Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 15

  And finally, the prayer, as those who were sitting shifted to their knees: “O Lord, we beseech Thee, mercifully hear our prayers, and spare all those who confess their sins unto Thee; that they, whose consciences by sin are accused, by Thy merciful pardon may be absolved; through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  The men then continued in prayer, some extemporaneously, for it seemed that the Lord had opened their mouths and their hearts. Phillip was sure he had never before so truly sensed the reality of God’s mercy. Tonight this mercy was ennobling these illiterate, condemned prisoners who so wholeheartedly sought it and so fully accepted it.

  All too soon the clanking of the iron door brought with it an announcement of the time. The turnkey barked his orders and led the prisoners into the pressyard. But even in the gray of predawn, in the stonewalled yard, with the carts that were to transport them to Tyburn parked by the gate, a solemn joy and peace shone on each countenance. Phillip took Doyle’s hand. “My dear Man, how do you find yourself?”

  “Find myself! Why truly, Sir, my soul is so filled with light, love, and peace, that I am the same as if I had naught else within me!” He then turned to the jailers in the yard and began telling them of the love of God to him and his assurance of knowing that God for Christ’s sake had forgiven all his sins.

  But this was cut short, as the jailers began pushing their charges into the carts. Phillip, who had received permission from the warden to accompany the men, was shoved into the first cart with Doyle and Lancaster as roughly as all the rest. Lancaster sat on his own coffin. Doyle, who could not afford a casket and so would share a pauper’s grave, sat on the rough floor of the tumbril.

  The horses started off with a jerk, bouncing the heavy wooden cart on its iron wheels over the rough stone pavement. The procession went down Ludgate Hill and turned into Holborn. Already a crowd had gathered along the street. This was a hanging day and the populace was prepared to enjoy it to the full. Hanging day held the status of a holiday and throughout the metropolis master coachmakers, tailors, shoemakers—any who must deliver orders within a given time—always bore in mind to observe to their customers, “That will be a hanging day and my men will not be at work.”

  Holborn became Oxford Street, and as the carts approached Tyburn Road the crowds became denser and rowdier.

  “Hey, wanta rubber neck, Mate?”

  “Swing ’em up ’igh, Charlie, so’s they can ’ave a better view!”

  “Cooee, they got a parson too! I always knowed they was a thievin’ lot!” A tomato squashed through the bars of the cart and red streaks ran down Phillip’s sleeve. He suddenly realized that to the observers, he was no different from the prisoners. He felt shame wash over him as he understood that the crowd thought him condemned too.

  And then he was ashamed of his shame. Was this not exactly what Christ had suffered for him—to be numbered among the transgressors? And was it not appropriate that he, who but for the mercy of Christ would be condemned eternally for his own sins, should taste just a small portion of what Christ suffered in taking on the sin of others, in identifying with the damned?

  The tumbril lurched to a stop. Two carts from Newgate were there ahead of them. A great cheer went up from the crowd as the pealing of church bells, led by those from St. Sepulchre’s, announced that the proceedings were to begin. Holidayers passed gin bottles from hand to hand; children clambered atop their parents’ shoulders; and the lucky ones with front-row spaces spread picnic baskets on rugs.

  And then a louder cheer rose as the first cart opened and the most popular of the condemned, a well-known highwayman called Daring Dirk, stepped out. Highwaymen held the ancient privilege of heading the procession of malefactors, and he was immediately mobbed by spectators, especially young women—housemaids and serving wenches—striving to obtain a memorial such as a lock of his hair or a piece of his clothing. With an air of noblesse oblige Dirk pulled bits of lace from his sleeve and buttons from his coat and bestowed them upon the throng.

  Jack Ketch, as all public executioners were called after a well-known hangman from the previous century, stepped forward as if to greet the highwayman. But in truth, his hand was not held out to shake, rather to receive his agreed payment from his victim. The larger the bribe, the easier the hangman could make the death, even to pulling on the legs of the victim or to sitting across his shoulders to accelerate strangulation. Daring Dirk produced a fat wad; he had no intention of suffering long. Then with a jaunty wave he mounted the scaffold. At the top he turned again and tossed his feathered hat into the crowd with a flourish. The story of his gallant death would be told and retold and his fame as a folk hero was assured.

