Matthew’s gaze fell on the small Bible sitting at his desk. Did her faith gave her that steadiness he admired?
He was almost embarrassed to be considering the question, although he didn’t know why. Because you have no faith, he told himself. And you won’t pretend you do. At least you respect God enough not to employ Him as lubricant to the gears of life. One had to have faith to benefit from it.
He’d heard of people “coming to faith.” There’d been a cousin several years back, an idealistic young man who’d left a promising post with a fine firm to go off and teach natives somewhere. So obviously, one could acquire faith, for the cousin in question had been quite the rake before God got ahold of him.
But how did one acquire it? Did you hunt it down? Or did it come upon you unbidden, like an illness?
Or love.
Was he in love with Georgia Waterhouse? Matthew mused. What a mess that would be. He was taken with her. Extremely. Dangerously. But he was not ready to use a powerful word like love. He’d try not to be, if one had a choice about such things.
Georgia’s faith was an inseparable part of her. One could not admire the woman without admiring her faith. And he did admire it, greatly. He just didn’t think he could go beyond admiration to the sharing of that faith. He didn’t think it worked that way.
Still, Matthew owed it to Georgia not to make a pretense of the services on Friday. He would, he decided as he put the sword back into its case, make an honest attempt at participation. Out of respect for her and all the people who had been so kind to him at Grace House. And there was really only one way he could think of to do that.
He ignored the trepidation that assailed him when he walked over to the desk and picked up the Bible. He’d open it. For her. To respect her.
Since it was the fate of Jesus they would be honoring, Matthew calculated that the life of Jesus would be the story to read. Those were laid out in the four Gospels—he remembered that much from the half-dozen Sunday school lessons he’d endured. They were somewhere toward the back. He was relatively certain he’d recognize the four names when he came to them.
He laughed when he came across the first one: Matthew.
Well, if one had to pick a place to start…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sudden chords from the small chapel piano brought Matthew’s thoughts back to the service. It was a simple, honest service. Reverend Bauers read scripture passages telling the story of Jesus’s trial, crucifixion and death, interspersed by half a dozen somber hymns. Had Matthew attended such a service back in England, he would have found it dour and depressing.
His own response today surprised him. The seriousness did not seem out of place anymore, for he knew the story. In fierce detail. And now those details came upon him with such intensity that they seemed to puncture him. He’d never considered the possibility of the world—the universe itself—hanging on the outcome of a single day. It wouldn’t fit into the confines of human logic.
This man, this “savior,” had gone to a grisly death reserved for the lowest criminals.
And he went by choice. That was the part that festered in Matthew’s spirit. If this Jesus really had all that power, was who He claimed to be, then why this outcome? Why not go straight to the victory everyone celebrated on Easter Sunday? It made no sense. Matthew had been angry the first time he’d read the gospel last night, thinking it all unjust torture. A waste of a good man. Why would a God as powerful as that allow such a thing to become the pivotal moment in human history?
Agitated, Matthew had stayed up later to read it all a second time. He was sure he’d somehow missed a crucial element, some key point that would let the story make sense.
But the clear choice of it, the dozens of times a mighty God could have stopped it all, had not changed. There was no other conclusion: it was Jesus’s conscious choice to endure this gruesome thing. This hideous mistake that was really no mistake at all, but planned from the dawn of time.
Why? Matthew’s whole being seemed to resonate with the word as the readings followed the plot to destruction.
Halfway through the service, Reverend Bauers read the passage where Jesus, in the throes of pain and suffering, gave his mother to another disciple. Matthew heard a small whimper next to him and realized Georgia was crying. His heart ached for her. For her devotion, for her acceptance, when it seemed all he could do was resist.
Then—quickly or gradually, he couldn’t really tell—the resistance grew too much to bear. His heart went legions beyond aching for her and her devotion, and began aching for everything. It was as if all the details crushed down upon him, breaking his heart wide-open, in a way he didn’t recognize but somehow always knew existed. And he couldn’t bear to resist anymore. Because he realized it wasn’t the injustice he was resisting, it was the unfathomable love behind it.
This story was never about power or justice or any of the things he’d thought before. This was a love story.
The readings went on, pushing toward the terrible end, where the final hymn hung in the air like a funeral dirge and tears shone on Georgia’s cheeks. For the first time, Matthew glimpsed what it was that she saw. And he felt his heart crush. Yet it wasn’t an obliteration, it was a transformation. As if his heart were crushed to burst open again. Burst open to reveal an affection. Matthew thought about what he felt for her—sorry excuse for a man that he was—and realized that it must have been only a shred of what this God would have to have felt for mankind—for him—to endure such a gruesome path.
There was a large hill on Matthew’s property when he was a boy. Legs churning, he would run toward the top until his lungs burned, toward the place where he could see the valley on the other side. He was always running so fast, and the summit was so broad, that he never quite knew when he’d hit the top. It didn’t really have a top. It was more like a shift, a realization that his churning legs were now going down, and he could see the valley. The sensation that he’d shifted sides without truly knowing when it happened.
