Winter Is Past

by Ruth Axtell Morren

“In Christ. Which means?”

  “It means when I accepted Jesus as my Savior, I became crucified with Him, so that my old nature could die. Only then could I share in His resurrection, which means a new life in Him with His spirit living on the inside of me.”

  His eyelids drooped over his eyes. “You are a funny creature. Talking in such riddles.”

  He continued analyzing her through his half-closed eyes. “I almost didn’t come.”

  She swallowed and looked down at her book. “I was afraid you might not.”

  “You know me so well.”

  “I only know you a little,” she answered honestly, still not able to meet his gaze. “But as your friend, I thought perhaps you would enjoy a brief respite from London.” Oh, no, she thought, wasn’t that what Lady Stanton-Lewis had already offered him in Scotland? She reddened. She looked down at her fingers, gripping the edges of the opened book. “Perhaps you already had enough of that in Scotland.”

  He snorted and took a step away from her, going to stand by the deep embrasure of the window. “Scotland was like a short preview of hell.”

  She gasped, her eyes flying upward. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he answered, continuing to gaze out at the stark gray landscape, “I feel as if my adult life has been a series of short previews of hell. Nothing as yet unbearable—though close to it—but enough for one to know what awaits one in the afterlife, if one chooses to believe in hell.”

  They remained silent for a few seconds. Then, without looking at her, Simon said, “I want you to know I never—how shall I put this?—behaved dishonorably with Lady Stanton-Lewis. Unless you call my enjoying her hospitality for what seemed an inordinately long period, without putting forth any effort on my part to be agreeable, dishonorable. But let us say, I did nothing for which the baron would have been justified in calling me out.”

  Althea could only look at his profile. Was he telling her that there had been nothing between him and Lady Stanton-Lewis? Why was he confiding it to her? As if reading her mind, he turned to her suddenly.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I…I just want you to know it.”

  “I see.”

  He gave a hint of a smile. “Your prayers must have been heard.”

  “I dearly hope so.”

  “You know why I decided to accept your kind invitation to come here?”

  She shook her head.

  “I read your note, and my first impulse was to refuse.”

  She sat silently, waiting.

  “I couldn’t quite get myself into the spirit of the season.”

  “That is understandable.”

  “Then I happened to glance down at my wastebasket and saw a crumpled piece of paper.”

  She swallowed, remembering her first attempt at a note.

  “It intrigued me, because I knew that wastebasket had been empty earlier in the day. You know how I knew that?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Because although I had spent the morning sitting at my desk, I had done no work.” He glanced at her. “You don’t understand? It means, although I spend my days in the library, I produce nothing.”

  “I see.” How she wanted to go to him and comfort him. Instead she looked down at the book, curling the corner of the page with her fingertips.

  “My curiosity piqued, I bent down to retrieve the crumpled paper—”

  He paused, and Althea could feel his gaze upon her.

  “You had begun another note, hadn’t you?”

  She nodded, not daring to look at him.

  “‘Dear Simon’ was all that was written on it. But it was enough.”

  Again her gaze flew to his.

  “‘Dear Simon,’ I read and then decided to come.”

  She bit her underlip, mangling the pages under her fingers.

  “The other note was so formal and correct. ‘Dear Mr. Aguilar.’ It made it very easy for me to refuse. But ‘Dear Simon’—it was like a hand held out in friendship.”

  He looked back out the window. “Do you know, friendship has become a scarce commodity these past few months?” His lips twisted. “Do you remember the hordes at the funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have seen none but my family since then.”

  She gazed at him, her heart breaking at those lightly uttered words. He spoke as if he was commenting on the scene out the window.

  He turned back to her. “Do you think, here in the company of your brother and sister, you could continue addressing me as Simon?”

  She felt her cheeks heat but held his gaze. After a few seconds she gave a slight nod, telling herself she was silly to continue calling him Mr. Aguilar after what they had been through, when Tertius and even Gillian were on a first-name basis with him. It meant nothing more than the friendship Simon had alluded to.

