Where Love Shines Read online

  Jennifer and Richard slipped onto a narrow wooden bench while the congregation concluded the opening hymn led by Hiram Walker. Applause echoed in the room when the Earl of Shaftesbury rose. “My friends, you have done well; you have done excellently well in the work here. God has blessed you and those you minister to, and He will continue to do so.”

  Applause again. It was a triumphant occasion. Only Jenny and the man seated so close to her knew the true scope of the victory that brought them to this moment. And yet as the earl continued, with every word he spoke, the weight of discouragement that she had felt for so many weeks, even months now, increased. It even overrode her concern for Richard. Almost. Something was very wrong, she knew. He had spoken barely more than five words.

  But now Shaftesbury recaptured her attention. “It is because of your very accomplishments that I feel constrained to warn you.” The timber of the earl’s voice dropped to a more intimate level, not as if making a speech, but as if speaking personally to a group of close friends. “Doing good isn’t the most important thing—loving God and accepting His love is the heart of the matter. Then we can do good to others as a means of showing His love. That’s the only way we will really accomplish anything. Building model housing and lecturing people on cleanliness is only washing the outside of the cup and leaving the inside dirty.”

  Shaftesbury looked directly at her. “Our need—England’s need—is for national revival. We must work for the poor, but pray for the Spirit. Our efforts will never win. We cannot overcome evil in our strength, but the Lord can. Be steadfast and persevering, fully engaged in the work of the Lord. Your toil is not in vain when it is done in the Lord.

  “God speaks to us today as He did to Moses: ‘Before all thy people I will do marvels such as have not been done in all the earth, nor in any nation; and all the people among which thou art shall see the work of the Lord.’ That is God’s promise, and your part is to obey.”

  Jennifer nodded at the speaker’s words. Yes, obey. Take the next step in faith—as Richard must take each step in faith, seeing through a glass darkly. And the time would come. A lightness flooded her. And yet at the same time, she felt the weight of longing more than ever before.

  After the earl’s closing prayer, everyone in the room began moving and talking, greeting old friends, rejoicing in the reopening of the Lord’s work in a spot so nearly lost to the devil. But Jenny sat, still wondering how much longer they could hold out if God didn’t send His torchbearer soon. The earl had told her long ago that they must go on stacking brushwood to be ready for the great fire the Spirit would light. But how long must they wait?

  “Jennifer!” She turned at the sound of the sweetly musical voice.

  “Oh, Miss Thompson, er, I mean, Mrs. Spurgeon.” She laughed and embraced her friend. “I had not heard that you were returned from your wedding trip.”

  “Oh, yes, for quite ages and ages. We are an old married couple now.”

  But not so old that the bride had quit blushing, Jennifer noted.

  “And your work at the chapel is going well?”

  “Oh, you cannot imagine. We had already rebuilt the church once to accommodate the crowds that come to hear Charles preach, but every Sunday hundreds are turned away.” She gave a small giggle. “My dear Charles says containing our congregation in New Park Street Chapel resembles attempting to put to sea in a teapot.”

  “It’s no wonder. Your Charles is a fine preacher.”

  “Oh, yes. And you must come Saturday week to the Crystal Palace. Charles is preaching for the service of national thanksgiving for the Treaty of Paris.”

  “I would like to very much. All London is talking about it. But I…” In truth, no one could give heartier thanks for the signing of the treaty which marked the official end of the war in the Crimea than those who had experienced it so personally. Still…

  Jenny looked at Richard. He stood aloof from the milling crowd. Waiting and silent. “I shall have to see.”

  She turned to Richard, her heart in her throat. The time had come. So many considerations had crowded her mind, but now her whole attention was his.

  The sweet April evening greeted them as they stepped out of the mission. Jennifer was glad there were no cabs in sight. “The daffodils are in bloom in St. James’s Park. Shall we walk there?”

