Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  The room lay on the west side of the house. Light through one window illuminated stacks of table linens, shirts, and dresses waiting to be stretched and ironed. It was warm inside and stuffy, not only from the afternoon sun streaming in, but from the heat generated by the small woodstove where Eunice heated the heavy irons to apply to the dampened garments.

  As Amanda had hoped, Eunice was alone. One of the dresses that had fueled the whole controversy was spread out on the ironing table before her.

  The girl glanced up. Her face filled with fearful anxiety, and unconsciously she drew back. Amanda saw the expression and was stung with much the same feeling as that which had driven her here. But she tried not to reveal it.

  The iron fell from Eunice’s hand onto the board. She stood with pale face and wide eyes as one awaiting her doom.

  “I . . . don’t be—that is, there is nothing to be afraid of, Eunice,” said Amanda haltingly. She could not quite look into the poor girl’s face, but stood with her body pointing in the general direction. “I want to say, well . . . you see, it is important that you learn to properly prepare the garments and linens before—”

  She faltered, unable to continue with the lecture. She had not come to criticize the girl further, and in her heart she knew it.

  She glanced momentarily toward the floor.

  “I . . . that is, what I actually came here to tell you . . .” she tried to begin again, her tone now altered. It was difficult to keep her head held high when speaking like this, for even a poor attempt in the direction of humility will do much to drive away condescension and pride.

  “I . . . I only came,” Amanda went on, having more difficulty getting these words out of her mouth than any she had ever uttered in her life. “I just came here . . . well—I came to apologize . . . for speaking rudely to you a while ago.”

  She exhaled largely at the herculean effort of will that had been expended to do the thing.

  “There—that’s all I wanted to say,” she added hastily. “You don’t have to iron the dresses again if you don’t want to.”

  Without additional fanfare, Amanda turned and left the room. She had never once actually looked Eunice in the eyes. Yet the deed was done, and she was glad to have it behind her.

  In a stupor of perplexity, Eunice stared at the closing door beyond which Amanda’s retreating form was rapidly becoming invisible.

  “Thank you, miss,” she said in something like a relieved and bewildered whimper. For the second time that day her eyes filled with tears prompted by unexpected words from her mistress.

  74

  Far-Reaching Questions

  Little did Charles Rutherford realize the painful and far-reaching consequences the decision facing him was destined to have.

  For the following week he contemplated and prayed, thinking it was chiefly his own future that was at stake. It would be his daughter Amanda, however, whose life would feel the impact perhaps in greater ways even than his own.

  The decision cost him no little time on his knees. The new decade was fraught with every political opportunity he had ever dreamed of. He could well lead a victorious Liberal party to victory in the next elections and himself emerge at its very apex, as the prime minister of the Commonwealth of Great Britain.

  But ethically speaking, could he remain a Liberal when his views were moving more toward those of the other party? And spiritually, how much longer could he remain in politics at all? Was this the arena in which the Lord would have him focus his energies for however many years he had left on this earth?

  These extensive personal dilemmas now consumed the mind and heart and soul of the lord of the manor of Heathersleigh. Frequent were his visits to the prayer wood, where he sought the guidance of his Master.

  Meanwhile, though the news of the prime minister’s offer was not supposed to be public, it quickly reached the ears of Charles’ cousin, Gifford . . . and it galled the banker nearly as greatly as did his cousin’s steadily rising reputation. Had it not been he who introduced Balfour and Charles at a social gathering years ago, before his cousin had risen so high in the political arena? And had he not since done everything in his power to secure a political appointment for himself? Was he not one of London’s leading financiers, risen to a vice-presidency in the Bank of England, and clearly eligible for a prestigious position? Yet the choicest plums seemed instead to fall regularly into the lap of his religious lamebrain of a cousin, who was being spoken of as one of the leading men in the Commons! It was all Gifford could do to carry out his duties at the bank without letting his seething resentment boil over into outbursts.

  After ten days of serious thought and prayer and discussion with Jocelyn, Charles took the train back into the city with his answer. He requested a private interview with Balfour.

  When Charles entered the prime minister’s office, Balfour was seated behind his desk. He rose and shook hands with the Liberal leader.

  “Hello, Sir Charles—please, sit down.”

  “I cannot tell you how much your offer means to me, Prime Minister,” said Charles after a few minutes of small talk. “I applaud you for looking outside your own party. I think it is just such a spirit of cooperation as you have demonstrated that Parliament needs. I am humbled that you thought of me among so many other qualified men.”

  “You were my first choice, Sir Charles. I believe you to be the most qualified.”

  “You are most gracious. However, I find that I must respectfully decline your offer.”

  “Whatever for? I assumed—”

  “I cannot give you a clear answer in political terms, Prime Minister. For me this is a spiritual question.”

  “Then I will take your explanation in spiritual terms, if that is all I can get.”

  “I will tell you then very simply,” replied Charles. “I prayed for more than a week, both about my own and our nation’s future. After that time the sense had grown upon me that it was not the Lord’s will for me to accept.”

