In a minute or two he had located the passage in the sixteenth chapter of Matthew. If any man will come after me, he read, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me . . . for what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?
How perfectly did the words illuminate the difference between his father and Amanda’s. The one had spent his life seeking profit, and in so doing, at least for the present, had lost his soul. The other had laid down one of the most prestigious political careers in all of England that he might serve the man he called his Master, Jesus Christ. Charles Rutherford had been mocked as a fool. Geoffrey had heard his own father deride him with scorn. He had even joined in his father’s laughter.
And yet . . . if this verse was true, it was Charles who had discovered the secret of life through that very self-denial, while his father would perhaps gain the whole world . . . but lose everything in the end.
Geoffrey read the words again, then a third time, then turned and left the library, pondering the remarkable principle that the meaning of life was backward from all he had been taught, and that for most of his life he had believed.
It was not merely self-denial, he thought. It was self-denial for the sake of following Jesus Christ. It was not enough to give, to deny, to lay down oneself for others, but to do so while following Christ. Exactly as Charles Rutherford had done.
Was this what Amanda’s example signified? Did this explain the remarkable change that had come over her, just as it explained Charles’s transformation twenty years before?
The next instant—not yet having again even reached his own room, but there in the corridor near the second-floor landing of the staircase of Heathersleigh Hall—Geoffrey Rutherford paused, then sank to his knees.
“God,” he prayed softly, “I am sorry for what I have been. But I want to be more. Help me to make something of what is left of my life, and to follow the example I have been given of what self-denial truly means.”
73
The Hall and the Cottage
Geoffrey Rutherford awoke several mornings later feeling strangely at peace with his new surroundings.
His mother and father, who had come down for the weekend, were still sleeping. Geoffrey dressed slowly and went out. He walked toward the stables. Before he had actually planned it, he had mounted his favorite horse and was on his way across the meadow in the direction of the cottage.
As he went, nature whispered secret sights and smells he had never noticed before. What had begun as mere hints that afternoon in Hyde Park now blossomed fully in his heart. The world was indeed beautiful, and was his to enjoy.
When he drew closer to the cottage he saw evidence of the clearing through the woods for the new roadway that would make the cottage accessible by automobile both to the Hall and the village.
He approached to the pounding of Rune Blakeley’s hammer out behind the barn, where he was constructing new stables for horses and one or two carriages. Despite the hour, the place was alive with activity. And there was Amanda in Maggie’s garden picking some of the first new flowers of spring.
She glanced up as Geoffrey rode toward her.
“Geoffrey, you’re out early!”
“No earlier than everyone around here by the look of it!” he laughed. “Maybe the country does that to you.”
Geoffrey dismounted and tied his horse.
“How do you like it after a month?” she asked.
“I am getting used to the quiet,” he replied. “I have to admit that not having to be at the bank every day is a welcome change, though it has been a surprise to find that I do miss being around people.”
He paused a moment. Amanda was climbing to her feet and did not see the poignant and reflective smile that passed across his lips.
“And,” he added, “I have been making changes inside that are probably more significant even than this change in my outward circumstances that you—you and your mother—are responsible for.”
“I am intrigued!” smiled Amanda.
“Perhaps one of these days we can go for a long ride and I will tell you about it,” said Geoffrey. “Right now I am still trying to understand exactly what it all means.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
“For now, let me just say that I am learning to pray—for the first time in my life, really.”
Amanda smiled and nodded, adding, “It is something I have begun to learn as well.”
“And to ask what kind of person God wants me to be,” he added. “That is not so easy a thing when you have never done anything in your life other than what you yourself wanted.”
“It is a difficult change to make,” agreed Amanda. “How well I know! You have described me exactly.”
“I have the feeling you are a little ahead of me,” laughed Geoffrey. “In my case it has only been a matter of days. So when I have made a little more sense of it, we shall take that ride.”
They walked through the flowers a moment or two in silence.
“Do you think you will return to London and the bank eventually?” asked Amanda as slowly they made their way together toward the cottage.
“I honestly don’t know, Amanda,” Geoffrey replied. “As I find myself thinking about these new perspectives—I am also thinking hard about my future, about goals and priorities. It is so new to me. I am going to need more time than anything. But I do like it here in Devon. And I think too that the climate might agree with me. It is warmer than London. I haven’t really felt well for some time.”
“And you are better now?”
“I think somewhat. Winters are always difficult—congestion in the lungs, fevers, you know . . . I am extremely susceptible. Sometimes I cough and hack for weeks on end. But this month here so far has been quite good on that score.”
“I am happy to hear it.”
“I am thinking in time of perhaps opening a small branch of the bank in Milverscombe,” Geoffrey went on, “not primarily for investments and that sort of thing, but in order to help the residents with everyday needs, purchasing motorcars, home building, the seasonal requirements of the farmers and sheepherders, and so on.”
“That sounds wonderful. What does your father think?”
“That the idea is ridiculous,” laughed Geoffrey. “He says that no money can be made in such an out-of-the-way place as this. But it might be an opportunity to help the community.”
