Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 17

  Law rose early and breakfasted in his room on a cup of chocolate, before appearing in the drawing room to lead family prayers at nine o’clock. He would then invite Phillip to join him in his bedroom upstairs where the morning light fell through the stone-mullioned windows of the bedroom and adjoining study. And throughout the day, William Law repeatedly put aside his studying and writing without complaint to interview each applicant for relief who presented himself at the garden door.

  On his third morning there, Phillip sat before the fireplace in Law’s oak-beamed bedroom, while Law interviewed the fourth suppliant of the day in his tiny study which he called his “closet.” Phillip looked at the hearthstone of the fireplace and noted the hollows Law had worn there by rubbing his cold feet upon the warm stones. Then he turned to gaze out the windows. Through the trees he could just glimpse the school’s library, and the almshouses endowed by his host.

  From the next room he heard Law’s counsel to the beggar, “My good Man, I shall be happy to meet your needs for half a crown, but see that you spend it wisely. And be assured that I shall freshen up. Just as I would not give a poor man money to go see a puppet show, neither would I allow myself to spend it in the same manner. It is a folly and a crime in a poor man to waste what is given him in foolish trifles whilst he wants meat, drink, and clothes. And it would be no less folly, or a less crime in me, to spend that money in silly diversions which might be so much better spent in imitation of the Divine goodness and works of kindness and Charity.”

  Law rose and took the pauper’s hand. “And so, my Brother, let us both go forth to serve God and man, in the doing of good. And remember the words of the Holy Scriptures, ‘Blessed be the man that provideth for the sick and needy: the Lord shall deliver him in the time of trouble.’ Go now and give as it has been given unto you.

  “Miss Gibbon will supply you with a loaf fresh from her excellent oven on your way out.” Law stepped to the clothespress in his bedroom and drew out a coarse linen shirt that looked to have been worn only once. “And take this in remembrance of Him who said, ‘When one asks for your cloak, give him your coat also.’” Law rang a bell and a servant appeared to show the man out. Then he sat in the chair across from Phillip.

  “You interview every petitioner personally?” Phillip asked.

  “Certainly. It is only by making our labor a gift and service to the poor that our ordinary work is changed into a holy service and made acceptable to God as our devotion. As Charity is the greatest of all virtues, so nothing can make it more amiable in the sight of God than adding one’s own labor to it.”

  Phillip shook his head. “And for such as this they call you an enthusiast?”

  Law gave his familiar guffaw of laughter. “I believe the term is ‘a celebrated enthusiast,’ the very worst kind—one who not only teaches the way of salvation, but lives it as well.”

  In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, Phillip hit the arm of his chair. “But that’s monstrous. To call a man an enthusiast is to call him a leper—a man to be carefully shunned.” A note of bitterness attended his words.

  “My two housemates and I strive to live our lives based on a literal application of the principles of the Sermon on the Mount; so I guess it is appropriate that some should say all manner of evil against us for righteousness’ sake—we attempt to rejoice and be glad in it. But I do not live like a nonjuror. I delight in attending every service of my parish church.” Just then the bells pealed the hour from their Norman tower across the field. “And at my special request the rector always has the psalms sung. I have always been a high churchman. Through my study and writing, I wish to dispel the prevalent notion that piety is generally accompanied by intellectual weakness.”

  “A Serious Call has done much to dispel that notion.”

  “The Lord’s leading is a great and marvelous thing. I often wonder if I should have written it, had I retained my Fellowship. I left Emmanuel and went as tutor to Mr. Edward Gibbon, brother of my excellent companion. By the by, my old student now has a son of his own, who is showing a precocious interest in Roman history. Shouldn’t be surprised if the young scamp might make a name for himself someday. At any rate, the following year I accompanied young Edward to Emmanuel as his governor and wrote the book while there. The Lord has seen fit to bless it in His work.”

  “Its detractors have said it sets impossibly high standards—that it is practical, but not practicable. But I see that you indeed practice it thoroughly.”

  “Indeed, the standard is high. But we shall do well to aim at the highest degree of perfection if we may thereby, at least, attain to mediocrity.”

  The appearance of another applicant for Charity, a woman, interrupted their discussion. After a short interview, Law gave her a pail of milk from the four cows he kept, and sent a large kettle of soup to her hungry children. But the soup was not ladled from the pot over the kitchen fire until Law first tasted it himself. After a careful sip of the steaming liquid, he went to the back door and called, “Miss Gibbon, are there any more leeks in the garden? The broth is a bit weak today.”

  The additional vegetables strengthened the soup, and the woman went home to feed her children.

  “Do you ever turn any away?” Phillip asked.

  Law gave his ready, cheerful laugh. “If a rogue came for money, even if I knew him to be a rogue, I would give him money, hoping for the best and believing it my duty to give to all who might be in need. It may be that I often give to those that do not deserve it, or that will make an ill use of my alms, but what then? Is this not the very method of divine goodness? Does not God make His sun to rise on the evil and on the good? Shall I withhold a little money or food from my fellow creature for fear he should not be good enough to receive it of me? Don’t I beg of God to deal with me not according to my merit, but according to His own great goodness? And shall I be so absurd to withhold my Charity from a poor brother because he may perhaps not deserve it? Shall I use a mirror toward him, which I pray God never to use toward me?”

