by Janette Oke
But Belinda watched as gently, and with skillful courtesy, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth steered the conversation in the direction she wished it to go.
“It seems from what you have said”—Mrs. Stafford-Smyth nodded toward Mr. Allenby—“that it isn’t possible for anyone to live perfectly. That all of us, in one way or anothah, at one time or anothah . . . well . . . sins,” she concluded, pinning him with his own words.
He sputtered a bit, but he finally conceded the point.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth then turned to Mr. Walsh. “And you think that heaven was made a special place—for those who rightfully belong there.”
He chuckled, nodding sociably. Mr. Walsh, with his unique sense of humor, did not seem able to take even eternity seriously.
“Well, I have reason to agree,” continued the lady. “If heaven were for everyone, as you believe, John,” she said, turning to Mr. Whitley, “then it seems to me it wouldn’t be one bit bettah than what we already have heah on earth. Soon we would have the killing, the war, the poverty—all the things we have at hand. That’s not the kind of heaven I would look forward to entering.”
Heads nodded solemnly.
“So the only thing left,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth went on, “is the business of how one gets to go there.”
Mrs. Whitley fidgeted morosely, her face looking pale again. Mrs. Allenby darted a look at her hostess, then seemed to measure her distance to the door. Belinda wondered if she was going to rush out.
The men still seemed perfectly unaware of the direction and intent of the conversation. To them it was a jolly good discussion, with some life—some spirit. They hadn’t enjoyed anything quite as much for a long time, their expressions indicated.
“We make our own heaven,” argued Mr. Whitley. “If we are miserly and mean and can’t get along with our fellowman, we live and die that way.”
“But that’s not exactly right,” argued Mr. Allenby. “There has to be something beyond life—we all know that in here.” He placed his hand over his chest.
“What gives us the right to determine who gets to heaven—and how? We are no different than our neighbor,” said Mr. Walsh with some spirit, looking like he had scored a good point, even though he did not feel too strongly about the matter.
“Exactly!” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth emphatically, making Mr. Walsh beam even more. “Exactly. We do not have the right to do that.”
There were nods around the table, everyone seeming to agree. And then Mrs. Stafford-Smyth folded her napkin carefully, looked evenly at her guests, and continued. “Only God has that right. And He tells us exactly how it’s to be. We are all sinnahs—every one of us—just like you said, Wilbur. We won’t be allowed entrance into heaven,” she said with a nod toward Mr. Walsh. “Not in our sinful condition. That is what the crucifixion was all about—Christ, the sinless Son of God, dying in ou-ah place. The only hope we have of heaven is in recognizing and accepting what He has done for us.
“How did that Scripture say it, Belinda? ‘While we were yet sinnahs, Christ died for us.’ It’s just as you said, Mr. Walsh. Heaven is for a selected group. Those who believe and accept what Christ has done.”
She turned then to Mr. Whitley. “And you were right, too—almost. We do determine our own destiny. We don’t make our own heaven or hell, but we do make our own choices that determine which place we will go to. God does not condemn anyone. He has provided heaven for the just—through faith. And hell is for the unjust—the unbelievers. By choosing Christ’s salvation or by choosing to go ou-ah own way, we determine which one shall be ou-ah abode.”
Those around the table drew a collective breath. The conversation had suddenly gotten rather personal. But Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was not finished.
“It took me a long time to see that,” she admitted. “Fact is, the truth just came home to me a few Sundays ago. I finally saw it—understood it. So I did just as Scripture says. I repented of my sin and I accepted what Christ did for me so long ago. I thanked Him for it and asked Him to help me live the rest of my life as He wants it lived. I was slow . . . I know. I had heard the message all those yeahs and still didn’t properly understand it. I do hope that you all have been much more spiritually wise than I have been. I really don’t understand how I could have been so blind . . . for so long.”
Then Mrs. Stafford-Smyth flashed her dinner guests a winning smile. “Still,” she said kindly, “it is a truth to be thinking on. Not one of us heah is getting any youngah. It is wise to be sure we’re ready for the hereaftah.” Then after a pause, allowing time for quiet reflection, with a complete change of tone she said, “Windsah, would you serve the coffee, please?”
Twelve
The Bend in the Road
A few days later Mrs. Celia Prescott came to call at Marshall Manor. She chatted on for a while about the past trip to New York, the new spring fashions, the play at the local theater, but all the time that she babbled on and enthused over this and that, Belinda had the feeling the woman had something else on her mind.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Belinda said when they had finished their tea, “it’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll take a little walk in the garden.” The two ladies nodded and Belinda left. She couldn’t have explained why, but she had the impression Mrs. Prescott might want to talk privately with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
Belinda stayed out in the garden talking with old Thomas, enjoying the clear air and bold sunshine, until she heard Mrs. Prescott’s carriage leave the yard.
When she went in, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth still sat in the chair where Belinda had left her, her open Bible in her lap. At the sound of Belinda’s step she lifted her head. “We need to pray,” she said simply. “Celia is . . . is struggling.”
“What—?” Belinda began, but Mrs. Stafford-Smyth interrupted her.
