From the opening chords of the oratorio, however, when the prophet Elijah dramatically called down punishment on the people for deserting the true God, Jennifer forgot her own problems, Richard’s request, and everything around her. She became absorbed in the gripping portrayal of God’s dealings with a nation that had forgotten Him.
Then, as Elijah fought the wickedness around him, Jennifer found herself thinking, not of the superb performance nor of the nation of Israel of which they were singing, but of her own nation; not of Old Testament times, but of today. Wasn’t the wickedness the same? The need of the people the same? Wasn’t God the same?
“Baal, we cry to thee,” the priests sang over and over. And Elijah replied, “O hear me, Lord, and answer me!… and shew this people that Thou art the Lord God, and let their hearts again be turned!”
Jennifer wondered if the hearts of those of her own nation who worshiped the Baal of money and industrial progress could be turned.
“Woe unto them who forsake Him! Destruction shall fall upon them.”
The Crimea, the London slums, the children abused in mills and factories—destruction had come upon them. Why was everyone too blind to see it?
“Open the heavens and send us relief! Hear from heav’n, and forgive the sin.”
Then, at length, the Lord heard and sent rain upon the land. Jennifer’s cheeks were wet as the hall rang with the cry, “Thanks be to God! He laveth the thirsty land. Thanks be to God, thanks be to God!”
Applause thundered around her at the interval, but Jennifer couldn’t move. She sat there with her eyes closed, her heart aching for God’s rains to pour down upon her own thirsty land.
The gas lights brightened overhead, and the audience began moving. But Jennifer remained motionless. Only her eyes shifted as she looked at the earl sitting to her right.
The dark eyes in the long, bony face smiled at her. Without a word he handed her a clean white linen handkerchief. She blotted her damp cheeks and handed it back to him with a smile of gratitude. She began almost in the middle of a sentence, as if Shaftesbury had been privy to all her thoughts. “The land is so dry, so thirsty: poverty, greed, disease, ignorance. Is there even a cloud the size of a man’s hand?”
The earl nodded gravely. “I know, my dear. I often ask myself that, and in my discouragement, I often answer that this time we’ve gone too far. This time there will be no restoration of the land. And then I see a small cloud—smaller than a man’s hand, perhaps, but an encouragement. As example, some time ago when I attended chapel at my old school, Harrow, 120 boys took Communion. I was amazed. When I was a student there, not a single boy would even have dreamed of attending Holy Communion. I believe this foreshadows a great change coming over England.”
Jenny nodded, hoping he would go on in his gentle, yet compelling voice. He did. “And though there is much, overwhelmingly much, to do, we must not lose sight of what God has enabled us to accomplish. Think of the coal mines. Ten years ago I saw girls, almost naked, chained to heavy carts drawing coal up dark, narrow passages underground; children of five years or younger incarcerated without light to work trap doors in rat-infested tunnels; children standing all day ankle-deep in water at the pumps—all this for twelve or fourteen hours a day, six days a week. It required years of struggle, but at last Parliament was made to see the right. Women and children have been freed from such slavery in the coal mines.” He paused, then added with great sadness in his voice, “But, of course, it is only a beginning—so much remains undone.”
Jenny looked at him hopefully. “So you truly believe that if we work hard enough, we shall win?”
Shaftesbury looked shocked. “Miss Neville, of course not.”
“Then why—”
“We must do what we can. It is the call of every Christian, but we will never win by human effort.”
Jennifer sank back against her seat. “That is what I feared.” She had come tonight hoping to find an answer to all that troubled her. The oratorio had seemed such a promise of hope. The earl’s words had been so encouraging, but here was the bare-faced reality of it: We will never win.
Shaftesbury wasn’t finished, however. “Winning is not our job. We are merely chopping wood and stacking brush—as Elijah did on his altar. That is all that is humanly possible. It is for God Himself to strike fire to the brushwood we pile up. Elijah did not strike the fire that consumed his offering. This is a dry and thirsty land. We are spiritually parched. The land must have spiritual revival.”
Jenny frowned. “But there are churches everywhere. All Souls is packed every Sunday…”
“Indeed, Charles Baring is one of the finest preachers in all the land—and there are many like him. Their pile of brushwood will soon be as high as the spires of their churches. But they cannot strike the light themselves. We must pray God to send the torchbearers. England needs an Elijah.”
Jenny blinked. “Torchbearers?”
“Think, Miss Neville. How long has it been since this country has seen true revival?”
Jenny shook her head. She had no idea.
“You are right. Certainly not in your memory. Nor in mine. And yet it is for every generation to pass the torch, to light the fires against evil. But where are our torchbearers—our Wesleys, our Whitefields, our Rowland Hills? We have many good, even excellent preachers. But that is not enough. We must pray that the Lord will send a great one—an Elijah, a torchbearer that will turn thousands of hearts to Him.”
The words were inspiring and discouraging at the same time. “And all we can do is pray?”
