Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “Again.”

  “Yes . . . Mr. Rutherford,” said Sarah, smiling with a hint of blush.

  “Ah, that is much better to my ear,” said Charles, returning her smile.

  She now returned to the kitchen and came back a moment later bearing a tray containing four plates, each of which contained one egg, two cooked tomato halves, and three small sausages. There was also a fifth plate which had no tomatoes. She set them before the five family members.

  “Thank you, Sarah,” said Charles. “Everything looks and smells delicious as usual.”

  Without preliminaries, they began to eat.

  “So, George, my boy—what do you have planned today?”

  “I’m going to work in the basement, Papa.”

  “Still tinkering with that old rusted door?”

  “I think I shall manage to have it opened today,” said George excitedly.

  “I tell you, son, there’s nothing behind it but rusted tools and rubbish. My father used to say he locked the place up to keep from having to clean it out, and never wanted to see inside it again.”

  “Have you ever seen the old door open, Papa?”

  “Never. But perhaps I shall come down to help you. With two of us, we might be able to pry the old contraption loose on its hinges.”

  “Would you, Papa?” said George, his face brightening.

  “Indeed—yes, I will. But if we get it open, then we shall have to clean it out.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” said George, now with even more enthusiasm at the project. “I don’t mind! I’m sure it will lead somewhere.”

  Sarah walked in from the kitchen. “Excuse me, sir,” she began.

  “Yes, Sarah?” he said, glancing up.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you, sir—” she said, “Mr. Rutherford, I mean . . . that the man came to inspect the library when you were away, and said everything was fine.”

  “What man?”

  “The man from the Secretary of State’s office, sent to inspect all Devon’s libraries.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah,” said Charles. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about. I knew of no such order.”

  Sarah now related the incident.

  An expression of concern passed across Charles’ face rather than the relief the housekeeper had expected.

  “It is a puzzling affair,” he said. “An expert such as he apparently purported himself to be would surely know that silverfish feed only on the glue in books, not their paper. And you can certainly not smell them by simply standing in the middle of a room. Furthermore, they do not eat linens, as is commonly supposed. It sounds to me as if his purpose was as much to alarm you as it was to protect our library. How long was he here?”

  “Not more than an hour or hour and a quarter.”

  “Hmm . . . a thorough search, if it was indeed silverfish he was after, would have taken hours for a library our size . . . perhaps even days.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir, if I—” began Sarah.

  “No, Sarah,” interrupted Charles. “No harm was apparently done. From what you’ve said, you could not have done other than what you did. Perhaps he was a spy from the British Museum, sent to see what rare editions they might like to make an offer on!”

  It fell silent around the table for a moment or two.

  “Well,” he said decisively, “as there is nothing we can do to get to the bottom of it, we shan’t worry about it further.”

  He took a long swallow of tea, emptying his cup. He poured in a spoonful’s worth of milk, then filled it with tea to the rim, giving the mixture a quick stir with his spoon.

  “And you, Amanda?” he said, glancing in her direction. “What are you going to do today?”

  She shrugged.

  “Not quite as exciting on a rainy day in the country as in the middle of London, is it, my dear? Ah well, sometimes we must make the best of it where we are, even though the prospects don’t appear altogether—”

  A sudden burst of brightness entered the room. Without warning, the sun shone through a hole in the storm. As it did, its rays exploded straight in at the window.

  Charles’ voice stopped in midsentence. He glanced toward the light. The next instant he leapt from his chair and ran to the window.

  “Just look at that rainbow!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s only a rainbow, Papa,” said Amanda.

  “Only a rainbow, Amanda, my dear!” he replied, “—only a rainbow! Don’t you know what the rainbow means?”

  “What does it mean, Charles?” said Jocelyn.

  “Come to think of it—I’m not certain I know myself,” laughed Charles. “I mean, in school we heard a story about old Noah and such, but . . .”

  He paused, a strange expression crossing his face. “But . . . you know, I think I do know what it means. I think it must mean that God loves us,” he added.

  The room fell silent.

  Charles turned slowly to face the rest of his family. All four of the others, as well as Sarah Minsterly, stared blankly at him, incredulous at the words which had just fallen from his lips. None of the four had ever heard him mention the word God before.

  “—at least,” he added, laughing again, “it seems that is what it must mean. What else could something so beautiful possibly mean?”

  The remainder of the breakfast was subdued. It was not the mention of God that had everyone in a state of wonderment. It was how their father and husband was behaving. Jocelyn was unusually quiet. Charles noted the reaction, thought it curious, but said nothing. He resolved to be more circumspect in the future.

  Amanda remained quiet as well.

  Something strange was going on here. And in her heart, Amanda didn’t like it.

  31

  What Am I to Do?

  Several weeks passed, during which the residents of Heathersleigh Hall resumed more or less their normal routine.

  Every Monday morning, as was his custom, Charles traveled to London for that afternoon’s two-thirty session of Parliament. He spent the week at his London flat while attending the week’s sessions, then returned by train to Devonshire each Friday afternoon following the House closing at three o’clock.

