Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Read online

  At last he heard the stirrings of breakfast being prepared below. He rose and dressed for the day that was to launch his career.

  The candidates assembled in the anteroom to the bishop’s private chapel where the ordination service was to take place. The chaplain entered, followed by his son bearing the deacons’ mantles which the bishop would place on their shoulders. The chaplain began calling names. As each name rang through the hall, the candidate stepped forward, draped his mantle over his arm, and passed into the chapel. Fourteen names were called.

  Rowland Hill was not one of them.

  The chaplain turned and followed the others into the chapel. His son paused at the door and turned to level a haughty stare at Rowland. “Bishop Sparke is ordaining Anglican deacons, not Methodist enthusiasts.”

  Rowland had been refused ordination. He stood frozen in the empty chamber as sounds of the beginning service came through the door to the chapel.

  He felt amazed that the bishop had even known. But then he recalled the slightly sneering tone of voice in which the bishop had pronounced certain words and phrases in his sermonette—regeneration, inspiration, drawing nigh unto God. He had thought that the bishop’s normal voice, but now he knew. He should have taken warning.

  He thought of his six friends who had been expelled from Oxford. Someone had remarked, “If these were expelled for having too much religion, it would be very proper to inquire into the conduct of some who had too little.” If he was refused for believing too much, what would become of the ministry of those who were ordained because they believed too little?

  Stunned, he rode back to Cambridge alone. His mind would not even let him think of what this would mean to his chances with Mary. And he must consider a specter that loomed even larger at the moment—returning to Hawkstone and facing his family. The baronet had all along insisted that his son’s ruinous fanaticism would have consequences.

  It was night when he reached his rooms, which were blessedly empty as Bottisham didn’t expect his return until the next day. A sleepless night brought him no closer to finding an answer for his future. The question he must settle first in his mind was his own assurance that he had done right. What about his view of a personal God who forgave men their sins individually and filled their hearts with assurance of salvation? A God who listened to impromptu prayers from any sincere heart, no matter how unlearned, and who answered those prayers personally? Was this an accurate understanding of God?

  Or were such men as Bishop Sparke and Bishop Twysden right? Did God only require a formal assent to the doctrines of the church and take no interest in how people lived their daily lives?

  After all his struggles, must he acknowledge that the school authorities and his parents and Mary were right? Should he follow in established paths, seek prestigious livings, and rise in the church hierarchy? Was this doing the will of God?

  By morning he was no nearer an answer. He needed to go to someone for counsel. The week before he had received a note from John Berridge, saying that he would be preaching in Grantchester while staying at the home of a friend. Berridge hoped Rowland could call on him there. Putting on his waistcoat and jacket, sadly rumpled from having been tossed carelessly aside the night before, Rowland suddenly felt better.

  As he crossed the Kitchen Bridge, he became aware of the beauty of the morning, a feeling he would have thought impossible a few hours earlier. The early summer sun sparkled on the waters of the Cam, and the gardens of the Backs shone in green and floral radiance. When the turmoil in his own mind quieted sufficiently for him to listen to the birdsong from elms and willows, he knew that he must believe in a personal God. One who would create so beautiful a world for His creatures’ earthly pilgrimage must also care for their eternal souls.

  “Hill! Hadn’t thought to see you until later today.” Simpson and Pentycross crossed the Mathematical Bridge behind Queen’s College to join him.

  “Forgive me, I should say Deacon Hill.” Pentycross sketched a bow.

  Rowland shook his head. This was the part he hated most—having to tell people. “I was refused.”

  His friends’ faces registered shock. They insisted on bearing him company to call on Berridge. He appreciated their company and for a while their distracting chatter helped relieve his mind. But as they passed the mill and walked on up the shady bank, it seemed that there was no more to say.

  The silence became heavy, and as the midday sun warmed the air, it became uncomfortably muggy. They were nearing Grantchester Meadows when Rowland stopped. Without a word he pulled off his coat, shoes, and hat. He dropped them in a careless puddle and turned to the river.

