Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Read online

  Ned moved to take her hand in both of his. “No, no, my dear. There shall be others.”

  Durial moved her head from side to side, slowly as if the movement cost her great effort. “No, Doctor Mac says there shall be no more.”

  Edward turned his head so that his wife couldn’t see the pain that news gave him, but Catherine saw. After a moment he turned back. “But I shall have your precious self, Durial. Now rest and fret not.” He planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

  Durial relaxed at his words and closed her eyes. “I shall sit with her,” Ned said. “You get some rest, Catherine.”

  Catherine realized she was still wearing her mud-stained traveling cloak and half-boots, so she went to her room and washed before returning downstairs. The parlor seemed unaccountably chill and empty. “Where’s Phillip?” she asked Charl.

  “I tried to persuade him to sup with us, but he seemed to think his presence would be an intrusion.”

  The room no longer seemed merely empty to her—it was desolate.

  The room Phillip entered was equally desolate. He saw anew its emptiness and shabbiness. The bleakness of his surroundings brought to mind winter evenings when Matron would send her charges out to take the air after classes. The other children would join in rolling hoops or a noisy game of tutball. But Phillip preferred to stay to himself, breaking up the ice from the puddles on the north side of the building with a stick. What began as a simple time-filler became something of a challenge, and he worked hard to keep ahead of the refreezing.

  But he had never learned how to chip at the emotional freeze inside. Keeping to himself had always seemed such a good answer to his fear of abandonment—if there was no one else in his life, if his relationship to God was the only bond he relied on, there could be no one to leave him. But these past weeks with the Perronets—with Catherine especially—had produced a hairline crack in the ice. He now wondered whether the infraction in his shield caused by warming emotions should be encouraged. Wouldn’t it be better—safer—to thicken the ice?

  The truth was, he did not know the answer to his own question. In not letting others get to know the man inside, he had not gotten very well acquainted with himself—with that emotional, feeling part he had always kept so tightly controlled. Could he be more truly open to God if he were to be more open to those around him? He shivered at the thought of becoming transparent and vulnerable, of being hurt once more, as he had been at Midhurst and then over Sally Gwynne.

  Phillip encouraged the uncooperative flame in his fireplace, ate the soup and brown bread Mrs. Watson provided, and turned to his bed, just as he had to his iron cot at the orphan asylum. It had been the last in the row and he found lying with his back to the room was as good as being alone. But now there was no need for that device to achieve solitude.

  The next morning Phillip went to the Foundry customhouse to inquire of William Briggs, John Wesley’s secretary, if there should be any mail for him, or further itineracy assignments. He was surprised to find Elizabeth Perronet also in the office. “I have taken to helping Mr. Briggs with some of his correspondence when I can be spared at home,” she explained with a hint of a blush.

  “And how is Mrs. Edward Perronet this morning?”

  “Her sleep was much disturbed. Doctor Macintyre was there when I left. But Ned insisted I should come assist here while Catherine teaches her class. Ned won’t leave Durial. I fear he blames himself much for being away when the accident occurred.”

  “It is said by many that itinerant preachers should not be wed.” Phillip nodded.

  “Here is a letter come for you last week.” Briggs handed the wax-sealed paper to Phillip. “And you will preach the evening service tonight?”

  “I’ll be happy to. Thank you, William. I hope to hear of your sister-in-law’s speedy recovery, Miss Perronet.” Phillip took his leave.

  In the courtyard he perused his letter. It was from his old friend George Whitefield.

  The 9 of 4, Glous.

  My dear Phillip,

  As I wish to inform my friends at the Foundry of my recent return from America and report on my work there, but am not assured of my welcome in the Society, nor of my desire to be so, I shall communicate with one whom I have always known to be unfailing in his generosity and fair in his judgment, that he might advise me. I have heard the most disturbing reports while abroad. Can it be that John Wesley preaches universal redemption? That cannot be consistent with the scriptural doctrine of election. Can Wesley have strayed so far?

