“Angels and arch-angels cover their faces as they worship their King,” he continued. “The devils believe and tremble. It is only man, foolish man, who dares to, as it were, spit in the face of his Creator and say, ‘There is no God.’ Is God alarmed by this? Is He scared that His rule may be overthrown? Does He quake as men come up with theories like Darwin’s? No! We read His response in Psalm 37, see verse 13: ‘The Lord shall laugh at him.’ Why? ‘For He seeth that his day is coming.’ Do you want God to laugh at you? How dreadful to have the Maker of heaven and earth hold you in derision and laugh at you, just as you laughed at Him!”
Jack could no longer resist glancing at the Wilson pew. There was nothing wrong with Lord Wilson’s hearing today. Sitting there with a red face and bulging eyes, he looked ready to blow a gasket. Unperturbed, Jack continued through a few more fools in the Bible, highlighting their folly and their end. Then he changed his tone and spoke to believers.
“In this modern age of science, you may be made to feel a fool for believing in Creation, in God, and in the life to come. Does God tremble when He sees the invention of the microscope, the telescope, and other scientific equipment? Not at all. With the right use of these things, we can explore more of God’s amazing creation—the details of His designs and the vastness of His universe. We can learn more about how we are ‘fearfully and wonderfully made.’ These inventions do not disprove God. If anything, they prove the infinite wisdom and power of God. People may mock us and call us Luddites, as if we are hankering for the past and for old, antiquated ideas and theories. Let them call us what they will. We embrace any invention with the firm confidence that it will teach us more about our great Creator God.
“In conclusion, let us turn to Psalm 37 and briefly look at a huge contrast in the way the Lord deals with the evildoers (the fools) and the righteous (the wise). Over and over again the destruction of the evildoers is assured. They are likened to grass, to the burning fat of lambs, a green bay tree that is cut down and found no more. Their present hostility, hate, and venom are short-lived and futile. Contrast that with the loving encouragements to the righteous; they are promised spiritual sustenance, answers to their prayers, God’s abundant peace, guidance for every footstep, and an eternal inheritance. Blessing upon blessing!
“And what is it to be righteous? To be wise? ‘The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom’—fear that makes a soul flee to Christ for salvation. To make peace with your Judge and to be adopted into the Heavenly Father’s family forever. Have you come to Christ, my friends? Or are you still a fool?”
Jack wearily sat down. As the congregation sang the final hymn, he begged the Lord to bless his words with divine power and application. Standing up to join in with the last verse, he noticed Lord Wilson stomping angrily down the aisle. By the time the benediction had been said, the Wilson carriage had departed, leaving the rest of the family to await its return or walk home.
With a pounding head, Jack retreated to the vicarage. He had stoked the kitchen stove prior to the service but forgotten to put in a jacket potato. Rummaging through the pantry, he found a loaf of bread, some cold beef, and a shriveled apple to make up a passable dinner.
CHAPTER 30
MEANWHILE AT BIGGENDEN MANOR, THE Thorpes sat down to Sunday lunch. Mrs. Harrington was gracing them with her presence, having regained her voice in sunny France and having a great desire to see her grandson once again.
“What a ranter your minister is!” she exclaimed, liberally helping herself to roast potatoes.
“No, he is not!” retorted Sophia.
“Well, you could hardly call him calm and collected. Such passion is hardly decent.”
“It was highly appropriate, Mother,” corrected Sophia. “He was talking about eternal issues. Surely one is able to show a bit of spirit when speaking of such important things?”
“I rather distrust any minister who discards the liturgy, makes up his own prayers, and inflicts on his congregation long sermons of his own devising.”
“That is the whole point of ministry.”
“Well, it isn’t proper. It may be acceptable for your village rustics, but it makes people of finer sensibilities, like myself, rather uncomfortable.”
“Being made to feel uncomfortable isn’t a bad thing, Mother, if it helps us focus on eternal matters.”
Edward looked up from his plate. He was pleasantly surprised at his wife’s directness.
