Winter Is Past (31 page)

He surveyed the people around him, how they braved the icy cold each night. He knew the hot soup was there only to draw them in, and he looked at them in scorn to see them succumb so easily to the lure. They started out with their raucous insults and ended up trembling at the altar. Weak, contemptible fools, turning around so easily. But gradually he came to see their condition—the poor, the derelict, the delinquent—and he realized how
desperate they were for a message of hope. He looked at himself and realized, despite his outer garb, he was not so different from any of them. They were considered the dregs of society: the tars, the coal whippers, the drunks, the prostitutes and the children like the boy he had met at the mission, plying their own various professions on the fringes of society—mudlarks, sweeps, match girls.

He realized he who had been championing the rights of the poor in Parliament knew very little about them. Althea had been living among them most of her adult life. Did she never tire of serving them? He wondered how much of her work would be appreciated by those coming to eat of the “loaves and the fish.” He doubted the veracity of most of the conversions he witnessed nightly, knowing human nature as he did. He'd now been privileged to see a good spectrum of mankind, from his boyhood school days to his brief venture into high society. Since he had tendered his resignation to Parliament, not one member of his party had paid him a call. For all they knew, he had ceased to exist.

So, there he stood with the rest of the human refuse. And yet, despite his skepticism, he couldn't help seeing there was a power in the words he heard preached. For the first time he heard the message of a Savior. For all the catechism classes he'd been forced to take, he'd never heard about a personal Savior.

Why did he keep coming? Why subject himself to that call, night after night, to deliver his soul over to this Savior? He struggled with himself, trying to keep away, but he found the only way he could stave off the dark sea of despair engulfing him was to leave his house and come across town to these nightly meetings. He fought against coming, and yet when the sun set and the darkness began to close in around him, he began making his preparations to go out.

He also began seeing Althea in her true calling. He had had glimpses of her as a woman, nursemaid, potential wife, lady in society, but now he was seeing her as a fiery, impassioned preacher. He had suspected the passion dormant in her, but now he was seeing it unleashed from the crude platform. Once she stood on it
and opened her mouth to speak, gone was the shy, retiring spinster. In her place was a skilled orator, who could rival many of the best speakers in the House.

Sometimes the messages filled him with anger; other times he flatly refused to accept them. He looked with skepticism at the antics of the crowds. Their emotions seemed faked, as when some went screaming or crying to the altar in a show of repentance.

But the words resounded in his consciousness even after he had left the meetings.

So many of the Scriptures she read had to do with the Jew and Gentile, reconciled by Christ into one new man.

“…who hath made us both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us…to make in Himself of twain one new man…that he might reconcile both unto God in one body by the cross, having slain the enmity thereby…through him we both have access by one Spirit unto the Father…ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow-citizens with the saints…built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief cornerstone…unto an holy temple in the Lord….”

She seemed to understand thoroughly his Jewish tradition. She read Scriptures from the New Testament and Old, which referred to sacrifice and always pointed them back to Christ as the sacrificial lamb without blemish, insisting again and again that Jesus was the hope of the Jews, the Messiah foretold to them through the prophets.

At home, Simon dug up the Bible Giles had given him one day not long after Rebecca's death. Althea's parting gift to him. He had been too bitter over things, including her abrupt departure, to do more than stick it on a shelf. Now he took it down and brushed the dust from its cover. When he opened the book, he spotted the paper inside it. He read it with curiosity, but it contained nothing personal, only a list of suggested readings in Althea's script.

He put it aside for a later time. He was more interested in looking up the Scriptures she had preached on, convinced some of the
things she cited could not be found in the
Tanakh,
what the Christians called the Old Testament, but which in fact was his people's book, the book of the law and the prophets.

“Who hath ascended up into heaven, or descended? Who hath gathered the wind in his fists? Who hath bound the waters in a garment? Who hath established all the ends of the earth? What is his name, and what is his Son's name…?”

His Son… Could God—Yhvh—the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob have actually sent His Son?
“Hear, Oh Israel, the Lord your God, the Lord is one.”
The words he'd been taught throughout his childhood reverberated in his mind, and it rebelled against the thought of God and a Son. He couldn't reconcile that ancient prayer, given by God Himself, with the verse he was reading.

In her sermons Althea demonstrated the parallel between the Old Testament and New, revealing the thread of salvation that bound the one inextricably to the other. Simon was compelled to delve into that latter section of the Bible to read for himself and discovered it had been written by Jews using Jewish allusions.

“…the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot: Who verily was foreordained before the foundation of the world, but was manifest in these last times for you, Who by him do believe in God, that raised him up from the dead, and gave him glory; that your faith and hope might be in God.”

“Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I am.”

The words shook him to the core. Jesus using the very name of God,
I am.
But the words no longer sounded like blasphemy to Simon's ears.

“…Jesus said, For judgment I am come into this world, that they which see not might see; and that they which see might be made blind.”

“But that no man is justified by the law in the sight of God, it is evident: for, The just shall live by faith.”

“That the blessing of Abraham might come on the Gentiles through Jesus Christ.”

The words hammered at him. Could his entire ancestors' religion be in vain because it had missed the fulfillment of its promise?

Hadn't he already discarded his ancestors' religion, finding in it no assurance?

Simon tried to escape the words, yet the questions kept coming back to him. During the days, he reread the Scriptures. Many times he struggled to find them if he hadn't jotted them down during the preaching. All he could do then was thumb blindly through those onionskin-thin pages.

Sometimes he never did find the passage he was looking for, but discovered another instead that only served to corroborate the preaching he'd heard. How could he have read the Bible in Hebrew school and catechism and never heard these things before? He couldn't understand it. The verses seemed to come out at him, answering his questions before they were even voiced. He'd heard passages of Scriptures read in the synagogue, in the Church of England services, in studying Greek in school, but they had never held any meaning beyond their historical value.

He remembered the night Althea had told him that he could only discern the Scriptures when the Spirit of God breathed life into them. Was that what was happening to him now?

The fear he'd felt at the beginning—fear of what he might find in the Word—transformed into thirst. Now he was like a drunken man seeking a drink; no matter how it might harm him, he must hear more of the Word.

But at the sermons, Simon refused to draw any nearer than the outer circle, which kept him out of the light of the bonfire and in the seclusion of darkness. He had even considered donning workman's gear. Although he tried to stay in the shadows, he knew he drew the curious gaze of the onlookers. Some of the prostitutes had even approached him, but after a few nights, they no longer took note of him.

He also began to develop a burning jealousy of young Mr. Russell. He seemed always to be with Althea before she ap
proached the platform. When she didn't preach, he was there, assisting in the food line or helping to hand out tracts. Simon told himself he'd already renounced any claims he had to Althea's affections, yet he couldn't control the bitter bile that rose in his throat at the sight of the young surgeon at her side.

O
ne night after Simon had returned from the open-air meeting, he sat at his desk, knowing the night was just beginning for him. He contemplated the stacks atop the desk, wondering whether he would ever finish the work. He had begun it with such enthusiasm and zeal, thinking it might make such a difference. This would be the work that would catapult him into a leading role in government. Now he saw it all as futile.

Looking at all the papers, he came across the one Althea had stuck in the Bible. Once again he unfolded it. In it she exhorted him to read the Bible, and she cited a few places where he should begin.

Among them were whole books, Isaiah and Hebrews. That seemed beyond him. Another sounded like a short passage, so he decided that night to look it up.

After a search, he finally found the book of the prophet Micah. His fingers ran down the page, searching for the chapter and verse. The verse was about his enemies not rejoicing against him when he fell. His lips twisted. How apt—most likely his enemies
had forgotten him by now. The last part caught him: “…when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.”

He paused, the words sinking in. Would that they were true. His eyes skimmed the surrounding Scriptures and were caught by the one above it: “…I will wait for the God of my salvation: my God will hear me.”

Again that word
salvation,
which the preachers were always spouting. But this appeared in the Old Testament, his people's book. Was salvation a Jewish concept?

A verse he'd heard that night kept coming back to him, something that had been said of Jesus: “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”

Deciding he had better settle in for the night, Simon rose, the Bible in his hand, and made his way to the fireplace. He stirred up the coals and added a few more hunks. He drew an armchair closer to the fire and opened up the Bible once again. It was with much trepidation that he turned to one of the books Althea had suggested.

Like a man on the edge of some vast uncharted land, he began to read.

 

When he looked up and saw the clock on the mantelpiece, he realized an hour had passed. He had been reading the Book of Hebrews, and now he stared at the title across the top of the page and realized it was written to his people. It was written to
him.

He stared at the burning coals, the ash white around them. He thought about his life up to that time. It was as if someone had jerked him to a standstill and forced him to examine it in its entirety—from his family and his ambitions to all the vain pursuits he'd chased after, trying to mold himself into a Gentile: to the finality of death.

He realized if he used his rational mind, which he'd always prided himself on, there were only two choices left to him. End his life or choose the life that this book in his lap promised him.

He still felt torn; it seemed tempting on the one hand, so easy to believe. But was it true? Or would it be another chimera, as had been all the other things he'd reached for?

