Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Page 21

  Berridge spoke. “How striking it is to see a tender-spirited young woman looking the last great enemy in the face, with as much calm resolution as was ever shown by any military hero in the field—with far more, indeed, for surely more is required where all around tends to soften the mind, than when the drums and trumpets and artillery and the bustle of war have excited all the passions.”

  He turned to the countess. “Your daughter has long been your Ladyship’s consolation and earthly support. But the day will, I doubt not, arrive when the mother shall see that her daughter was selected as the honored instrument of obtaining still more excellent blessings. Oh, my dear friend, the day is coming when it will be delightful to follow out all these now-mysterious lines of Providence from the dark cloud in which they are presently wrapped into the full brightness of celestial glory.”

  The countess nodded, her sharp features tensely drawn after days of watching by her daughter’s bedside. “We have every reason to be thankful for the state of our dear one’s mind. A holy calm and humble reliance on her Savior enables her to enter the dark valley with Christian hope, leaning as it were, on her Redeemer’s arm, and supported and cheered by the blessed promises of His gospel. We are in the hands of our Heavenly Father. And I am sure no one has hitherto had more reason than myself to say that goodness and mercy have followed me all my days.”

  The physician came out and closed the door of the sick room quietly behind him. Her Ladyship rose and faced him. “Well? Speak plainly, I pray you. This is no time for dissimulation.”

  “I have done all I can do.”

  The doctor left them, and the small party went quietly into the darkened chamber. The countess leaned over her daughter’s bed.

  “Do you know me?”

  Lady Selina’s eyes were startlingly dark in her thin face. Only two bright spots of red on her cheeks separated the whiteness of her skin from the pillows. “My dearest mother,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Is your heart happy?”

  Lady Selina raised her head from the pillow. “I am happy, very happy.”

  Her mother bent her head, and Selina kissed her. When Selina’s head returned to her pillows, she ceased to breathe.

  Berridge made the sign of the cross over the still form and prayed, “Support us all the day long until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed, until the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then in Thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at last. Amen.”

  “And may light perpetual shine upon her soul,” the countess added.

  Mary walked to the window and drew back the curtain a few inches. Outside, the sun was setting. Inside, all was silent with the quiet grief in every heart. Lady Selina had taken her departure with the same simplicity and sweetness that had marked all the actions of her life.

  Colonel Hastings knelt for a few moments by her bed; then, visibly shaken by his terrible desolation, he opened the door and went down the hall to his own room.

  Mary slipped out to the sitting room and dropped into a chair with her head in her hands. Very soon the house and all in it would become involved with the bustle that attended hard on the silent detachment of death, but for these few short moments she could grieve the loss of her friend.

  And look to her own soul. The events of the past days had taught her how selfish and shallow she had been. She saw now the false values she must turn away from for true holiness, which was the only way to happiness. And she realized that could be accomplished only with God’s help. Now she knew that it was the shallowness of her own commitment that had made her resent the depth of Rowland’s.

  But the realization of how close she had played to the brink of destruction gripped her with a paralyzing fear. She might have sat there for hours, frozen with her misgivings, had not Rowland come to her.

  Her face clearly showed the spiritual struggle he had long known was in her heart. He sat beside her and took her icy hands in his. “Mary, Mary. You are too much looking into yourself. All you find there is misery.”

  She nodded her bowed head.

  “Oh my dear, look but to Jesus. There is salvation in abundance. It is a glorious thing to know our sins and to hate them. But when this is known, we fly to the gospel for a remedy. Remember, Mary Tudway is as bad as she can be—she is utterly undone.” The bowed head before him sank even lower. “Now where is she to look? Only to Jesus. Her heart can never withstand the power of His grace. Has she millions of sins that threaten her destruction?”

  She nodded.

  “Then be glad, my Mary. The Lord has received double for them all. In Jesus Mary is complete—the Lord will give her poor trembling heart faith to believe this.” He paused to smile. “And then as she is soon to change one of her names, so she will soon lose another—that ugly Much-afraid you will entirely disown.”

  Mary’s head jerked up. “Change my name?”

  “I most fervently hope so with all my heart.” Rowland clasped her hands in both of his. “There has been no time to tell you, Mary. But at last I am free to speak. You can have no doubt of the love I’ve carried in my heart for you. But I finally have a right to speak it.

  “Bishop Willes will ordain me. I received a letter yesterday. Oh, but my dear Mary, I gallop ahead. Our friend lies dead in the next room. I came to counsel you for the sake of your soul, and I end speaking of my own happiness. Forgive me. I must return you to your brother’s home.”

  Mary wanted to protest that she was quite prepared to hear what he would say, and yet she knew she wasn’t. She was fatigued beyond bearing, her heart was full of grief for the loss of Lady Selina, and she had much she must say to God before she could answer Rowland.

  He left her in the entry hall at Devonshire Place. “I will call tomorrow, my dear Mary. Rest you well tonight.” He bowed over her hand and departed.