“Religion is too personal to be discussed,” admonished Mrs. Harrington. “I am surprised how quickly you have forgotten the fundamentals of good manners!”
The remainder of the main course was eaten in silence. But by the time dessert was served, Mrs. Harrington was back in full flow, extolling the delights of the French Riviera. All seemed harmonious again until Edward mentioned the afternoon service.
“You attend twice?” asked Mrs. Harrington, all astonishment.
“That is our common practice,” said Edward.
“It wasn’t previously.”
“Much to our shame,” admitted Sophia.
“You are going too?” Mrs. Harrington’s surprise increased.
“Yes, unless I stay to look after Bertie.”
“Isn’t that what you pay the nursemaid to do?”
“Indeed it is, Mother, but I like her to be able to get to at least one service a Sunday.”
“Oh, how sweet of you,” mocked her mother, “to care so much for the spiritual welfare of your staff.”
“We do care.”
“Well, in that case, would it please you religious fanatics if I stayed behind to look after Bertie so that your nursemaid can listen to your Reverend Hayworth?”
“Thank you, Mother, that would be most helpful,” replied Sophia mildly, ignoring all provocation.
And so it was that both Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe attended church that evening. Sophia was very thankful she was present, for Reverend Jack Hayworth was equally as powerful in his exposition as he had been that morning. His text was ‘Unto you therefore which believe He is precious.’ She already knew something of the preciousness of Christ, but as Jack described the various characteristics of Jesus, like a diamond cutter showing the perfection of each facet of a rare diamond, she was melted by her Saviour’s beauty and loveliness. She was not the only one thus effected. On glancing across the aisle, she saw Violet sitting with Joe. They were both listening intently, and Violet’s tear-stained face held a smile. Sophia felt a surge of love for her, and indeed for anyone who loved the Lord. She would never understand why Christ should love her, but now she had no doubt that He did.
After the service, Edward and Sophia lingered by their front door, unwilling to enter and face Mrs. Harrington. They shared their delight in the service and wished they could continue the discussion. Their mutual delight in Christ drew them together into a new depth of love.
Sophia’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I don’t want Mother spoiling my newfound joy.”
“Then avoid her,” Edward said. “Go straight to bed. I’ll entertain her.”
Her gaze flew to his face. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, and if it gets too bad, I’ll walk Rex or make some other laudable excuse to escape.”
“Such sacrificial love deserves a kiss.”
“Or two or three.”
During her fortnight’s visit, Mrs. Harrington was more than usually quarrelsome and outspoken. Edward and Sophia wondered if it was an after-effect of a wonderful time in France. Mr. Harrington had declined accompanying her to Kent; now they understood why and hoped he was benefiting from her absence.
In Mrs. Harrington’s private opinion, which she freely voiced, Biggenden Manor and Estate was moving in the wrong direction. Sophia’s involvement with the knitting group was an unnatural mixing of the social classes.
“There you are, serving tea for those who are in service or aspire to be in service themselves. It cannot be right. And tradesmen’s wives!” She shuddered. “They come into your home, bringing
with them all the strange germs that the working class carries. Just imagine! A butcher’s wife who has been handling offal and pigs’ eyes may have sat in this very chair! I can barely tolerate the thought! It is not good for Bertie’s well-being. Anyway, are they honest? Do you hide your silver?”
“Mother, they are honourable women of the church!”
“Well, they may be tempted to covetousness.”
But it was not only Sophia who came in for criticism. Edward received his fair share as well.
“Your visitor’s book looks decidedly blank for last winter.”
“Yes, we entertained very little. What with our village commitments and having Bertie, we had very little inclination to entertain as we used to.”
“This is my fear. You both seem to be withdrawing from polished society and embracing the rustics. Let me warn you—you can never help them aspire to greater things, but they can drag you down.”
Before either of them could draw a breath or muster an appropriate response, she was onto the next subject.
“And I understand you have given up raising pheasants.”
“That is correct,” Edward acknowledged.