Finally he stood, the Bible still in his hand, too restless any longer to sit still. He paced the library carpet, the struggle crystal clear to him for the first time. He stopped and shook the book heavenward. “You want me, then, is that it? Is that it? Is that why You've put me through hell? Am I worth so much to You?”

He swore, throwing the book across the room with all the force of his anger. It crashed against a Chinese vase, toppling it. The sound of shattering porcelain in the stillness seemed to rend the last shreds of resistance within Simon. “Then, take me!” he yelled in bitterness and distress. His cry, as if it drained his last ounce of energy, caused him to fall to his knees on the carpet, his head bowed upon it.

There! He surrendered, and he had nothing left to do.

In the stillness following, Simon knew with a certainty beyond reason, beyond logic, that he wasn't alone. He didn't know how he knew it, but he felt the tangible presence of someone in the library with him. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his head, afraid the sense would leave him at the least movement. When he still felt it, he opened his eyes, looking around. He saw no one, but still he knew he wasn't alone. He sat back on his heels, waiting. Then he felt as if someone reached deep inside his heart and broke a band of iron that had wrapped itself around it since the moment of Rebecca's departure—in truth, it had probably been there much, much longer.

In that instant Simon felt a light so great it penetrated his soul; he felt as transparent as if the sun were filling him, flooding him, the room he was in, flooding every particle of his being, leaving nothing hidden or untouched.

He looked down in wonder at his hands, realizing for the first time in his life that he felt free of guilt. “Free of guilt.” He spoke the words, relishing the experience. Free of encumbrances, doubts, fear. With a sudden clarity he understood what the blood of Jesus had done. What it was still doing so many centuries later at that very moment upon the library floor of No. 10 Green Street, Mayfair, London, in the year of his Lord 1818, in the life of a man who was unworthy, so unworthy. That blood was washing him,
making him worthy. Simon instinctively raised his arms heavenward and uttered a cry.

“Oh, God!” With his whole being he magnified the Lord.

He could see! He understood it now: Jesus as the sacrificial lamb, His blood shed to reconcile Jews and Gentiles to God the Father once and for all. The law of his forefathers couldn't reconcile anyone; rather, it condemned them and drew them farther and farther from a relationship with their Creator. That was why his own religion had never filled him, nor had the dead religion of the official English Church. They were all based on performance.

In the stillness of the predawn hours, he could hear the voice of Jesus speaking directly to his heart. Scriptures were being revealed to him: “Behold my hands and my feet….”

“For thou wilt not leave my soul in hell….”

“…and they shall look upon me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for him, as one mourneth for his only son….”

In full clarity he saw the agony of his Messiah and His resurrection. He began to cry in sorrow for the One he had pierced. In the midst of his anguish for his Messiah's death, he felt a wonder and joy such as he had never experienced in his life.

Is this what joy was? A heart full to completeness, so full that if one more drop of emotion were added, it would not be able to hold it? More Scriptures came to him: “Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.”

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”

Is this what Rebecca experienced before she passed? He felt a deep comfort, remembering Althea's words. She'd known. Rebecca had known! He was certain of it. It brought on a new wave of gratitude toward his Savior. He began to weep, not wrenching tears of anguish as he had cried only once before in this very room with Althea present, but soft, flowing tears, tears that expressed gratitude, joy, sadness for what had passed, and peace that God had been present—had known and seen all.

He cried until no more tears came, then he lay quiet, experiencing the love of God for the first time in his life. He felt enveloped by it. It came in wave after wave. He couldn't fathom such love; he could only receive it, accept it and feel himself being made whole by it. Finally, he dozed, a sleep of perfect peace.

 

Simon shivered and opened his eyes, finding himself on the cold, hard floor. He remembered it all at once. He hadn't dreamed it. He jumped up, his muscles protesting against the sudden movement, but there was too much energy in him to stay still another moment. He was alive!

Suddenly he realized how cold the room had grown. He stood and went to the fireplace. He'd let the fire go out. He took up the poker and stirred the ashes. Good, a few coals at the bottom of the grate still glowed. He placed a few new ones on top of the embers. They did nothing. Clearly the embers were too few to rekindle the coals. Perhaps some paper? He went over to his desk, thinking he could cheerfully throw all the stacks into the fire.

He crumpled up a few pages and went back to the fireplace. A few seconds later they caught and flared upward, and Simon sat back on his heels in satisfaction. But after the initial flame, they were consumed, leaving only a black shadow of their former shape. He frowned, what now? He thought how all of his life he'd had all his material needs taken care of; his parents had seen to it, and now as an adult, his money saw to it. But neither his parents nor his money could have guaranteed his spiritual security.

