The Reluctant Bridegroom (6 page)

No! I won’t go back!
Stubbornly, Rebekah rose and paced the floor, struggling against the fear that gripped her. Her mind flew back and forth as she sought desperately for some solution. Many nights she had lain awake, trying to think of a way to support herself. But even if she found work, what about the baby? More than once she thought of writing to Tyler, but could not bring herself to do it.

All morning she stayed in the room, and in the afternoon she went outside. Her clothes were too thin for the bitter weather, but she hoped for something to happen—anything! She had eaten nothing at noon, for she had no more money. When she got back to the room late that afternoon, she finished the last of the food she had in store: two pieces of stale bread and a spoonful of jam. There was enough tea left to make one more pot, and she sat down to drink it as she watched the sunset from her window.

There was now not even a stick of wood left; even the cooking wood was gone, so she wrapped a blanket around herself and shivered. The street outside was almost empty as the darkness fell. One old man pushing a cart went by, then later two young girls passed, bundled up against the bitter cold.

The room darkened, and she stirred herself enough to light the stub of a candle. Her eyes fell on the book Mr. Mayberry
had given her, and she picked it up listlessly. Settling back in the chair with the blanket around her, she opened it and began to read. Her hands grew numb, but as she read she forgot them. She had gotten to the section of the journal where Gilbert Winslow told of what was called The General Sickness, and as she read, she tried to imagine it. She read the section dated January fourteenth.

A strange feeling came over Rebekah as she read the words: “Unless God helps us, we will all perish. . . . Do I believe He will come? . . . I will believe God! He
will
intervene!”

The room was dark and the bitter cold had numbed her fingers and her face—but now a peace flooded her heart. She had lived in the grip of fear and worry so long that she had almost forgotten what such peace was like. Nothing had changed, she knew. She still had no money, and no friends.
On the next day she would leave the room with no place to sleep. No one to help with the baby.

But something
had
changed in her heart. The fears that had racked her mind faded, and she relaxed in the chair and closed her eyes, letting the book fall to her lap. For a long time she sat there, simply resting and allowing that peace to wash over her like a healing balm. There was a sense of security that could not be expressed in words—although when she thought of it later, if there
could
have been words, they would have been: “I have not forgotten you, Rebekah.”

Finally she got up and blew out the candle, crawled into bed, and was asleep almost at once.

The next morning she rose in the cold and cracked the ice in the basin to wash her face. She dressed as warmly as she could; her few belongings went into one suitcase—she would ask Mrs. Kelly to keep the blankets until she could come back for them. There was no wood for fire, and no tea to make in any case, so she cleaned the room and took a last look around. The bitter memory of her last scene with Tyler tried to rise, but she shook her head and bent to take her suitcase, then paused.

Impulsively, she dropped to her knees beside the bed. Not so much to
pray
as to
wait.
Once again she felt the peace that had swept over her the previous night, and again she was certain that she had not been forgotten. Finally she rose, took the blankets and the room key to Mrs. Kelly, then came back and picked up her suitcase, leaving the room without a backward look. She went down the stairs and out into the street; there she wavered for an instant. Right or left? It didn’t matter. She turned left and walked away with firm steps.

In thirty minutes she passed along several streets, each a little more run-down and poverty-scarred than the last. The packed snow was dirty, and as she went farther, the cinders from the chimneys of factories fell like black snowflakes. Frame houses leaned against one another for support, ornamented by ragged washing that hung from lines in the barren
yards, and by children of all ages who played in the streets. Some blocks were lined with ugly brick buildings several stories high, sparsely scattered with smeared glass windows. Most of them had large chimneys, and dirty clouds of coal-smoke rose heavily to foul the skies.

The people she met were all poorly dressed, and once a man came up and put his hand on her arm. She could smell the liquor on him. “Come on, now!” he grinned drunkenly. “Let’s you and me have a li’l drink, sweetie!”