  Although my heart aches to hear that the work may have fallen astray, (although I am assured that that most excellent lady, the Countess of Huntingdon, continues faithful in the doctrines of Calvin) the work in America progresses apace. I had great success in Philadelphia in raising money for my school and orphanage in Georgia which I feel is the heart of my work. I employed that most excellent American, Benjamin Franklin, as a printer, who after my sermon confessed he had been determined to give nothing, since I refused to locate the orphan house at Philadelphia. But upon hearing me preach, he said he began to soften and concluded to give copper. “Another stroke decided me to give silver,” he said. And at the finish he emptied his pocket into the collector’s dish, gold and all. I should most heartily like to build a school for negroes in Philadelphia.

  Dr. Franklin said it was wonderful to see the change soon made in the manners of their inhabitants after my revival services.

  I met only one case of rudeness—and that from a non-episcopal divine. “I am sorry to see you here,” he said.

  “So is the devil,” I replied.

  And the Lord continues faithful in that part of the country which they call New England, where my friend Jonathan Edwards is one of the few truly awakened preachers. I am persuaded that there, as in England, the generality of preachers talk of an unknown and unfelt Christ. The reason why congregations have been dead is because they have dead men preaching to them. How can dead men beget living children?

  And I thank God, the Harvard Awakening continues, where, to the consternation of much of its faculty, I preached against the liberalism which is making its way into that formerly excellent institution for ordinands. I was told subsequently that the students now are full of God.

  Advise me how I shall go on, as regards our friends, and I shall remain,

  Yr ever affect,

  George Whitefield

  His mind on the letter and how he might best advise his friend and hope to heal the rift between these strong leaders of the Methodist party, Phillip went on into the Foundry and back to the book room where the newly arrived printing of Charles Wesley’s hymns was causing much interest. Then he realized, to his consternation, he was simply wandering around without purpose, and took himself to his room to prepare for the evening service.

  Several hundred ardent voices sang at the leading of a society worker who opened the service that evening. Phillip followed the words of the song with his mouth, but his heart missed his musical companions of the circuit trip.

  Sinners Jesus will receive,

  Sound this word of grace to all

  Who the heavenly pathway leave,

  All who linger, all who fall.

  Sing it o’er and o’er again,

  Christ receiveth sinful men.

  Make the message clear and plain:

  Christ receiveth sinful men.

  His sermon followed the theme of the song. He spoke of the great, loving heart of Christ, so open to all who would come, so ready to receive sinful men. No sins were too great to be forgiven, no person too lost to be found by Him.

  And at the close of the service, it was apparent that Christ was ready also to receive sinful women as well. A wretched-looking female waited at the back of the chapel to speak to him.

  “You would have words with me, sister?” He endeavored to make his voice soft and kind in hope of calming the fear in her eyes.

  She pushed a scraggle of red hair into her cap with a roughened hand. “Ah, Sir. I wa
s accidentally passing the door, and ’earing the voice of someone preaching, I did what I ’ave never been in the ’abit of doing. I come in.”

  “You were right to do so. You are most welcome.”

  “I ’eard you say that Jesus Christ was so willing to receive sinners that ’e made no objection to receiving the devil’s castaways. Now, Sir, I am cast down so low that I was returning from seeking work in a bagnio when I passed your door.”

  “You had gone to sell yourself?”

  “That was my attempt. I cannot keep food in my children’s mouths. I thought this way to provide for them, but they wouldn’t ’ave me. To be turned away from a brothel is in truth to be one of the devil’s castaways. Do you think, sir, that Jesus Christ would receive me?”

  “There isn’t the least doubt of it,” Phillip assured her, and called two of the Society women to join him in praying for this soul.

  When her radiant face gave assurance of a new cleanness inside, Phillip asked where she lived, so Society members might call on her and her children. Phillip’s heart gave a leap. Here was a convert he could continue to disciple. It wasn’t quite the same as having his own parish, but at least he wasn’t required to ride away the next morning.

