A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “My own mama always told me to be a good boy,” Conlin said in a strangely nostalgic tone. Then he smiled sadly. “I haven’t been as good as I should have been,” he went on. “Because when a man goes to sea he sometimes gets mixed up with bad men.”

  He leaned close and cupped her soft white chin and cheeks in his rough, scarred hand and looked deep into her eyes. “But, Betsy, don’t get mixed up with bad people,” he said. “Listen to your papa when he tells you to find good people after I’m gone—good people that will help you be good too. Will you promise that?”

  “Yes, Papa,” nodded Betsy, “I promise.”

  “If you are a good girl,” he said, leaning back, “you will grow up to be a lady like your mother. You want to be like your mother, don’t you, Betsy?”

  Betsy nodded vigorously.

  “Then you be a good girl, Betsy. And you find people to help you be good. If you do, you’ll make me proud of you. That’s all I want, Betsy, is for you to be a good girl like your mother.”

  ————

  Even though Betsy had forgotten her father’s words for a time, they now penetrated deep.

  “Be a good girl . . . grow up to be a lady . . . make me proud of you . . . find people to help you be good. . . .”

  She was only a month from her fourteenth birthday and was becoming a woman more rapidly than she realized. With good food, regular meals, and work and exercise, her body was filling out and changing even more quickly since her arrival at Heathersleigh. But the changes coming to her were not all physical. Now she was beginning to think . . . think about important things . . . think about what kind of person she wanted to be, and what she wanted the girl called Elsbet Conlin to become.

  In every life there is a time for remembering, a season when thoughts turn inward, a time when decisions are made to point one’s footsteps in lifelong directions. That moment might come at fifty or at ten. For Amanda, circumstances had forced it upon her at twenty-five. Her father and mother had not begun to reflect and turn inward until their late thirties. But for Betsy Conlin, though she was much younger, such a season was now at hand.

  As both Amanda and Betsy privately recalled the conversation they had shared earlier that day, neither knew how deeply Amanda’s words had penetrated into her mother’s heart.

  The widow of Charles Rutherford also lay in bed thinking and praying that night.

  It was heartbreakingly bittersweet to think of, but with tears in her eyes, Jocelyn realized that the vision of her husband—the dear man who had loved her into self-assurance, into personhood, almost into faith itself (for how could she have ever experienced God’s love had he not loved her first?)—was still alive. Even in his death, like God’s Son whom he served, Charles continued to give life. In his own way, his spirit continued on in this house, this refuge of life as he had made it for her, and was still giving life to others.

  She thought about Heathersleigh and what it had always been to her. Charles had helped make it the personal retreat and oasis where she could grow and become the person God wanted her to be.

  As she lay thinking, Jocelyn remembered the card she had given Charles just after his fifty-third birthday, with the picture of the great sprawling tree in full leaf. The moment she had seen it, she had been reminded of her husband. Charles had always been, she told him, a towering oak, a permanent trunk of strength in a crowded and busy world. He was a secure stronghold that would never change, and she was not the only one who had found rest under the protective shade of his branches.

  But now he was gone. And people were looking to her to be what Charles had been. Sometimes it overwhelmed her.

  And yet . . . if his spirit and vision did live on, perhaps that place of rest, that oasis, that refuge, could continue on too in the lives of others. Even now, in the daughter whose homecoming he had not lived to see, Charles’s life was bearing fruit.

  Then she thought of the acorns of an oak, which must die in order to be ground into meal, then washed with ashes to remove the bitterness. And with the thought came Jesus’ words, “Unless a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die it remains alone, but if it die it brings forth much fruit.”

  Jocelyn remembered what Timothy had said on the evening of their return from the memorial service several months ago, when he had challenged them to look toward the future as an opportunity rather than a tragedy.

  “In many ways,” came Timothy’s voice into her memory, “women are the stronger of the two halves of humanity when something greater than physical strength is required. I am excited to see what might lie ahead. I think God has some great thing in store. Whatever it is will grow out of the ashes of your pain, and will flower as the result of the compassion perfected by your suffering.”

  And with the words came again the reminder of the Chalet of Hope, where Amanda had at last been turned toward home.

  What do you have to do here, Lord? Jocelyn prayed. You have provided such abundance. And though Charles is gone, the peace and strength he gave somehow lives on at Heathersleigh. How do you want to use it in the lives of others?

  Her prayers fell silent and her thoughts returned to the man who had been her oak tree. Would such a time come when Heathersleigh was again giving life as Charles had allowed it to give her—a place of peace, a place to learn who you were, a place to learn to accept God’s love?

  Recalling the conversation between Amanda and the two girls earlier that day, Jocelyn thought, perhaps that time had already begun.

