhouse, and Monsieur Snow.” Madeleine curtsied and the men bowed. “Yes, indeed, we are very glad to meet you, and we do not question your story in the least, Madeleine. We believe the ancient gospel of Christ has been restored to the earth, and that personal revelation is one of its gifts.”
“And that all the honest in heart will be gathered into the kingdom,” Madeleine said.
“Yes. Yes, my dear girl,” Lorenzo said struggling to keep his voice steady.
“And where are you from?” she questioned.
“I am from England,” Elder Woodard answered. “Monsieur Stenhouse is from Scotland, and Monsieur Snow is from America.”
Madeleine’s eyes widened. “America? That is very far away. I was told that you would come from far away to preach the gospel to the world.”
“Remarkable,” Elder Woodard said laying his hand over his heart. “Remarkable.”
“And is there a young boy in your story?” Madeleine asked. “In my dream you told me that God had spoken from Heaven to a young boy.” No longer able to contain his emotion, Elder Snow put his hands over his face and wept. Madeleine was alarmed. “I’m sorry, Monsieur! Did I say something wrong?”
Elder Snow looked at her, smiling through his emotion. “No, my dear. No. It’s just that I feel the confirmation of the Spirit . . . that we have come to the right place.”
“The right place?”
“Yes. That here in these mountains are a people prepared to receive the restored gospel.”
Madeleine beamed at them. “I think you should come to our home and speak to my father and mother and then to our neighbors. I think there will be many people who will want to hear you preach.”
“We would be honored,” Lorenzo said, regaining his composure. “Might you point the way?”
“I will take you!” Madeleine said without hesitation.
“But what of your cows?” Elder Woodard questioned.
“Oh, they will not wander far. They are lazy, you see. I will probably find them exactly where I left them.” She headed off towards the path. “Follow me, then. My father is working, but we will be able to find him.”
The three Mormon missionaries shared a look of wonder and followed the young Waldensian girl towards the village.
Philippe Cardon and his son Barthelemy laid down a piece of slate on the roof of their neighbor’s house, stopping afterwards to rest and feel the cooling breeze against their faces. Philippe gazed to a nearby hillside where a bush in a blaze of orange stood flamboyant against a stand of dark green pines.
“The colors are bright this year,” Philippe Cardon said, pulling his attention back to the slate and squeezing his eyes shut.
“We’ve had more rain than usual this summer,” Barthelemy answered. He glanced over at his father, whose eyes were still closed. “Are you all right? You look tired.”
Philippe opened his eyes and rubbed his face. “I am tired. I did not sleep well last night. A dream.”
“A dream? A troubling dream?”
Philippe pulled another piece of slate into position. “Not troubling . . . just . . . unusual. Two men kept trying to give me a book.”
His son laughed. “Oh, now! That would have kept me awake. That would keep anyone awake. I know I could not sleep if someone tried to give me a book.”
Philippe growled. “Very funny. Get back to work.”
“Maybe we should stop work. I think that book dream has robbed you of your strength.”
“Stop laughing or you’re going to fall off the roof,” Philippe warned, moving a stone into place for the chimney. “Come on now, we need to finish.”
“Stones ready!” a workman called from below, and Barthelemy, still chuckling, went to hoist up the basket. Philippe went to help. He put his hand on the rope and began to pull. After only two or three pulls, he dropped the rope and stepped back. He turned and moved to the ladder.
“Hey! Where are you going?” his son grunted. “Aren’t you going to help me?”
“I need to go home,” Philippe answered, starting down the ladder.
Barthelemy dragged the basket onto the roof. “Home?” he panted. “You said we had to finish. Is it the dream? Are you going home for a nap?”
“No, I just need to go home.”
Barthelemy moved to the edge of the roof to watch his father descend. “And what are we supposed to do?”
“Keep working.”
“And when will you be back?”
“I don’t know.” Philippe reached the ground and started off immediately in the direction of his home. “Keep working until dusk. I need to put on my Sunday clothes and go into Torre Pellice.”
“Your Sunday clothes? Why? What are you talking about?” Barthelemy called after him.