It was like that.
He believed.
It wasn’t a single moment or a great, peaking precipice, but a slow shift that altered his view. The churning of all those details, all the people newly come into his life, all the feelings surging up inside of him, had propelled him toward a summit he had almost imperceptibly reached.
And now he believed.
It was both awesome and quiet at the same time. Like a rope drawn so tight it finally snapped, but then again, not at all like that. Like a gear finally slipping into place, but not at all like that, either. As if everything made sense, but now had been turned inside out.
He realized, as the events of the past few weeks strung themselves together in his mind, that God had been propelling him up the mountain even before Matthew knew it. That the path had been there all along. Reverend Bauers, Georgia, even the boy who’d cut him—these people were placed in his life, at this time, for a reason. He was the man he was, faults and strengths, for a purpose. Unique by design. Loved beyond his comprehension. Sent.
He believed.
He found himself having to tell his body to breathe in and out, for it no longer seemed to work right. Nothing had changed, and yet everything seemed in far sharper focus. He felt as if he should run and shout, but wondered if he could move at all. It may have been minutes until the end of the service, or it might have been hours; he seemed unable to tell. He stared at the edge of the pew in front of him without seeing it. How very odd to be caught by surprise by something that hadn’t sneaked up on him at all. God had, just as the reverend had said, gone “after him with both barrels blazing.”
And Matthew hadn’t even recognized Him until Georgia Waterhouse stared so hard at God that He came into view.
Now what?
At some point the service would come to an end and he’d need to walk out of this dear little chapel and return to the world he’d known. How would it change? Would it change at all? How would the Matthew Covington of faith
be different from the Matthew Covington of before? Was it visible? It seemed both worthy of shouting from rooftops and excruciatingly private at the same time. He found himself, quite simply, at a complete loss.
The service did come to an end, and the congregation followed Reverend Bauers’s instructions to file out in respectful silence. The door to the church was closed with a declarative thud. Matthew felt slightly dizzy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Georgia’s concerned glance. “Are you well?” she said, putting a gentle hand on his elbow. The tender touch felt as if it would knock him across a room. He wanted to take her hand and cling to it, but forced himself to tuck it into his elbow with any semblance of formality he could muster.
“May we walk?” he choked out, his voice unfamiliar.
She noticed his strange tone, and stared at him for a long moment before nodding. Somehow sensing his need for silence, she led him around the building into the mission’s garden. They ended up standing in the small courtyard, where he’d been cut what seemed so long ago.
He sat down on the wide rim of the fountain facing a small fruit tree just venturing to bud. Signs of newness—something he usually never noticed—seemed to surround him. Buds, sprouts, new leaves…ugh: He thought it all a bit conspicuous of the universe to get so metaphorical all at once. He was not fond of poetry. Was it appropriate to hope that faith did not lead one immediately to artistic pursuits?
The sheer ridiculousness of the thought forced a laugh out of him, but it sounded far more like a sputtering cough.
Something was very wrong with Matthew. His agitation had begun somewhere during the middle of the service, and it was nearly palpable by the end. He seemed unable to talk, and yet kept growling with some kind of furor. Had he been insulted by the dark drama of the service? Had Reverend Bauers forced him to attend somehow, and angered him? He looked as though he might launch into a tirade at any moment. When his face contorted and he choked, Georgia panicked. “Goodness,” she said, alarm in her voice. “Are you ill?”
He blinked at her, looking as if she’d spoken a foreign language he couldn’t understand. Was he having some sort of spell? If he fell over, she’d be quite unable to stop him from toppling into the fountain. She grabbed his hand, worried that he might start swaying at any moment.
The moment she reached toward him, he clasped her hand. Hard. “Matthew,” she said, as loudly as she dared, not sure he could even hear. “Gracious, what is wrong?”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I believe,” he said, his voice full of surprise and concern.
It didn’t make any sense. I believe I’m going to be ill? I believe you’ve insulted me? I believe I’ll have ham for dinner? I—
“I believe,” he repeated, clutching her hand for emphasis. “I believe.”
The entire world stopped and turned. Truly, it felt as if even the trees perked up and took notice. She widened her eyes. “Matthew?”
He shook his head, pulling one hand from hers to run his fingers agitatedly through his hair. “I believe. It. I read through that Bible three times last night and…I believe.”
He seemed so shocked, so completely taken by surprise, that she couldn’t think how to respond, except maybe to cry, which seemed inappropriate but rather unavoidable. Reverend Bauers always had the most wonderful things to say to someone who’d just come to faith, but every single word seemed to desert her. She felt a tear steal down her cheek, and prayed for the right words of response. Nothing came to her. She clasped his hand more tightly.
He looked up at her, bewildered. “What do I do now?”
The response came upon her immediately, and she knew where Reverend Bauers gained his insight at such moments. Surely, only God could grant such timely wisdom.
“It is Good Friday, my dear Mr. Covington. There is nothing to be done. The greatest work has just been done for us. We need only accept it.”