“Just because some fool got shot.”
“Not just because of poor Benny, but mainly because of all the monotonous business of shooting parties and the expense of employing a gamekeeper.”
“I understand you sacked him.”
“Then you understand wrongly. He decided to move off to an estate where his expertise would be more appreciated.”
“And what are you planning to do with the woods?”
“The trees are mainly birch and hazel, so we will coppice them and sell the wood or use it on the estate. The villagers will be free to snare rabbits once again for their pot without fear of being apprehended by the gamekeeper. I think it is a shame on our country that some poor people are deported to Australia just for poaching a rabbit from their landlord’s estate to keep the family fed.”
“You exaggerate.”
“No, I do not. Read the newspaper for yourself.”
“I would not defile myself with such sensational reading.”
CHAPTER 31
JOHN WAS EMPHATIC. “PARSON, YA really ’ave te come this time.”
Jack agreed, since never before had Lord Wilson sent for him on a Thursday morning. This was unusual. Jogging along in the carriage, he wondered what the next hour would bring. He had half expected a summons from the big man on Sunday evening, but when nothing happened, he had hoped Lord Wilson had reflected on the sermon and slunk off in defeat. Maybe it was even used to awaken him spiritually. Miracles still happen! Ever since his heated sermon on Sunday morning, he had questioned himself. Was his anger righteous indignation, or was it just plain old, sinful anger? He still was not sure of the answer.
A footman opened the large door of the library and announced Jack’s arrival. Lord Wilson ignored his salutations and thrust a letter in his hands.
“Read that, Hayworth!”
Jack stood and read. He immediately recognised the handwriting to be that of Reverend Sidney Brinkhill.
My dear Lord Wilson,
I do hope that you and your dear family are all in good health. I am sorry to hear that you are finding my curate’s preaching unacceptable. Seeing as you undertake to pay for any expense in removing him and finding a more suitable minister, I humbly take your advice and will dismiss him from my service. I am suffering from much pain and ill-health so am grateful to you for your kind condescension in arranging all the details and removing this burden from me.
Yours sincerely,
Sidney Brinkhill
Jack finished reading the letter, and on looking up saw Lord Wilson smiling smugly at him over his brandy glass. Not wanting him to see his shaking hands, Jack tossed back the letter and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.
“No one beats me, Reverend Hayworth.”
“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord.”
“Ha ha, you and your quotes.”
“And when would you like the vicarage vacated?”
“Within the fortnight. But you have preached your last sermon already. As soon as you get the letter from Brinkhill, which will arrive before Sunday, you will be trespassing if you enter that pulpit.”
“You bribed him!”
“Don’t call it such a nasty name, but yes, I did use a bit of monetary persuasion. It usually works, even on men of the cloth.”
“Does the Bishop of Maidstone know about this?”
“He will in due time; he has never been one to stand in my way.”
“And what about the parishioners of Capford? Who will care for their souls?”
“How holy of you to care about the peasants! As it so happens, I have a nephew who has just finished his divinity training and is in need of a post.”
“Is he a man of God?”
“Ho ho, I don’t think he would aspire to that. No, he is a third son who needs an easy livelihood, does not have the wit to take up law or business, and is willing to be moulded by his dear uncle.”
“This is despicable!”
“We are commanded to look after our own, Hayworth.”
Fearing he would say something unadvisable, Jack turned on his heels and left the room without another word.
To add insult to injury, Lord Wilson had not ordered the carriage to wait, so there was no means of conveyance back to the vicarage. Jack kicked the gravel in annoyance, then decided that walking might be the best thing to do right now anyway. He walked briskly down the long drive and then took a path through the woods. So what, if I am shot at by Wilson’s gamekeeper? I don’t have a job anyway.
His mind was a heaving mass of thoughts, all vying for his attention. What of the Capford congregation? His preaching? His future? How would Rebecca react? And the parishioners? The church officers? What about Sunday? The Sunday school outing? His committees? He needed to get home and write to Rebecca. He needed to tell . . . to tell . . . there were so many people to tell. People who would be affected by the news.