  “That’s a very pretty gown you are wearing. You are finally sporting a becoming shade.”

  She looked down at the blue woolen dress. “Gillian insists on disposing of her wardrobe on me, and if I don’t wear some of the things, she accuses me of not liking them—”

  “I must thank your sister-in-law, then.” He sat on the edge of the embrasure. “Whatever the reason, I think the results are to be commended. You look quite fetching.”

  She wasn’t sure where to look, knowing only that her face was growing warmer once again. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He chuckled. “The other day when I saw you, I thought you had on just about the ugliest dress imaginable, and yet I had never seen anyone looking prettier.”

  She knew her face was scarlet by then.

  Before she could formulate an offhand reply, he said, “Tell me something. Why can’t you wear such becoming colors at the mission? I would think the children at least would enjoy something bright in their lives. Doesn’t your God approve? Didn’t He, after all, create beautiful things?”

  “If the Lord’s glory shines through us,” she replied, glad to be on surer ground, “our outward adornment is no longer important.”

  “Why can’t you have both?”

  She didn’t know how to answer. He wouldn’t understand how overwhelmingly superior the Lord’s glory was.

  After a bit, he came closer and crouched at the side of her chair. “Are you afraid of being attractive to the male eye? Did your experience with that lecherous scoundrel leave you so scarred that you are afraid of attracting an honorable man’s admiration?”

  She dared not look at him, feeling as if he were probing too deeply. But his voice was gentle, not scornful.

  “Althea, you are so fond of telling me that your Jesus doesn’t want you to live in fear, that fear is merely another form of bondage. Are you absolutely certain you have been freed from your fear of men?”

  She said nothing, but once again began to worry the corner of her book.

  After a few moments she heard him stand.

  “Forgive me for my impertinence, Althea. I only meant to thank you for your kind note. This visit has been just the tonic I needed at this particular time.”

  “It’s quite all right,” she whispered, still not looking up. She felt so ashamed, even though she knew in her head that she had nothing to be ashamed about. She heard him leave the library softly.

  That evening, he came down with the nine-branched candelabra he told them was called the Chanukiah.

  Althea, who had recovered from their earlier conversation by then, clapped her hands. “You brought it! I remarked on it one day in the salon, and Rebecca explained to me about its use during this holiday—Hanukkah, you call it? That’s why I asked you to bring one here.”

  Gillian went over to examine the brass candelabra. Simon explained how it had to be set in a window to be seen from the outside. “This is to publicize the miracle of light.”

  They observed him light the center candle and use it to light the first candle. He sang a traditional hymn in Hebrew as they watched the candle burn. Althea sneaked a look at Simon as t
he candlelight reflected off his face. Although he might profess skepticism, at that moment he looked so solemn, Althea could well imagine the myriad of Jews who had performed the same ritual for centuries, dispersed to different lands around the world but still united by their heritage.

  Afterward, he told them the origins of the festival, how a Jew, Judah, called Maccabee, and his followers had defeated overwhelming Gentile forces under Lysias, to recover their temple and city of Jerusalem in the second century B.C.

  “It was then they purified the temple of all the desecration committed by the Gentiles—they even rebuilt the altar. Then they rededicated the temple. Afterwards, they proclaimed that an eight-day festival be celebrated every year, starting on that same day, the twenty-fifth day of the month of Kislev.

  “It normally corresponds with your month of December. Legend has it that the oil used to light the lamps in the lamp stand was only enough to last one day, but that miraculously it lasted eight days, sufficient time to obtain new, pure oil,” he added.

  Simon stayed a fortnight at Pembroke Park. It was an interlude of peace and quiet from the hectic pace of Althea’s life in Whitechapel. Although they didn’t speak of Rebecca, being once again with Simon caused Althea to miss the little girl afresh. It felt as if someone were missing from the gathering. She had been so accustomed to being with Rebecca whenever she saw Simon, and now it was only Simon.

