“Returning to a remark you made earlier, Churchill,” asked Baron Whitfield, “are you saying Nicholas is not fit to lead the Russian people?”
Churchill did not reply immediately.
“I will answer for him,” said Westcott,” by saying that he is as aware of their, shall we say, backwardness, as any of us here.”
“He’s a peaceful enough man,” commented Brentford.
“But will the revolutionaries allow him to remain in power?” queried Count Beauchamp. “That is the vital question. These are new times. Whatever you say about the Russian people, the leaders of their revolutionary movement—anarchists, communists, the whole lot of them—are stirring things up over there more than we might like.”
“You’re right there.”
“You know how Nicholas’s grandfather met his end—they blew up his carriage right after it left the Winter Palace. Where we use the vote, they use bombs. At least in this country we adapt to new social trends peacefully.”
“Not a very civilized lot in my book,” commented Westcott.
“So, Churchill—what do you think the future holds?” asked Brentford.
The young officer’s face showed a thoughtful maturity beyond his years. His eyes gleamed with the unmistakable look of leadership in the making.
“Forces in eastern Europe concern me,” Winston answered at length. His voice bore the same expression as his eyes. “I must admit I agree with Count Beauchamp. I confess that I trust the Germans and the Russians no farther than I can throw a good cigar. If they should ever draw equal to us in military and naval capability, then I should be far more anxious for the stability of Europe than I am at this moment.”
The small group of listeners took in the young soldier’s words with nods. A few sipped at their drinks.
A silence followed. Still again Charles Rutherford felt the strange sensation come over him of living in the midst of two conversations at once.
————
Thank you . . . I was so afraid . . . said a woman’s voice—a sweet voice.
. . . implore you, sir . . . not a teaching that comes from God.
It was a man now speaking. The tone was gentle and sincere, however misguided.
But now came a third voice—an angry voice . . . a voice neither gentle nor kind.
. . . none of your sermons! it said, . . . protests . . . absurd leaflets . . . have you all thrown in jail . . .
It was a voice he knew . . . its tone was mean and harsh.
————
Charles glanced around, determined to force himself back to the present.
“Von Dortmann!” said Sir Charles, happy to seize upon a distraction that might rescue him from unpleasant reflections. He strode a few steps from the others and greeted a new acquaintance he had met only an hour earlier. He led the man back at his side. “Come join us.”
“I would like you all to meet Johann von Dortmann,” he said, now speaking to his English friends, “over from the Continent for the celebration.”
Again handshakes and greetings followed.
“Of the Prussian von Dortmanns?” asked Whitfield.
“That is correct, Baron,” replied von Dortmann in perfect English.
“I believe I’ve heard the name—a banker, are you not?”
The newcomer nodded.
“As one of his countrymen, what is your opinion of Chancellor Bismarck?”
“A grand man,” replied the Prussian.
“How well do you know him?”
“He is a guest upon occasion at my estate. I accompanied him over from Berlin.”
A few nods of significance followed. The man was of more prominence than they had realized.
“What do you think will come on the Continent in the new century?” asked Westcott.
“The Continent!” he repeated, “—I’m concerned with what will come for Britain,” replied von Dortmann, with hint of a smile.
Everyone laughed.
“My new friend is a diplomat as well as a financier!” said Charles. “He has resisted your bait, James, to commit himself in a thorny query involving his own nation.”
“Shrewdly put, von Dortmann, I daresay!” said young Churchill at the Prussian’s remark.
“Britain is secure, I assure you,” said Paxton Brentford. “My parliamentary friends here will see to that, Tories and Liberals alike. Victoria may just live forever. If she doesn’t, Edward will keep the ship steady. He’s a prudent enough fellow—no worry there. But the Continent, what with the Germans and Prussians and Austrians and Serbs and Bosnians and Turks—I don’t like to think what the new century may hold.—Have you spoken with Lord Salisbury on the subject?” he said, turning his head to Beauchamp.
“The prime minister is watching everything closely.”
“Another diplomat!”
“And you, Sir Charles, have you spoken with your former leader?”
“I have not seen the honorable Mr. Gladstone for several months. When I last spoke with him, domestic affairs were far more on his mind than the state of the Continent.”
“How was he?”
“Weary,” answered Rutherford sadly. “His deafness increases. He is eighty-eight—older than either the queen or Bismarck.”
“I fear the grand old man will not understand these new times,” said Brentford, with almost a prophetic tone, “even if he should live to see the century. The Liberals must leave the new century to its rising new leadership.”
A brief silence followed.
“With the year 1900 will indeed come a changing of the guard in many ways,” remarked the earl of Westcott. “We old political war horses will gradually be turning affairs over to the likes of you, Rutherford—excuse me, I forget the occasion! . . . Sir Charles—and to you, young Churchill. The two of you should get together and plot out a strategy for securing Britain’s fortunes throughout the new century, whatever it may hold.”
Charles and the young soldier glanced at one another and smiled briefly, but no more was said on the subject.