“He and your mother will remain in London, then?”
“For the present. Although he is not far from retirement. My mother is anxious to move down to the Hall with me. Perhaps I shall make my father a junior officer in the new bank once I get it established . . . just so long as I could keep him away from the customers!”
“Why do you say that?” laughed Amanda.
“He is too surly. He would drive them away!”
“Geoffrey, you are too mean!”
“I know,” he chuckled. “But the sad fact is . . . it is true. My father is . . . well, you know what he is like—you practically lived with us for a good while when you were in London. He never did warm up to you, except briefly when he concocted that scheme that we should marry and pushed me to propose to you.—By the way, I am sorry for that. I was a nincompoop back in those days.”
Amanda laughed. “Oh, Geoffrey, you weren’t a tenth as bad as me. I was positively awful. I apologize to you too for the uppity way I treated you.”
“I suppose we have both changed since. But you know what I am saying about Father. Even me he treats like a colleague, not a son.”
“I see what you mean. You’re right. It is sad.”
“I love him in spite of it,” said Geoffrey. “But he is a trying man to live with. I hope in time the people of this community, if he spends enough time down here, might help him see that there is more to life than money. But . . . we shall see. They are here for the weekend,” Geoffrey added. “That’s one of the reasons I came over, to invite y
ou all for tea this afternoon.”
“I am certain we will enjoy it very much,” said Amanda as they arrived at the door to the cottage. “Come in and have morning tea with us.”
Jocelyn and Catharine received Geoffrey warmly as he entered with Amanda.
“You are just in time for tea and bread!” said Jocelyn as she walked toward the door. “Sit down and join us. I won’t be but a moment—I want to run out to see if Rune can take a break from his work.”
She left the kitchen just as Maggie made her way slowly in from the sitting room.
“Let me help you get to your chair, Grandma Maggie,” said Catharine, taking her arm.
“Thank you, dear,” said Maggie. “Oh—hello, Geoffrey. What do you think of my little cottage?”
“Bustling, Mrs. McFee,” laughed Geoffrey.
The place was so vibrant and full of life, thought Geoffrey as he continued to watch and listen. This family had lost nothing by giving away Heathersleigh Hall. The life of the place had come with them, right across the meadow just as he had come a few minutes ago. The life was here without the Hall, without the possessions, without the library, without the history, without the title.
They were the life, these wonderful, giving, gracious, loving people.
The Hall stood now mostly quiet and empty. His father had so long coveted it. Yet it was just an empty shell. Without people within its walls, it was mere mortar and stone, while here in this simple two-story cottage there was such—
Geoffrey’s reflections were cut short as Jocelyn and Rune Blakeley walked in chatting and laughing. They sat down at the remaining two places at the table.
“This is a tight squeeze!” said Jocelyn. “I think this is the largest group we have had since moving to the cottage.”
“We shall have to get a larger table, Mother,” said Amanda.
“It sounds like a big new table will be next on my list after completion of the stables,” laughed Rune.
Gradually it quieted and they all joined hands. How long had it been, thought Geoffrey as his right hand closed about Amanda’s soft palm, and his left was swallowed up by the great rough-textured fingers of Rune Blakeley’s fist, since he had held hands with another human being? He could not even remember. The feeling of companionship and brotherhood filled him with such a warm feeling that he could think of no place he would rather be at that moment than right here.
“Thank you, our Father,” prayed Jocelyn, “for this day you have given us, for your provision, for your love, for your constant goodness to us, and for dear friends with whom we are able to share life. Thank you for Geoffrey and Rune and their presence with us today. Thank you for this wonderful cottage with Maggie where we are all so happy. And we pray that you will bless and prosper Geoffrey’s tenure in the Hall, and make this a wonderful season in his life. Amen.”
The humble simplicity and genuine warmth of the prayer went straight to Geoffrey’s heart, and he found a lump rising in his throat. It was with difficulty at first that he was able to enter into the friendly conversation that began immediately as Jocelyn poured tea and the girls began passing around plates laden with bread, cakes, cheeses, and meats.
“Geoffrey, would you care for a scone?” asked Catharine.
“Why, yes . . . thank you, I would,” replied Geoffrey, trying his best to focus his mind on the plate in front of him.
“Geoffrey has just been telling me of his plans,” said Amanda to the others. “He is thinking of opening a small bank in Milverscombe.”
“Progress comes to the country, eh!” said Rune.
“I suppose something like that,” rejoined Geoffrey. “I am not at all anxious to return to London. You see, Mr. Blakeley, I am on indefinite leave at present. But I cannot just lounge about forever. I shall have to do something. And banking is all I know.”
“Milverscombe is growing,” put in Jocelyn. “A bank would no doubt be a boon to the community.”
“I would hope so,” said Geoffrey. “But what about all of you?” he added, turning toward Jocelyn. “What will you do here?”
“We intend to pray for God to keep us busy and involved with people. We may even take in a few young people now and then if he leads them to us.”