  But in the third tumbril, the mood was not one of such reckless bravado, nor of grim resignation, but rather of quiet rejoicing as Phillip led the men in a hymn.

  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.

  The door of the cart opened. Doyle was the first to stand up. Lifting his eyes to heaven, he said with a loud voice so all around could hear, “Lord, didst not Thou die for sinners? Thou didst die for me!” Turning around to the multitude, he prayed extempore. When he was finished, Phillip could not see a dry eye anywhere around him. Then all from the cart went forward together.

  Phillip paid Jack Ketch. At the top of the stairs Doyle, Lancaster, Gardner, Thompason turned as one man and cried, “Lord Jesus, receive our spirits!”

  Nineteen

  CATHERINE WAS SITTING WITH DURIAL, going over the linen cupboard lists and checking the mending needs when Audrey interrupted with a soft knock. “Mr. Ferrar’s below, askin’ for the mistress and Miss Perronet. I told ’im Mr. Ned was still on circuit.”

  “Will you see him, Catherine? I simply must get this chore finished this afternoon.” Durial sighed at the mountain of folded linen beside her.

  “Gladly.” Catherine was out the door before her word was finished.

  But at the bottom of the stairs she halted sharply. “Phillip! Are you ill? You look ghastly.” She was accustomed to the thinness of his frame and the sharpness of his cheekbones; but the hollowness around his normally bright eyes was alarming. “Audrey, bring a tray of coffee and cold meats to the parlor.” She led the way into the sitting room.

  “Thank you.” Phillip folded his long body into a wing-back chair. “I am not ill, but I have had such an experience…. I have just watched four dear friends die,” and he told her of the execution.

  Catherine poured coffee from the silver pot Audrey set before her on a small table, and considered his account. “Do you not rejoice that their souls are now in heaven?”

  “Assuredly I do. I think my grief is more for myself. For them it is a glorious release. I feel bereft. Is that selfish in me?”

  If his question had not been so earnest, and at such a sad time, she would have laughed. He was the most unselfish creature she had ever met. “On the contrary, Phillip. It is your great desire to give of yourself in service that causes you grief. Like a mother when her last child marries, you now have no one left to minister to.” And with a flash of insight she understood that he was again, but in a different way, suffering the pain that he had known over the loss of his curacy. Again he had put down roots; and even as shallow as the stone floor of the prison had required those roots to be, the pulling up was painful.

  “Phillip,” she spoke rapidly in her rush to comfort him, “the Lord will provide a new place of service. He has promised. ‘He that walketh in a perfect way, he shall serve Me.’ I do believe that, Phillip. He knows your desire. You shall serve Him.”

  “Thank you, Catherine; I believe it too. And your hopeful words put me in mind of that which I had quite forgotten. I didn’t come to mourn with you, but to tell you of the letter I received from your father, and to take my leave.”

&n
bsp; “Leave?”

  “Yes, your father has recommended me to the Bishop of Ely for a living that has come open. I shall leave in the morning for an interview. It is just possible…”

  “O Phillip! It’s more than just possible; it’s quite certain!” She jumped to her feet. “Phillip! What a wonderful answer to prayer! Bishop Gooch is an old friend of Father’s; I’m certain he will give you a warm interview.”

  Phillip held up his hand in protest and tried to argue that the matter was by no means certain, but Catherine would not hear of it. She had prayed too long for a place of service for Phillip and had reaffirmed her faith in God’s guidance too fully to allow any doubt now.

  They talked at length of the advantages of the dioceses of Ely and its proximity to Cambridge. Then they turned to Phillip’s travel plans. “And when will you return?” Catherine asked.

  “If the weather’s fine, Cambridge is only three days’ ride, then half a day on to Ely. I should be able to accomplish it in just over a week.”

  “And will you preach on the way?”