  Pentycross yelled and made a grab for him when he saw Rowland stride toward the river. “Hill, don’t! It’s not that final! I say—” But it was too late. Rowland’s leg just brushed his friend’s hand as he plunged into the river.

  “Hill! Hill!” Simpson’s voice rose in panic as the water closed over Rowland’s head.

  The two friends stood on the bank transfixed in the awfulness of the moment. Then several yards up the river they heard a splashing and a laughing voice calling their names, “Penty! Sims! Bring my clothes. I’ll swim to Grantchester.”

  Rowland turned over on his stomach and struck out with long, sure strokes, with which his friends on dry land had no hope of keeping pace.

  “Can he do it?” Simpson asked.

  Penty nodded. “Oh, yes. I should have realized when I saw him plunge in—strongest swimmer I’ve ever known—his favorite recreation. But what a crackbrained thing to do at a time like this.” Pentycross picked up Rowland’s shoes and hat and handed his coat to Simpson.

  Rowland emerged dripping and refreshed, if somewhat tired, from the lengthy swim. Berridge, who greeted him at the door of William Matthews’s home at Grantchester Mill, hardly noticed the unorthodox attire of his young friend. Matthew’s housekeeper, however, insisted the still-dripping arrival have a thorough rubbing with an entire stack of towels before he be allowed to sit on any of the furniture. By the time Rowland had used the third length of linen, Berridge interrupted the athlete’s efforts. “I’ve a much better idea, my boy; we’ll sit in the garden and let God’s sunshine finish the work. Why must man toil and labor when his Maker has provided for all his needs, if he will only look around him?”

  By the time they were settled in the garden, Rowland’s companions joined them, looking hot and dusty and much in need of the lemonade the housekeeper was handing around. “Our friend has been telling me of his fellowship with Bishop Sparke,” Berridge said.

  “In short, he took to me like poison,” Rowland concluded.

  Berridge smiled but shook his head. “Bishops’ powers are very strong indeed—specially in being possessed of the absolute right of conferring orders on whom they choose, without any established regulations. We must but hope for better use of those powers.

  “When they are once determined no longer to lay their sacred hands on the wicked heads of those whose motives for ordination are most sacrilegious and impure, and in direct defiance of their most solemn oaths before God, many of those presumptuous intruders into sacred office would seek for their support in some other line, less inconsistent and dishonorable to themselves and less destructive to the souls of men. Certainly, such a conduct, according to the present corrupted state of things, would procure for their lordships many frowns from the great—but better that than to sustain the eternal frown of God.”

  All in the circle nodded in somewhat glum agreement at Berridge’s summation of the state of things. “But about your present situation, my young friend, you must simply stand still and not hurry. When the cloud seems to move toward any place, prepare to follow it and pray to be kept from the delusions of your own spirit and from the wrong counsel of others.” Rowland’s open look told Berridge much that had not been put into words. “Yes, I see that you have been wrestling with questions of great import since this befell you. Do not let your faith be overset. God is the same yeste
rday, today, and tomorrow. He will not fail.”

  Their host accepted a refill from the housekeeper’s pitcher. “Be not anxious about orders. They will come as soon as needed. Nor be anxious about anything but to know the Lord’s will and to do His work. One of our Master’s titles is Counselor, and a wonderful Counselor He is. Therefore, take no counsel but of the Lord; so shall you walk more evenly than if you had the whole congregation of gospel divines at your elbow every moment to advise you.”

  Berridge smiled as Rowland rubbed at a streak of mud on his breeches. “Your swimming expedition seems a providential prelude for a field preacher this summer.”

