by Lynn Austin
“Why bother talking with anyone else,” Becky replied, “when he asks such fascinating questions?”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Flora said. She nestled close to her husband with a sigh. “I’m so glad the evening was a success. Maybe tomorrow we could—”
“I’ve invited Professor Dyk to come for dinner tomorrow,” Becky interrupted. “Remind me to let the cook know.” Her earlier nervousness had vanished, replaced by a strange look of satisfaction that Flora rarely saw on her sister’s face.
Flora stole a glance at Edmund, trying not to smile. “Wonderful,” she said. “Shall I see if any of our other friends are free to join us?”
“If you’d like,” Becky replied. But Flora could tell that her sister’s thoughts were miles away.
Petersen answered the door with a polite bow when Professor Dyk arrived the following evening. Flora had been teaching him to serve as a butler in addition to his duties as Edmund’s valet. The professor halted just inside the door wearing the same suit as the night before, his hair and beard still in need of a trim. He gazed around the foyer with a look of amazement. “Goodness! If I had realized that publishing books paid so handsomely, I might have considered writing one myself.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Becky said with a laugh. “Our father made some very wise investments during his lifetime. Take his coat and hat, Petersen. Follow me, Professor, and I’ll show you that book I mentioned last night.” She led him to her study, talking a mile a minute about her research and her conclusions.
“Do you know this Professor Dyk?” Flora whispered to Edmund as they remained behind to greet their other guests.
“Never met him before. I think he said he’s from the University of Chicago. Should we be worried?”
“I don’t think so. Becky is a pretty shrewd judge of character. After all, she convinced me to get rid of Thomas Worthington and marry you, remember?”
An hour later, Becky and the professor were still in her study. Flora poked her head inside the door and saw them bending over the desk examining a parchment that Becky had purchased on her last journey to Jerusalem, studying it closely with a magnifying glass. “I hate to interrupt,” Flora said, “but all of the other guests have arrived and dinner is ready.”
Professor Dyk looked up at her in surprise. “Oh, dear! Please forgive me, Mrs. Merriday. I’ve been terribly rude spending all this time with Miss Hawes when I should have been more sociable.”
“Nonsense. We’re a very unconventional family. Follow me, Professor.” She led the way to the dining room where a simple table had been spread for their university guests. Flora had instructed the housekeeper not to lay out all of the intimidating forks and spoons, fearing that the obvious display of wealth might make her guests uneasy.
The conversation around the table was thoroughly engaging and fun, as it always was when they hosted Edmund’s colleagues. And there was nothing at all stuffy about Professor Dyk either, even though it was clear that he was a very intelligent man. Edmund introduced him to their other guests, then said, “Tell us a little about yourself, Professor.”
“Please, I hope you’ll call me Timothy. I recently moved to Chicago from Pennsylvania, where I taught ancient history at the university. I’ve been offered a faculty position at the new University of Chicago, and thought it would be a marvelous challenge to help found an academic institution from the very beginning. I find this series of books Mr. Merriday and Miss Hawes have coauthored quite intriguing. Their scholarship and research is second-to-none, yet any well-educated layman could read and enjoy them. Of course, that’s not to say I agree with all your conclusions—”
“Here we go again!” Becky said. But she was laughing as she said it, which Flora saw as a good sign. Becky looked very pretty tonight, her face flushed with color. Flora thought it was rouge at first, but it wasn’t. It was happiness.
“I have to confess something,” the professor said as Petersen offered him and all the other guests second servings of the meal. “When my department chairman heard that I’d been invited here tonight, he asked me to charm my way into your good graces, Mrs. Merriday, so the university could solicit your financial support in the future. He said if I did, he would put me on the fast-track to a tenured position. But I told him that I was very uncomfortable with such subterfuge. I would rather earn tenure the honest, old-fashioned way and leave the fund-raising to the experts.”
