“Our goal is truth. Our enemy is darkness,” replied Barclay. “I can say most emphatically that you will have not the slightest difficulty incorporating your religious views in with everything our cause stands for. As to our name, I will say this much now—it was given as a revelation, as a glimpse into the future, as a picture of the new order which we have been shown and which we now desire to expand as we are given opportunity. For in the days to come, the light of this revelation shall indeed become as a fountain, from the heavenly realms as only light is capable of. . . .”
As he listened, at last Charles found his resolve weakening. He glanced away. He could no longer hold Barclay’s eyes. Gradually he felt himself being lulled into complacent acceptance, just as the others had been.
With great effort he rose, excused himself briefly, and sought the lavatory. He needed to dash some cold water on his face.
41
A Caller
Hubert Powell drove up the driveway to Heathersleigh Hall feeling especially pleased with himself for having stumbled upon the information that the lord of the manor of this second-rate estate had left Devonshire for London the day before. How long he was going to be gone he didn’t know, but he intended to take no chances and to strike quickly. This time he would bypass the old fool altogether and not allow himself to be humiliated with all that religious idiocy.
He rang the bell at the front door and waited. Half a minute later it was opened by Sarah Minsterly. She knew him instantly, though betrayed nothing on her face.
“Good morning,” said Hubert, presenting his card, “I am calling to speak with Sir Charles.”
“I am sorry, Mr. . . . er, Powell. Sir Charles is away from Heathersleigh at the moment.”
“Oh, I see . . . hmm, that is a shame. I have driven some distance.”
He paused as if thinking to himself.
“May I please, then, perhaps speak for a minute with Miss Catharine?”
Sarah hesitated briefly, then nodded and reentered the house. She went straight to Catharine’s room, knocked, handed her the card, and related the brief encounter that had just taken place at the front door. Catharine thanked the housekeeper, thought to herself briefly, then left her room and descended to the ground floor. She found Hubert waiting patiently outside where Sarah had left him, looking every inch the gentleman and country squire.
“Hello, Mr. Powell,” said Catharine without expression. “What may I do for you?”
“It is wonderful to see you again, Catharine,” replied Hubert, smiling graciously. “I came to call on your father, just as you suggested.”
He paused to allow a crestfallen expression to fill his face.
“I seem,” he went on, “to have the misfortune to have timed my visit badly. So I thought, since I was here, you might enjoy a short ride in the country with me. As you can see I have my Opel, and it is a spectacular day for a drive.”
“I am afraid I shall have to decline,” said Catharine.
“Surely there can be no harm in a short ride in the middle of the day.”
“I thought I had made it clear earlier,” said Catharine, “that any further relationship between us must initially include my parents.”
“Yes, but your father isn’t here.”
“Then you may call again, Mr. Powell.—Oh, wait . . . I have an idea!” she added excitedly. “I’ll go get my mother. I’m sure she would love to go. The three of us can have a lovely ride together.”
Catharine spun around and disappeared inside.
She walked up the stairs, not exactly hurrying, then paused and crept to the edge of the window and glanced outside. Already the Opel roadster was disappearing from sight down the driveway far more rapidly than was advisable.
Nearly as much smoke was coming from the ears of its driver as from the automobile’s exhaust.
42
A More Welcome Visitor
When the front doorbell of Heathersleigh Hall rang a second time less than ten minutes after the first, good Sarah Minsterly strode toward it with lips pursed in resolve to send the young Powell fellow back where he came from without benefit of any extra kindness out of her mouth. She threw open the door and was on the verge of unleashing a most unpleasant verbal barrage, when her motion was arrested in its tracks by an unexpected visitor standing calmly before her. For a second or two she stood staring still as a statue.
“Mr. Diggorsfeld!” she exclaimed after a moment.
“Yes, Miss Minsterly,” he laughed, “it is me, I assure you, not a ghost.”
“My apologies, sir. It’s just that I was expecting someone else—”
Unconsciously Timothy glanced behind him, beginning to put two and two together.
“—but come in, come in, please, sir,” gushed Sarah, her hospitable nature returning as quickly as it had departed a few seconds earlier at the sound of the bell. “Come with me, Mr. Diggorsfeld. Lady Jocelyn is in the little garden outside the kitchen.”
Timothy followed along the corridor to the left toward the west wing, then left again until they came to the kitchen, whose double glass doors stood open to the sunshine streaming down from the southwest. Sarah led the way through the room and outside, where Jocelyn sat with two other of the household staff, stringing and snapping green beans for canning. She looked up as they approached.
“Timothy!” she exclaimed in delight, leaping to her feet. Beans flew out of her apron in all directions onto the ground as she ran forward and warmly clasped his hands. “This is such a surprise—what on earth are you doing here!”