  “Yes!” Rowland brightened visibly. “That is the answer, of course! I must become that which the world despises—a lay itinerant.” The words did not seem like cheerful ones, but the twinkle was back in Rowland’s eyes. For a few hours he had lost his vision, his sense of God-given mission. But now he knew where the pillar of cloud was leading, and he would gladly follow, convinced of his Lord’s blessing. Bees buzzing in the flowering border recalled the allusion Berridge had used in his letter to the countess. “My desire is to win souls, not livings. If I can secure the bees, I care not who gets the hives.”

  Eight

  It was a tedious four-day journey by mail coach from Cambridge to Shrewsbury, each day increasing Rowland’s discomfort because he was nearer to facing his father. He had intended to hire a horse at Shrewsbury to carry him the remaining way to Hawkstone, but as the coach rattled up to the inn, he caught a glimpse of his brother Richard going in to take his afternoon meal.

  “Richard! Well met!” In the instant joy of seeing Richard, Rowland forgot the bad news he bore with him like a dark cloud. Berridge’s words and his own sense of calling had cheered him, but he knew they would mean little to the rest of his family, even to those who supported him and had great faith in his future.

  Richard clasped Rowland’s hand warmly, then picked up two of his brother’s valises, and led the way into the coaching house.

  “Why didn’t you write that you were coming? Jane will be beside herself with delight. She has been having a bad time of it; Mother’s not well, and all the nursing falls on our eldest sister. It is hard, but it seems that is the way of things.” Richard interrupted himself to direct the landlord to send their meals to the private parlor he always used when in Shrewsbury. They settled themselves in comfortable chairs on either side of the table.

  “You’re unaccountably quiet, Rowly. So what living were you given? The bishop send you to Northumberland until you learn some manners, did he?”

  “The bishop sent me to Jericho.”

  Richard was stunned. “What? You were refused? What will you do?”

  The question hung in the air as the serving girl entered with a hearty pork pie and platters of rabbit stew. Rowland, whose troubles seldom dulled his appetite, took a wide wedge of pie and did justice to several bites, followed by a long drink of cider before he answered.

  “I shall preach.”

  Richard shook his head. “I admire you. I must tell you that I have bent to our father’s persuasion and am no longer preaching. As the heir, I let myself be convinced to exhibit my Christianity in other ways.”

  Rowland frowned. “Were you directly forbidden?”

  “Not quite, but I could see it would soon come to it. And with Mother’s health so poor, it seemed best.”

  Rowland nodded. “Perhaps for a time. But I could no more stop preaching than I could stop breathing. I’m sure if I were to do the one, it would lead to the other. If ever you hear I have ceased sermonizing, send a note round to the coffin maker.” Rowland ate the tender white meat off a bone before he continued. “I have been thinking much of the letters you wrote me at Eton. Do you recall them?”

  Richard shrugged. “I remember writing them certainly and encouraging your fledgling faith. I hope they may have done some good. It would be a shame if the amount of ink and paper expended, to say nothing of the candle wax, should come to nothing. But I don’t recall any of my words exactly.”

  “I have the advantage of you, Richard. I have kept them all and reread them from time to time. Their language is worthy of a preacher. ‘Consider, my dear brother, how that when you as a poor helpless sheep were gone astray, this dear Shepherd sought you and brought you back. Remember how, when wandering further and further from His fold, He made you hear His voice and follow Him, carrying you as a lamb in His bosom and gently leading you whilst you were yet young.’ That is an image that I have dwelt on often in time of trial.”

  “I wrote that, did I?” Richard smiled. “Yes, it does have a nice turn of phrase, and the doctrine is sound. Do you recall more?”

  “A bit. ‘Think of this love which passeth knowledge, and may it fill your heart with praise and your tongue with thanksgiving. Let it constrain you to live to Him who died for you and to grow daily more and more in conformity to His blessed image that so you may adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things, and by well doing put to silence the ignorance of foolish men, who would falsely accuse your good conversation in Christ.’ That is what I have endeavored to do, Richard.”

  Richard was thoughtful for some time. “With such fortification you shall succeed. But convincing our parents of the rightness of the matter will be quite another affair.”

