Where Love Shines (20 page)

She turned to welcome her acquaintance, who entered with pink cheeks and a bright smile.

“Do forgive my intrusion, Miss Neville, but I had not seen you for such a long time, and I had to assure myself that you were completely recovered from the cholera.”

“My dear Susannah, I am perfectly well. And delighted to see you.” She requested a tea tray of Hinson before sitting beside Susannah on the sofa. “And what of you? You appear quite blooming.”

Susannah put a hand to her cheek. “Oh dear, Mama says it is not the thing to go about with one’s feelings showing so. But I am so very happy I simply cannot hide it.”

“That seems a most reasonable thing to me, Susannah. There is little enough joy in the world. Do not let anyone temper yours. Tell me what is happening.”

“Well, as the chapel couldn’t come close to accommodating the numbers who longed to hear Mr. Spurgeon preach, the board has undertaken its enlargement. They completely knocked out the east end and are extending it vastly. It is quite amazing. As a matter of fact…” Here the young lady paused, her blushes increased, and her smile widened.

She opened her reticule and pulled out a thick vellum card. “I hope you won’t think it too informal of me to give this to you in person rather than sending it by post, but I would be so happy if you could attend the dedication of our new chapel.” She handed the card to Jennifer. “You will see that it is to be something rather special.” She dropped her eyes.

Jennifer took the card and then gasped with genuine delight, “Oh, Susannah, you’re engaged? To Mr. Spurgeon! I’m so happy for you. And the wedding will be at the dedication? How wonderful! My dear Susannah, I should love to attend.”

At that moment Hinson entered with the tea tray. The rest of the afternoon sped by, Susannah regaling Jenny with stories: of the fishwife who announced she would have nothing to do with religion, but who then became devout after hearing Charles Spurgeon preach… of the Thames boatman’s family who never missed a service since Charles had gone to the river, caulking knife and materials in hand, to demonstrate his own method for waterproofing a boat… of the notorious drunk…

Jennifer nodded often, recalling how the young preacher had helped her when
she
needed it. She was sure he was as fine as Susannah said, yet Jenny couldn’t help but think of the newspapers’ continual complaints against the Reverend Charles Spurgeon: He was perhaps the most unpolished preacher ever to appear in a London pulpit. He had no university degree. His sermons were filled with examples from common things. His services created a traffic hazard—with streets around the chapel constantly blocked by crowds.

“I know what an exceedingly fine man he is, Susannah. But…” Jennifer stopped. She would say nothing to dim her friend’s joy.

“Oh, those odious newspapers. So many people simply do not understand. But, Miss Neville, you must judge for yourself. Will you come Sunday to hear Charles preach? We are holding services in Exeter Hall while repairs are made to the chapel. May I call for you Sunday afternoon? I know
you
will appreciate a fine sermon, such as my dear Charles always preaches.”

Jennifer agreed more to please Susannah than for any great pleasure she expected from hearing a second Sunday sermon. But when the girl embraced her with such open delight, she knew she had made the right choice. If she could not be happy herself, she could at least contribute to the happiness of others.

As their carriage approached Exeter Hall the next Sunday, however, Jennifer had doubts—not about the service but about its setting. Returning to the scene of her last night with Richard would do little to help her forget the void his departure had left. If she harbored reluctance, however, she must be one of a small minority. It appeared that even this great hall would not accommodate all who had come to hear the preacher who was gaining such renown. The Strand was lined solidly with people.

Susannah led the way to the preacher’s private entrance, so they were comfortably seated before the service began. And in nearly the same row where Jenny had sat beside Richard to hear the
Elijah
. The great organ pealed, and the congregation stood to sing a hymn unfamiliar to Jennifer. But just the sound of the organ, the feel of it vibrating the seats, was enough to bring back painful memories. If only she had made time for Richard. What had he wanted to speak to her about?

Jennifer looked around her. Should she make an excuse and leave? In such mental turmoil, she would get little out of the message. It was a pity to occupy a seat when so many had been turned away. What would Susannah think?