He stirred the embers once more, looking for a glow of red. Yes, fewer now, but some glowing red still buried beneath the gray ash. They reminded him of his heart, that little glowing coal. God had given it a reason to keep on living, striving, wanting.

He sat back again, resting the poker on the fender. Well, he was no god in the face of these coals. He would need someone's expertise. He rose and left the library. No one was about, as far as he could hear. He finally wandered down to the kitchen. He heard
a noise from the butler's quarters just off the kitchen. Simon knocked. Giles answered the door, still in his dressing gown.

Simon explained the problem, and Giles followed him up to the library, bringing with him a basket of kindling. Simon watched the butler's expert moves before the fireplace, and asked him to explain the procedure. Giles, if he thought it odd to teach his master how to light a fire, did not express it, but patiently explained each step.

“Funny, I wager Miss Breton would have been able to start up this fire without calling for help.” Simon voiced this thought aloud.

Giles chuckled. “That she would, that she would. More'n once she started her own fire. We looked down on her at first for that, but then we understood. Aye, she was a rare 'un.”

“Yes, she was a rare one,” Simon echoed.

“You know, I'm ashamed to admit it now, but we were pretty hard on her those first few weeks she was here.”

Simon eyed him curiously, beginning to feel the heat of the flames from the fireplace. “Is that so?”

“Well, you weren't here much, and we could pretty much do as we pleased.” Giles added a few more sticks to the grate. “We were suspicious of her, for one thing. You had told us to treat her as one of the family, for she was quality. But then, what was she doing working as a nurse? We didn't know how to place her. Did she belong upstairs or down? Then, of course, there was her Methodism. We've been taught that's as good as heresy.” Giles sat back on his heels, brushing off his hands. “We weren't going to have her convert us. So, we didn't hardly heed her summons—let her pretty much do things for herself, all the fetching and carrying for Rebecca.”

Simon rubbed his chin, feeling the beginnings of whiskers. “I had no idea.”

Giles grunted. “I'm sure we'd have all received a well-deserved reprimand if you had.” He shook his head, staring at the flames. “But it didn't take her long to win our respect…and our love,” he added quietly.

“How did she do that?”

Giles set some of the coal onto the fire. “See how you put the coal on once you get a good flame?” The black coal sizzled as it touched the fire. Giles took a handkerchief from his pocket and finished wiping off his hands. “Well, you remember your dinner party back last winter?”

Simon smiled. “Yes, my first and last.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. It was a successful party, if I'm any judge. And I don't imagine it'll be your last, whatever ye be feeling now. But getting back to Miss Althea. Do you know, you almost didn't have any dinner to serve that evening?”

“No? Whatever do you mean?” Simon listened in amazement as Giles told him the drama of Mrs. Bentwood's lapse.

“We knew she took a nip now 'n' again, but she'd never fallen so as to get into a total stupor. There it was, getting on to three o'clock, when Miss Breton came down to check on things and found Cook passed out at the table.”

Giles chuckled. “Well, you can imagine how we felt below stairs at that moment. All was lost—we'd all be out on the streets by next morning, if not sooner. Not Miss Breton. She put on an apron, surveyed the work and started issuing orders like a commander. She soon had us each assigned some task. And she was right there in the midst, doin' more'n any of us. Standing over that hot stove, stirring pots, checking the scullery maid chopping vegetables, showing Harry how to chop ice.” Giles shook his head at the memory.

“Mrs. Coates had to shoo her out o' the kitchen so she could dress and join the company for dinner.”

Simon stared at Giles, remembering that evening. “You mean to tell me that when Miss Breton joined us for dinner, she had just come from cooking it herself?”

Giles chuckled. “I remember seeing her when she entered the drawing room. She was a mite late. I could see she had rushed downstairs, still flushed from the heat of the stove. There you were, fuming at her for coming late, maybe spoiling the dinner party, when she had saved it for you! Without her, you'da sat down to nothing.”

Simon frowned in amazement, thinking about it. So much he hadn't known. So many mistaken assumptions he'd made.

Giles soon left him, having coaxed the new coals to a glow. Simon didn't stay long in the library, but put on his greatcoat, muffler and hat, and went out walking. He felt too alive inside to waste the dawn indoors. He walked quickly along Park Lane until he reached Piccadilly. He walked past the Green Park until he reached St. James's. By the time he reached Whitehall, his legs were beginning to tire. He glanced briefly down the street lined with the government buildings he'd haunted until recently. In the distance, the dawn sky showed the outline of the Parliament building along the Thames. Not far from it rose the towers of Westminster Abbey, that other bastion of power in England.