  He felt ashamed that even in the rejoicing over the recovery of a Lamb that was lost, his joy was less than complete. He wondered why God would have given him this desire for a people to shepherd, if it was to remain unfulfilled.

  And then, the unaccustomed amount of self-analysis he had been undergoing lately led him to turn again to the Great Shepherd for guidance. In the empty chapel he knelt. “Lord, make me more useful for Thy service. I have prayed long for a place of service, but first do what Thou wilt to the server.”

  He went home still fearful of the vulnerability he had opened himself to, but he felt an undeniable assurance that he was on the right course.

  Fourteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, Catherine, back in the schoolroom, looked at the eleven eager faces in front of her. Well, seven eager, two cautious, and two bored. What did she most want to teach them in the short time she had with them? How could she best prepare them for life? How could she most clearly impart the love of God to them?

  Three could barely form their letters; six read stumblingly; two were good readers for their age, but might be forced to leave school at any time as Isaiah Smithson had been, and then would have very little opportunity for exposure to books or to the Scriptures.

  As she looked at them, longing to reach their minds and souls, she was filled with a new awareness of her love for them. And then she knew—she must reach them just as God reached her—in the only way that one personality could reach another—with love.

  She smiled at them. Eleven grubby faces smiled back. Well, nine smiled back; two were making faces at each other.

  “Good morning, children. I am most anxious to hear what you have learned in my absence. Hettie, will you please read for us first.”

  Nine-year-old Hettie bit her lip, then stood, smoothed her apron, sniffled, and began reading in a hesitant voice, “The eye of God is on…” She paused and puzzled a moment, then continued in a rush, “Them that do ill. Go not from me, O God, my God.”

  Hettie looked up to see if she ould be released from her toil, but Catherine indicated that she should continue. “The Lord will help them that cry to Him. My Son, if thy Way is bad, see that you mend it.” She concluded with a sigh.

  “Thank you, Hettie.” Catherine released Hettie to return to her seat, then called on three more to read aloud until the scraping of little feet on the wooden floor told her it was time to vary the routine. “All right, class. You may turn to the syllabarium and copy out your letters.” Primer pages rustled until all the children had before them a page of five columns of two-letter syllables which formed the basis of reading instruction. “And mind that you make your lines straight.”

  For a few minutes the heads bent dutifully over their slates, until a scraping sound told her someone was not applying his slate for its proper function. “William, you will stand in the corner for ten minutes, after which time I expect your writing instrument to work more smoothly.” She had no more than dealt with that than a squeal from Kitty, the smallest girl, told her that Joshua had pulled her long braids again. “Joshua, please present yourself.”

  Discipline was not Catherine’s favorite part of the job. She struggled to put to rest her earlier visions of directing the children with nothing but the power of love as she held the birch rod before her. “Hold out your hands.”

  At such times she had to rely on the wisdom of John Wesley’s injunctions to his teachers.

  We must, by the grace of God, turn the bias from self-will, pride, anger, revenge, and love for the world, to lowliness, meekness, and the love of God. From the moment we perceive any of those evil roots springing up, it is our business immediately to check their growth, if we cannot root them out. As far as this can be done by mildness, softness, gentleness, certainly it should be done. But sometimes, these methods will not avail, and then we must correct with kind severity. For where tenderness will not remove the fault, he that spareth the rod, spoileth the child. To deny this is to give the lie to the God of truth and to suppose we can govern better than He.

  Wesley’s words gave her the courage to administer the full number of lashes. “You may take your seat and resume your work, Joshua.” The students worked quietly and Catherine prayed she could find the balance Wesley wanted his teachers to achieve. He warned that some teachers may habitually lean to either extreme of being overly remiss or overly severe. If they gave children too much of their own will, or needlessly and churlishly restrained them; if they used no punishment at all, or more than was necessary, all their endeavors could be frustrated.