She pulled away, revolted, as he cursed and reeled down the street. For an hour longer she walked down the unpaved streets, and her feet were wet from wading through the dirty slush. It was almost ten o’clock when she came to the end of the industrial section. There was only one brick factory on her left, and six miserable unpainted shacks that seemed to huddle together for warmth. One woman was boiling something in a large black pot on an open fire, and an old man was being led inside one of the huts by a child.

Rebekah stood uncertainly, looking out at the fields where cows grazed and a few small farmhouses lay back from the winding road that led east. She was very cold, and her arm ached from carrying the suitcase. She was thirsty as well, her lips dry and her throat thick with the sharp, acrid smoke that churned from the factories.

Wearily she turned, and would have made her way back, but she heard a voice call. Turning, she saw the woman who was stirring the pot lift a hand and motion for her to come. She hesitated, then walked across the street and into the yard that was littered with trash mixed with the mush of dirty snow.

“You look all tired out, dearie,” the woman said. She herself looked quite worn; her body was thin beneath the shapeless woolsey dress, and her face pale except for two spots of red on her cheekbones. There were only traces of an earlier beauty left now; her hands were rough and reddened by hard work and by the cold, and her shoulders stooped. When she smiled,
her teeth were yellowed and stained.
Somewhere in her thirties,
Rebekah decided. The woman’s face was hardened by a rough life, but the kindness in her blue eyes warmed Rebekah.

“I’m a little tired,” Rebekah admitted. Then she asked, “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?”

“Why, ’course you can!” the woman replied. “You stir these clothes, and I’ll fix you a drink.”

Rebekah took the stick the woman had used to stir the clothes in the big black pot. As she pushed them around she noticed that most of the clothes were for a baby.

“Take this now, dearie!”

Rebekah drank the water, then smiled gratefully. “Thank you. I was so thirsty.”

“That’s the smoke as does that. I’m Mary Sullivan. What do they call you, dearie?”

“Rebekah Jackson.”

“My, what a pretty name!” She studied the girl before her openly. “You come all the way from downtown?”

“Yes. It’s a long way.”

“That it is. And it so cold and all—maybe you’d like to have some coffee and a bite of toast, and thaw out a bit before you go back?”

Rebekah hesitated, and the woman said a bit defensively, “ ’Course, it ain’t so fine, you know—”

“Oh no, it’s not that!” Rebekah said quickly. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

“Bother!” Mary scoffed. “Let me finish boiling these things out, and I’ll make us a warm snack.”

“Oh, let me do that!”

The woman looked at Rebekah strangely as she held out the washing stick. “That’ll be a help.” Quickly, Rebekah set down her suitcase and began stirring the clothes again.

Ten minutes later, Mary was back to say, “Let me wring these out, and we’ll have our coffee.”

“Let me help.”

Mary protested, “You’ll get your hands all red!” But
Rebekah only laughed, and the two of them quickly finished the job. Then Mary said, “Come on now,” and led her into the house.

It was dark, the only light coming from two small windows, and the floor was hard-packed earth. The small room contained a table and three chairs, an old mattress, a battered chest of drawers and a large box that had been made into a bed for a baby. The room was heated by a small fireplace, and the smell of fresh coffee and warm bread made Rebekah hungry.

“We’ll hang them clothes later,” Mary said. She went to pick up the baby, and holding him up said with a proud smile, “This is Mister Timothy Sullivan—ain’t he a fine man now?”

Rebekah moved closer and the baby peered at her, then gave a loud belch and smiled toothlessly. “Oh, he’s a fine boy!” she exclaimed. “Can I hold him?”

“Well—I can’t make no guarantees, Rebekah,” Mary said doubtfully. “He’s about as messy as the next one.”

“I don’t mind.” She took the baby and sat down in one of the chairs, pushing his fat cheeks with one finger, laughing when he made bubbles. She took his hand and examined it carefully, marveling at the perfect little nails.