  “The Lord’s will . . .” flustered Balfour, shifting in his chair, “—The Lord’s will, indeed . . . I’ve never encountered that as a reason to turn down a political post, especially such an important one.”

  “As I said, sir, it is not something I can explain in political terms.”

  “Well, Sir Charles, as . . . as out of the ordinary as this is—what might I do to change your mind?”

  “I am afraid there is nothing you can do, sir. With all due respect, I am answerable to One higher, and I believe he has spoken on the matter.”

  “One higher? Who—oh, yes, you mean Campbell-Bannerman. But surely he does not object to—”

  “You misunderstand me, sir,” interrupted Charles. “I mean the Lord Jesus.”

  “Oh . . . oh, yes . . . of course . . .”

  The poor prime minister was quite beside himself with how to reply. A few more pleasantries were exchanged, after which the awkward interview drew to a timely end.

  When Gifford heard that his cousin had turned down the post, he burst into a bitter laugh of contempt. The denial of such a position only deepened the banker’s disdain. Charles was even more a fool than he had taken him for!

  Gifford could not know what thoughts the offer had stimulated in the mind of his cousin. For as Charles had prayed regarding the prime minister’s offer, the sense grew upon him that this decision on the Commission on Preparedness involved his entire political future.

  Declining the chair had in no wise settled his mind. He was now more conscious than ever of yet another decision—and this a more far-reaching one—that could influence the entire nation.

  All week he battled within himself to remain focused on his parliamentary activities. It was only with extreme difficulty that he managed to endure the rigorous schedule.

  75

  The Future of Liberal Leadership

  When Sir Charles Rutherford entered the club room of Brown’s Hotel on Thursday for luncheon with his Liberal colleagues, none of his friends and associa
tes suspected the surprising direction the conversation would take.

  This informal meeting prior to that day’s parliamentary session had been scheduled to discuss further what ought to be their strategy for the election, which more and more appeared inevitable. The discussion quickly turned, however, as it usually did these days, to events on the Continent.

  “The situation is not good,” commented Harry Cuxton in his thick Welsh accent. “They’ve assassinated von Plehve in Russia, and the whole country could blow apart if a spark were thrown in the right place.”

  “Between the Russians and the Turks and the French, I see little hope for peace continuing,” remarked William Petworth, a Lincolnshire native.

  “Yes, but not a soul in England seems to know it,” rejoined James Beckenham, an outspoken progressive from Hythe. “The people are asleep. They think this peace will last indefinitely.”

  “Morocco is the tinderbox,” observed the earl of Westcott.

  “Perhaps,” remarked Winston Churchill, the youngest and newest member of the Liberal inner circle. “But none of these represent our most critical danger.”

  “What do you mean, Winston?” asked Arthur Alfington, who, like the son of Lord Randolph, was a former Tory.

  “It is the sleepers,” Churchill replied in significant tone, “who most seriously threaten England’s security.”

  “What—you mean the masses who are unaware of the continental situation?”

  “I mean the sleepers who are already, even as we speak, infiltrating England—spies from Prussia and Germany and Austria, sympathizers of the revolutionaries in Russia. I tell you, gentlemen, we are in graver danger of invasion than most of England’s leaders recognize. But it is a silent, invisible invasion.”

  “Come, Winston,” laughed Westcott, “are you not overstating the case?”

  “Not at all, Westcott. The threat is real. Already secret networks of Prussians, Austrians, and Russians are developing throughout England.”

  “How do you know?” asked Petworth.

  “I make it my business to know,” replied Churchill. “The more I have traveled and the longer I am in politics, the greater becomes my distrust of the eastern element in European affairs.”

  “Surely you dramatize the problem.”

  “I tell you, gentlemen,” Churchill went on, “the wall between East and West is widening even as we speak. It is almost as if a great . . . curtain . . . is hung down the middle of the Continent. At the one extreme you have the Russians, at the other extreme the English. At present we are what are called allies. But I am not for an instant misled by that word. We English remain as different from the Russians as night and day—as different as East is from West.”

  “That may be, but that does not render war inevitable. And since Peter the Great, the Russians have adopted more and more of our Western ways.”

  “You are right. But notwithstanding progress, William, war may yet be more likely than you know. Believe me, the day will come when this difference I speak of will be manifest for all the world to see. Until then, I say we must be alert and vigilant. Revolution will come to Russia—whether it happens next year or in ten years—and it will change all of Europe when it does. There are many already who are secretly working toward such an end. I tell you, there are sleepers in our midst who do not seek the good of England.”

  A lengthy silence ensued.

  “Well, I doubt that we six are going to solve the problems of the Turks, the French, or the communist revolutionaries,” said Sir Charles, who till then had remained mostly silent. “But there is another matter about which I must communicate my mind to you on this particular day.”

  From his somber tone and expression the others around the table realized the matter was serious and quickly gave him their attention.