21
Breaking of the Cocoon
The gala celebration did not leave the lord of the manor of Heathersleigh as full of joy and the satisfaction of achievement as he had anticipated. Instead of exhilaration, an undefined heaviness of soul burdened him. Gradually its weight increased.
Something was wrong inside. He did not know what.
The ride back to the hotel from the palace at about five-thirty was oddly subdued. Even Amanda seemed to recognize something amiss with her usually enthusiastic and talkative father. Jocelyn attributed her husband’s silence to a heart perhaps overfull of emotion from the occasion just past. She did not intrude nor worry. He would be himself before long.
But Jocelyn Rutherford’s husband would never again return to what he had been accustomed to calling himself.
The essential core of his being that defined what he referred to when he used that simplest yet ultimate defining word of human language, the pronoun “I”—that entity was in the process of undergoing the most significant and wonderful change to which all men and women must come in the end. That which Charles Rutherford called his “self” was about to experience the change of being born again.
It was a process of which he yet knew nothing. He had heard the expression only through the Gospel readings in village church services, which he had attended as a boy and which, by reason of his position in the community, he still attended on occasion. His ignorance, however, lessened not a hair the reality of the transformation which approached. That it was invisible as the wind which blows where it will, took nothing from the fact that he felt its peculiar and unmistakable stirrings within him. They were uncomfortable stirrings at present. He knew only that something strange—was it something terrifying or something wonderful?—was at hand.
The butterfly embryo cannot know to what winged heights it will soar when its own birth is complete. The unborn infant in the blackness of its mother’s womb is incapable of apprehen
ding the wonder of life awaiting it in the region where light and air and freedom reign. The new birth must therefore always seem terrifying with its first pangs. To whatever degree they have been comfortable in their death-wombs of self, will those to whom Life comes initially resist breaking through the shell of darkness.
To be freed from the confines of that cocoon requires a momentary shock to the former individual’s comfort system, a jolt of electric, life-beginning pain. Only so will the wings of the butterfly be released to stretch. Then indeed will it fly. Only so will the eyes and lungs of the infant child be opened. Then indeed will he see. Only so can the old self die, in order that a newer and deeper and truer self—the self that was God’s idea of us when he made us—might be born.
A high place in an earthly kingdom had been granted to Charles Rutherford. But he would soon be heir to a kingdom of which he scarce possessed an inkling. How could it be other than that he would fear the first sensations of its approach?
For the heavenly must always seem awesome—yea, fearful—to the mere mortal, until he yields himself to the blissful death out of which God’s life in his heart is born.
22
The Beast Hand
Charles felt increasingly uncomfortable all evening following his honor at the queen’s palace garden. He had finally retired to a fitful and uneven sleep. But his slumber was filled with weird ill-shaped phantasms that only added to the gnawing discomfort of soul.
Unwelcome dreams intruded.
He was walking . . . hurriedly, glancing back frequently, then hurrying onward again . . . quickly onward. He was in a city—it must be London. He recognized nothing. It was a strange part of the city, unfriendly, dark, dirty, cold . . . he must get someplace. He broke into a run. Crowds of people were about . . . many people now, blocking his way. He tried to squeeze through . . . the mass of humanity was thick. He pushed and shoved his way . . . running again . . . another glance backward . . . he must make haste . . . important matters were at hand.
Suddenly a girl blocked his path. He crashed into her . . . stumbled . . . fell onto the pavement. You fool! he cried. Watch what you are about . . . do you not know I am on the queen’s business? The voice sounded strangely unlike his own, but he felt the words falling from his own mouth. Out of my way, you little urchin! he yelled.
Picking himself up, he tripped into a run once more . . . looking back only long enough to see tears of pain from the injury he had caused pouring from the child’s eyes. She stared after him, beseeching him for help. But he had no time . . . he had more important things with which to concern himself. Again he was running . . . running . . . he had to get there . . . couldn’t be late.
The crowd was gone . . . he was alone now . . . running along a deserted walkway alongside a tall building. He rounded a blind corner . . . suddenly a great beast appeared in his path.
In mute agony he tried to scream, but only a peep sounded from his terrified lips. Unable to stop, he stumbled into the horrid creature, staggered backward, and fell into the street. He glanced up. Alongside the great monster he was now as small as an urchin gazing up in fright . . . tears now rose in his own eyes . . . he had become the child!
The beast approached. Again he tried to scream but his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. He struggled to regain his feet. But his muscles had no more power than his voice. The hideous thing drew nearer. It was going to kill him! A huge hairy arm reached forward. His heart pounded with fear greater than any he had known. In terrified panic he tried to free himself from the trance. Still he could not move.
A clawed hand stretched toward him . . . but it did not reach for his neck to slit his throat with its sharp claws . . . instead the palm opened, as if in entreaty. Slowly he put out his own hand, the only part of his body he could move. Terrified yet unable to resist the invitation which he knew also to be a gesture of command, he placed his own hand timidly into the huge hairy claws.