Then Charles Spurgeon began to speak, and all other thoughts left Jennifer’s mind. The preacher put on no more airs in the pulpit than he had when helping a cholera-dazed Jennifer home from the Tothill Street mission. He affected none of the ways of the popular schools of oratory, but spoke directly without raising his voice—a method that allowed the light behind his words to shine the more clearly. It was evident that Charles Spurgeon had an inspiration beyond that given to ordinary men. His boyish appearance made hearing the sermon all the more novel. The speaker exuded a confidence in himself that was born of a confidence in God, allowing him to speak as one having authority.

In a voice as clear as a soprano’s, without any reservation, he declared what he sincerely believed. “The world is lost. There is none other Savior to redeem it but the one who died on Calvary.” He explained that one could find the Savior only through sincere repentance, which naturally bore the fruit of good works.

The crowded room became warm. The preacher in his wool suit and a huge black satin stock tied high under his chin began glowing with perspiration. He pulled a blue handkerchief, bright with white spots, from his pocket and mopped his forehead. But even such a homely gesture did not detract from the force of his words.

“There is only one answer: By grace are ye saved. Because God is gracious, sinful men are forgiven, converted, purified, and saved. It is not because of anything in them, or that ever can be in them, that they are saved. Rather it is because of the boundless love, goodness, pity, compassion, mercy, and grace of God. Tarry a moment then at the well-head. Behold the pure water of life as it proceeds out of the throne of God and of the Lamb!”

As Jennifer followed the preacher’s words and pictured herself drinking of the water of God’s grace, a sudden realization crept over her. She saw that it was all of God. Nothing of her own works. That was what the Earl of Shaftesbury had tried to communicate to her, but she had not understood. She had been eager to do God’s works, but she must relax in His grace first. The works were the fruit of grace. They did not produce grace.

“Faith,” Spurgeon continued, “is the work of God’s grace in us. We must hold to the faith that God’s good work will come to fruition. Hold to God’s grace and to His promise that ‘the vision is yet for an appointed time… though it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely come. It will not tarry.’”

Jennifer dropped her head.
How could I not have seen this long ago, Father? The answer was there all along. You were there all along. Was it that I always lived so surrounded by the truth that I didn’t realize its uniqueness?

Oh, Lord, forgive my failures. Forgive my rejection of Your grace as I tried to go ahead in my own effort. I’ve been so discouraged because I thought I had to do all this in my own strength. Now I see. All You ask is that I obey You. The battle is Yours, not mine.

Only You can do Your work, God. Work through me with Your strength.

Now she could see how God had been guiding her. This was a continuation of the insight she had received at the
Elijah
—that one must do one’s best to prepare the way for a vast renewal of society. But first one’s own heart must be in tune with the Creator of all. Creation could not be restored until the hearts of individual believers were right.

That was the key. Always Jenny had believed with her head. Now she believed with her heart, too. The coldness and distance that she had so often felt melted away, leaving only warmth.

G
reyston Pitchers was a large, white Georgian house standing at the top of a rising green lawn on Brampton Hill above The Walks. When he had left home for London three months ago, Richard had seen the round, full-leafed outline of the trees lining The Walks and surrounding the house. Now, as the carriage from the station drew up the curving street, he could make out the bare, dark branches streaking the sky. He told himself the outlines were somewhat clearer, the pain of looking at them less severe. And certainly, the latter, at least, was true. But whether that was simply the effect of Dr. Halston’s German glasses and the cloudy day, or whether he could claim actual improvement, he didn’t know. Certainly, the weight inside him was no lighter. Not after the confidence Arthur had revealed to him during their travel north.

Before the carriage had come to a complete stop, Dick felt the door beside him being jerked open. “Dick! Oh, I thought you would never come. I’ve been longing to see you—” Livvy stopped mid-sentence. “Arthur—Mr. Merriott. What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you were traveling with my brother.”

Livvy immediately returned to her most ladylike demeanor. “Won’t you come in? Mama will be most happy to see you. Although Papa and George…” Her voice trailed off.

