Betsy's Return Page 9

  He released a frustrated groan. “Suit yourself, but you’ll never feel at home in Walnutport unless you learn to mingle.”

  She pursed her lips and kept piling things into the wicker basket.

  William rose from the blanket. “Have a nice walk, Mrs. Bevens.”

  A short time later he found Hiram Nelson lying under the shade of a leafy maple tree. The man’s eyes were closed, and his steady, even breathing indicated that he must be sleeping. William was about to walk away, when the reverend said, “Don’t run off. I’d like to talk to you.”

  William jumped. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “Nope. Just resting my eyes.” Hiram sat up and motioned William over to the blanket. “Have a seat, and we can visit awhile.”

  “Are you sure I’m not interrupting your nap?”

  “I can sleep any old time.” He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I only said I wanted to take a nap so my daughter would feel free to leave my side and spend some time with her friends.”

  William glanced across the grassy area near the towpath and spotted Betsy sitting on a blanket beside Kelly and her sister, Sarah. “A couple of women from church have mentioned to me that Betsy doesn’t socialize much.”

  “That’s because she spends all her time washing and mending clothes for the canalers and, of course, tending to my needs.”

  “Betsy takes good care of you. It’s obvious that she loves you very much.”

  “And I love her.” Hiram pointed to the towpath where Mrs. Bevens walked alone. “Your housekeeper takes care of your basic needs, too, but she’ll never take the place of a wife.”

  William’s mouth dropped open. Surely Rev. Nelson wasn’t in on the plot to see him married off, too.

  “I wouldn’t be so bold as to try and pick a wife for you,” Hiram continued, “but I do think if you found the right helpmate it would benefit your ministry.”

  “But—but you have no wife, and from what I’ve heard, you got along just fine,” William sputtered.

  Hiram pulled his fingers through his thinning brown hair. “I was widowed when Betsy was a young girl, and many people thought I should find another wife.”

  “But you stayed single and did okay in your ministry. Am I right about that?”

  Hiram nodded. “Yes, but that was because I never found a woman I could love as much as Betsy’s mother. Abigail was a special lady, and she made me feel complete in so many...” His voice trailed off, as he stared into space.

  William sat there a few seconds, allowing Hiram the privilege of reminiscing. After a few minutes he touched the man’s arm. “I suppose I should let you get back to your nap. Unless there was more you wanted to say.”

  “Actually, there is one thing I’d like to mention.”

  “What’s that?”

  The older man cleared his throat. “This is ... uh ... a bit difficult for me to say, but I get the feeling that you might be putting a safe distance between you and your flock.” He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “At first I thought it was because you thought you were better than them, since you’re more educated and all.”

  A shock wave spiraled through William, but before he could offer a retort, Hiram added, “Now that I’ve gotten to know you better, I no longer believe that is true. I think the real reason you’re keeping your distance is because you’ve been hurt by someone—perhaps a woman.”

  William clasped his hands together so hard that two of his knuckles popped. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

  Hiram laid a hand on William’s shoulder. “If you want your ministry in Walnutport to succeed, then you’re going to have to do more than preach a good sermon. You’ll need to become part of the congregation—bring yourself down to their level: laugh with them, cry with them, become one of them. You must ask God to help you set your fears aside and become vulnerable enough to love and be loved by these people—and maybe by some special woman.”

  William blinked rapidly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just say you’ll think about what I’ve said and also pray about it.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I will.” William rose. “You look tired, and I probably should mingle a bit and get to know some of the boatmen.”

  Hiram smiled, and William noticed the moisture clinging to the man’s eyelashes. “Good for you, Pastor. Good for you.”

  As William started to walk away, two young boys raced past, shouting and tossing a ball back and forth as they zigzagged around the blankets where people sat visiting. “It’s a wonder those two don’t bump into someone,” he muttered.

  The boys kept running past the grassy area and onto the towpath. One threw the ball, and the other ran ahead to catch it, laughing and hollering as he went. William caught sight of his housekeeper again, standing along the edge of the canal, apparently deep in thought. He was about to call out a warning that a ball might be coming her way when the sphere of white whizzed through the air and smacked Mrs. Bevens on the back. She let out a muffled grunt and tumbled into the canal.

  William rushed toward the water, but Harvey Collins, one of the canalers, jumped in first. William stood on the bank of the canal, watching as Mrs. Bevens flailed about, hollering, “I’m drowning!” while poor old Harvey struggled to drag her to shore.

  Mrs. Bevens came out of the water, looking like a soggy scarecrow, and the unpleasant words she spewed told William she saw the incident as anything but funny. The finicky woman’s hair had come loose from its perfect bun and stuck out in odd directions. Her stylish dress that had once been neatly pressed and stiffly starched at the collar clung to her body like it had been soaked with glue.

  “Who did this to me?” Mrs. Bevens bellowed, as she spit water out of her mouth and stumbled onto shore. “I knew I should not have come here today!”

  “That dunk in the canal sure took the wind out of your snooty sails, didn’t it?” Harvey chuckled as he squeezed water out of his own sopping clothes.

  “Maybe what she needed was a good lesson in humility!” one of the other canalers called.

