A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren
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my desperate need.” He gestured with his chin downward. “After my accident, my need for God was great.”
She followed his gaze, realizing he was referring to the loss of his limb. “H-how did it happen?” she finally dared ask.
“I ran out in the road after a duck.” He glanced sidelong at her, his expression unreadable to her. “I was eight years old and responsible for a flock of ducks.”
She held her breath. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t look before running out. A heavy wagon ran over my leg.”
“Oh, my—” Her hand covered her mouth. She couldn’t imagine the pain and anguish for an adult let alone a child.
“It was a miracle I survived. The wheel could just have easily run over my body. There, now, Miss Phillips, please don’t be upset. It happened so long ago. Eighteen years,” he murmured, as if amazed himself. “The pain and terror have long since faded.”
“How…could you bear it?” she asked, her voice still faint.
“I believe I wouldn’t have if not for my parents’ faith.” His finely shaped mouth turned up at one corner. “And Florence’s. Hers was more the bullying kind. Once I was fully healed and fitted with a wooden leg, I had to face perhaps what was harder than the physical pain I’d endured before. I had to take up my life, face the children at school, pretend I was as normal as they.
“Florence was my champion. If a boy so much as snickered behind my back or dared even breathe a nickname, she was over him, giving him the thrashing of his life.”
She couldn’t help laughing at the image of the spare woman fighting a big bully. “How wonderful it must have been to have a big sister,” she said wistfully.
He looked at her as if he understood more than she was saying. “You have no brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head. “I always envied my friends at school who had several brothers and sisters. Tell me more of what you meant. You said your accident made you turn to God for help.”
“Yes. Having Florence defend me and my parents shower their love on me wasn’t enough. To be able to face every day with my head held high, I needed to know the Father’s unconditional love. I needed the Lord’s grace to make it through each day, knowing I was no longer a whole boy, but a—” his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed “—cripple.”
“Oh, no! You’re not a cripple. You are many things. A fine curate for one.” Yes, that was true. His disadvantage seemed so very small in light of the whole man before her.
He smiled, but it didn’t hide the bleakness in his expression. “But that’s what I was in the eyes of others. In order to overcome my limitations, I had to rely on God’s strength. I came to understand in a very personal way, the verse, ‘My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ God proved it to me time and again.”
They had walked the whole perimeter of the square. Lindsay, unwilling to have their walk end so soon, said abruptly, “You were so brave to take in a…fugitive.”
He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Quinn?”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “At the time the choice seemed easy. A man came to our door on a rainy winter’s night, cold, feverish, hungry. In truth, it was my sister who brought him in. I only seconded her decision.”
She shivered, picturing it. “I don’t know if I would have dared do such a thing.”
He studied her steadily. “It sounds as if you have your own decision to make which requires bravery.”
Her eyelids fluttered downward and she kicked at the dirt in her path. “I don’t know if I am able to be as brave as you.”
“God doesn’t give us more than we are able to bear.”
How she wanted to believe that!
After a few minutes, the reverend said quietly, “It would seem to me that you have already decided which is the proper course to follow.”
She drew in her breath. Those were not the words she wanted to hear. Before she could respond, he continued. “I shall pray for you, that the Lord make His perfect will clearly known to you and give you perfect peace in your decision.”
A masculine voice hailed them from behind. “Good day, Damien.”
They both looked in surprise at the gentleman walking toward them. Lindsay immediately recognized her own pastor.
Reverend Hathaway halted and waited for the older gentleman to reach them. “Reverend Doyle.”
Lindsay bit her lip, wondering what the rector would think of seeing her alone with the curate. Doyle eyed them both without smiling. He nodded to Reverend Hathaway and then to her. “Miss Phillips. How lovely to see you. What are you doing all the way in Marylebone alone?”
“Good afternoon, Reverend Doyle. I was just leaving my music lesson.” She raised her chin, annoyed at how nervous she sounded, as if she had been doing something wrong.
“I wasn’t aware that you were acquainted with my curate.” His glance strayed to the reverend.
Her companion replied in an easy tone before Lindsay could think what to say. “Miss Phillips and her cousin came one Sunday to the chapel and I had the privilege of meeting them, thanks to your recommendation.”
Instead of smiling, the rector merely nodded. “I had spoken highly of you at one time, that is true.” There was unmistakable censure in his tone.
“I’ve been attending the reverend’s Bible studies at the parsonage with my cousin Beatrice,” she added, hoping to dispel the tension she felt in the air.
The rector raised an eyebrow. “I see.”
A silence fell between them. Then he asked, “I trust your father and cousin are in health?”
“Yes, they are both quite well,” she answered, hoping news would not travel back to her father about this encounter.
“I am relieved. You may tell them I shall be over soon for a visit.”
“Yes.” Her worry grew. What would her father say? Would he forbid further Bible studies under Reverend Hathaway’s tutelage?
The rector turned his attention back to the reverend. “I shall call upon you in the coming days. There is much we need to discuss.”
“I am at your service,” Reverend Hathaway said quietly.
“Very well.” With a final glance between the two of them, the rector bowed his head and bade them farewell.
“I didn’t expect to see Reverend Doyle here,” she said when he had exited the square.
“He lives nearby on Cavendish Square.”
“I see. He seemed displeased about something,” she ventured.
“Yes, I fear so.” He sighed. “For many years, he was almost like a father—a spiritual father—to me. He advised me on my studies and procured this living for me at St. George’s.” He turned to her. “I am not a gentleman’s son, you see, but the son of a clockmaker.”
Her eyes widened. “But…but you are…” She laughed nervously. “You seem to be a gentleman.” Far more a gentleman than Jerome Stokes with all his privileges and assets, she added silently.
“If so, it is thanks to the rector. He is the one who made it possible for me to receive a gentleman’s education. He recommended me to Lord Marlborough of Portman Square who paid for my studies at Oxford.”
These new facts only served to increase her admiration for the man before her. “You must have been worthy of their belief in you.”
His gaze traveled over her face, almost in