  “Oh, of course. I haven’t thought this through well. Yes, the Cambridge Methodist Society has requested a preacher. I shall hold services in Cambridge, Newmarket, Burwell… two weeks at least. Will Ned be back by then?”

  “I think not. He and Charl have gone clear to Newcastle. But, Phillip, if you are not back by Sunday, you will miss your birthday. I had thought to make you a poppyseed cake.”

  “My birthday?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember at Shoreham, when Philothea decreed the second Sunday in Trinity to be your birthday?”

  “No.” He looked chagrined. “I fear I had entirely forgotten. I shall be sorry to miss the cake.”

  And that was as personal as his leave-taking was to be—he would miss the cake. The conversation turned briefly back to his prison ministry, with Catherine renewing her vow to aid the Smithson family, and Phillip telling more of Doyle’s conversion. In spite of her serene exterior, however, Catherine was troubled inside. She didn’t want to talk only of Phillip’s work. Did he care for nothing else? No one else? Was his every thought only for those to whom he could minister? As important as his work was, there must be more.

  She looked into those steady eyes of his, so revealing and yet so shuttered at the same time. Warm, kind, intelligent eyes that told you nothing about the man behind them, and made no revelation of his emotions.

  The fact that she at least partially understood his isolation didn’t always make it easy to accept. There were times, like right now, when she wanted to smash the wall he erected around himself so that she could get hold of the real Phillip inside.

  There were moments when she wondered if, indeed, he had emotions behind that unrevealing face. But she never wondered for long because, attuned to him as she was, she had learned to read the tiny looks and gestures that gave him away. And she never, not even in her most depressed moments, doubted that, once she reached him, the real Phillip Ferrar would be worth finding.

  And now the tightness around his mouth and the jerky motion with which he placed his tricorn on his head, told her of the importance he placed on this journey.

  “God go with you,” she called from the doorway, as he mounted Jezreel.

  The thought that he was going to interview for a living should have raised Catherine’s spirits; but as she turned away from the closed door and crossed the darkened hall, she felt heavy-hearted. She searched her mind for a comforting thought, and was horrified at the verse that came to her mind, “And Stephen went out and preached the word of God boldly.” No! She would not think about that—about the stones, the mad bulls, the drunken threats Phillip would likely face. Nor would she think about what preaching in similar circumstances had cost Stephen. That was in God’s hands. There was only one thing she could do and that was what she would concentrate on.

  Right there in the hall she closed her eyes; and forcing forbidding images away, she deliberately thought about Phillip preaching calmly to the throng, Phillip proclaiming God’s love and God’s Word, Phillip placing all his faith in the power of God’s protection.

  She would pray, and continue with her own work. Doing whatever her hand found to do could be a great comfort in times of difficulty. And in Durial’s home, there was never any lack of work. Catherine returned to the drawing room to find her sister-in-law hard at work polishing the furniture. “Durial,” Catherine protested, “Audrey rubbed the tables with lemon oil not a fortnight ago. Can’t you rest?”

  Durial ran an impatient hand across her forehead. “With Ned forever away on his preaching trips, someone must keep our home from falling to bits around our ears. The furniture should long ago have been revarnished with alkenet root, rose pink, and linseed oil, but when do you think Ned could have time to see to such as that?”

  With a sigh Catherine picked up a rag and the bottle of lemon oil. Monday she would return to her class and would make certain to call on Elmira Smithson.

  A few days later when Catherine kept her resolve, the worsening of the Smithsons’ situation made her almost wish she hadn’t called on them. “I ast Dick about lettin’ Issay go back to yer school like you said—” Elmira’s speech was interrupted by a racking cough that made Catherine put her hands to her own chest in sympathy. “But Dick won’t ’ear non o’ it. Knew ’e wouldn’t—but was good o’ you to offer.”

  Isaiah had returned to sweeping and Elmira was doing a careful job of all the laundry she could take in, even if bending over the tubs of water made her cough worse. Catherine spoke what words of comfort she could, placed two wheaten loaves on the bare table, and gave a boiled sweet to little Susanna before she left.

