The Visitor (18 page)

“How is it going?”

James Walker had slipped into Henry’s pew before he could exit.

“I’m exhausted,” the younger man admitted, even as Walker studied fatigue around his eyes. “Does God really want me to be someone I’m not?”

Walker chuckled a little, not able to help himself.

“Isn’t it like that for all of us, Henry? An emptying. A putting off of the sinful man we were and learning to walk in holiness?”

“Yes, I do see what you mean, but I must admit that I ask myself how talking to my sisters is a step toward holiness.”

Walker only stared at him.

“Yes, I know,” Henry acknowledged. “I’m showing that I put people ahead of things.”

“Did you work on it this week?”

“Yes. I realized I can say what I’m thinking.”

“Good.”

“I could tell they were quite amazed.”

“Your sisters?”

“Yes.”

Henry’s voice told of his bafflement, but Walker gripped his shoulder and smiled at him.

“You’re doing well, Henry. I’m proud of you. I’m expecting you Wednesday, and you can tell me how it’s gone, or we can talk about why it isn’t working.”

“All right. Thank you, Walker.”

“By the way, have you told your sisters that you’ve seen me?”

“No.” Henry looked surprised by the very thought, and Walker smiled again, not saying anything this time but communicating clearly with his eyes.

Pembroke

Tate was walking in the garden when Cassandra arrived in the middle of the following week. Aunt Harriet was not far off, but when Hastings took her to the door, she could see that Tate was on his own. The eye patches were still in place, and he was moving slowly, a tall cane in his hand, asking for directions from time to time.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Harriet called in greeting. “Come and join us.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Welcome, Miss Steele,” Tate said, smiling as her footsteps neared. “How are you this fine day?”

“I’m very well, and I don’t need to ask how you are doing. Indeed, I can see you won’t need anyone to do anything as dull as reading.”

“Your reading is never dull,” Tate assured her gallantly. “But I will admit to you that this is a very nice change.”

“Indeed it is. I think we could stand a full spring and summer of such days.”

“I quite agree with you,” Tate said, even as he asked himself if he would be able to see her by the end of summer.

“Would you like a basket?” Harriet offered as she approached.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said with a smile. “Is there anything I shouldn’t pick?”

“No,” Harriet said with a laugh. “Take anything that catches your eye.”

“I’ll need a bigger basket,” Cassandra teased, not noticing the way Tate simply stood and listened to her.

“I’ll just follow along with you,” Tate now said, proud of how calm he managed to keep his voice. “You can tell me what you’ve picked and allow me to smell one on occasion.”

“All right,” Cassandra agreed.

Tate, thinking his last line had made him sound like a lovesick school boy, relaxed when he heard her normal tone.

“Do you have a favorite color in flowers?” Cassandra asked after she’d stopped next to a bush full of pale lavender blooms.

“Probably yellow, although I’m also rather partial to red.”

Cassandra laughed. “That was an interesting combination.”

“It’s this fresh air,” Tate explained. “It clears the mind and then muddles it again.”

“Another interesting combination.”

“I can see I’m only going to be teased today.”

Cassandra smiled and reached for another stem, having completely forgotten to tell Tate of the flowers she was collecting.

“You’re off to a good start, Cassandra,” Harriet commented, suddenly back beside them on her way across the yard. “Oh, Tate,” she kept on. “She has mostly red and yellow blooms. Just like you enjoy.”

Harriet kept moving, or she would have seen the blush that stained Cassandra’s cheeks.

“You haven’t let me smell anything,” Tate said quietly when Cassandra didn’t speak.

“Here,” she pressed a flower into his hand. “Try this.”

“Very nice.” Tate fingered the petals. “Shall I name it?”

Rather amused, Cassandra said, “Yes, do.”

Cassandra watched as the tall man held the bloom to his nose, his brow creased in concentration.

“I believe this should be called fire dragon.”

“How did you know that flower by its scent?” Cassandra asked, thoroughly amazed.

Tate laughed. “After my mother died, Aunt Harriet insisted that I develop the love for flowers that Mother had.”

“How old were you?”

“It was before my tenth birthday.”

“And did it work?”

“Yes. I’m fascinated with horticulture in general.”

“Do flowers never make you sad?”

“At first, that’s all they did. I cried much of the time. But then Mother’s delight of flowers came to me. She was so taken with every blossom and garden. In time they all served as lovely remembrances, not just painful reminders.”