The earl nodded. “That is as the Scripture says, ‘to pray the Lord of the harvest that He will send workers.’ Pray, and keep stacking your brushwood, Miss Neville, so that when the torchbearer comes, he may light a great bonfire.”
The chorus reentered, the 125-member orchestra took its place, and Jennifer turned from the intensity of her conversation with a start of guilt. Richard. He had said he wished to speak to her, and she had abandoned him. “Richard, I’m sorry,” she began. His mouth was set in a firm line as if resisting pain; the scars beneath the blond waves drew tight across his forehead. In the darkness of the room she touched his arm as the chorus sang. He did not pull away, but neither did he respond.
Throughout the second part of the oratorio, Jenny wrestled with her divided attention: the beauty and power of the music, her ache to reach out to Richard, her struggle to understand all Shaftesbury had said to her. Now she was more confused than ever.
“He, watching over Israel, slumbers not, nor sleeps…” Was God watching over England? Was He watching over her?
The chorus sang, “O come, everyone that thirsteth.” Jenny felt as thirsty as the drought-ridden land. All her hard work had accomplished so little, and now the mission wasn’t even there for her to continue her work. She had failed Richard in so small a matter as providing companionship for the evening. And Shaftesbury had confirmed her fears as to how little human effort could accomplish—even though he saw reason to labor on. She simply hadn’t the stamina to struggle more. Susannah Thompson was right. She must marry Arthur and do as society expected of her. But with that thought, it was as if a great black abyss opened in front of her, threatening to engulf her. She felt as much in darkness as Richard sitting isolated behind his dark glasses.
Finally the ending chorus rang through the room: “And then, then shall your light break forth as the light of morning breaketh… and the glory of the Lord ever shall reward you… Lord, our Creator, how excellent Thy name is in all the nations.”
Light break forth as the light of morning… light break forth… light… The phrase rang and reverberated in Jenny’s mind as the walls echoed and reechoed the great chorus. She turned and looked at Richard.
And it was as if the light broke through her darkness and shone on her heart. The answer had been there all along. It was so simple. So obvious. She loved Richard.
The moment stood still as if the world had quit spinning. She couldn’t
breathe. The light the chorus sang about was so bright she thought all in the room must be blinded. But she wasn’t blinded. At last she could see. All her other questions remained unanswered, but this one thing she knew—she loved Richard Greyston.
“Thou fillest heaven with glory. Amen.”
While the applause thundered around her, Jennifer turned to Richard. Surely he knew. Surely everyone in the great hall knew. A lightning bolt had passed through the building, but she was the only one who had seen it. Dick rose with the others, nodded in her direction, and with his fingertips brushing the tops of the row of seats in front of theirs, made his way out.
The crowd pressed from every side. Jennifer caught Richard’s arm, but there was no chance to talk, and he seemed more distant than at any time since she had managed to broach his wall on first coming to London. She understood her true feelings for him, but she had failed him.
Outside the hall he turned to her as the Neville carriage pulled up. “Miss Neville, I had hoped to speak to you at more length. I have determined to go north. I must make what effort I can to convince Father and George that conditions in our pottery must be reformed. I have spoken with Arthur Merriott. He is certain he can help me. I shall travel with him.”
“With Arthur? But he is leaving in the morning. You will leave so soon? Before we can talk?”
“I am disappointed on that matter, but perhaps it is for the best.”
“Jennifer, dear, are you coming? We mustn’t hold up the carriages.” Amelia Neville’s voice cut through the fog in Jennifer’s mind. Jenny felt as if she were drowning in fog, unable to reach Richard with the shining revelation she had experienced. He handed her into the carriage and closed the door.
Fifteen
Jennifer was in no way prepared for the desolation she felt when Richard was gone. She had expected to miss her friend—this friend that she could only wish were so much more—but she had not realized that a city the size of London could seem barren with the absenting of just one person.
She passed compliantly through all the required Christmas festivities, a smile fixed on her face, her person appearing well-groomed and graceful. But her heart and mind were focused northward to the Midlands where England’s pottery furnaces belched out clouds of black smoke as the kilns produced the world’s finest white porcelain.
Daily Jenny insisted to herself that such a state of affairs was intolerable. She could not go on being such an imbecile as to think constantly of one who did not think of her. And she had no intention of becoming a pale, poetic maiden pining away for a lost love. She busied herself with parish visits—a festive activity, indeed, with many holiday food baskets distributed to the poor. Her greatest pleasure was the Christmas party for the shoeblacks at the Brigade Home, although she missed Josh’s shining white head and cheeky pertness—another piece of her heart that had gone northward.
But now the holidays were over, and the most distracting task she could find was sorting linens. So it was that, holding three sheets marked for mending, she smiled with eager anticipation when Hinson entered to announce a visitor. The name on the small ivory calling card the butler presented on his silver platter read, “Miss Susannah Thompson.”
“Oh, by all means, show her in,” Jenny instructed.
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 t
he 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.’”
Where Love Shines Page 15