  The days dragged slowly and Catherine was more thankful than ever that she had her faith in God’s faithfulness to cling to. No matter how gray the day, or how dismal the prospects around her appeared, Catherine could say with the psalmist, “As for God, His way is perfect… He is a buckler to all those that trust in Him.” And then Sally’s letter came in the next post.

  My Dear Catherine,

  How precious my memories of our friendship are to me. What joy to know that one other creature has shared my difficulties and understands my feelings. You will note this letter is sent from Ludlow. I fell ill on the way to Bristol from London, so my dear Charles brought me home to my mother for her excellent nursing while he set about his next preaching tour. My sister Betsy is also a most excellent nurse. Perhaps if I am recovered when Charles returns he might think me strong enough to set up our own home. Write to me of our friends in London. It is beautiful here on the Welsh border, but I miss news of the Society.

  Yr Ever faithful friend,

  Sally Wesley

  The words that fell between the lines of Sally’s careful script were the ones that tore at Catherine’s heart. Here she was in good health and had only a brother and dear friend to worry about as they faced the dangers of a circuit. Sally was ill, longing for her own home, missing and fearing for her new husband. Catherine breathed a prayer for her friend and then determined to avoid going the same road herself. No matter how fond her feelings for Phillip, she had no desire to spend her life traveling from one decrepit inn to the next so that a new crowd of ruffians might pitch stones at her husband. Not that Phillip had ever given her the least indication he would make such an offer; but if he did, she knew she must refuse him. Of course, if he found success with the Bishop of Ely…

  Twenty

  PHILLIP’S GREAT HASTE to reach the Bishop caused him to plan only one night for revisiting the familiar sights of Cambridge. He tethered Jezreel in St. Andrew’s street and, for the first time since his graduation five years earlier, entered the gates of Emmanuel College. Here he had worked and studied for three years as a sizar, acting as servant first to young Lord Leatham and then to the Hon. Percy Chalmers, noblemen who came to the university to acquire a little civilization and a smattering of classics and mathematics. Since men of independent means who were not destined for the C
hurch or the Bar were not to be hindered by any requirement to take examinations or attend classes, Phillip’s life had been a constant struggle to please his cavalier masters while maintaining his own academic standards. Examinations were required of one like Phillip who came of the servant class and who hoped to take Holy Orders.

  Phillip recalled the nights of study constantly interrupted by demands that he serve liquor, polish boots, and carry notes to ladies. At first he had had only his own determination to carry him through. But then, after acquaintance with William Law’s book led him to understand the basis for a devout and holy life, the service ceased to be a yoke and became instead a challenge which he met gladly.

  Now he walked across the wide green court toward the colonnade built by Sir Christopher Wren and entered the chapel behind. Emmanuel College, founded in the sixteenth century by Queen Elizabeth’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, had been built on the site of a Dominican friary which was abandoned during the dissolution of church properties by Henry VIII. From the first the college had had a Puritan bias, ties which were strengthened during Cromwell’s reign, and which even now, Phillip could sense in the austere white walls, stone floor, and plain glass windows of the chapel. The only contrast came from the well-proportioned carving in the dark wood furnishings.

  Phillip left the chapel and walked on beside the herb and rose gardens lining the Elizabethan walls of the court, built largely from the stones of the long-crumbled Cambridge Castle. He paused at the doorway of the elegant, unpuritanical hall and recalled serving his superiors at high table. But for all the nobility that had passed through these doors, the two most famous students had been commoners—William Law and the Puritan cabinet minister, John Harvard, who went to America and founded a college to train clergymen in the colony of Massachusetts.

  Phillip smiled as he turned away from the dining hall. His university years, as his orphanage years, had been marked by his detachment from his fellow men to the extent that his activities allowed. He had not minded that as a coarsely-gowned sizar he held the lowest rank of undergraduate, in the scale topped by the elegantly robed noblemen. They had been years of vast mental and spiritual growth, in the sum, not unhappy to look back upon.