  During this time he paid as many visits as his parliamentary schedule would permit to New Hope Chapel on Bloomsbury Way, posing many more questions about the Christian faith than he would have dreamed he was even capable of thinking up. He listened with interest to everything Timothy Diggorsfeld told him. As yet he did not commit himself either way.

  “But what am I to do, Timothy?” he asked one day, “supposing I come ultimately to the conclusion that the Christian faith is true? Does that mean I must give up my belief in evolution, throw out my signed copy of Darwin, and force myself to adhere to a list of Christian doctrines? I’m not sure I could do all that.”

  Diggorsfeld laughed lightly. “Put your mind to rest about all that,” he said. “As I’ve told you many times, Charles, the Christian faith is not so much a belief system as it is a way of life. It is a way of life whose core involves men and women relating themselves properly to the God who made them. That means living life with him, not forcing their minds to run in certain channels. As far as what you will or will not believe as part of that living, he will show you all those things. But they are secondary to the living of life.”

  “Do you mean that everything can remain for me as before?”

  Diggorsfeld thought a moment.

  “In one sense, perhaps,” he replied. “In other words, God does not come to you with a list, saying, ‘Comply with all this and I will accept you.’ There’s none of that in how God operates. He accepts you exactly as you are. In that sense, one might say things do not change. But in another sense, everything changes.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Just this—that once you do come to God, once you accept the Christian faith as true and say to yourself and to him that you want to live by it, then there are expectations that immediately go alon
g with it.”

  “Expectations?”

  The pastor nodded.

  “You see, God loves and accepts every man exactly as he is, for who he is at any given moment. He loves a commoner or peasant no less than he does any nobleman in the land, or the queen herself. But when one comes to him and says, ‘God, I want to be your son or daughter . . . I acknowledge you as my Creator and Lord,’ God says in return, ‘Wonderful. Welcome to my family. Now—there are certain ways my children are to live. Let me instruct you in them.’

  “Those, Charles, are the expectations I spoke of that are inherent in the Christian faith—ways God has instructed his people to live. They are not conditions for acceptance. They are not rules, so to speak, which you will be punished for breaking. They are simply the way Christians are to live.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “For example, what if an aspiring politician were to say, ‘I want to join the Conservative party. I want to be a Tory’?”

  Charles smiled at Diggorsfeld’s selection of analogy but said nothing.

  “People would no doubt be curious about his beliefs and his background,” replied Charles.

  “Now suppose, if you will, this man’s entire perspective opposed the Tory viewpoint, or his way of life and outlook were blatantly contrary to it. His colleagues would not want him to represent their party then, would they?”

  Charles shook his head.

  “I realize it’s not an exact parallel,” Diggorsfeld went on, “yet I think we can still learn from the analogy. If a man is going to be what is called a ‘Tory’ in the House of Commons, that designation tells people something about how he sees things and what he believes. A Tory is distinct from a Liberal or a Labourite. And these are distinctions all of Britain is aware of.”

  “Right.”

  “That is the point I am trying to convey about what a Christian is and does, how he thinks and responds and behaves, his attitudes and points of view—they are distinct from how the rest of the world thinks and responds and behaves and views things. God does not set up a list of expectations and rules and say, ‘Do this and don’t do this or I’ll slap your hand.’ He simply says, ‘This is how my children live.’”

  “I see.”

  “If we don’t live accordingly,” said the pastor, “how can we call ourselves God’s people?”

  “But how are we to know what those things are?” asked Charles.

  “That is one of the reasons why Jesus came—to show us and tell us exactly how God’s sons and daughters are to live and think and respond and view things. So you see, Charles, getting back to your original question—when you ask what you are to do, you have asked the foundational question in all of life, the question that is essential to all growth and meaning in life. What do I do? is the quest upon which we are all engaged.”

  “So,” laughed Charles, “answer it for me!”

  “You are an intelligent man. You will discover what you are to do. God will show you. It is to him you must look, not to me. I am but a fellow pilgrim on the same road.”

  “Further along than me, you will grant that,” laughed Charles.

  “Perhaps,” smiled Diggorsfeld. “But probably not so far as you imagine. In any event, what I am attempting to express is that when a man or woman faces his Creator one day, the questions will not be, ‘Did you believe in evolution or a six-day creation? Did you go to church? Did you adhere to every doctrine you were told to believe? Did you tithe? Did you participate in the sacraments? Did you agree to every point in the creeds? Did you go through this or that catechism?’ Rather the Father will ask, ‘Did you live according to what my Son taught . . . did you do what I told you?’”

  “Are all these matters of belief and doctrine therefore unimportant?” asked Charles.

  “By no means. Unimportant—certainly not. What I want you to understand, Charles, is that we do not necessarily just believe. Certainly, one’s actions proceed out of his or her belief. But Christianity at its core is not a ‘belief system,’ it is a do. And the do is this—we are to do what God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit say.”

  “Which is?”