  St. James’s was the oldest royal park in London and one of the most attractive, especially now that the trees lining the lake were so delicately frosted with spring green. They arrived at the bridge spanning the center of the lake just as the keeper began feeding the large array of ornamental waterfowl that lived there. Two gawky, long-beaked pelicans swooped low over their heads. Jenny jumped. “Oh, what alarming creatures. They say they are descended from those placed here by Charles II at his restoration.”

  Richard made no reply. And Jennifer remained silent. She could take no more refuge in her tour guide chatter. It was for Richard to initiate the topic so dear to her heart. They strolled on, by unspoken consent moving away from the sound of the band playing a lively march. Jennifer did not feel lively. And when Richard finally spoke, his words bore no animation. “Jennifer, I cannot tell you what pain it gives me to inform you that I shall be going forthwith to Newcastle. I do not intend to return anytime soon.”

  Jennifer felt only one piercing stab of pain. Then her own hurt was overcome by the agony in his voice as he continued. “I had hoped… I had believed…” He struggled for breath. “I called in Harley Street today. It seems that the intentions I declared in such haste at Greyston are not to see fulfillment.”

  Jennifer started to protest. A resounding “No!” rose inside her. She had waited so long for this conversation, but this was not what she wanted to hear. She clenched her fists to control her impulse to tremble. She would not cry.

  A pelican plopped to a perch behind them, sounding for all the world like a rat falling off a wall. She stiffened her spine and raised her chin. “I see, sir. You are informing me that your affections were not engaged as you led me to believe?”

  “It’s not a matter of my affections. It is a matter of my expectations. Dr. Halston was very apologetic.”

  So he had been with Dr. Halston. And the news had not been good. She caught her breath. He did so well, went about all his work with such confidence, needing so little help, that one forgot how severe his disability was, how he hated wearing the conspicuous blue lenses. And he had seemed improved. Perhaps it had been a matter of adaptation, not improvement. Perhaps his vision was worse. But in that case, he would need her all the more.

  And she needed him for something far greater than seeing. She needed Richard for her very breath.

  Across the park the band struck up the “March Militaire.” Richard stood, as he had throughout the conversation, so stiffly she expected him to salute at any moment. It was a situation that called for giving orders. “Well, I am exceedingly disappointed to hear that you feel no warmth for me, Lieutenant Greyston. But the fact of the matter is that my affections were very deeply engaged. As an officer and a gentleman, you made certain commitments from which I cannot see my way clear to release you at the moment.”

  “Jennifer, you don’t understand.”

  “On the contrary, I understand only too well. You think that because the announcement of our engagement has not yet appeared in The Times, it will be a small matter for you to cry off. You are very wrong in that. It is a matter of great significance to me.”

  But she miscalculated in bringing up how important Richard was to her. The stiff resolution that had carried her through so far began to slip away. She had no anger left to hold on to. She feared her knees would give way.

  Fortunately, a sharp breeze blew across the lake at that moment, whipping the fringe of her mantle. “I am cold. I cannot discuss this further. You will please take me home.”

  Inside the cab it was all she could do to keep from flinging herself into his arms and sobbing. She longed to plead with him, to try to make him understand how
little other considerations mattered next to their being together. She managed to avoid that. Just. But her voice was soft as she clasped his hands at the door. “Richard, do not go north yet. Please.” She would have implored harder, but she sensed his weakening resolve. “The service of national thanksgiving is Saturday. Surely, giving thanks for that terrible war ending…” She could beg no harder.

  “Very well. We shall go to that together, Jennifer. But I would not have you take false hope. It will be best to make a clean end of things.”

  She started to protest, but he silenced her with a finger on her lips. “Jenny, I cannot marry you as I am.”

  And then she understood. The stone wall he had once spoken of—the one he felt he had ridden into at a full gallop, the one that had been so long in coming down but that they both thought breached with his pottery reform—the wall was back up. Rebuilt thicker and higher for its having so nearly come down.

