Selby had “consoled” Elizabeth with a little too much hugging and touching, as far as she was concerned. It was not until the night one week ago when the man had come into her bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed, waking her when he leaned close and tried talking her into letting him “help” her by coming to bed and “filling her with his strength” that Liz had realized the man’s true intentions.
She’d screamed for him to get out, pushed at him, her reaction waking the man’s wife. The false accusations that came out of the reverend’s mouth then had shocked her. Of course, his wife believed him when he’d told her that Elizabeth had asked him to come to her room to pray with her and then had tried to tempt him into her bed.
She shuddered at the mere thought of the much older, supposedly righteous man being such a hypocrite. He had two grown sons older than she was, and he’d even preached sermons about the sin of adultery! After the incident, Mrs. Selby and other women in the congregation, women who’d been friends of her mother’s and who’d often offered their help in her grief, became cold towards her.
Oh, how it hurt to lose not only her beloved father and mother, but to be lied about and thus to lose others who had been her only source of comfort. Before the disgusting meeting with the deacons today Elizabeth had already decided to leave San Francisco and go to live with Peter. She’d received letters from him, knew he had indeed founded a church in Dawson. He most surely would not want her to make the trip, but he had no choice in the matter. Once she made up her mind to do something, she did it! Her mother used to tease her about such stubbornness.
She drew in her breath and closed her eyes. “God, forgive me,” she prayed. “I have never been so full of anger and…hatred. Yes, that’s what it is, Lord. It’s hatred. I’m so sorry that I feel this way.” She went to her knees. “Please guide me in my journey, Lord. Help me make it safely to Alaska. Help me find my brother. Show me what it is You want of me. Take away this anger so that I can better serve You with a heart that is not full of malice.”
She moved to sit down on the bed, reaching to take her Bible from the nightstand. She pressed it to her heart and let the tears come. Oh, how she missed the days when her family was all together, working hard to build their own church. Since she was eight years old, when her family had arrived in San Francisco after an arduous journey by wagon from Illinois, a life of serving the Lord was all she’d known. She’d been so involved with helping first her father and then her brother that she’d never even taken time for her own life, for allowing young men to court her or attending any social functions except those involving the church. She’d taught Sunday school, helped her mother minister to sick members and then had spent months nursing her own mother until she died.
“Why, God? Haven’t I served You well? Why have You taken so much from me?”
She opened her Bible to the New Testament, always believing that wherever she opened the Gospels she would find answers to her problems. She believed it was God’s way of talking to her, leading her.
“Beware, lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit,” she read, “after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.”
There, as always, was her answer. She could not allow the hypocrites who’d kicked her out of this parsonage to spoil her faith.
She closed her eyes. “Lord, I believe You have a reason for the turns life hands us. Surely You mean for me to go to Dawson. I’m afraid, Lord, but I know You will be with me. And I believe there is a purpose for what has happened that You have not yet shown me. Whatever You have planned, Lord, I will accept whatever You entrust to me.”
She rose and packed the Bible into the second carpet bag, along with what was left of her clothing, such as it was. Her family had never owned many material things, and she dressed simply. She breathed deeply as she buckled the second bag, feeling