  It was now tea time, but Law, as was his custom, did not join his companions at the tea table. He chose rather to eat a few raisins, standing while they sat. As at all meals, the food was served on wooden platters. Not, Law explained, from any notion about unnecessary luxury, but because it appeared to him that a plate spoiled the knives.

  The days at King’s Cliffe would forever remain in Phillip’s mind as a foretaste of heaven, with William Law supplying the role of the closest he had ever known to an earthly father. But at last the time came when he must leave. On Phillip’s last night in Hall Yard House, Law gave a musical gathering. This was Law’s most pleasurable recreation, and he had constructed a handsome wainscotted room with a high-coved ceiling, elegantly decorated with festoons of plasterwork, where Miss Gibbon played works of Bach on the organ.

  And the next day, beginning his long ride back to London, Phillip thought on all he had learned in his time with that remarkable man. Looping Jezreel’s reins over the saddle, he drew Law’s book from his saddlebag and read again one of his favorite portions.

  All worldly attainments, whether of greatness, wisdom, or bravery, are but empty sounds; and there is nothing wise, or great, or noble, in any human spirit, but rightly to know and heartily worship and adore the great God. That is the support and life of all spirits, whether in Heaven or on earth.

  Phillip put the book away and thought of the road ahead of him. Now, after this time of spiritual refreshment, he must return to the real world, to live these principles in the place God had for him. As he guided Jezreel down the road, he thought of the map he sought for his life—looked at his past and thought of the future.

  And he could not think of the future without Catherine’s image appearing before his eyes. His time with Law had taught him the necessity of giving of himself. For the first time in his carefully detached existence, Phillip was aware of the possibility, perhaps even the necessity, of filling another person’s need with himself—his presence and hi
s personality. It was a totally new concept for him. As he had long ago determined that he didn’t need anyone, it had never occurred to him that the reverse might be true—that someone could need him. Need him for something more than just his preaching.

  He was trained and experienced in meeting others’ needs with Jesus Christ—with introducing them to Jesus as a person—but the idea of filling a need by presenting himself left him shaken.

  But, of course, that was ridiculous. Catherine had turned to him as a friend in her disappointment over Charles Wesley, had leaned on him for support in the darkness of the Fleet, had shared her concerns with him for the safety of her brother, but Catherine didn’t really need him. She had a large family she could turn to; the Society had the deepest respect for her and all the Perronets… anyone would help Catherine. Why would she need him? But however hard he argued, a tiny voice persisted: so why then, had she turned to him?

  And he countered yet more forcefully: what could he offer her? He had nothing. All the new spiritual insights he had gained from William Law did not change the realities one jot. He was still a foundling receiving only a meager stipend from the Society for his preaching, and he had no prospects of ever securing a settled living.

  And Catherine would be the first person he must tell of his rejection when he reached London in five days’ time. When he thought of the disappointment he would see in her eyes, he shrank from the task.

  He couldn’t go back; he couldn’t tell Catherine. He had failed, had been rejected again. Even the recommendation of Vincent Perronet hadn’t been enough. He realized, now that it was not to be, that he had held to an unformed hope of having this to offer her. Now he would never be able to speak what was in his heart. He would be forever alone.

  Twenty-two

  IN SPITE OF HER OUTWARD COMPOSURE, Catherine was experiencing inner panic. Ned had returned from his circuit ride with Charl and the reports her brothers bore were full of the ‘changes and chances of this fleeting world’ as the prayer book so perfectly described the vicissitudes of life. There was new unrest and division among the Methodist preachers in the north. Sally Wesley was expecting a baby, and she and Charles had taken a house in Bristol. This was good news except it meant that Charles would be severely reducing his itinerant ministry. Such a change for the younger Wesley brother was causing concern for the work and backbiting gossip among Society members divided between John and Charles in their support. The rift between John Wesley and George Whitefield was openly talked of, and there were rumors of a split between Charles and John.

  Closer to home, Elmira Smithson’s cough sounded worse each time Catherine visited, and there seemed no possibility of freeing her husband from debtors’ prison. And in their own household Durial’s sharp tongue was more caustic than ever as she hectored her husband for a settled lifestyle. She entreated him daily to give up circuit-riding and to spend more time at home with her, now fueled anew with Charles Wesley’s example to hold before Ned.

  The list went on, but the fact that almost overwhelmed Catherine was Phillip’s continued absence. He was never out of her mind and she hated to admit how much she missed him. His kind eyes, gentle words and calm wisdom were never out of her thoughts.

  When she looked in her own mirror, she hardly recognized the strained, white face and the round, dark eyes with their hollow look of bereavement. She prayed silently, “I do believe Thou wilt take care of all this, Lord. But when?”

  On Thursday she returned from the Foundry feeling more wilted than usual. Her students had shown more propensity to wiggle and giggle than to read, and the late summer combination of high heat and higher humidity made the mere thought of labor exhausting. Yet Durial persisted with her housekeeping schedule. With a sigh, Catherine donned a large white apron and joined the entire household staff in the kitchen to help with the preserving.