  Twenty-four

  When Saturday arrived, Jennifer knew that her reprieve had ended. She had come to realize that because Richard was an officer and a gentleman, she might inveigle him to marry her by pleading or ordering. But by doing so, she would destroy the qualities she held most dear in him. If he were to come to her at all, it must be freely on his own terms.

  The only way to approach the day was as if that evening in St. James’s Park had not occurred. Nor those wonderful moments in the library at Greyston Pitchers. She and Richard Greyston were friends. Very dear friends. They were attending a day of national importance together. A happy memory of their last time together might be the best she could ask for. She would do her best to make it so.

  But once she put considerations for her own happiness behind her, she found other reasons for concern. Primarily Richard’s comfort. Even his safety. What would the Crystal Palace, with all its panes of glass, be to a man with photophobia? What if the morning’s gentle clouds should disappear, and it should turn out to be a brilliant day? Richard had explained nothing to her. Was he in danger of severe pain? Of increased damage to his eyes? Did this excursion contain a potential threat to any hope of restoring his vision or their relationship?

  But as Lady Eccleson’s smart carriage rolled across Tower Bridge and on south of London, Richard seemed to share Jennifer’s intention that their last day together be pleasant. He filled the time by recounting his having heard Spurgeon preach years before when he was a gownsman at Cambridge.

  “Word of the boy preacher had reached our skeptical ears at university. I was less than enthusiastic about going, but it was a bright spring morning, and it was a pleasant ride along a country road to the village of Waterbeach.” He smiled at the memory. “The lad in the pulpit was no more than eighteen, as verdant green a bumpkin as one could hope to see. The chapel, a former barn with whitewashed walls and thatched roof, was filled to overflowing. And when he began preaching, it was easy to understand why…”

  Richard continued, and Jennifer smiled and murmured responses, but she was not listening. She was worrying. Her brow furrowed, she took frequent furtive glances upward. The sky hung a pale blue-gray, giving hope that it would darken. But what if it didn’t? What if the clouds cleared instead?

  And it did seem to be growing brighter by the time they reached South London. All eyes lifted to the gigantic glass and steel structure that had been built in Hyde Park for the Great Exhibition and reassembled here in Sydenham in 1852. Then they alighted from the carriage, and Jenny held tightly to Dick’s arm as they moved through the vast throng. He advanced confidently, but she was determined to be close by should he need to close his eyes against a sudden burst of sunlight.

  They had no sooner found seats in the vast crowd than the powerful organ made the vaulted roof vibrate with “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” But Jennifer did not sing with the throng. Instead, she listened to the words of the great hymn: “Our Helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing…” And she realized how, in the pain and confusion of the past days, she had failed to turn to that Helper, either for herself or for Dick.

  “Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing…” Jenny closed her eyes in silent prayer.

  Now she saw that she had lost sight of the larger picture—of her place in God’s work on earth, in London, in Tothill. Her heart had looked for too much from Richard. She might never have him back. But she could go on as long as she did not lose that most vital of all relationships. “The Spirit and the gifts are ours thro’ Him who with us sideth…”

  She opened her eyes and looked around at the ardent faces. The longing she had felt so intensely for the welfare of her country and the poor returned also. And with that her desire to see a spiritual awakening returned as well. And here were thousands of others who had gathered under this great crystal dome for the same goal. They needed a miracle. Surely it would not be much longer. Please, God.

  The preacher took his place on the platform erected at the far end of the transept. He looked much as Jenny remembered him—rather stout, a round beardless face, dark straight hair framing his boyish countenance. His manner appeared plain, perhaps even a little awkward. And his high black satin stock was decidedly unfashionable. In spite of his great success at the Park Street Chapel and his marriage to the accomplished Susannah Thompson, this was still the boy preacher of the fens, the young man who had filled the Sunday schools of Cambridgeshire villages with such enthusiasm that he attracted the attention of a London congregation.