“But is there room?”
“Oh yes. We will take you on a tour of the cottage after breakfast. The first floor has a small sitting room and four bedrooms. Granted, they are small, but adequate. We each have a room of our own at present. And this floor has another two bedrooms, the large sitting room, this kitchen . . . we shall have plenty of space.”
Geoffrey listened with a nod and gentle smile. “I think it sounds lovely,” he said, then paused. “In a way,” he added, “I almost envy you.”
“You will have the chance to minister to people too, Geoffrey,” said Amanda.
“I must admit I had never thought of banking in quite that way before!”
“Any occupation is full of opportunities to help, wherever people are involved.”
“One always thinks of money and banking as the opposite of what you call ministry.”
“It is the worship of money that is the root of all evil, Geoffrey,” said Jocelyn, “not money itself. Properly used, money is a tremendous tool for good in the world. My husband was always very grateful for what he had. It allowed him to do a great deal for others.”
“Amen to that!” chimed in Blakeley enthusiastically. “Me and my family are living proof of the man’s generosity, God bless him!”
“Charles was always fond of a certain passage of the Scotsman’s.—Amanda,” she said, turning to her eldest daughter, “—would you mind fetching the Scotsman’s Curate?”
“I think the passage you want is in Faber, Mother,” replied Amanda, rising. “I’ll go see.”
She left the room and returned a minute later with two old books bound in red boards. She handed one to her mother and immediately began scanning the other herself. The others waited.
“Ah, here it is, Mother,” said Amanda after a couple of minutes. “It’s in chapter seven, where Wingfold is preaching.”
She handed the book across the table to Jocelyn, who found the familiar spot.
“Yes, this is it . . . I always get the two books a little mixed up.—‘Friends,’” Jocelyn began to read, “‘cast your idol into the furnace. Melt your mammon down, coin him up, make God’s money of him, and send him out to do God’s work. Make of him cups to carry the gift of God, the water of life, through the world—in lovingkindness to the oppressed, in rest to the weary who have borne the burden and heat of the day, in joy to the heavy-hearted, in laughter to the dull-spirited.
“‘Ah, what true gifts might not the mammon of unrighteousness, changed back into the money of God, give to men and women! How would you not spend your money for the Lord if he needed it from your hand! He does need it, for he that spends it upon the least of his fellows spends it upon the Lord.
“‘To hold fast to God with one hand while you open wide the other to your neighbor—that is true religion, that is the law and the prophets.—Lord, defend us from mammon. Hold your temple against his foul invasion. Purify our money with your air and your sun that it may be our slave, and you our master. Amen.’”
Jocelyn closed the book. The kitchen fell silent.
Geoffrey pondered deeply the words he had just heard. “A wonderful passage,” he said at length. His voice was unusually quiet.
“You see, Geoffrey,” said Jocelyn, “it is all about turning money into God’s money, and using whatever he gives us—possessions, talent, money, the work of our hands, our energies, the love in our hearts, even such a thing as simple friendliness . . . using all he gives us to carry the water of life to a thirsty world.”
“What a creed that would make for the banking industry,” added Geoffrey with a reflective smile.
Perhaps, he thought, he had just found the direction he had been seeking for his own future.
74
More News
Li
eutenant Langham’s call to Devon on the present occasion was twofold. He must speak in private with both the Rutherford girls. He had arrived the evening before and—as was now his custom since the family had left Heathersleigh Hall—spent the night in Timothy Diggorsfeld’s guest room.
The seriousness of the first of his two objectives could be seen by the expression on his face when he asked to talk to Amanda alone after calling at the cottage the morning after his arrival. They walked out the front door and slowly made their way through the paths of Maggie’s flower garden.
“I have some news to report to you, Miss Rutherford,” the lieutenant began slowly. “Apparently it occurred several months ago during the incident Lieutenant Forbes and I were involved in. But at the time we were not aware of the identity of some of those involved.”
“Lieutenant, what are you talking about?” said Amanda. “I have never heard you sound so serious.”
“Just this, Miss Rutherford—we have just learned that Ramsay Halifax is dead.”
Amanda took in the words with strange detachment, then slowly began to cry, for sadness, but also relief.
She took out a handkerchief. They walked on in silence, except for an occasional sniffle.
“What happened?” asked Amanda at length.
“He was killed in the aborted escape attempt of Colonel Forsythe I told you about before,” replied Langham. “He was one of those buried at sea. Unfortunately, at the time I was unconscious from my own wounds and did not actually see the body. No one else on board knew him. I wish I could have notified you sooner. News only just reached us through an intercepted communiqué listing the names of those on the escape yacht.”
“Was it Ramsey who shot you?”
“It may well have been,” answered the lieutenant. “The last thing I remember was catching a momentary glimpse of him. At the time I didn’t put the face together with the incident at the lighthouse. But in retrospect I now realize it was Halifax. I saw him raise his hand. He was holding a pistol. I heard a volley of shots, then everything went black.”
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