  After his very personal words to her in the library, Simon did not seek her out privately. He treated her with a brotherly courtesy, the way she had seen him treat his two sisters, and she told herself she was glad. It put her mind at rest that her gesture in inviting him for the holidays had not been self-serving.

  To her gratification, her father took an immediate liking to Simon. And although Althea knew Gillian and Tertius were very hospitable, especially during the Christmas season, she saw that they had deliberately cloistered themselves during this holiday to allow Simon to escape the scrutiny of outsiders.

  Althea’s father and Tertius took them out on long walks, roaming over the vast property. Afterwards they would return to the warm, intimate family circle. Baby Judith was no longer a swaddled infant but a chubby little baby who would grasp anything in her effort to stand. Neither Gillian nor Tertius had their firstborn baby banished to the nursery, but kept her in the midst of them during many of their afternoon gatherings.

  The evenings were often spent with music. Althea and Tertius both played and sang. Usually Althea’s father engaged Simon in a game of whist or chess.

  One afternoon Althea came back from a solitary walk. They had had their first snowfall the day before, and she couldn’t wait to go out when the weather had cleared, to enjoy the pristine white landscape. When she was approaching a pond a short distance from the house, she spotted Simon. He sat on a tree stump at its edge, under the denuded willows and elms, contemplating the scene before him. Althea read defeat in his slumped back. For a moment, she felt an acute disappointment that neither she nor her family had really been able to reach him in his loneliness and pain. It was he who had had to make the effort to join in their amusements, putting on a front of normalcy in order not to spoil their holiday cheer.

  Suddenly Althea reached down and grabbed a fistful of snow. It was ideal for what had just come into her mind: wet and just sticky enough to hold together. She patted some more snow between her mittens. When it was the size of a good-sized apple, she heaved it. She watched in delight as it sailed through the air, exactly where she had intended it should go, and landed with a splat on Simon’s back.

  He jumped up with a shout. “Hey!” His indignation turned to a shout of laughter when he spotted her.

  “Why, you!” He stooped down, and she gave a little yelp as she anticipated his revenge. Sure enough, a wet ball of snow hit her hard on her cloak. She quickly bent to form another, just as one of his landed on her shoulder.

  “Take that!” she shouted, pelting him on the crown of his hat as he bent down. It knocked his hat off and she laughed out loud.

  They continued back and forth, as many missing as striking their target. Soon their outer garments were covered in white, but neither would give up. Althea scrambled around looking for a better supply of snow at her feet. She bent sideways, and just as she turned back to face Simon, a snowball hit her square in the face, catching her full on one cheek.

  “Ouch!” she cried, laughing and indignant at the same time.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon!” he cried immediately. “Are you hurt?” he shouted out, running awkwardly through the snow to reach her.

  She shook her head vigorously, holding her cheek with her mittened hand. Suddenly, the absurdity hit her and she just started laughing. Two adults, who could no longer claim youthful high spirits, tossing snowballs!

  When Simon reached her, she was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. She just pointed at him, and he realized how covered with snow he was. He looked down at his greatcoat and started brushing off the worst of the snow, which only made her laugh harder. She looked so joyful, her cheeks reddened by the snow and her laughter, her bonnet askew, that he began to chuckle.

  She made several attempts to tell him how funny he looked, but she couldn’t get the words out. Each time she thought her laughter had subsided, she began afresh. She finally could not sustain herself any longer, but sat back in the snow. “Y-you sh-should have seen y-yourself! Y-you didn’t know wh-what hit you! And your glasses! They’re all covered with snow. Y-you look like a s-snow monster!” She put a hand to her mouth to try to stop laughing, but to little avail.

  He smiled down at her, enjoying her laughter as he removed his glasses and wiped them off with his muffler. She looked like a young girl. He wished he could join her down there, take her in his arms and roll in the snow. He clenched his gloved hands, knowing that was not possible. Not now. She must never know how he felt about her.