“She is just like I was—blinded to the truth. She wants so badly to be ‘good enough’ to get to heaven on her own. To admit that she is a sinnah—well, that puts her on a common level with all mankind—and Celia has nevah thought of herself as common.” But she said this without indictment in her voice.
“How foolish and proud we are,” mourned the elderly lady, tears forming in her eyes. “The creature trying to outwit the Creator. Pretending to be something we know we are not. Why do we do that, Belinda?”
Belinda had no answer.
“Well, we will just keep praying,” declared Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “Who knows what the Spirit might do in the hearts of the ones who listened to His Word the othah night?”
One result of that dinner-party discussion was completely unexpected—even to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth and Belinda, who had been praying. It was loyal, dignified Windsor who responded to the truth of the Scriptures as they had been discussed that evening. The butler had stood patiently and unobtrusively by, serving the dinner guests as they animatedly discussed the meaning of the Scripture passage.
But the truths that had been presented so simply had touched the heart of the old man, and in the privacy of his own chambers, he had turned in faith to the Savior.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was overjoyed. Though Windsor did not want to be fussed over regarding his well-thought-out decision, it did cause no small stir in the household as it came to be known.
Windsor summoned Belinda, his face ashen white and his voice choked with emotion. “Come quickly, miss,” he trembled. “Something is the matter with M’lady.”
Belinda sped from the room. She had been sitting alone waiting for Mrs. Stafford-Smyth to join her for breakfast.
“Call the doctor,” she flung over her shoulder as she ran.
A shocked Sarah stood at the bedroom door wringing her hands and sobbing. She had discovered her mistress when she had gone in to help her dress. Belinda rushed past her to reach the older woman. She could be seriously ill was Belinda’s frantic thought. She might need immediate attention.
But as she bent over the woman, it was quickly obvious to Belinda that a doctor would avail nothing. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was gone.
She had passed away sometime during the night—without a struggle, probably without pain.
Belinda stood clasping her hands tightly together, too stunned to cry. Oh, God, she prayed silently, what do we all do now? How will we manage to go on without her?
She reached down to draw the hands over the older woman’s bosom and lift the sheet carefully to cover the face.
“Oh, Aunt Virgie,” she said aloud, her voice catching, “I loved you so.”
The tears came then, deep, sobbing tears. Belinda lowered herself to the floor, leaned her head against the bed, and let sorrow overtake her.
The doctor and Windsor found her there, her body trembling, her eyes swollen from crying.
“Come, miss,” Windsor said kindly and lifted her to her feet. He led her from the room while the doctor performed whatever duty was required. She allowed herself to be guided downstairs by Windsor’s steadying hand.
“Sit here,” Windsor said, lowering Belinda to a chair. “I’ll fetch some tea.” Belinda wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the strength. What does it matter? she thought distractedly. I’ll sip from the cup if Windsor wants.
The hush over the house was broken only by a sob now and then as one staff member or another worked to contain his or her grief.
Belinda remembered very little about the rest of the day—the rest of the week. She moved as one in a dream—unfeeling, unnoticing, except for the huge, painful emptiness within her. Over and over she asked herself, “What will we all do now?” But there didn’t seem to be any immediate answer.
She phoned LeSoud’s and ordered appropriate mourning garments delivered. Windsor and maybe Celia Prescott took care of the funeral arrangements and sent notices to those who should know. Many bouquets were delivered to the door. Belinda watched as they covered the mantel and then the tables in the parlor. The flowers meant nothing to her. Aunt Virgie is gone echoed numbly through her mind, over and over.
Somehow everyone made it through the awful day of the funeral. Belinda watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Around the grave stood the friends and the staff of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. Franz and Pierre had sent telegrams and flowers, not having enough travel time to make it to the funeral.
It all was so . . . so final to Belinda. She found it difficult to fathom—to believe that their dear friend was gone. But no one could change the fact.
Back at the house, Belinda laid aside her veiled black hat. She stripped the black gloves from her shaking fingers and turned to Windsor. “Please don’t bother with dinner for me,” she said through lips stiff with grief. “I’m really not hungry.”
He nodded and quietly left.
Silently Belinda climbed the stairs to her room.
Sometime later there was a tap on Belinda’s door. She stirred restlessly in her chair by the window. Who could want me? she wondered. And why? Surely no one had the poor judgment to come calling on such a day.
Belinda called an invitation to enter, dabbing at her tearstained cheeks as she did so. Windsor stood there, rigid as always but with a softness to his face.
“I brought some tea, miss,” he explained and moved into the room to set the tray on the low table.
Belinda stirred and murmured a thank-you of sorts.
Windsor straightened—and then broke his code of many years, speaking personally to one he served.
“She had a great feeling for you, miss. You were to her as her own flesh and blood. She told me that often. And . . . and I know you loved her, too, miss. We all did.”
He hesitated.
“But . . . but she wouldn’t want you grieving like this, miss. So hopelessly. She . . . she went as she would have chosen to go. Silently—quickly. Without pain or fuss. In her own bed. You must allow her the honor of dignity, miss. Even in her dying.”
Another pause. Windsor had Belinda’s complete attention now.