Flora found his confession amusing as well as refreshing. “Well, thank you for your honesty,” she said. “As you can imagine, Becky and I get quite a few requests for financial support. Please tell your department chairman that he’s welcome to visit my foundation and talk with me himself about funding. And perhaps Becky would like to endow a scholarship in ancient history sometime in the future.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you both—and it lets me off the hook. I would love to see the University of Chicago become a world-renowned institution. Since my specialty is ancient Near Eastern history, I would love to help the university develop a world-class museum where scholars could study the artifacts that are being unearthed from the Babylonian and Assyrian Empires.”
“Edmund has collected some wonderful artifacts,” Becky said. “And I’ve made a few interesting purchases myself over the years.”
“I would love to see them.”
They retired to the parlor for coffee after the meal, and once again Becky and the professor ended up deep in conversation. “I truly do admire your books,” Flora heard him telling her. “But I’m sorry to say I don’t share your religious views.”
“What religion do you ascribe to?” Becky asked.
“I’m what you might call a contented agnostic. I’ve learned in my study of ancient history that religions come and go over the centuries—and most of them have gone. No one worships Baal or Moloch or the sun god Amun-Re anymore.”
Becky was quick with her retort. “It’s not quite true to say they’ve all vanished. How would you explain the amazing endurance of the Jewish faith? Against all odds and in the face of horrendous persecution and exile, Judaism still survives today. And I would also argue that Christianity is an outgrowth of Judaism.” Her tone had grown sharp, and Flora feared for a moment that the professor would take offense. Instead, his expression seemed to brighten at the prospect of a lively debate.
“Hmm. I suppose I would have to concede that they are exceptions to the rule.”
“Might I suggest that they have survived while the others haven’t because they are the one true religion and the others all counterfeits?”
“Well, let’s think about those assumptions for a moment,” he began. The debate that followed between him and Becky lasted until late in the evening and quickly left Flora, Edmund, and the other guests unable to get a word in edgeways. It was like competing in a horse race and being left far behind as the lead horses sprinted ahead. When Becky and Timothy finally stopped debating and looked around, they seemed surprised to find that the other guests had all gone home. The professor scrambled to his feet. “Oh, dear! I’ve overstayed my welcome. Not a very good first impression, is it?”
“You’ve been a very interesting guest,” Flora said. “We’re delighted to meet you.”
“And I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself,” he said as he made his way to the door. “Thank you for a very enchanting evening. But I still have questions for you, Rebecca. And there are so many other topics I’m eager to debate with you. I find your perspective is such a fresh, unique way of looking at history.”
Becky put her hands on her hips as if challenging him. “Are you trying to wrangle another dinner invitation out of me, Professor Dyk?”
“If I am, I’m doing a very clumsy job of it, I’m afraid.”
“Is there a Mrs. Dyk?” Flora asked. “If so, please tell her that she’s welcome to come next time, as well.”
“Sadly, no, there is no Mrs. Dyk. I seem to want too much in a companion—a meeting of the minds as well as the souls. I was onc
e engaged to a lovely woman—a match engineered by our fathers. I was eager to marry, but my fiancée decided we had little in common. In truth, I suppose we didn’t. I couldn’t understand why she had no interest at all in Homer or Herodotus.”
“What a jolly man Becky’s new friend is,” Flora told Edmund later that night after they’d gone upstairs to their bedroom. “I liked him very much.”
“I did, too. And jolly is the perfect word to describe him.”
They all enjoyed Timothy’s company in the weeks that followed, and he quickly became such a frequent guest that it seemed as though he’d always been part of their life. He and Becky went to concerts and plays together, and he invited Becky to sit in on some of his lectures at the university. And although he agreed to attend church with Becky one Sunday, it seemed to Flora that it was more of an experiment to satisfy his curiosity than a true spiritual quest. Even so, it was the happiest that Flora had seen her sister in a long, long time. She recalled the conversation they’d had on that starry night in Egypt years ago and hoped that Becky had found her heart’s companion at last.