  Mary went to bed with Rowland’s ‘Rest you well’ ringing in her ears. But it seemed that she was not to sleep at all. Once more grief washed over her. Lady Selina was gone. Mary had known her for only a year, and yet she ached for the young woman whose quiet smile and gentle encouragement had gladdened all who knew her—she whose quiet devout life pointed the way to God for many who needed a signpost; she whose loving heart had found its mate and joyously planned their future…

  Lady Selina was gone, and to what purpose? Her smile, her beauty, her love—all were stilled in the grave. What could now give meaning to that life and death?

  Mary refused to give in to the anger and despair that threatened to accompany that question. She would not accept that it was all meaningless. There had to be reason—some way to give meaning to Lady Selina’s life and death. But still she tossed and turned.

  Then she sat up suddenly and flung her bedclothes from her. With a sudden light in her heart as brilliant as if someone had lit a candle in her dark room, Mary knew that she could give meaning. Following the truth Lady Selina had lived for, walking the path God had shown her, would give meaning not only to Selina’s life but also to her own. Lady Selina was gone, but Mary Tudway was here, and she would live for those things of lasting value that her friend had shown her.

  Even that cheering determination, however, did not immediately bring quietness to Mary. At first her sleep was full of visions as if in a nightmare. She was in a cold, dank church, alone, desolate. Then she walked outside, but the garden was barren, a withered brown without leaf or flower. She existed in a world without comfort, without solace, without beauty.

  And then Rowland came to her. She was back inside the church, this time surrounded by a mighty congregation singing praises to God. The scene shifted. She was in another garden. Green this time and she gathered roses to the accompaniment of birdsong. With Rowland beside her she was rejoicing in a world of beauty, of joy, of love.

  It seemed the hours would not move fast enough the next morning until Rowland called. Surely she had not misunderstood him—he did say he would call, did he not?
What could possibly be delaying him?

  In truth, Rowland’s call came at an hour so early that the family was still at breakfast. Clement was the first to greet their visitor. “I understand I am to congratulate you. I have received a letter from our father, and he tells me Bishop Willes has consented to your ordination. It should have come long ago.”

  Rowland thanked him. “It seems the bishop is not to be put off by my preaching at the Tabernacle. In short, he did not impose any conditions whatever. He said in his letter to me that as the Tabernacle is licensed, he ‘thought it not improper and that I might consider my opportunities to preach in irregular places as providential calls from Him, who on earth taught all who were willing to hear—whether on a mount, in a ship, or by the seaside; and who, at His ascension, commanded His ministers by His apostles to be instant in season and out of season.’”

  Rowland turned to Mary who, with the greatest application, had managed to retain her place at the table. “But I hear I have more to thank for this happy turn of events than merely the reputation of my preaching.”

  Mary lowered her head, but her eyes sparkled. “I knew you would not wish to rely on influence, sir. But may a dutiful daughter not write what is in her heart to her father?”

  Rowland laughed. “Perhaps we should consider that you have been an instrument of God’s using.”

  Rowland accepted Clement’s invitation to join them at the breakfast table and accepted a cup of coffee, although he drank little. To Mary, who had long ago pushed her plate aside, it seemed an age until Clement and Elizabeth left the room. Although, in fact it was only a few minutes.

  Rowland turned to Mary. “Mary—” He paused with uncharacteristic uncertainty. He looked as though he did not know whether to hope or to despair. And Mary thought she could hear the pounding of his heart, then realized it was her own. At last her suitor spoke. “Mary, is all clear in your heart?”

  “Oh, yes, Rowland! I see it all so clearly now—the need for a personal commitment rather than just a formal faith. You tried to tell me so many times. How could I have missed it?” She looked up at him with a shy smile. “And how could you have been so patient with me when I seemed so hopeless and added to your troubles with my nagging?” Then suddenly she knew the answer. “Rowland, it’s just like God’s grace, isn’t it? He waits for us in patient love to accept Him.”

  “Yes, my dear. And I am fully persuaded of the truest work of grace upon your soul. Though I know your sincerity sometimes made you doubt, yet your very doubts were to me the strongest evidence of the sincerity of your heart.” He rose and came around the table to stand before her. “Thus, Mary, as a man and as a Christian, with your leave I would be glad to make choice of you as my partner through life.”

  He held out his hand to her. She stood to her feet, almost knocking her chair over and put both of her hands into the one he held out, to be covered by his left. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. I have grown up, Rowland, and I thank you for waiting for me. But still I must apologize for my unsteadiness, for making you wait so long.”

  “No, Mary, not a word of it. Because your heart was harder won, I shall cherish it even more. And never fear, my dear, you shall be a better minister’s wife for all your struggles. Having seen the world, you will understand what I am preaching against. You have had your time of preparation just as I have had mine. And now we can get on with our work.”

  “Yes, I should like that—working together for something of value.”

  “Indeed. For life’s greatest treasure and Heaven’s.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later, Mary, now Mrs. Rowland Hill, walked through the nave of Wells Cathedral, her footsteps making a faint echo in the stillness, her spirit rejoicing with the lift of the Gothic arches. With a smile she took her seat beside the other members of her family gathered for this occasion.

