Opal (2 page)

He had enough split wood stacked to last for three winters.

‘‘Reverend Chandler?’’ The voice came from the front of the house.

‘‘Be right there.’’ He snagged his shirt off the tree branch where he’d hung it out of the way and with it wiped the sweat streaming down his face before shoving his arms in the sleeves. He had to get presentable before Miss Honey Witherspoon took it upon herself to come looking for him. He buttoned his shirt and stuffed the tails into his breeches, settling his suspenders back on his shoulders. After slicking his hair back, he set his black flatbrimmed hat in place before striding around the side of the cottage that belonged to the Valley Bible Church, his first parish.
What do I say this time?
But then, with Miss Witherspoon one rarely had the opportunity to speak.

At twenty-six and unmarried, not even betrothed, he was considered one of the better catches in this small town that was spreading up the hillsides of the Dubuque Valley. He knew the designs of the valley mamas, having been warned by one of the well-seasoned men who thought all men should remain free of encumbrances for as long as possible. Not that the man’s own state of servitude to the wife of his youth had anything to do with his sentiments.

‘‘Why, Miss Witherspoon, how nice of you to come calling.’’ The young woman fit the name she’d been christened with. Honey. Gold of hair, sweet of smile, and cloying to the ear and palate as she simpered her way through life—most recently with her sights on the single minister. Or perhaps it was her mother’s sights.

Her laugh grated on his ears. But perhaps after the discussion he’d just had with the woodpile, even a visit from an archangel would have grated. He kept his smile in place, but under no circumstances was he inviting her inside.

‘‘I brought some chocolate cookies, still warm from the oven. Mama said you would be in need of some refreshment after your grueling hours of chopping wood.’’

‘‘Why, thank you.’’ He took the proffered basket and, peeking beneath the napkin, inhaled the aroma of fresh chocolate. ‘‘And thank your mother for me too.’’ He set the basket down on the stoop and eased her toward the gate. How had they known he was chopping wood? Surely the village grapevine didn’t include the daily activities of the local pastor.

‘‘Mama said to invite you for dinner, that surely when you’ve been working so hard—’’ she gave an approving stare to his sweat-darkened shirt—‘‘you might like a home-cooked meal.’’

‘‘Thank you, but I must finish my sermon. I find that chopping wood helps clear my brain and gets the thoughts flowing.’’

‘‘Oh, well . . .’’

‘‘Again, thank your mother for me and extend my most humble apologies.’’

‘‘Another time, perhaps.’’ After reaching the outside of the gate, she glanced from it to him, perplexity obvious on her brow.

Neither she nor her mama were used to being turned down, he suspected. ‘‘I’ll see you in church in the morning, then?’’

‘‘Yes, of course. I’ll be practicing my solo later this afternoon if you . . .’’

‘‘Thank you, but I’ll be working through until supper, most likely.’’ He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and backed toward the house. ‘‘Have a good afternoon.’’ When she twirled her parasol over her shoulder, he picked up the basket and entered the front door. With a sigh of relief, he took out one cookie and made swift work of it in two bites. After two more cookies he set the basket on the kitchen table and crossed to the cookstove to rattle the grate and add a couple of small pieces of kindling to the blinking coals. By the time his pot of soup warmed, he’d be cleaned up and ready to attack the sermon again. Glancing out the back window, he resolved to stack the newly cut wood before dark. After all, neatness was next to godliness, at least according to his father.

As long as he refused to let any thoughts of his own life intrude, he applied the Bible verses, added a few thoughts about the meanings of the verses according to the Greek, and tied it all up in a neat bundle of remonstrance and encouragement, being careful to stay far from any accusations or judgmental phrases. As one of his professors in seminary had said,
‘‘Let God’s Word speak
for itself. It has far more power than you.’’

As he finished his preparation, Jacob remembered he needed to call on Mr. Dumfarthing, one of the founders of the congregation and now bedridden due to a fall on the last ice of the winter. Leaving the spare bedroom that he used for an office, he noticed a slight distaste in his mouth. Not that the distaste was for the task of calling, but the sermon still rankled. If he’d managed to become so convicted himself, he was sure to hear about it from one of the parishioners. Hellfire and brimstone didn’t go over well in such a fine Christian community as Dubuque Valley. Not that he’d ever been much of a hellfire man himself.