  “What all three tell us through the Scriptures. Jesus was sent by the Father to explain and demonstrate that life and to offer up his own life to make it possible for us to enter into it. Therefore, we are to do what Jesus says—follow his example, obey his commands, put into practice his teachings.”

  32

  Probing Words Out of the Past

  The train journey from London this particular Friday in mid-July sent Charles Rutherford’s thoughts into more personal caverns of reflectiveness than usual.

  Words from out of his distant past crept ever closer to his conscious memory. They were unsought, rising as it were out of the nebulous mental stirrings in which his brain had been engaged of late. But neither did he resist them as they came. Now a word floated to the surface, now a phrase, gradually followed by entire chunks of conversation.

  . . . if ever a body needed proof . . . eyes t’ see what was right in front o’ him . . .

  Charles knew well enough whose voice it was. He smiled at the memory of the thick Irish brogue, even as he heard his own voice question in return:

  . . . what kind of proof?

  . . . no proof for the head, came Bobby McFee’s answer . . . kind o’ proof only hearts can understand . . . intellect helps in the journey. But hearts has t’ complete the job . . . mind can only take ye so far . . . only the humble o’ heart can see the proof that’s right in front o’ everyone’s noses.

  Charles sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, the rhythmic clacking of the rails blending with fragments of conversation in sleepy, pleasant reminiscence. As he did, his weeks of discussions with Timothy Diggorsfeld and many long-forgotten bits of wisdom from the mouth of Bobby McFee blended together in his mind until he could hardly distinguish between them. He had indeed been given two worthy mentors to guide him through this period of reevaluation and change.

  Two hours later, as Charles made his way from the main road up the winding, tree-lined drive to Heathersleigh Hall, dusk had settled over southwest England. It had been a rigorous week, capped by late-Friday business, and he was tired. The methodical clip-clop cadence of shod hooves over the packed-gravel drive through deepening shadows of birch, beech, maple, and pine continued the reflective dreamy mood begun by the train. He gazed about with weary pleasure, allowing himself to drink in the quietness of the final two or three minutes of the approach.

  It was so good to be back in Devon. Never had London seemed quite so hectic. Usually he enjoyed it. But by Wednesday of this week he had already begun anticipating getting back to the country.

  It was peaceful here, thought Charles as his eyes took in the idyllic scene. So still as the evening descended. A three-quarter moon was just creeping above the tops of the trees, glowing bright in an evening sky of deepening blue tinged with a faint reminder of vanishing orange. The carriage rounded the final bend at the top of the rise. It emerged out of the trees and the front of the Hall came into view.

  Gradually they slowed, then stopped in front of the great house.

  “There you be, sir.”

  “Thank you . . . thank you very much, Hector,” said Charles, stepping down, briefcase and small satchel in hand. “I’m sorry you had to make two trips into the station.”

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Charles. A right peaceful evening it was.”

  Jocelyn had been listening, heard the crunch of gravel under the carriage wheels, and came to the door, where she now stood. She greeted her husband with a smile and kiss.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “I am worn out,” he sighed. They went inside arm in arm.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  “I ate on the train. But tea would be wonderful.”

  “The water is already boiling.”

  “The children?”

  “Amanda and Catharine are in b
ed and asleep. George is in his room for the night, probably reading or tinkering with something.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “I had a feeling, when you weren’t on the early train, that you might need some peace and quiet when you arrived,” smiled Jocelyn.

  “You read my mind.”

  “Go put your things away and relax,” said Jocelyn. “I’ll be up with tea in five minutes.”

  Charles climbed the stairs while Jocelyn returned to the kitchen. After popping in for a brief visit with George, he adjourned to their private sitting room. He slumped into his favorite chair, sighed deeply, and gazed around the room with a sense of well-earned relaxation and well-being. Jocelyn returned shortly, carrying a tray with teapot, cups, milk, sugar, and a small plate of sweetcakes and scones. Charles glanced up as she entered, his eyes brightening.

  “Ah, Jocelyn—a feast for eyes, nostrils, and soul! Thank you.”

  She set the tray down and took a seat beside him. They proceeded to fix their cups while Jocelyn asked about the week just past.

  “You had late business, I take it?”

  “This African situation is heating up,” replied Charles. “A meeting was called with some of the party leaders after the House closed. I had to be there, though my heart wasn’t in it.”

  “Did you visit Reverend Diggorsfeld this week?”

  “Twice actually—both very good visits.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We continued the previous week’s discussion—you know, arguments for and against the existence of God.”

  Every Friday evening, Charles recounted in detail his recent conversations with the young pastor, to such an extent that Jocelyn felt she knew the man almost as well as her husband did. This also served the purpose of keeping her abreast of her husband’s spiritual journey. Because Jocelyn was more or less content with her life, however, her interest at this point was more for Charles’ sake than her own.

  “I thought you were convinced,” she said.

  Charles thought for a moment.

  “I suppose I am,” he replied at length. “But the rational tussle is stimulating. Christianity is far more intellectually rigorous than I ever imagined. It is challenging to try to place matters of faith into practical and logical intersection with the real world.”