“I think my sister is falling in love,” she told Edmund one night after spending the evening at a symphony concert with Becky and Timothy. Edmund had just sat down on their bed to pull off his shoes and socks and Flora watched him perform his familiar, nightly ritual from her seat at the dressing table. They shared the same room and bed, even though Flora’s rich friends would think them very strange for doing so. Most mansions had separate bedrooms for husbands and wives, as if marriage had nothing at all to do with love and friendship. “What do you think of their relationship, Edmund? Does it seem to you that Becky and Timothy are in love?”
“Hmm,” he said, loosening his tie. “They do seem very relaxed and comfortable with each other. Not that they never have disagreements—they certainly do! Very loud ones, at times.”
“Yes, but their debates are intellectual arguments, not personal ones. And when one of them fails to persuade the other, they usually end up laughing together and agreeing to disagree. And have you noticed how they interrupted each other at dinner tonight and finished each other’s thoughts?”
“You have a keener eye for that sort of thing than I do, darling.”
Flora turned to her mirror and began pulling out her hairpins, shaking her head to loosen her hair so she could brush it. She recognized the love in Edmund’s eyes as he watched her—even after all these years—and thought she had seen Timothy gazing at Becky the same way tonight during the concert. Oh, how she hoped it was true!
“Have you asked Rebecca how she feels about Timothy?” Edmund asked.
“I’m afraid to. I so hope she finds happiness with him, yet I don’t want to see her get hurt. If she is falling in love with Timothy and he doesn’t return her feelings . . . if he is simply leading her along for her money or for any other reason—”
“I’ll murder him,” Edmund finished. “It’s as simple as that. Would you like me to talk to him alone? Man to man?”
“No, we’d better wait a bit. They’ve known each other for less than a year. Let me talk to Becky first. Maybe I’m reading things wrong. Although I don’t think so.”
After a few days of dithering, torn between helping her sister and minding her own business, Flora decided to talk to Becky and offer her advice and perhaps consolation if she needed it. She went into Becky’s room after an evening out and sat down on her bed. “Can we talk?”
“I figured this was coming,” Becky said, sinking onto a slipper chair and kicking off her shoes. “I’m surprised you waited this long. You want to ask me about Timothy, don’t you?”
“Anyone with a pair of eyes can see how fond you are of each other and—”
“I’m in love with him, Flora. Against all the odds, especially at my age, I’ve finally found a man I could happily spend the rest of my life with.”
“Do you know how Timothy feels? I would hate to see you get hurt. . . .”
Becky laughed out loud. “He loves me, too, Flora. He told me so. He says he loves my brilliant mind and says I am an equal partner in every way. He asked me to marry him.”
“Timothy proposed?”
“Several times.”
“That’s wonderful!” Flora said, leaping to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me? Should we start planning the wedding?”
Becky held up both hands, stopping Flora before she could give her a congratulatory hug. “How can I marry him, Flora? You know Timothy isn’t a believer. The Bible says, ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.’ I can’t deliberately go against Scripture. That law was given for a very good reason. Marriage is a union of spirits and souls, not just bodies.”
“But he’s such a good man . . . and you love each other.”
“Would you have married Edmund if he wasn’t a believer?”
Flora sank down on the bed again and thought for a moment. “I see your point,” she finally said. “Sometimes love just isn’t enough, is it?”
“Timothy and I have talked about how wonderful it would be to be married, and we long to travel together. There are so many places I would love to show him, places he has always wanted to see and never dreamt he could afford. It would be a dream come true for me, too.”
“I admire him for not pretending to have faith just to win your hand and your bank account.”
“Unlike some other men we’ve known?” Becky asked with a wry smile. “No, Timothy is honest to his core and would never lie about what he believes. But how can we be true partners if we disagree about the most important thing in life—our faith in God? And how can I bear to share my life with him, to love him fully, while knowing he won’t spend eternity with me? As a Christian, my chief aim in life is to serve God, but Timothy doesn’t share that goal. And that keeps us worlds apart.”