As he strode through the undergrowth, getting splattered with mud, he wanted to pray, but a coherent prayer seemed impossible. All he could manage was “Lord, help me!”
As he emerged from Wilson’s wood and crossed one of the Biggenden meadows, it started to rain. Jack trudged on, and his writhing thoughts were beginning to take shape. A letter would be a completely inadequate way of conveying the news to his wife—he would go to London himself and stay away for the Sunday. He needed to tell someone. Mr. Collins, his church warden, or Mr. Grey, the Sunday school superintendent, seemed the most appropriate choices, but he shrank back from visiting either. Mr. Collins would be at risk of a heart attack, and Mr. Grey would be with Mrs. Grey, who would flap and cluck around like a disturbed hen.
“Hello there, Reverend Hayworth,” sang out a friendly voice.
Jack looked up to find he had nearly walked into Joe with the sheep dog.
“Hello, Joe. Rain has come on a bit.”
“Has indeed. Caught you out, by the looks of things.”
“Yes,” agreed Jack looking at Joe’s waxed galoshes, then at his own soaking trousers. “I’m not very suitably dressed.”
“Well, good day to you, Vicar.”
“Good day, Joe.”
“Oh, sir, and by the way, Violet and I really enjoyed your Sunday sermons. They were top-notch. Thank you.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. Thanks for telling me.”
“We’re both looking forward to next Sunday too!”
Jack smiled lamely and continued on his way.
Meeting Joe made him think of the Brookes family. They would be just the couple to speak to first. They were sensible, weathered folk with wisdom and wit in equal measure. Sanctified common sense, his mother would call it. They were also the kind of people who could cope with an unexpected visitor bringing in a trail of muddy puddles.
Just as he had hoped, Mr. Brookes was at home for
his midday meal.
“Come in, my lad, come in and dry yourself out,” came the warm, inviting welcome.
Mrs. Brookes hung Jack’s dripping coat on the back of a chair near the stove, and her husband invited him to the kitchen table.
“Share a crust with us, boy.”
They were all eating before more was said.
“I saw Wilson’s carriage going to your place this morning. Is the man ill?”
Jack smiled within himself. Not much in the village went unnoticed by Mrs. Brookes. He swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese and launched into his story.
CHAPTER 32
REBECCA LISTENED IN HORROR AS Jack told the story. Her delight in his surprise visit evaporated the moment he put his down his trunk and said, “We need to talk.” The tray of tea and biscuits went untouched as Jack described the situation, and Rebecca tried to grasp the implications. Apart from a few gasps and “Oh Jack’s,” she let him explain the unfolding situation uninterrupted. Now her inadequate response was an understatement.
“This is not good.”
Jack ignored the remark and fell silent.
“What did the Brookes’s say?”
“They were livid. Like me, they are horrified that church life can be over-ruled by a moneyed landlord and that the bishops are powerless to intervene. It seems so unscriptural. They encouraged me to come here straight away to tell you. Mr. Brookes wisely said that no Wilson employee should kick up a stink on my behalf, or they are sure to lose their jobs. I totally agree. I think we should go quietly and with dignity.”
“And let Lord Wilson win?”
“He’s not winning. God is.”
“Yes, but it is hard to see that.”
“We have to walk by faith.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca squeezed Jack’s unbandaged hand and was full of admiration for his mature and dignified manner of dealing with this huge blow. She needed to pull back her shoulders and stand united with him. He needed her to be strong and courageous. She begged the Lord to help.
Jack had more to tell. “The Brookes’s suggest I do an unofficial leaving service in a field or barn somewhere. They will boycott the church and read a sermon at home—they think most of the Biggenden workforce may follow suit. It’s up to the Wilson lot to do what they think best, but they have a lot more to consider. By the time I left Capford, the news was spreading like wild fire, and everyone I saw treated me like a hero. Again and again I heard people say ‘If you’re out, I’m out.’”
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