She did not see Mary’s intent gaze, and looked up in surprise when she asked, “You like babies?”

“Why, everybody likes them, don’t they?”

Mary’s face tightened and she said shortly, “Not everybody.” Then she turned away and began to pour coffee into two mugs. She took two pieces of toast that had been browning over the fire in a wire grill, and set them on the table. “Let’s have a bite,” she offered. “Go ahead and put Timothy in his bed.”

“Can I hold him later?”

Mary hesitated, and once again her eyes brightened. “Sure you can—but let’s eat a bite first.”

Rebekah put the baby in the bed, then came and sat down. “I always thank the Lord for the food,” Mary said.

“I think that’s good, Mary.”

“Lord, we thank Thee for the food. Bless this guest and provide for all our needs. I ask it in the name of Jesus.” Then she looked up and smiled. “Have some of this jelly. Made it myself from berries that grow in the bog.”

They began to eat, and the toast and jelly was so good that Rebekah wolfed hers down. Mary noticed, and got up, saying, “I declare, I’m so hungry I could eat some more!” She made four more pieces of toast, but ate only one, saying, “Guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach—you’ll have to eat the rest, Rebekah.”

After they had eaten, Mary put some more coal on the fire and suggested, “If you’re in no hurry, we might talk a bit.”

“I’m in no hurry, Mary,” she replied. “I don’t have any place to go, anyway.”

Mary’s expression did not change. “What about your people?”

“I—I can’t go there.”

As they sat in front of the glowing coals, Rebekah found herself telling Mary Sullivan her story. It came out slowly, for parts of it were still difficult for Rebekah to talk about. Patiently the older woman listened, occasionally stopping her to ask a question. In less than an hour, Mary knew it all.

When Rebekah finished, she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to burden you with my troubles, Mary. It’ll work out somehow—but I guess I best be going now.” She started to get up, but Mary stopped her.

“Don’t go, Rebekah. I’m thinking we might be able to help each other.” Mary took a sip of coffee. “I’ve got me a job at the factory down the street. It’s hard work and it don’t pay much, but it’s more than lots of folks have. But I don’t have nobody to keep my baby.”

Rebekah saw that Mary’s eyes were anxious. “Are you asking me to do that, Mary?”

She nodded. “I don’t know if you’re a Christian or not, but I’ve been praying for God to send somebody to help me with
Timmy—and it comes to me you’re the one He’s sent.” She chuckled. “We entertain angels unawares, Mr. Finney said.”

Rebekah shook her head. “I’m no angel, Mary.” Looking outside, she murmured softly, “I have no place to go—and now my baby won’t have a father.”

“Mine never did either,” Mary answered, taking another sip of coffee. “I used to leave Timmy with a woman down the street, but she drinks terrible. I come home yesterday and she was passed out and him on the floor where she’d dropped him. I can’t stand that!”

Rebekah said slowly, “I’ve been praying too, Mary. Maybe God does want us to be together.” She rose and went to pick up the baby, then said, “I’m willing to do what I can.”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears, and she whispered, “Thank you, Lord Jesus! It’s just like Mr. Finney said—God always hears our prayers!”

“Who is Mr. Finney, Mary?”

“Why—Rev. Charles Finney. Surely you’ve heard of
him!
”

“I don’t think so.”

“He is an evangelist, Rebekah,” Mary said eagerly. “He made a church out of the Chatham Street Theatre and that’s where I was converted. Now I try to go to church every night I can.” She paused and smiled. “We’ll go tonight, Rebekah—me and you and Timmy! You won’t believe the preachin’ of our pastor, Rev. Finney!”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE ANXIOUS SEAT

The Free Church—an offshoot of the Chatham Street Chapel that had been established several years before—looked like any other church, but Rebekah could see that the people flowing steadily into the building were not the type who would normally frequent such a place. Most of them were poorly dressed factory workers and other members of the lower class.