“I can’t explain!” Philippe yelled back over his shoulder. And indeed he could not explain, even to himself. He just knew that a distinct thought had come to him to go home, put on his Sunday suit, and walk down into Torre Pellice. He knew when he got to the house, his wife would pose the same questions as to his odd behavior, and he would only be able to give her the same vague answer. He didn’t understand the persistent urging. Perhaps there were two strangers he needed to meet. Two strangers with a book.
A short time later Philippe Cardon was dressed and on his way to the town, and even though his head did not know a logical reason for the journey, his emotions were enthusiastically engaged. Perhaps the book in my dream is a ledger, he thought, and the two men have a new business opportunity for me. Perhaps Colonel Beckwith has a new school for me to build. That would certainly explain the book in the dream. Philippe was so busy pondering the options that he nearly knocked into his daughter as he rounded a grove of trees.
“Papa!”
“Madeleine! What? Why aren’t you with the cows?” he stammered. He glanced up from his daughter’s face and noticed the three men stopping on the path behind her. “And . . . and who are these gentlemen?”
“They are the evangelists, Papa! The ones from my dream!”
“Your dream?”
“Yes, the evangelists I dreamed about when I was six. You remember.”
Although Philippe knew well his daughter’s dream, and could see the joy of surety on her face, he was confused by the array of circumstances. It was one thing to have a dream, another to have it standing in front of you in the light of day. Without thinking, he thrust forward his hand. “Excuse me, where are my manners? I am just . . . just surprised at seeing you. I am Philippe Cardon.”
Lorenzo moved forward and took the proffered hand. “I am Lorenzo Snow.” He brought the other missionaries forward. “And this is Thomas Stenhouse, and this is Jabez Woodard.” The men shook hands as Lorenzo continued talking. “We are ministers from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and have come to preach the everlasting gospel.” Though Lorenzo struggled with the French, the power of his testimony was tangible.
“See? The everlasting gospel! See, Papa? The three evangelists come to preach the everlasting gospel. It
is the same as my dream.”
Philippe was in a fog. “Yes, yes. Amazing.”
“We were just coming to find you,” Madeleine said, giving her father a perplexed look. “And where were you going in your Sunday suit?”
“I . . . I was going into Torre Pellice,” Philippe answered.
“Why?”
He looked directly at her. “I had a dream last night that two men were trying to give me a book, and today while I was working, the thought came to my mind that I should put on my Sunday suit and go into the town.”
“Another dream?” Madeleine said with a giggle. She turned to the missionaries. “Do you think we were supposed to meet you?”
Elder Woodard smiled. “I believe so.”
“And do you have a book for my father?”
Elder Woodard shared a look with his companions, and then back to the father and daughter. “We do have a book, Madeleine. A very special book.”
“Wonderful!” Madeleine exclaimed. She smiled at her father. “Perhaps, Papa, we should invite them to our house to tell us more about their church?” She giggled. “Especially since you are already dressed for company.”
With that remark, Philippe Cardon came to himself and took on a more assured bearing. He nodded to the missionaries. “Yes. Yes, gentlemen. We would be honored if you would come to our home and share your message. And of course, you must stay for supper.”
“And you can sleep in our barn if the hour gets late,” Madeleine offered.
“You are very kind,” Lorenzo said. “We are the ones honored by the invitation. Thank you.”
“We should go, then!” Madeleine said as she started off towards the Cardon Borgata. The others followed.
Lorenzo walked beside the girl. “And we will want to hear all about your dream,” he said in a soft tone.
“Of course,” Madeleine answered simply. “I want to share it with you. I think it is your story, after all.”
Lorenzo’s spirit lifted. How good was the God of Creation to love each of his children personally? To be aware of a young girl living in a small stone house on a mountainside in northern Italy. To send her a dream in the night that would make her feel comfortable with the message and messengers of the gospel. Lorenzo’s heart swelled with gratitude and love, and as he walked the grassy path of the Angrogna Valley, he reaffirmed that he would serve the Lord all his days.