But no hand of beast met his touch . . . rather, that which closed about his was the soft, gentle grasp of royalty. He had felt it somewhere earlier . . . he could not remember . . . when he had knelt before some important personage. Other images now mingled with the dream in confused disarray . . . the gentle beast hand whose inside was that of a queen—or was it a King’s son—now pulled on his.
The beast hand drew him to his feet. He yielded, and gradually rose. Slowly his eyes rose to see what manner of strange but gentle creature was this beast with the soft regal hand. He looked up . . . and now gazed into the beast’s eyes. A great cry of terror at last burst from his lips—it was his own face! His countenance sat upon the beast’s frame! But why was it smiling and radiant . . . did it not know itself a beast . . . and what of the royal hand . . . were there two beings in the one . . . what—
23
Unexpected Claim of Conscience
Suddenly Charles awoke with a start.
He sat up in his bed, eyes wide, perspiring freely. It was sometime after one in the morning. He remained still a moment in the dark, breathing heavily, trying to gather his wits about him.
Slowly the dream faded. His breathing calmed.
At yesterday’s reception he had wondered why the incident with the salvation band seemed bent on intruding into his thoughts. Now he saw it clearly enough. He was tormented by guilt. The dream illuminated that fact clearly enough. The urchin’s eyes were the very eyes of the young Christian woman he had seen in front of the lecture hall. He had behaved reprehensibly. There was no way around it. He felt what any honorable man would feel . . . a sense of shame.
At last he knew where the inner struggle was taking place within him—in the depths of his own soul.
Why could he not dismiss the incident from his mind? The encounter had been insignificant enough. He tried to tell himself so for the tenth time. He had felt pangs of guilt before. This was not the first time he had behaved as less than a gentleman. But he had never felt like this. This time, for some reason, the guilt went down to the core of who he was.
He could not shake himself from the haunting claim on his conscience. It was not the magnitude of the thing. Small or large—it hardly mattered. It was what the incident revealed . . . about him—that however good he might be most of the time, the potential of downright meanness, even cruelty, lurked within him.
Charles rose and crept softly into the other room so as not to disturb his wife’s sleep. He sat down in the blackness. The night was silent. The last thing he wanted to do at this moment was think. Thinking had become torture. Over and over his brain spun with thoughts that were as new to him as the stings of wrongdoing that plagued him.
A new world began to open to Charles Rutherford as he sat alone—as he thought—in the darkness of the hotel in London. In actuality he was less alone than he had ever been in his life.
The world now dawning upon his being was one of which he knew nothing. It was a world which terrified him and from which he would have fled had he been able. Yet it was a world whose approach he could do nothing to stop. Suddenly he felt the presence of a lordship he had never acknowledged. Beside this, his new title seemed paltry and unworthy.
Salvation must always begin, more or less, with discomfort. Spiritual hunger is the foundation for growth. Salvation cannot approach the soul basking in contentment. It is the discontent who feel the pangs of their own character-hunger and eternal emptiness. It is this very gnawing disquietude of unrightness that enables the hungry soul to be filled.
Charles was at last hungry for the only sustenance capable of satisfying his soul’s deepest need. For he had become disturbed with what he saw when he gazed inward. Finally he was less than happy with the man he was. And finally, therefore, he was ready to become the man he was meant to be.
The eyes of the young lady tormented like a fire in his heart. The memory of the incident triggered a host of unwelcome images from out of his past, occasions when he had been short with the servants, impatient with the children, thoughtless of Jocelyn, and le
ss than fully gracious to his colleagues in London.
And then, as the young woman’s eyes burned yet deeper, at last he realized what he had beheld in them: he had seen love. She had loved him with a compassion unlike anything he had observed on human face before that moment.
Charles was no stranger to what the world called love. Jocie loved him, and he loved her.
But that young woman’s eyes had contained something . . . different.
And he had thrown the compassion back at her and the others with no less force than had he slapped her across the face. How was he better than the ruffian he had laid out on the street?
He was no more open-minded than he had accused the Christians of being. How tolerant had he been toward them? He, the progressive, open-minded liberal thinker, had been anything but open-minded! He preached the equality of humanity. He preached progressivism of ideas. But now it was clear that he remained filled with his own hidden prejudices. How prophetic had been his own question to his daughter: what happens when good people become bad?
You would never become bad, Papa. Amanda’s words rang in his brain. Now he wasn’t so sure they were true.
What inconsistency—to defend the young woman one moment and then verbally attack the poor preacher the next. Had he even stopped to think about what the man had said? And then to be made a knight by the queen so shortly afterward, as if he were some paragon of English virtue. He was nothing but a hypocrite!
The Savior of the world was called Jesus because he would save his people from their sins, and from the sin nature that lies within them. The fact that sin resides deep in the heart of every man and every woman ought to be the most fearful and terrifying fact in all the universe. It is the single circumstance of the human condition which we ought to combat with more vigor than any other.
Rarely, however, is it so. Instead man fights all known evil except that one overarching evil at the root of everything. Thinking to rid the world of its problems, its inhabitants labor against every plague of society, while ignoring that which causes the rest—their own sin nature.
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