  The silence suddenly filled with chords from the great organ, which vibrated the stones beneath their feet. The processional of officiating clergymen and choir, followed by those to be ordained by Bishop Willes, came down the nave and took their places before the high altar. Mary watched through a mist of joy as the archdeacon approached the bishop sitting in his chair. “Reverend Father in God, I present unto you these persons present to be admitted deacons.”

  The bishop turned to the congregation. “Brethren, if there be any of you who know any impediment in any of these persons presented to be deacons, let him come forth in the name of God.”

  Mary held her breath. Surely, after all the struggle, there could be no objection now. There wasn’t. The service continued with a sung liturgy, reading of lessons and sermon.

  Then the bishop, still in his chair, administered the oath. Mary heard Rowland’s firm, resonant voice above the others. “I, Rowland Hill, do sincerely promise and swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty, King George III. So help me, God.”

  The bishop asked, “Do you trust that you are inwardly moved by the Holy Ghost to take upon you this office and ministration, to serve God for the promoting of His glory and the edifying of His people?”

  As the ordinands answered, “I trust so,” Mary made the same answer in her heart, vowing to support Rowland.

  The bishop continued, “Do you think that you are truly called according to the will of our Lord Jesus Christ and the due Order of this Realm to the ministry of the Church?”

  “I think so,” was the reply.

  “Do you unfeignedly believe all the canonical Scriptures of the Old and New Testament?”

  “I do believe them.”

  As Mary continued to answer the examination in her own heart with her husband, she felt the next question had special application to her. “Will you apply all your diligence to frame and fashion your own lives and the lives of your families according to the doctrine of Christ, and to make both yourselves and them, as much as in you lies, wholesome examples of the flock of Christ?”

  “I will so do, the Lord being my helper.”

  Mary knew that none of those receiving ordination could take deeper joy than Rowland at the bishop’s next words. “Take then authority to execute the office of a deacon in the Church of God committed to you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

  Holding the Bible, he continued, “Take authority to read the Gospel in the Church of God and to preach the same.”

  The bishop then rose and prayed, “Almighty God, who has given you this will to do all these things, grant also unto you strength and power to perform the same; that He may accomplish His work which He has begun in you, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  The bishop then laid hands on each ordinand. “Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a deacon in the Church of God, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

  Mary thought her heart would burst with trying to express her praise to God, who had brought them to this moment, who had answered all their prayers, and who, she knew, would continue to lead them in His service all their lives.

  Historical Note

  In telling this story, I have blended four true accounts from the late 1700s. As fanciful as it may seem, Bishop Twysden’s story is true, as, unfortunately, is the account of the death of Lady Selina.

  The Earl of Westmoreland became Viceroy of Ireland, and Lady Westmoreland, the Vicereine. True to the terms of Robert Child’s will, Osterley passed to Sarah Sophia Fane, Lady Westmoreland’s second child, who married George Villiers. He took the name Child-Villiers and became the fifth Earl of Jersey. Readers of Regency romances will recognize her as “Queen Sarah,” Countess of Jersey, a member of the famous committee that ruled on rights of admission to Almack’s.

  Rowland Hill and Mary Tudway were married in June of 1773 at the Church of St. Marylebone in London. He was ordained deacon that same month by Dr. Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells. At the insistence of the Archbishop of York, however, he was never granted priest’s orders and so was, he said, “re
quired to go through life with only one shoe on.” His parish was on the green banks of the Severn at Wotton-under-edge in Gloucestershire, and he built Surrey Chapel “round so the devil should not have a corner in it.” Attached to the chapel were thirteen Sunday schools with over three thousand children on their rolls. Later in life he described himself as “rector of Surrey Chapel, vicar of Wotton-under-edge, and curate of all the fields, commons, and pastures throughout England and Wales.”

  I wish to express my special appreciation to Mr. David Tudway Quilter who sent me his excellent book on his family’s history; to the librarians at the Huntingdon Centre at The Countess of Huntingdon’s Chapel, especially Andrew Ballinger and Ayeli Barett; and at Wesley’s Chapel, Mr. Cyril Skinner, Managing Curator, and Rev. Douglas A. Wollen, Historian.

  DONNA FLETCHER CROW

  Word List

  Adam—Robert Adam, 1728-1792, leading English architect

  Bagged—drunk

  Beard the master in his den—to confront with boldness. As in “To beard the lion in his den.” (Sir Walter Scott, Marmion)

  Beau Nash—Master of Ceremonies of Bath, called its “uncrowned king”

  Bohea—black tea which became widely popular in Europe in the 18th century replacing the formerly favored green tea

  Calash—folding top of a small, light-wheeled carriage; a style of woman’s cap resembling the carriage top

  Collation—a light meal

  Congé—dismissal

  Conventicling—preaching in an unconsecrated place

  Couple—a musical episode, as a rondo

  Domino—long, loose hooded cloak worn as masquerade costume

  Don—a head, tutor, or fellow in a college at Oxford or Cambridge

  Epergne—ornamental stand with separate dishes or trays

  Exhibition—a grant drawn from the funds of a school to help maintain a student

  Francois Boucher—French painter, 1703-1770

  Frank—free postage granted to a Member of Parliament or peer of the realm