He stacked the wood before he left, tucked a couple of the cookies into a napkin, and set out down the street to the Dumfarthing residence, one of the larger homes of gray cut granite. Five large houses faced Valley Avenue, protected by cast-iron fences and shaded by ancient oaks that never had the temerity to drop branches on the slate roofs or disfigure the stately matrons in any way. With window-eyes half lidded by shades, the stately dowagers were falling into disarray, as the mining had played out and the land wasn’t much good for farming. It was too steep for crops, though sheep did all right.

He turned in at the middle drive and strode on up the walk that was lined with primroses and pansies, the only bright colors, as even the lawns were looking shabby because of the deep shade from the newly leafed-out trees. A squirrel chattered at him, flicking his tail and darting for the tree trunk. A robin sang for his mate somewhere in the tops of the trees.

Jacob leaped the three stone steps and let the lion-headed knocker fall against the plate on the front door. The oval cut-glass pane housed two spiders with opposing webs woven down in the lower curve of the frame. When nothing happened he knocked again, this time clapping the chin of the lion’s head on the plate with some force.

The door slowly opened, and the housekeeper stood back, motioning him to enter. ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing will see you, but don’t wear him out with a long visit.’’

‘‘Of course not. Thank you, Mrs. Howard.’’ Jacob removed his hat as he stepped into the foyer, which was in desperate need of some lighting, by candles or gas, he wasn’t sure which.

‘‘Have you taken Mr. Dumfarthing out for an airing on the back verandah, as the doctor suggested? Or here on the front porch when the sun is warm?’’

‘‘He said he did not feel up to it.’’ She shut the door behind Jacob. ‘‘I can do nothing if he is not willing.’’

‘‘If it is as nice tomorrow as it is today, I will come by after church, and together we will just pick him up and move him outdoors.’’

Was that a smile he saw hiding again after an oh-so-brief excursion into the light? ‘‘I brought some cookies, so would you be so kind as to bring up hot tea?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ She hid a snort behind her ever-present handkerchief. ‘‘Who was it this time?’’

‘‘Miss Witherspoon.’’ He almost added, ‘‘Miss
Honey
Wither-spoon,’’ but one should be proper, especially if one was the minister. ‘‘Chocolate?’’

‘‘Hmm.’’

‘‘Nuts?’’

‘‘No. I ate several to make sure.’’

‘‘You are most considerate.’’ She turned before he could be absolutely certain that smile had twinkled out, then led him back to the dining room, which had been turned into a temporary bedroom since Mr. Dumfarthing’s fall.

‘‘Reverend Chandler to see you.’’ She might well have been a herald in an old English court. Although she had left off the ‘‘sir.’’

‘‘Well, show him in without all the falderal.’’ The wizened man in the bed pushed himself up higher on his pillows. While his body was failing, his mind and his temper ran neck and neck toward the finish line.

‘‘Good to see you, Mr. Dumfarthing.’’ Jacob stepped to the side of the bed. ‘‘I hoped you might be up in a chair enjoying the sunshine on this fine May day.’’

‘‘I’ve told you to call me Evan.’’ The withered man pointed to a chair in the corner. ‘‘Drag that over here so I don’t get a crick in my neck looking up at you. Matilde gone for tea?’’

Jacob had a hard time thinking of the dour woman who guarded the house as Matilde, but then, the two of these ancients had known each other for many years and through more secrets than he ever cared to know about. Even though his call on Mr. Dumfarthing had become a weekly event, they had yet to develop any feeling of friendship between them. He sat, they drank tea, discussed Mr. Dumfarthing’s view of the medical profession or the weather, and when the old man appeared to be falling asleep, Jacob would excuse himself and leave. His first action on leaving the gloom of the moldering house and its inhabitants would be to take a deep breath of fresh air and resist the urge to dance down the stone steps. His obligation was over for another week.

Today he’d decided to do something different. He’d brought his Bible, and even if the old man huffed and puffed, he planned to read something. Possibly the Scriptures for the week.

Chair in place, he sat himself and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. ‘‘I could help you outside, you know.’’

‘‘If I wanted to go outside, I’d go outside.’’

‘‘Really? How would you get there?’’