  William couldn’t argue with that. Mrs. Bevens did need to be taught a lesson, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her as she spluttered away. Even Mrs. Bevens didn’t deserve this kind of embarrassment.

  Betsy rushed forward with a quilt and wrapped it around Mrs. Bevens’s trembling shoulders. Not a word of thanks came from the woman’s quivering lips—not to Betsy for the quilt or to Harvey for saving her life. Mrs. Bevens needed a lot of prayer, and William knew that was one thing he could do without her scolding him for it. He stepped forward and offered his arm. “I think it’s time we went home, don’t you?”

  She gave a curt nod then tromped off toward William’s buggy.

  He nodded at Betsy and then at Harvey. “Thank you both for your kindness.”

  Chapter 16

  “I’ll be on the back porch, washing some clothes, if you need me for anything,” Betsy told her father as she positioned a small pillow behind his head, where he reclined on the sofa. He had come to the sitting room to read his Bible soon after breakfast, saying he wanted to spend time praying and meditating over God’s Word.

  I need to do that more often, too, Betsy thought, bending over to kiss his forehead.

  “Don’t work too hard, daughter. And always remember that I love you and wish you nothing but God’s best.”

  “I love you, too, Papa.” Betsy hurried out to the porch, anxious to get the washing out of the way so she could spend time with her father. She had convinced herself that if she cared for him properly, he would get well and things would be as they had been before his heart had started acting up. After seeing how well he’d done yesterday at the canal service, Betsy was beginning to believe that God might answer her prayers for a miracle.

  Returning to the kitchen, Betsy hauled a kettle of hot water out to the porch, poured it into the washtub, added some lye soap, and dropped in one of the canalers’ shirts. She reached into the
hot, soapy water and dipped the shirt up and down several times, making sure it was sufficiently wet.

  An image of Mrs. Bevens popped into her mind, and she bit back a chuckle. If she lived to be ninety, she didn’t think she would ever forget seeing William’s prim and proper housekeeper falling into the canal. Mrs. Bevens hadn’t offered Harvey Collins any thanks at all for saving her life. For that matter, she hadn’t thanked Betsy for the quilt she’d put around her shoulders.

  A prick of conscience made Betsy shake her head. “It’s not my place to judge Mrs. Bevens. Forgive me, Lord, for thinking such thoughts.”

  Betsy scrubbed the shirt against the washboard and gritted her teeth as she reflected on the way she used to be—self-centered and snobbish, always wanting her own way. She could have ended up just like Mrs. Bevens if she hadn’t turned her life over to God and allowed Him to soften her heart.

  She closed her eyes and offered up a heartfelt prayer. Dear Lord, help me remember to set a good example to others and remind me whenever necessary that, but for Your grace, I could still be a snooty, selfish woman.

  Some time later, when all the clothes had been washed and hung on the line to dry, Betsy entered the kitchen. She filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove with the intent of making her father his daily cup of hawthorn berry tea. While the water heated, she took a hunk of salt pork from the cooler, cut it into small pieces, and fried it in a pan to get the grease out, then she set it aside. She would add some potatoes, onion, tomatoes, and corn to the pot and then get some pork float cooking for their noon meal as soon as she had served Papa his tea.

  Betsy placed a teacup on a wooden tray, filled it with water and the proper amount of the herb, and then headed for the sitting room. She stepped through the doorway, halted, and gasped. Papa lay facedown on the floor.

  ***

  As William strolled down the sidewalk, prepared to make a few pastoral calls, he hummed his favorite hymn, “Where He Leads, I’ll Follow,” and thought about Sunday’s service and the picnic that had followed. Most events during the day had encouraged his soul. He’d gotten to know several of the boatmen, become better acquainted with those who attended his church, had a pleasant conversation with Betsy’s father, and filled his stomach with enough food to last him all week. The only sour note had been Mrs. Bevens’s unplanned dip in the Lehigh Canal.

  William couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman as he remembered how pathetic she’d looked when she came out of the water with porcupine hair and waterlogged clothes. The hoity-toity woman who’d gotten knocked into the canal had stepped onto dry land looking like an ordinary commoner. Unfortunately the incident hadn’t done anything to soften Mrs. Bevens’s heart.

  I wish I could think of some way to get my dear housekeeper to move back to Buffalo, he thought ruefully. Unless the Lord changes that frustrated woman’s heart, she will never fit in here.

  Reminding himself that he needed to focus on something positive, William continued his trek down the street with a firm resolve. I think I’ll make my first call at the Nelsons’ home and see how Hiram is doing.

  He had just turned onto Elm Street, when he almost collided with Betsy running at full speed. Her face looked pale, and her eyes were wide and full of fear.

  “Betsy, what’s wrong?” William clasped her shoulders.

  “It–it’s Papa. I was bringing him a cup of tea, and I f–found him lying on the floor. I couldn’t get him to respond, and I’m afraid he might be—” Betsy choked on the words, and William instinctively drew her into his arms. “I’ve—I’ve got to get Dr. McGrath to come now. He needs to see Papa right away,” she sobbed.