  “There is a peck of plums in the garden that needs pitting,” Durial said. “We shall be glad of my special damson jelly this winter.”

  Catherine pulled a bentwood chair into the shade and began her sticky task. But the peck was less than a quarter done when when the sound of horse’s hooves on the gravel made her look up. The pale blond head she saw above the hedge made her forget the heat and the plum stains on her hands and apron.

  “Phillip! You’ve been gone so long.” As on that spring day in the woods, she ran toward him, and even more fiercely than then, longed for him to open his arms to receive her.

  But his bleak face stopped her. “Phillip…” It was as if she had run into a wall. Tears threatened to brim in her eyes, but she looked quickly away. If only he would open up to her—could open up. “You’ve had a long ride. Would you care to walk in the garden?”

  They walked where they had before, but the glory was gone. Even his long-awaited presence beside her brought no comfort—the set of his shoulders and the jerky motion of his hands told her his news was bad.

  He hesitated, and she knew he wanted to break the news to her gently. But there was no gentle way. “I was refused.”

  The thin line of his sensitive mouth told her how much he hated saying those words; no matter how calmly he spoke, they had come at great cost. The very briefness of the statement was as final as a locked gate. And it cost her to respond in a likewise unemotional manner, to honor his reticence. For a moment she could not speak. Then, “I shall tell Audrey to prepare some lemonade.”

  They sat in the shade and sipped cool drinks, but inside, Catherine was seething. Her world had crumbled. This was far worse than the news of Charles Wesley’s marriage had been, because she cared far more deeply for Phillip. And now, even if her inklings that Phillip returned her regard had any foundation in truth, she had no hope for a future with him.

  She took refuge behind her glass of lemonade as the dream she experienced a few nights ago returned to her as vividly as if the tableau were being enacted before her very eyes. She was at Shoreham, kneeling in the garden, wearing a blue dress, and holding an infant in her arms. She rose and walked toward another waiting for her at the end of the path. As she walked she cuddled the precious bundle to her breast. When she awoke she had known that she had been walking to Phillip, carrying their child in her arms. But now it would remain forever merely a lovely dream. It could never be.

  “Would you care for more lemonade?” The words were a mockery, but she must say something.

  Before Phillip could answer, a clatter of hooves and flying gravel called them to the front drive. They arrived just as Ned rushed out the front door and Charles Wesley flung off his sweating horse. “My brother intends to ruin himself!” Wesley began his story even as Ned led the way into the parlor.

  “You must help me. This insanity must be stopped.” Charles drew a crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it to Ned. “He didn’t even write to me personally—just sent a copy of a letter to a third person. He intends to marry Grace Murray.”

  Catherine had never seen the soft-spoken Charles so agitated. He strode around the room spouting disconnected sentences. “The scandal will be unthinkable. It will bring to an end everything we have labored for. Grace Murray has been promised to John Bennett for months. And now she accepts my brother too! In the past, the woman has suffered serious mental illness. I can only have the gravest of concerns for her balance now.”

  Charles threw his hands into the air, then clasped Edward’s shoulders. “It is unthinkable. You must help me. There’s no one else I can turn to. This calamity must be stopped.”

  “Of course we will help you.” Ned’s reply included Phillip. “What would you have us do?”

  “Ride with me. We must go to Newcastle now.”

  Catherine’s heart sank, thinking of the near-to two-hundred-mile ride. “Phillip, you’ve just returned from a journey, and have not even had a good meal yet.” As always, his thinness caught at her heart.

  “Durial will set a table for us, and I can supply you with clean linen.” Ned spoke to Phillip, flinging Catherine’s objections
aside.

  Within the hour the men were departed. In spite of the lateness of the o’clock, they had determined not to delay. Several hours of daylight remained to them and they would gain all the distance they could. Catherine felt more alone than ever. She not only was left with the drudgery of her duty and the difficulty of the situations around her; but worse, the one shining hope she had held to for the future had been extinguished. There was no light at the end of the tunnel.

  Indeed, it was impossible to believe that she was in any place so hopeful as a tunnel. Catherine knew herself to be in a hole.

  Twenty-three

  IN THE MONTH THAT Ned and Phillip were gone, one island of brightness arose. Catherine’s sister Elizabeth, who had been laboring so diligently at the Foundry that Catherine had hardly seen her all summer, announced her engagement to William Briggs, John Wesley’s secretary.

  “O Elizabeth, I am so happy for you.” Catherine hugged her sister and then embraced the smiling bridegroom-to-be. “What a perfect couple you will make. I can’t fathom why I hadn’t thought of the match myself. You’ll go to Shoreham to be married by Papa?”

  Indeed, The couple planned to be off the next day so the banns could be published that very Sunday. And then, though happy for her sister, Catherine felt her desolation even more sharply. “When will it be my turn, Lord? In Thy perfect timing, dost Thou have a time for me?” As in answer, she thought of words from Ecclesiastes.

  To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…. a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing…. He hath made everything beautiful in His time; also He hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.

  No one can find out the work that God maketh? Then she would have to continue groping her way one step at a time, but with continued faith in her Guide and in His timing.