‘‘I’d walk. Same as you.’’

‘‘Wonderful. I didn’t realize you’d been up and around.’’

‘‘Goes to show you don’t know everything. Now, why’d you come?’’

Jacob kept his relaxed posture in spite of the zing to his midsection. ‘‘Because you belong to my congregation, and I try to visit all those who cannot make it to service.’’

‘‘What if I said don’t come any more?’’

Jacob thought for a moment, sending a plea for wisdom upward. The Word promised wisdom in liberal doses to all who asked.

‘‘Ha. Cat got your tongue?’’

‘‘Being of the stubborn sort, I would most likely come anyway.’’ ‘‘Hoping to wear me down so I’ll leave more of my money to the church, eh?’’

Leaning forward, Jacob looked the man straight in the eyes.

‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing, Evan, I want you to understand something and understand it well.’’ He spoke softly but enunciated most clearly. ‘‘I do not give a fig or a farthing how much you give or leave to the church. That is between you and God. I come to visit you because, when I took on this congregation, every member became part of my family, and I agreed to be the shepherd of that family. Visiting the sick and shut-ins is part of my job as shepherd, and I don’t ever want to stand before the Lord God and have to admit to failing my flock. I know I fail in untold ways, but I do what I can and count on God for the blessing.’’
And the increase of
faith for all
. But he kept that part to himself.

Mr. Dumfarthing nodded, then nodded again. ‘‘Well said, young man. Guess I was just testing you. And you passed. Now let’s have our tea, and since you brought that book along, you might as well read me some. My eyes being not what they used to be, I don’t read much anymore.’’

‘‘Would you like me to read to you more often?’’

‘‘That would be fine, long as you don’t go pestering me to get out in the sun.’’

‘‘Agreed.’’
But you can’t stop me from praying for you, and one of
those prayers is that you will get out in the sun and let God’s warmth flow
through and heal you
.

They chatted on their usual topics while they finished their tea, and Jacob managed to keep from mentioning that the doctor might have wisdom on his side when prescribing sun and fresh air.

‘‘Thought I’d read the passages for this week and the ones I’ve based my sermon for tomorrow on, if you don’t mind.’’

‘‘As long as it isn’t Revelation, anything is fine by me.’’

‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’ Jacob flipped to the passages he’d struggled over. How much easier it would be to read a psalm or two or one of the miracles. Instead he turned to the words of Jesus in Matthew. ‘‘‘If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.’’’

Silence resounded in the room, bouncing off the long windows, riffling the sheers and blowing under and around the bed.

‘‘Did you read that on purpose?’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘Come to preach at me, like?’’

Jacob kept his finger in the place and set his foot back on the floor. The thud sounded loud in the stretching silence. ‘‘No, sir. As I said, I was reading the lesson and the Gospel for the day.’’

‘‘You don’t know about my brother?’’

‘‘No, sir. You’ve never told me.’’ While he’d heard many things, a few of them less than complimentary, about Mr. Dumfarthing, he’d not heard of a brother. Besides, he’d quickly learned that stories told by others tended toward exaggeration. He’d promised himself to believe only what the person under discussion told him and even then to take it with a grain or three of salt.

‘‘Young man, you don’t begin to know about forgiveness.’’

‘‘I know that Christ died on the cross for our sins, for all the sins of mankind. Yours and mine included.’’

‘‘God’s forgiveness is far easier than man’s.’’

‘‘Christ paid the ultimate price.’’

‘‘I read the Scriptures. It says to forgive others as Christ has forgiven us. But what about when I didn’t forgive and now it’s too late?’’

‘‘It’s never too late.’’ Ah, if only he could believe those words himself.

‘‘He’s gone.’’

‘‘Dead?’’

‘‘Yes. And I was too stubborn to forgive him for what he done to me. Even when he asked.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing’s hands shook, as with the palsy. He raised them, then let them fall back to the coverlet. ‘‘And now I can’t forgive myself, either.’’

‘‘Christ says to lay our burdens on Him, to let Him carry them.’’

‘‘Do you honestly believe that?’’

‘‘Of course I believe it.’’ He could hear the sharp stab of his voice.

‘‘Ah, the believing is easy, the doing sometimes impossible.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing closed his eyes, the signal that Jacob should leave.