For the first time, Cassandra wished she could see his eyes. His voice had been so thoughtful and warm. It hadn’t been hard to read, but seeing his eyes would have added to Cassandra’s understanding.

“What are you going to pick now?” Tate asked gently, almost as if he could feel her eyes on him.

“I think these small roses,” she said, turning swiftly and deciding just as fast.

Tate wasn’t certain he should have distracted her, but somehow he thought she might need rescuing. He found himself wishing he could see her eyes. He’d have known then what was on her mind.

His very small sigh went unnoticed. He moved slowly with Cassandra, just content to be near her, and reminding himself yet again that he was supposed to be resting.

Blackburn Manor

“I came across these verses this week, Henry. Can I share them with you?”

“Please.”

The men had finished lunch and settled in the study. From his place on the leather sofa, James Walker opened his Bible to Romans 12. Henry leaned close to see the words as Walker read.

“‘Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good. Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love, in honor preferring one another.’”

“I have those very verses underlined in my Bible, Walker,” Henry told him. “I’ve read and studied them, but they don’t open my mouth any easier.”

Walker thought for a moment. There were many things he could say to that, but only one really stuck in his mind at the moment.

“Why don’t you write your sisters a letter?”

“They live with me, Walker,” Henry clarified, as though the elder of the two had forgotten this point.

“I realize that, but you have all these thoughts in your mind. Why not try to put them on paper? Start the letter by explaining how difficult it is for you to share in person, but that you’re trying. I know Lizzy and Cassandra. They will understand.”

Henry sat back, his eyes on some distant spot as the idea took seed in his mind.

“That’s perfect, isn’t it? I mean, they’ll at least stop staring at me so oddly when I do try to communicate.”

Walker laughed a little.

“Is that still happening?”

Henry even managed to chuckle.

“Cassie nearly filled her lap with hot tea the other morning. I thought I should confine my comments to when she’s standing on solid ground with only a book or flower in her hand.”

Walker saw great humor in this, and it took some moments before they went on to the other verses he had looked up. Henry determined to memorize a few of them and trust God to remind him when they were needed. All in all, the men spent four hours together. By the time Henry left, he was very tired, but God was changing his heart, he could tell. And he also had the comfort of knowing that Walker was expecting him the very next week.

“Does your heart overflow with awe for our Creator God?” Pastor Hurst asked the congregation on Sunday morning. “Look at chapter 1, verse 9. ‘And he said unto them, I am an Hebrew; and I fear the Lord, the God of heaven, which hath made the sea and the dry land.’

“Did you catch that? Look at the way Jonah describes his God. ‘The Lord, the God of heaven, which made the sea and dry land.’ This is not just any old god. And now look at verse 10. ‘Then were the men exceedingly afraid, and said unto him, Why hast thou done this? For the men knew that he fled from the presence of the Lord, because he had told them.’

“The moment they hear whom Jonah serves, they are terrified. No matter what they had believed in up to this time, they knew this was not the same. This was not some stone variety god that sits mute on a pedestal somewhere in their home or on the hillside of their village. This God was real and alive, and He’d made the sea that was working to smash their ship to pieces. Why do I know this? Verse 11, ‘Then said they unto him, What shall we do unto thee, that the sea may be calm unto us? For the sea wrought and was tempestuous.’

“They weren’t just offering lip service here. They asked Jonah what they could do to appease this huge Creator God. And what does he tell them? That’s right, throw him overboard. But they don’t want this murder on their hands, and they do all they can to avoid that.”

Pastor Hurst took a small breath. He was so excited about what he’d been studying that he feared he would rush ahead of himself and miss a point. He made himself calm down before going on.

“The reason I’m so excited about Jonah right now is that I’ve spent way too many years concentrating on the prophet. Jonah was so flippant in his response to God, but the people he spoke with about his God fell to their knees. I’ve always read Jonah and thought to myself, ‘That’s right, Jonah, you can’t run from God.’ And amid that thought I’ve missed the example of both the sailors and the people of Nineveh in terms of repentance. No light response there. Their reaction is staggering: terror, fear, belief, repentance.

“I’ve been struck anew by how lukewarm my own response can be. Am I as awestruck as I need to be? Do I understand the magnificent God in whom I am to delight? I love these sailors. I love their immediate response. I don’t want to have a tempest rising up on all sides of me in order for God to get my attention, but if that’s what it takes, I’m willing. I’m willing for God to do whatever He must so I can understand and obey Him better.”