  She pulled the watch from her waistband. The hands had barely moved since last she looked. “William, you may take your seat. And now, class, we shall read together. On the next page of your primer, please listen carefully and pronounce each word as I do.”

  And so the days wore on, gradually assuming a routine. Durial continued weak, mourning the loss of their child, and Ned stayed close to her side. Phillip departed for a tour of Gloucestershire, and Catherine’s students droned on. Duty and routine took over. Each morning brought the splash of cold water in her basin, the rumble of carriages on dry rocks, the scratch of styluses on slates. The Foundry looked as grim to her as when it was used only for metal forging.

  Where were the birdsongs? Where were the roses? The scent of new mown hay and the freshness after rain?

  Her heart cried, “Are You there, my God? Do You care? Are You still the loving Person who touched my heart and changed my life? Or have You too become only Duty and Routine?”

  And in the stillness of her aching heart the answer came, “As I have been, so shall I be.” God had promised help for the dry, dull times too, and so she must claim it and simply go on. She looked at her students.

  “You may read, Joshua.”

  “Yes, Miss Perronet. ‘Christ is the Truth. Christ is the Light. Christ is the way. Christ is my life…’ ”

  At the end of two weeks, a feeble Durial was allowed from her bed for a short time. Ned carried her to a lounge chair in the garden and tucked robes securely around her. Catherine was reading aloud to her sister-in-law from the Meditations of John Donne when they heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the driveway. For an instant Catherine’s heart leapt—could it be their friend had returned early from Gloucester? She had refused to dwell on the thought, even to admit it to her mind; but in the furthest recess of her heart she knew much of the dryness of the past weeks could be laid to Phillip’s absence.

  The newcomer, however, although clad in the familiar black of the clergyman, was not her Phillip but their brother Charl, just returned from a circuit to the north where he had been in company with Charles Wesley.

  “Did you meet with success, Brother?” Catherine asked as soon as the commonplaces of greeting were accomplis
hed.

  Charl removed his tricorn and ran his fingers through his hair. “I have never met with greater discord.”

  “O Charl, were you treated rudely by the mob?” Durial asked with quick concern.

  “No, no. We met little rowdyism. I speak of the Societies—of the preachers to be exact.”

  “Discord among the preachers?” Catherine couldn’t credit her ears.

  “First, there was the matter of James Wheatley—who was accused of embracing the doctrine of polygamy and, we were told, scandalized the Society by practicing it openly.”

  “Charl, was there any truth to such an accusation?”

  “At the direction of John Wesley, his brother and I immediately set up an inquiry into the matter.” Charl shook his head. “There was no polygamy, but that would perhaps have been an easier problem to deal with. I heard Wheatley preach with my own ears. I cannot say whether he preached false doctrine or true, or any doctrine at all, but pure unmixed nonsense. Not one sentence did he utter that could do the least good to any soul.

  “And there lies the weakest point of our Methodist system of preaching. The majority of those who fill the pulpits are working men who have abandoned their trade to follow what they believe to be their spiritual vocation, but without education or preparation or support, except from family or Society.”

  “What is to be done?” Catherine asked.

  “Charles Wesley has declared that every preacher must work at his own trade or business during the week, preparing his sermons as he finds time, and delivering them on Sundays in the neighboring chapels. This way they will at least not lose insight into the standpoint of the common man.”

  “Well, then, it seems the matter has been taken in hand.”

  “Yes, but that was not all. We encountered amongst the more prominent of the preachers a spirit of disloyalty to the Church of England which horrified Charles, whose allegiance for the Anglican faith knows no bounds.”

  “O Charl, not more separatism talk?”

  “Of a truth, the remedy is simple, and more and more of our harassed preachers are availing themselves of it. For the sum of sixpence they are furnished with a license which puts them under the protection of the law. Once they are recognized as ‘protestant dissenters,’ they are no longer at the mercy of the mob. And a similar license will protect their meetinghouses from wreckers and incendiaries. We are beating our heads against the wall in refusing this way.”