  When Charles Spurgeon began preaching, however, in that rich, powerful voice, all awkwardness disappeared. Jenny forgot everything else and fell as fully under his spell as the other 23,000 listeners. “We are gathered here in this great Palace built to symbolize the achievement of our age—the success of industrialization, the wealth and power of our nation. What better place to declare to you that we are also a nation of sinners? All around us we see people acquiescing to the faith. But that is the problem—such is not faith at all. It is mere assent.

  “Assent is not saving faith. It will not save souls. It will not save our nation. All around us are unbelieving minds that have been blinded by the god of worldly success so that they do not see the splendor of the Gospel that shows forth the glory of Christ.”

  Jennifer gripped her hands so tightly her fingers ached. She wanted to pray, but the strength of her feeling blotted out any words her mind might form.

  “I say to you that the time has come, the time for the kindling of true faith in the hearts of the people. It is time for those who have blinded themselves to the light of Christ to open their eyes. Christ must be our sun. Christ must be the center of our lives.”

  Please, God, a miracle.

  “Let the name of the Lord be declared in Zion, for He will arise and have mercy on England. The appointed time has come.”

  Yes. Yes, so be it.

  The service ended, but Jennifer sat, coming back as if from a long distance. Gradually the words of those around her penetrated her consciousness.

  “Mr. Spurgeon was only ten years old when a godly man prophesied that he would preach the Gospel to thousands in Rowland Hill’s Surrey Chapel. I understand he has done that.” Lady Eccleson, who was sitting behind them, spoke to a gentleman Jennifer did not know.

  Jennifer’s mother joined in. “I have even heard Spurgeon called the Modern Whitefield.”

  “Comparisons to Whitefield and Hill are all very well,” Lady Eccleson’s friend said, “but I should style him the greatest preacher since the days of Saint Paul.”

  Jennifer couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The great preacher that their day so needed, the voice crying in the wilderness that had not yet come to her own generation, the preacher like those of the past for whom she had prayed—perhaps God had sent His torchbearer.

  The crowd moved on, but Jennifer’s amazement held her. She had been so blind. God was working all the time, preparing the way, but she had seen only the problems, only the smallness of her own efforts. Her stumbling block had b
een her own lack of vision.

  She turned to Richard, still sitting beside her in the emptying hall, waiting patiently behind his dark glasses. “Oh, Dick!” She grabbed his arm. “Wasn’t it wonderful?”

  As she spoke, the last cloud scudded away, and the sun shone in an aureole of light through the thousands of glass panes forming the building. It was like being inside a diamond with a light turned on it. Jenny gasped at the brightness and jumped to her feet. “Come. We must get you to a darker place.”

  Still holding his arm, she moved in front of him toward the aisle. Her one thought was to get Richard out of this shrieking, springing light.

  Her very concern brought the disaster. As Richard rose, the fringe of her cloak caught on his glasses. Jenny pushed ahead, and her mantle ripped the protecting shades from his eyes. Jennifer gave a cry of alarm as they crashed to the floor. “Oh, no. No!”

  For an instant she was back in Scutari as the final bandage dropped from Dr. Menzies’ fingers. She saw the bright rays piercing the blue-gray eyes. She heard again Richard’s cry.

  She thrust her hands out to cover his eyes.

  But he caught her wrists.

  “Richard, what is it?”

  He blinked and squinted against the light. His eyes watered. But he did not cry out in pain. He did not close his eyes.

  Jennifer held her breath as Richard let go of her wrists and gently cupped her face in his hands. “Jenny, my dear Jenny. You are beautiful.”

  She smiled her joy. But her own eyes were too blurred with tears to see him clearly.

  All around them the shimmering building vibrated as the organ pealed forth the postlude: “Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.”

  AFTERWORD

  The disastrous Crimean War was ended by the Treaty of Paris on 30 March 1856. It was proclaimed a victory for Britain and her allies. Total casualties for the British Empire were 21,097, of which: 2,755 were killed in action; 2,019 died of wounds; and more than 16,000 died of disease. Terrible as these losses were, they are a fraction of losses by British allies who did not have Florence Nightingale.