  “There are implications in this for the election, as well,” continued Charles. “I feel it imperative, therefore, that you know what I am thinking regarding the future of our party. Without drawing the matter out, let me simply say this: I believe it is important that you consider all the options with regard to the leadership of the Liberal party in the House of Commons.”

  A moment of silence followed.

  “I’m not altogether sure I understand you, Charles,” said Beckenham at length. “I thought it was understood that all of us here planned to support you for the position.”

  “Right,” rejoined Charles. “But I am now telling you that perhaps you should explore other options.”

  “But . . . but why, Charles?” now asked the earl of Westcott. “You are clearly the best man for the position.”

  “Because I may not be available, Max.”

  The silence that now followed was brought about more by bewilderment than disagreement.

  “Not available?” repeated Alfington. “Whatever can you mean, my good man?”

  “I am telling you that I have not decided whether I will run for Liberal leader. Surely, Arthur, there is nothing so odd about that.”

  “Well . . . but—I must say, Charles, this is a trifle unexpected,” said Petworth. “Especially with our being in such a strong position to win the general election. I hardly need tell you what that means.”

  “I understand the parliamentary system well enough, William,” smiled Charles. “But Henry has long wanted to be prime minister.”

  “And Henry is sixty-eight years old,” remarked the earl.

  “Campbell-Bannerman is not the leader for our future, Rutherford—you know that fact as well as any of us,” objected Beckenham.

  “James is right. Why do you think Henry is not here with us today? He is of the past. We all respect him. Henry has been a worthy and influential Liberal leader. But the twentieth century must look ahead, Charles.”

  Charles sighed. How could he possibly make them understand?

  “And if what Winston says is accurate, Charles,” persisted Westcott, “then we must have the best leadership possible. The world situation needs your leadership, Charles—your clear thinking, your perspective. Our party could elect the next prime minister. Good heavens, man—I’m talking about you!”

  “Perhaps Winston would like the job,” smiled Charles.

  “I am flattered, Sir Charles,” rejoined Churchill with a laugh, “but I fear I am yet a little green for the country. Someday, perhaps, when I am older and wiser like the rest of you!”

  Charles was glad for the laughter that followed. The discussion now rambled off in the direction of assessing the party’s prospects if Prime Minister Balfour either resigned or called for new elections. Rutherford’s hesitations about his continuing role in the future government were easily dismissed by his colleagues, who seemed not to apprehend how serious and important the quandary was in his mind.

  It was by now clear enough to Charles that whatever decision lay before him, he would have to make it at Heathersleigh, not in London.

  76

  In What Arena Change?

  Charles Rutherford was on the train bound for Devon ten minutes after Friday’s adjournment.

  The city had become foreign to him. He had to get home to Heathersleigh!

  The four-hour ride settled him somewhat, though his thoughts on the journey raised as many questions as they resolved. As soon as the late supper was over, he and Jocelyn walked outside together into the twilight.

  “I don’t know, Jocelyn,” Charles sighed once they were alone. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  “It was a difficult week, wasn’t it? I could see it on your face the moment you arrived home.”

  “Not as much for what happened in London,” replied Charles, “but rather for the turmoil inside my own soul.”

  He paused and smiled ironically. “Well,” he added, “I did have two rather interesting conversations, one with the P.M. and the other with my colleagues.”

  As they walked toward the heather garden, he recounted both briefly.

  “You know,” he said at length as they entered the narrow pathways and con
tinued slowly on, “at first, becoming a Christian answered many questions and put many things into perspective. Yet as time has gone on, more situations have arisen that are not easy to sort through one-dimensionally. Living as a serious and thoughtful Christian is no simple matter.”

  “What does that have to do with your week in Parliament?”

  “For instance,” replied Charles, continuing his train of thought, “ought I to be in politics at all?—that is my struggle at present. If my life continues as before—before our conversion, I mean—and nothing changes, what difference has my faith really made?”

  “But you are different, Charles. You are a different man. You live by entirely different principles and have a whole different outlook now.”

  “Granted. But am I not still attempting to influence my surroundings just as before? Am I not still as involved in man’s kingdom as when I believed that was the only kingdom? What has really changed?”

  “You have changed,” repeated Jocelyn. “You are a new man inside.”

  “But is that enough?”

  He paused and chuckled.

  “Do you remember how Amanda and I used to talk about changing the world together?”

  “I remember,” replied Jocelyn, smiling.

  “I wonder what she thinks about that now,” mused Charles, “or if she even remembers. . . .”

  His voice trailed off as he remembered with sadness the fun he and his daughter used to have together.

  “—In any event,” he went on in a moment, “after talking to the P.M., rather than the relief I expected to feel from my decision about the Commission, I found instead whole new quandaries rising within me. I wondered all week if there wasn’t some obligation upon me to try to change the world as Jesus did, rather than as politicians and parliamentarians and presidents and prime ministers do. Is there a difference?”

  “Jesus had to be different. He was God’s Son.”