  When she finally lay relaxed, he said, “Come, now you’ve had your laugh at my expense, I’ll help you up.”

  She narrowed laughing eyes at him. “Can I trust you?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “You have little choice, do you not?”

  “I trust you,” she said, extending a gloved hand. He pulled her up easily.

  “Now,” he said, eyeing her, “if you think I look as if I’ve just come from the worse end of a snowball fight, I think you should see yourself.” He brought up his hand to her cheek. “Did I hurt you with that last one?” He removed his glove, wishing he had a handkerchief, but it was inside his coat pocket, beneath the greatcoat. With his bare hand he attempted to wipe the snow off her face. Her skin felt cold.

  She shook her head. Her lips looked so red and inviting that he had to concentrate all his attention on his task. If at one time he might have considered putting aside all the reasons why he could never consider marrying her, now it was certainly out of the question. He could never offer himself to any woman now—a man who had lost all reputation, all honor.

  He began brushing the snow off her cloak.

  “Oh, don’t bother.” She giggled again, pointing at him. “It’s obvious who got the beating today.”

  “I think we need an impartial judge to decide the outcome. I see less of your cloak than mine beneath the snow.”

  “Are you going to be a poor loser?” she asked, an innocent gleam in her eyes. Today they looked gray against the gray of her cloak.

  “Funny, I never took you for a cheat and liar, Althea Breton, amidst all those stellar qualities.”

  She laughed.

  He finished cleaning off his greatcoat. “I can’t think when I last threw snowballs. Possibly once or twice at Cambridge.” He stopped just in time, before adding that it had usually been after a night of carousing in a tavern when they were returning to their rooms in the wee hours.

  “I must confess it hasn’t been so long for me. When there is a snowfall in London, before it becomes all dirty and sooty, we usually have one good snowball fight with the children.”


  After their hilarity, the silence between them felt awkward and self-conscious. She began to say something at the same time as he.

  He gestured for her to continue. “No, it was nothing,” she said with a shake of her head. When he insisted, she smiled sheepishly. “I was just going to say something trite about how lovely a first snowfall is.”

  The two looked ruefully at each other, acknowledging the embarrassment between them. Abruptly he said, “You implied once that I would make you forsake your God. Do you really believe that of me?”

  She had removed her bonnet and was shaking the snow off. At his question, she stopped, surprise and wariness in her gray eyes. Did she think he’d forgotten the circumstances?

  He watched her place the bonnet back on her head and tie its ribbons. She seemed to be taking her time to answer his question.

  Finally she said, “You would not do it deliberately.” She gave a final tug on the bow and looked at him. “But slowly you’d chisel away at my devotion. You perhaps might not even realize you were doing so. But with your expert use of mockery and whatever other weapon the enemy gave you, you would try to weaken my dedication and service to the Lord. You would come to use anything to undermine my faith in the Lord in order to mask your fear of confronting Him for yourself.”

  She smiled sadly. “I know of what I speak. I lived with unbelievers for a time, people who loved me in their own way but made life impossible by their remarks, their criticisms, their unbelief. I went to a church where I was accused of idolatry because I was reading the Bible. The vicar held me up as an example in his sermons, as he considered reading the Word excessively a form of overzealousness.”

  She sighed, gazing down at her mittens. “Finally you would force me to choose between my Lord and you, without ever understanding that without loving Him, I can never truly love anyone else. Love comes from Jesus. He is love.”

  She looked at him earnestly. “You can’t love, Simon, really love, until you understand how much He loves you!”

  “I see,” he said, glancing away. He should be relieved; she had made things easier for him. “I cannot say I understand fully what you are saying, but I want you to relieve your mind of all concern on that score.” He resolved on the spot to put an end to any other feelings he might have for her. “I have grown to love you as a sister—despite your assertion that I can have no concept of love. But you have become as dear to me as Tirzah or Simcha.