“The obvious solution is to persuade him to believe.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do—and getting nowhere.”
“I’ll ask Edmund to enter the debate. I’ll make sure he brings up the subject of faith whenever they’re together. We’ll wear Timothy down, Becky. Sooner or later he’ll have to concede if we offer enough convincing arguments and proofs.”
“I hope you’re right. In the meantime, Timothy has agreed to come with us and be a volunteer tutor at the Sunday school next time we go.”
“Wonderful! That’s a great start.” Flora smiled and added, “I hope the children can understand him. He loses me half the time when I try to discuss anything with him.”
“Maybe their simple, childlike faith will convince him,” Becky said. “Didn’t Jesus say that we must become like a little child to enter the kingdom?”
Timothy seemed delighted by the swarms of excited children the following Sunday at the downtown church, though slightly befuddled when it came to handling them all. He helped tutor two older boys who were struggling to read and watched in fascination as Becky retold a Bible story in her unique, dramatic fashion. But as Flora watched him, she suspected that he was enthralled with her, not the story.
Flora was searching for a tactful way to ask Timothy’s opinion of their Sunday school mission work on the ride home when Becky suddenly came right out and asked, “What did you think of the lesson of the Good Samaritan?”
He thought a moment, stroking his still-shaggy beard—which Becky apparently never noticed or cared about. “The notion of using a story to emphasize a moral lesson was an interesting one,” he finally said. “It reminded me of the way other ancient cultures often used fables for teaching purposes.”
Becky gave an exasperated sigh. “But what about the content of the story, Timothy. The point that Jesus was trying to make?”
“Be kind to your neighbor?” he asked with a shrug. “It’s a valid point.”
“It’s more than that. Jesus is using the parable to teach us how to live.” She looked as though she wanted to shake him. Flora nudged Edmund with her elbow.
“I have seen Rebecca and
Flora live out this truth,” Edmund said. “Did we ever share the story of how we all met?”
“I don’t believe so,” Timothy replied.
“Flora and Rebecca found me along the side of the Gaza Road after I’d been robbed by an unscrupulous caravan driver and left to fend for myself beneath the broiling sun. They were two young women, traveling on their own, yet they stopped to offer their help, oblivious to any danger I may have presented. They were quite fearless.”
“We weren’t completely oblivious, Edmund dear,” Flora said, “but you seemed harmless enough.”
“As for being fearless,” Becky added, “we believe that God knows when the hour of our end will be, so we don’t need to fear. But the true reason we stopped is because we believe that the Bible is God’s inspired Word, and we must live our lives by it.”
“Hmm. As a historian, I have a problem with that,” Timothy said, scratching his chin. “I’m surprised you don’t, Rebecca. How do we know that the Bible represents a true, historical record of what Jesus did and taught? Every author begins with an agenda, something they hope to prove. Are you and Edmund completely objective when you research and write your books?”
“Of course not. We intend our works to persuade, and we’re quite clear about that. But we don’t alter the historical or archaeological records to fit our thesis. ”
“Well, the men who wrote the books of the Bible all had agendas, too. The Gospel of John clearly says that he wrote his Gospel ‘so ye might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God.’ In other words, it was written to convince and—”
“You didn’t finish the verse, Timothy,” Becky interrupted. “John goes on to write, ‘ . . . and that believing ye might have life through his name.’ John is trying to convince his readers because he believes that what he’s saying is a matter of life and death. It’s the same reason that I’m trying to convince you. I long for you to share in the fullness of life we have in Christ.”
Timothy leaned toward Becky and took her hand. “There is no doubt in my mind about how much your faith means to you—to all of you,” he added, nodding at Flora and Edmund. “But it just isn’t a logical step that I can take.”