Dick had barely set foot in the ceramic-tiled entry hall before he heard his father and brother bellowing at each other from the library at the top of the stairs. “Oh, dear,” Livvy said. “I had hoped they would have run down by now. It’s the new jolley, you see. It’s stirred everything up.”

“Livvy, you take Mr. Merriott to Mama and Aunt Lavinia. Tell them I will join them later. I’ve come to tackle Father and George about the pottery. Apparently the fat is already in the fire, so I may as well wade in right now.” He automatically handed his hat to the butler. “Cannock, show my man Kirkham where to put my bags. Mr. Merriott will have the room next to mine. You’ll know where to put Kirkham.”

Without waiting for anyone to reply, Dick grasped the smooth, well-worn wood of the stair rail and made his way upstairs. The padded runner on the stairs was thicker than he remembered. He fumbled on the first three steps until he could judge the distance precisely. Then he found his stride and bounded the rest of the way up, as he had since his earliest days.

He paused outside the library door to assess the battle. The situation was certainly not new—some of his earliest memories were of Father and George arguing. They never seemed to tire of it. As Dick got older, he noted that after a particularly prolonged bout, it was not unusual for his mother to suffer an attack of her complaint and require a removal to London for the attentions of a Harley Street physician. Father and George, however, seemed to thrive on controversy.

Today, as Livvy had indicated, operations of the pottery had sparked the battle. “May I remind you, you young puppy, just whose pottery this is?” Francis Greyston thundered at his son.

George’s lazy drawl never failed to irritate his father. Dick could picture his brother sprawled in the leather chair before the fireplace, both legs extended with his favorite dog under his knees. “The last I knew, Father, it was still the rightful property of Aunt Lavinia. Unless you have contrived to do her in in the last quarter of an hour, in which case it has passed to me.”

“Don’t be a smart alec. Females do not manage property, no matter whose name might be on some piece of paper. I am the rightful manager of all the property of this family, and I say these newfangled machines of yours are an unneeded expense and will cause trouble with our workers.” The senior Greyston slammed his fist against his writing table for emphasis.

“The workers be…” A growl from George’s dog drowned out his words. “They simply need a firmer hand. Raise their quotas. If they choose to waste time protesting against the machines, they may work longer hours, or you can sack them. You are too soft, Father.”

“Soft? Soft am I? I’ll show you soft, you young whipper-snapper.”

Dick judged the altercation had reached its climax and would now degenerate into name-calling, so this was as good a time as any to make his presence known. He yanked open the tall double doors and stood on the threshold, feet apart, hands on hips. “Father. George. How pleasant to find such a cheerful homecoming. I needn’t ask if you’re well. I can hear you are both in excellent voice.”

With a minimum of fumbling, Dick took a straight-backed chair and faced it away from the fireplace. “Thank you, I would be most gratified to sit and join you. Livvy tells me you’ve installed a new jolley at the pottery. I assume that’s the cause of this lively discussion.”

Jollies and jiggers were the latest inventions to improve the output of pottery and bone china. Both had revolving molds in which a profile shaped the clay, replacing the old process of hand-shaping. The jolley for hollowware, the jigger for flatware—both were hated by the workers for stealing their jobs.

“The new jolley is an absolute sparkler.” For once George abandoned his laconic drawl. “It turns out perfect cups and bowls every throw—in half the time it takes a potter to do it by hand. I say let ’em complain. Anyone who doesn’t want to work can quit. We can increase production with fewer workers—and pay them less.”

“No! That’s exactly the wrong approach.” Dick was surprised at the vehemence of his own voice. “Keep them all on. Shorten working hours—that’s the key. Your workers will be happier and do better work.”

“Nonsense!”

“Happy? Who cares if they’re happy?”

Dick smiled. Nothing but his intervention could have put George and his father on the same side. “I shall forebear to point out that they are fellow human beings. As good businessmen, you’ll be more interested to know that Minton and Wedgewood have both increased production and profits with their factory reforms.”

Francis slammed his fist onto the table again. “Do you throw Minton and Wedgewood in my face, puppy? They both have far larger establishments than Greyston and can afford to hire the best artisans. What do you know of their reforms?”