The man before her was not such as the world would consider imposing. He was of average height—perhaps even an inch or two less than average—and medium build. His hair, light and plentiful when first Charles Rutherford had walked into New Hope Chapel years before, was now thinning noticeably and gradually intermingling with white. Though he was younger than Charles, a stranger might have taken him for several years older. Yet his eyes sparkled with the vitality of life, love, and wisdom, which had made him for years a favorite with everyone at Heathersleigh.
“It is nearly as unexpected on my part,” said the pastor. “I was summoned to perform a funeral in Exeter—”
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Jocelyn. Her face grew serious.
“Think nothing of it,” replied Timothy, shaking his head to alleviate her concern. “To tell you the truth, I hardly knew the woman—I believe we’d met once years ago. But she was a friend of my mother’s and apparently had requested me. In any event, it was all very hastily arranged. I simply had no opportunity to let you know ahead of time I was coming.”
“No matter—I am delighted you are here.”
“I certainly couldn’t be so close without seeing you.—By the way, who was the chap in the auto who almost ran me and my horse and buggy off your drive in a heap?”
Jocelyn returned his question with a blank stare.
“I’m afraid that would be my fault,” said a voice behind them. They turned as Catharine, who had seen Timothy arrive from upstairs, now walked through the kitchen doors.
“Catharine, my dear!”
“Hello, Mr. Diggorsfeld,” replied Catharine, who then proceeded to tell her mother of the visit from Hubert Powell and the state in which he had left. “I’m sorry, Mr. Diggorsfeld—I didn’t mean for him to drive off so recklessly.”
“No harm done.”
“I am sorry too, Timothy,” now said Jocelyn, “but Charles is away. He’s up in Cambridge.”
“Well then, I shall enjoy my visit with the rest of you all the more.”
“Shall we go inside and have some lemonade . . . or would you like some tea?”
“Lemonade sounds wonderful,” replied Timothy. “But to be perfectly honest, I’d rather stay out here. It’s a lovely day, and I haven’t snapped beans since I was a boy. You don’t mind if I join you?”
“Mind . . . heavens no,” laughed Jocelyn. “But do you really want to snap beans?”
“Of course. It will
be fun.” He glanced around for a chair, then hurried back into the kitchen to fetch one. In two or three minutes he and Catharine had joined the circle and were snapping and destringing like experts.
“You know, Sarah,” said Jocelyn, “we’ll have these finished in no time. Why don’t you and Kate and Enid go inside and start boiling the water and getting the jars ready? Actually, come to think of it, two of you could go down to the garden and finish picking that last row.”
Just then George came through the kitchen.
“I heard we had a visitor,” he said. “Hello, Mr. Diggorsfeld!”
“George, my lad!” exclaimed Timothy, rising and shaking his hand. “You’re looking fit and well.”
“Thank you—so are you.”
“How does it feel to have university life behind you?” said the minister, sitting down and resuming his task. “And by the way, congratulations on your degree—I haven’t seen you since.”
“Thank you very much. To answer your question, it feels good—it’s a relief actually. Not that there aren’t aspects of it I miss, naturally. But it was hard work, and it’s good to be home and working with Father again.”
“Join us, George,” said Jocelyn, pointing to the chair Kate had vacated.
“What—cutting up beans?”
“Come, George,” added Timothy, “a little good honest women’s labor never hurt any man that I knew of. Especially a bachelor like me. It’s a matter of necessity. Although I am extremely thankful for my housekeeper.”
George laughed but sat down. Within five minutes the beans were flying as rapidly from his hands into the tub in the center as from the others.
“Hubert Powell was just here,” Catharine said to her brother.
“Where was I?”
“Out in the stables. He wasn’t here long enough for you to know.” Again Catharine recounted the incident.
“It sounds like you handled him fine without any assistance from me,” said George.
“I really have to hand it to you,” said Timothy, “for recognizing the need to let your father be your protector in such matters. More and more these days young people think such a thing is too old-fashioned. But believe me, I’ve conducted too many ill-advised marriages not to be concerned at how quickly and thoughtlessly marriage is rushed into.”
“Why do you marry people, then?”
“I am an agent of the church. There are certain rules that young people must follow to receive the sanction of the church. If they do, I am bound to marry them. But often they are utterly unprepared.”
43
Marriage and God’s Will
Why didn’t you ever marry, Mr. Diggorsfeld?” asked Catharine after a moment.
Jocelyn glanced over quickly at Timothy, taken aback by the directness of her daughter’s question. But the smile of humor on the minister’s face showed plainly enough that he had taken no offense.
“I am not, as the saying goes, ‘a confirmed bachelor,’ if that is what you mean,” he replied. “It is just that the right opportunity never came my way.”
“You mean you would marry if it did?”
“Of course.”
Catharine appeared almost shocked.
“We ministers in England are not celibate like Catholic priests,” he said, smiling again. “No, I would happily marry if such was what God wanted for me.”
“But you’re—” she began.
Diggorsfeld laughed. “I’m old . . . is that what you were going to say?”
Catharine’s face turned red.
“I’m only forty-three, my dear. Do you think human feeling stops with the appearance of a few grey hairs?” he added, still chuckling.