  A few hours later, Richard’s carriage rolled through the large tract of rocks and woods at the entrance to Hawkstone. Unlike the gently wooded, rolling green estates found over much of England, the Hill lands contained steep rocky outcroppings interspersed with woods, patches of undergrowth and bushes, and crannies of stone where oaks of huge size seemed to grow from the rocks themselves.

  Rowland, who had always thought the landscape most appropriate for their family name, could only hope that it was not symbolic of the reception he would receive. Then as they trotted around the final sweep, Hawkstone House came into view. The pale stone and red brick mansion set on the side of a hill glowed like Roman marble in the dusk, its many columns, arches, and classical proportions giving support to the allusion. From the center of the house, Palladian wings curved forward on either side, a one-story portico connecting higher sections and then coming to a graceful conclusion by rooms of lower elevation again. The roof of the central mansion and the lower connecting sections were adorned with rows of classical stone urns, at the moment tinted red to match the glowing brick by the dying rays of sunlight.

  “Welcome back to the noble pile.” Richard handed Rowland’s bags to the groom who came out to meet them. “But don’t expect a fatted calf. Not that Jane wouldn’t have put one on if she’d known you were coming.”

  Jane, however, had seen from an upstairs window and now came running to embrace Rowland with open arms.

  “Dear Jane, it’s so good to see you, but you look fatigued. Richard said you’ve been nursing Mother much of late.” He returned her embrace and fond greetings, then held his sister at arm’s length and surveyed her. “Can’t someone help you? Have you written to Elizabeth?”

  “Oh, yes. I have done so. But caring for our mother is not the wearying thing.” Jane paused with a sigh. “We are a house divided against itself. When will it ever end, Rowland? It is inexpressibly painful that our dear parents, so worthy of honor in every other way except in that having to do with our Christian obligations, should be so desperately misled.”

  “What? Jane, has our father become despotic? I never found him so.”

  Jane, who as the at-home elder daughter of the thirteen Hill children, oversaw the housekeeping duties, led Rowland to his room. “No, no. He is never unjust. Oh, there are occasional explosions of his wrath, to be sure, but I am not kept from practicing my faith. It is just that the years of internal warfare with those whom I love and desire to please is sometimes unutterably wearing.”

  “Dear Jane.” Rowland took his sister in his arms. “You have always stood a second mother to me, from the time you taught me my letters. I wish I could help you, but I
fear I have only come to add to your burden.”

  “No, Rowland. How is that possible?”

  Rowland looked her straight in the eyes. “I must tell you that I have been refused ordination.”

  Far from the shock and disbelief the news had produced in others, Jane’s reaction showed calm common sense. “Then you must apply elsewhere. The Bishop of Ely is not the be-all and end-all of ordaining powers.”

  Rowland smiled. “Jane, Jane. What a tonic you are. It’s no wonder we all look to you to hold the family together. I shall take your advice and apply to the next bishop I encounter.”

  Alfred, Sir Richard’s first footman who always acted as Mr. Rowland’s man when he was home, unpacked for him. After a brief look-in on his mother to let her know he had arrived and to wish her a speedy recovery, Rowland faced the duty that could no longer be delayed.

  The study was in a far corner of Hawkstone House, so Rowland had plenty of time to dread his father’s reaction as he made his way through the marble-floored halls with their ornately plastered walls. Sir Richard’s library occupied a spacious room with high arched windows, fine marble fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling books that could be reached by a wheeled stepladder. Rowland’s father sat at his desk going over some papers, but at his son’s entrance, he came forward.

  “Ah, Rowland, welcome home. I had word of your arrival, but I knew you would call on your mother first. How do you find her this evening?”

  Rowland’s eyes were sad. “Fearfully reduced, sir. What does Dr. Fansham say?”

  “Nothing much to the purpose. But tell me of yourself, son. You have taken your degree?”