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The account of his appointment to the living of Madeley presents a very unusual phenomenon in the eighteenth century. His patron, Mr.
"What I should like to know," said Hilliard, harshly, "is whether she really cares for him, or only for his money." "Oh! How horrid you are! I never thought you could say such a thing!" "Perhaps you didn't. All the same, it's a question. I don't pretend to understand Eve Madeley, and I'm afraid you are just as far from knowing her." "I don't know her? Why, what are you talking about, Mr.
He set off to walk northward, came out into Holborn, and loitered in the neighbourhood of a certain place of business, which of late he had many times observed. It was not long that he had to wait. Presently there came forth someone whom he knew, and with quick steps he gained her side. Eve Madeley perceived him without surprise. "Yes," he said, "I am here again.
She had finished her wine and was looking round. Her glance fell upon him, and for a moment rested. With a courage not his own, Hilliard rose, advanced, and respectfully doffed his hat. "Miss Madeley " The note was half interrogative, but his voice failed before he could add another syllable. Eve drew herself up, rigid in the alarm of female instinct.
Meanwhile he had discovered the house, and without further debate he knocked. The door was opened by a woman of ordinary type, slatternly, and with suspicious eye. "Miss Madeley did live here," she said, "but she's been gone a month or more." "Can you tell me where she is living now?" After a searching look the woman replied that she could not.
He was more than Christian, he was Christlike. It is said that Voltaire, when challenged to produce a character as perfect as that of Jesus Christ, at once mentioned Fletcher of Madeley; and if the comparison between the God-man and any child of Adam were in any case admissible, it would be difficult to find one with whom it could be instituted with less appearance of blasphemy than this excellent man.
"My hero this time," said Miss Huntingdon, "is a very remarkable man, a most excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a very profligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in two or three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance.
"There's one thing I should like you to tell me if you can." "About Miss Madeley?" "I don't think there can be any harm in your saying yes or no. Is she engaged to be married?" Patty replied with a certain eagerness. "No! Indeed she isn't. And she never has been." "Thank you." Hilliard gave a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad to know that." "Of course you are," Patty answered, with a laugh.
I nothing have, I nothing am; My treasure's in the bleeding Lamb, Both now and evermore. In the desolate stillness of Madeley Vicarage, where she lived for thirty years after bidding him farewell, Mrs.
The last few years of Fletcher's life were cheered by the companionship of one to whom no higher praise can be awarded than to say that she was worthy of being Fletcher's wife. Next to Susanna Wesley herself, Mrs. Fletcher stands pre-eminent among the heroines of Methodism. In 1785 the saint entered into his everlasting rest, dying in harness at his beloved Madeley.
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