  Realizing how shaken she was, he said, “I’ll go with you to Dr. McGrath’s.”

  Betsy pulled free from his embrace and darted down the street. William followed at a fast pace, reaching for Betsy’s hand when he caught up to her. By the time they arrived at the doctor’s office, Betsy could barely speak. “It’s Papa. It’s Papa. I think he’s dead!” she gasped.

  The doctor grabbed his black bag, said a few words to his nurse, and ushered them quickly out the door. “Let’s take my carriage; it’s around back.” He nodded toward the back of the small building that served as his office.

  When they stepped inside the Nelsons’ home a short time later, William halted inside the door. Hiram lay on the sitting room floor, unmoving. Betsy rushed to her father’s side. Dr. McGrath knelt next to her, opened his bag, and removed a stethoscope. “Help me turn him over, would you, Rev. Covington?”

  William rushed across the room and dropped to his knees. Once they’d gotten Hiram turned onto his back, he could see that the man’s face was deathly pale. There was no movement in his chest. William waited as the doctor placed the stethoscope over Hiram’s heart so he could listen for a heartbeat.

  Several minutes went by, which seemed like an eternity, then Dr. McGrath removed the stethoscope and placed his thumb over Hiram’s wrist. He shook his head slowly as he looked over at Betsy. “There’s no pulse, and I detected no heartbeat either. I’m sorry, but your father is dead.”

  Betsy sat there staring at her father. “Papa,” she murmured.

  William reached for her hand. “Your father’s at peace now. He’s gone home to be with Jesus.”

  Betsy blinked. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling onto her flushed cheeks. “Just yesterday Papa said he was feeling better.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But his song and prayer during the canal service were an indication that he knew he was going to die.”

  William winced, feeling her pain as though it were his own. Apparently Betsy’s father had used the last of his strength to attend that service, and the song he’d sung and the prayer he’d prayed had been his final testimony.

  “Lord, help Betsy in the days ahead,” William prayed aloud. “Give her the strength and courage to go on.” He gulped. The Rev. Hiram Nelson’s funeral would be the first such service he’d ever conducted.

  Chapter 17

  As Betsy stood near her father’s coffin, she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to break down during his graveside service. She’d held up fairly well during the service at the church, so she must maintain control of her emotions here. Despite her resolve, she wasn’t sure how long she could hold out, for the pain in her heart was worse than any physical agony she’d ever endured. There seemed to be no answers to the questions filling her mind, and that only fueled her frustration. Why hadn’t God healed Papa’s heart? Why couldn’t He have given them a few more years together?

  “Dearly beloved, we have gathered today to pay our final tribute and respects to the Rev. Hiram Nelson.” Pastor William’s deep voice broke into Betsy’s thoughts, and her eyes snapped open.

  I must not break down. I must remain strong.

  “Forasmuch as the spirit of our departed loved one has returned to God, who gave it, we therefore tenderly commit his body to the grave.” William paused long enough to open his Bible. “In John 14:1–3, we are told: ‘Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.’”

  Papa’s in heaven. That thought should have offered Betsy comfort, but she only felt grief.

  “In John 11:25–26, Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’” William closed the Bible, and his gaze swept over the crowd of mourners. “May each of us find comfort in the knowledge that, while Hiram’s body is dead, his soul lives on. Because this dedicated man believed in Jesus and accepted Him as his personal Savior, he now abides with the heavenly Father, where there are many mansions.”

  In spite of Betsy’s resolve not to cry, tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her face, drip
ping onto the front of her black mourning dress. She felt all stirred up—as if her churning insides were as hot as coals. It was a comfort to know Papa no longer suffered and was now with Jesus, but oh, how she would miss him.

  As Pastor William led the group in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, Betsy pressed her lips together in an effort to keep from sobbing out loud. Instead of concentrating on the prayer, she thought about the funeral dinner Freda Hanson would be hosting at her house after the committal and wondered how she could get through the rest of the day.

  ***

  William didn’t know how he’d made it through Hiram’s funeral, but God had graciously given him the words he needed for the message he’d shared at the church and then at the cemetery. He hoped the words of condolence he’d offered to Hiram’s grieving daughter had been helpful, but he felt there was more he should have said.

  As the group of mourners entered the Hansons’ house, William prayed that God would show him, as well as others in the church, how to comfort Betsy in the days ahead.

  “You did a fine job conducting the funeral today,” Mike said, handing William a cup of coffee and steering him toward one of the tables that had been set up in the living room.

  Once he was seated, William took a tentative sip. Realizing the coffee was cool enough to drink, he gulped some down. “Thank you. As you may have guessed, this was the first funeral I’ve ever done, and I was a little nervous.”

  Mike thumped William lightly on the back. “It didn’t show. You seemed to be in perfect control.” He glanced across the room to where Betsy stood talking to Kelly. “Betsy seems to be holding up well, don’t you think?”

  William nodded but made no comment. Despite the fact that Betsy appeared to be doing all right, her eyes looked hollow and tired, like she hadn’t slept much since her father’s death.

  “I wonder if now that her father’s gone, Betsy will return to New York and her work with the Salvation Army.”