Chapter Thirty
Reverend Bauers clasped Matthew’s arm with great enthusiasm the next morning. “My son, I could not be happier to hear what you have said.” He eased himself down on the fountain rim, patting the ledge beside him in an invitation for Matthew to join him.
Matthew couldn’t suppress a smile as he sat beside the old man. The reverend’s rampant enthusiasm for Matthew’s newfound faith was as entertaining as it was heartwarming. The man was practically giddy, exclaiming that he couldn’t have been more surprised. The knowing smirk behind his smile, however, hinted that he’d suspected nothing less. In fact, he looked so satisfied that Matthew hadn’t wondered if Bauers himself had been beseeching God to go after him all along. He felt as if God had been after him from the moment he’d set foot on American soil. Bauers laughed heartily when Matthew admitted as much to him.
“I’ve been waiting more than a few years for the right set of hands to receive that Bible. I won’t say I wasn’t surprised when God said you were him—it did seem like a bit of a long shot, if you don’t mind my saying. But I’ve learned to trust God’s vision as better than my own. He has been waiting for you, even when you could not see it. Even when I could not see it.” The reverend folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at Matthew. “I believe God has special plans for your…how shall we say it? Your ‘unique talents.’”
Matthew took the chubby hand of this man who had become so dear to him in such a short time. “You are more kind than I am talented, Reverend.”
“I find myself debating whether you are going to tell Miss Waterhouse that you are the Bandit, or that you care for her. Or is it both? You do seem to be a man given to extremes.”
“Reverend, I—”
Bauers waved his protest away. “Come now, do you think I cannot see it? I believe I knew it even before you did. When you brought her favorite flowers, my suspicions were only confirmed.” His face grew serious. “Yesterday, I would have done my best to dissuade you. Miss Waterhouse is dear to me, and I’ll not have her hurt.”
“And today?” Matthew asked, still dumbfounded that Bauers knew at all. Had it been that obvious?
“And today I’ll still not have her hurt, even if you now share a common faith. She’s an uncommon woman. I’ll not have you toying with her affections, Covington. Her heart is very tender. Don’t venture where you do not mean to stay.”
Matthew sighed. “That’s just it, Reverend, I cannot say where I will be in a month’s time. It is why I cannot declare my…affections…now.”
“Then why even…” The Reverend’s face darkened as Matthew pulled a white ribbon from his pocket. “Oh, you do not mean to…Covington, can you not see the wrong in that?”
“To have the Bandit declare himself as an admirer of hers? And why not? No one seems to notice all that she does. She exists only as Stuart Waterhouse’s shadow. His conscience. His keeper. I cannot give her encouragement for any kind of future. But the Bandit can pay her some attention.”
“What good is that? It is a fantasy, Covington.” Bauers raised his hands in the air. “Does she not deserve the admiration of a real man? Would you hand her a lie?”
“I have nothing else to give her. She would no sooner join me in England than I could cut off ties and stay here.” Matthew lowered his voice. “Have you seen the way she looks when she speaks of the Bandit? She admires the hero. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stuart wrote the episodes just for her.”
Bauers’s eyebrows knit together. “She deserves better.”
Matthew stood up. “She deserves far more than I can give her.”
“She deserves the truth. Not more shadows. Covington, don’t.”
“Bauers, you should know by now I’m not much good at doing as I am told.”
The air was clear and pleasant as Matthew slipped into position Saturday night and waited.
She came out onto the terrace, pulling a shawl around her shoulders against the breeze. She looked beautiful, bathed in the splash of light that came from the French doors. Her gown and hair glowed in the blue-black, moonl
ess night. It was like something out of a Shakespeare sonnet. He felt the urge to burst out of the bushes and declare his affections for her, to sweep her off her feet and ride into the sunset, like the fantasy she admired.
Instead, he waited until her back was to him. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a white ribbon tied to a small stone. In a slightly accented voice, he said, “Do not turn around, Miss Waterhouse. I mean you no harm, but you must not turn.” He tossed the stone so that the white strip sailed into her view.
She gasped and gave a start, but did not turn. “Oh!” she exclaimed, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. He watched her plant her feet. “I…I shall remain where I am.”
Matthew took a cautious step out of the bushes. “You think that no one sees, that no one knows the good you do, but you are wrong. I have seen. I know. You are a fine and admirable woman, Georgia Waterhouse.” It was overly dramatic, but then again, this was a memory he was building, a memory to last a lifetime. If Stuart wrote such high drama to please her, then it must be high drama that she desired.
He took two more steps toward her, and with the tip of his sword he pushed the French doors closed, so that less light spilled out onto the terrace.
She heard his steps, saw the sword push the doors, and reacted. He heard her breath quicken, watched the way her body tensed. Two more steps brought him near enough. He could reach out and touch her hair, she was that close to him. He thought, as he looked at her in the moonlight, that if she turned, if he saw her eyes, there would be no hope for him. He would surrender to the overpowering urge to embrace her, to kiss her, and be lost forever.
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