“And one more thing, miss,” he went on softly. “She was ready to meet her Lord. If it had happened before—even only weeks ago—she may not have been ready. We have you to thank for that, miss . . . and I thank you with all my heart.”
Windsor bowed and was gone before Belinda could comment.
Somehow they all managed to muddle through one day after another. The house seemed to be managed without Belinda giving it much thought. She had little knowledge of what made such a big house run smoothly, so she was more than willing to let the staff continue on in their own way.
What do I do now? became her constant question. She supposed the staff was asking questions. They all would continue in their present positions for some period of time until the estate was settled. But after that, they would no longer have employment, either.
When she was able to reason clearly again, she sat down on a bench beside a bed of Thomas’s roses to try to think through her situation.
Aunt Virgie is gone, she began. There is no longer any reason for me to stay here.
She plucked a rose petal from the grass and held it to her lips. Then a new idea came to her, and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it immediately.
I’ll go home, of course, she determined. Back to where I belong. The plan pleased her.
But then came the unwelcome thought, I don’t really fit there anymore. When I was home for my visit, I felt like . . . like I didn’t belong. I have gotten used to a different kind of life—fine living, a big house, nice things.
But even as the truth of it all came boldly to Belinda, she flinched. “I don’t want to be like that,” she declared out loud. “I haven’t any business expecting to be pampered and spoiled the rest of my life.”
Her thoughts continued. That’s not of God. I came here to help an elderly lady who needed my nursing skills. I did that to the best of my ability. Now that she’s gone, I’m no longer needed here. Surely . . . surely God won’t allow me to just curl up in an easy chair and forget about the rest of the world.
Belinda was sure God had something else—some other task for her to do.
I’m going back home, she said to herself determinedly. The staff can continue running the house without me. I’m going home.
Belinda had not yet worked out what she might do at home. That was the next question she tackled.
I’ll do as Luke said, she decided. I’ll find a new spot for myself. I may not fit where I once was, but I need to find my roots again. I’ll find a new place of service. It might take me a while to sort it all out—but with God’s help, I’ll do it.
With her resolve firmly in place, Belinda rose to move from the garden back inside the manor. A wonderful peace had settled over her. At least now she knew what she would do next. She would go home—back to family and friends—and find some way to serve God in her own town.
Belinda said nothing of her plans to the staff. She had much to do. There would be all the sorting and packing, and she had to make train reservations and write to Luke. Perhaps . . . just perhaps, she thought, he will be able to use a rather out-of-practice nurse. She felt it would take her a while to get back into formal nursing again—to be able to put in a full day’s work. But I can do it. I’m strong and healthy. There is no reason I can’t soon be a help to the medical clinic.
She certainly wouldn’t need all the fancy silks and satins to go back with her to her hometown. Folks would think she was putting on airs if she were to be dressed in so fancy a manner. Belinda wanted no such distance between her and the other townspeople. I’ll have to find out what can be done with these dresses, she thought.
But the first task was the letter. Belinda sat down at the small writing desk and pulled her stationery forward. She had just dipped her pen for the first stroke when there was a knock on the door. Ella entered when Belinda called, “Come in.”
“Windsor asked me to fetch you, miss,” Ella apologized. “It seems the magistrate wishes to see you in the library. Windsor is preparing tea.”
Belinda frowned as she left the room and made her way to the library. She assumed that this man had some
thing to do with the affairs of the late Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. But what have I to do with that? Do they have some questions concerning the death? I was, after all, the nurse—though I was not present exactly at the time. Still, Belinda realized, if there were questions, it was logical to ask the attending medical person.
Nervously she smoothed her gown and made her way down the stairs. She found Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s attorney seated at the big oak desk in the library. He looked quite at home there. Belinda had seen him on more than one occasion.
He rose as Belinda entered the room and motioned her to a chair before him. Then he turned to acknowledge a second gentleman who sat in a chair by the fireplace. “Mr. Brown is our witness,” he explained, which made no sense at all to Belinda.
Belinda settled herself in silence and waited for Mr. Dalgardy to begin.
He cleared his throat and tapped his finger on the oak. Then he looked at Belinda over the rims of his glasses and cleared his throat again.
“We have the matter of the will,” he said without emotion. “It is time for us to take some action.”
Belinda nodded, again wondering what it had to do with her. And then the man began to read in a droning, monotonous voice, legal jargon and long, strange words that meant absolutely nothing to Belinda.
Why is he reading this to me? Belinda wondered. I don’t understand a thing he is saying—and it really has nothing to do with me.
There was a pause in the reading while Windsor brought in the tea service. Belinda poured and the reading went on.
Eventually a few items began to make sense to Belinda. There was a generous amount stated for both Franz and Pierre. The attorney assured Belinda that he would care for the matter, while she watched him with wide-eyed puzzlement. There were certain items left to each member of the household staff and a provision made for their future. That made sense. Belinda had been sure Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would not leave her staff in need.
And then the man read on. “And to Miss Belinda Davis, my loyal nurse and dear friend, I leave the remainder of my estate in its entirety. . . .” The voice went on but Belinda heard no more. She held her breath and leaned forward in her chair, her hands turning cold.
