Love Finds a Home (Love Comes Softly Series #8) (13 page)

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"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

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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

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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?"

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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

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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. StaffordSmyth. "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.

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"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. 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.

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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

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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

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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