Catharine sheepishly shook her head.
“As I said,” the minister continued, “I would marry if it were God’s will. But equally will I remain happily single all my life if that is what God wants for me. Whether married or single is immaterial, so long as I am in God’s will.”
“But how do you know God’s will?”
“Ah, my dear Catharine—that is the question of the ages. I am more delighted than I can say that you are beginning to ask it at such an early age in your own pilgrimage. But its answer is one you will seek the rest of your days.”
“You make it sound hopeless, as if the question is unanswerable.”
“Oh, by no means! It is answerable, and it is full of hope and wonder. But that does not alter the fact that you will continue asking it, in ever more profound ways the deeper your faith grows.”
“Are you saying we can know God’s will?”
“I believe so,” answered Diggorsfeld. “But it is a process, not an event. God’s will is not comprised of a series of precise revelations that come singly and specifically, but is a style of life in which one walks with the heavenly Father.”
“I don’t think I follow you.”
“Perhaps one day you and I shall sit down and have a long talk about it. Or maybe we shall go for a long ride together and discuss it.”
“When you do, I’m coming along!” said George. “I want in on that discussion too.”
“Wonderful!” rejoined Diggorsfeld. “We shall do it indeed. In the meantime, Catharine, I shall send you a little book called Life at the Center, which should help you think in a generally correct direction on the matter. Once you have read it, you will doubtless have even more questions. Then we shall go for that long ride!”
“How did you know it was God’s will for you not to marry?” now asked George.
“My, but aren’t you two curious about marriage!” laughed Timothy.
“Young people cannot help but think about it,” replied George. “Catharine and I want to do the right thing.”
“I commend you both for that,” rejoined Diggorsfeld. “Let me answer your question about myself by saying that I did not decide to be single. There was no moment of revelation indicating bachelorhood to be some momentous thing called God’s will for me. Such is simply the way my life went. Therefore, I say that up to this point that is God’s will. My way has been committed to him, and that is what he has done with what I gave him. What his will might be for my future, I cannot say. But back to your question—when I was in my mid-twenties and fresh out of theological college and recently ordained, serving in my first parish as an assistant, there was a young lady in the congregation who had eyes for me.”
“Ah!” said Catharine, drawing out the word with heightened interest. The beans immediately stopped falling from her fingers. “But you weren’t interested in her?” she added.
“She was very attractive,” answered Timothy. “I suppose in a manner of speaking I could not help being drawn to her. She lavished attention upon me, and did everything in her power to win my affections. No man is immune to the charms of such a young woman. I must admit there were times my soul was in danger. Yet I recognized that her heart and affections were not dedicated to the service of the Lord as were mine. She was forward and coquettish, in love with her own wiles, not the kind of woman who could ever have been a minister’s wife. Her father was rich. I could have made myself what the world calls a very nice marriage indeed. I would probably now be preaching in one of London’s large and fashionable pulpits. But I knew we would both be miserable in the long run for marrying for the wrong reasons. I would rather remain single all my life than to marry for the wrong reason.”
“Have you ever regretted your decision?” asked George.
“Heavens—not for a second! I am happy as I am because I know I am in God’s will. And if God sent a woman of like mind to the door of my study for me to marry tomorrow, I would be equally happy.”
“I don’t see how you can say that,” said Catharine. “How can you be equally happy either way?”
“Because I content myself where God has put me—wherever that may be. In other words, to marry or not to marry, to paraphrase Shakespeare, is not the question—but to do God’s will, and to be content in the way in which he brings that will about in your life. Y
ou see, working out the details of life according to such-and-such a pattern is not always something we can control. Things don’t always happen by our choice.
“But contentment is a choice. Contentment is always a road any man or woman can walk at any time in any circumstance. And I happen to believe that contentment is one of the secret ingredients in that mystical and elusive thing we call God’s will. Circumstances and events lie outside our control. Contentment does not. We control contentment but not circumstance. It’s all in the book I will send you when I get back to London.”
Throughout the conversation, Jocelyn had remained strangely quiet. Timothy now turned to her with a look of question on his face. “Is something troubling you, Jocelyn?”
Jocelyn glanced up and cast him a melancholy smile.
“I hadn’t realized it, but perhaps there is,” she said.
“Care to share it?”
“I don’t know if it’s worth talking about,” she answered. “Somehow the talk of marriage and your sharing about your past . . . it all sent my thoughts back into my own—not a very good place for me to go sometimes. I couldn’t help starting to think about my mother and what a heartache my appearance was to her.”
Jocelyn paused reminiscently.
“Actually, I was thinking more about my younger sister,” she went on. “I received a letter from her today—a belated birthday greeting, really. I don’t know, it was so impersonal and cool—I suppose it brought back a lot of memories.”
“You and your sister are not close, I take it?”
Jocelyn shook her head.
“We never have been. She is five years younger than I. She was still a girl when I left home for my nursing studies.”
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