  32

  A Letter

  The letter from Sister Hope that arrived at Heathersleigh Hall just after the first of the new year was greeted with great excitement. The moment Amanda saw the postmark, she sat down and hastily tore open the envelope.

  Dear Amanda, she read,

  All the sisters send their warm greetings. We still talk of you often and wish the distance between us were not so great so we could see you. Many have come and gone to and from the chalet through the years, but few have made the impact in our hearts that you did. I am not certain I can explain it other than to say that you are greatly loved, and we all remember you—in spite of all that happened—very fondly.

  As Amanda read the words, tears filled her eyes.

  This is one of the reasons I am writing. I feel God saying that perhaps I do need to see you again. For some years I have been putting off a visit to England. It is something I know I need to do for several reasons. There are two or three people I must see, and some unresolved mission business concerning my late husband that should have been attended to years ago. And, too, perhaps it is time for me to put a few of the memories of my own past to rest in a deeper way than I have been able to do from afar. But most of all, Amanda, I feel I am to see you.

  You know how we rely on the Lord’s leading concerning those who come to the chalet. For some time I have felt him telling me that you are involved in what—or whom—he has next for us. I do not know why, nor do I know how you are involved. But somehow I feel a deep urgency simply to see you again face-to-face.

  What would you and your mother think of having a guest from Switzerland visit you for a brief stay?

  I plan to be in England in April.

  Again . . . to you, your mother, and your sister, our deepest sympathies and prayers continue to be with you for the loss of your loved ones. God will give you strength—trust him!

  With great love, your sister in Christ,

  Hope Guinarde

  “Mother . . . Mother, look!” cried Amanda, running and handing the letter to Jocelyn. “Sister Hope wants to come for a visit! I’m going to write her back immediately!”

  33

  A Fall

  A spring celebration was planned for Maggie’s seventy-eighth birthday. All the inhabitants of Heathersleigh rose with Hector and the animals in order to begin preparations for the feast that would be held that afternoon at the Hall in Maggie’s honor.

  Midway through the morning, Betsy came into the kitchen with a handful of ro
ses she had just picked.

  “They are beautiful, Betsy dear!” said Jocelyn.

  “May I take them over to Grandma Maggie?” asked Betsy.

  “You mean . . . now? I don’t suppose there would be any harm.—In fact, that is a good idea!” added Jocelyn. “Wish her a wonderful birthday, and tell her we shall be over a little after noon to bring her to the Hall.”

  Betsy was out the door like a flash and running across the meadow, black hair, yellow dress, and multicolored clump of roses in her hand all flying in the breeze.

  Jocelyn laughed as she watched the girl’s short, stocky legs flying across the grass. “If half those roses survive by the time she reaches the cottage,” she said, “it will be a miracle!”

  “She really loves Grandma Maggie, doesn’t she?” said Catharine at the table behind her as she put the finishing touches on the frosting of a large layer cake.

  “And it warms my heart to see it,” nodded Jocelyn. “What must it have been like to grow up without a mother, or grandmother, or even an aunt—the poor girl!”

  Jocelyn was passing the window again some twenty minutes later when she saw Betsy walking slowly back across the meadow, the same bouquet of flowers still clutched in her hand.

  “What is it, Betsy?” she said as Betsy entered the house. “Why didn’t you give Maggie the flowers?”

  “I couldn’t find her,” answered Betsy.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jocelyn, puzzled.

  “I knocked and knocked, but she never came to the door.”

  “Did you look around? She might have been in the garden,” said Jocelyn.

  “I walked all around the cottage, then to the barn,” said Betsy. “I called out too, but she didn’t answer.”

  Jocelyn’s eyebrows knit together.

  “Catharine, Amanda,” she called up the stairs behind her. “I am going over to Maggie’s.”

  “But I thought we weren’t going until—” began Catharine from the landing.

  “Maggie didn’t answer Betsy’s knock,” interrupted Jocelyn. “I have an uneasy feeling. I want to check on her.”

  Both her daughters were already downstairs and on the way outside with her. Without waiting for Hector’s help, they hitched one of the buggies and climbed in. Jocelyn slapped the reins with her wrist and yelled to the horse, and did not let up with her shouts until he was in full gallop across the meadow.

  They flew into the clearing three or four minutes later. Jocelyn leapt out before the carriage was fully stopped and sprinted toward the cottage. The door was unlocked as always. Jocelyn hurried in, her two daughters on her heels.

  “Maggie . . . Maggie, are you home!” called Jocelyn as she ran through the rooms. She found her elderly friend lying on the pantry floor.

  “Maggie—what happened!” cried Jocelyn, kneeling down beside her.

  “I am all right, Jocelyn dear,” moaned Maggie softly. “I just couldn’t make Betsy hear my voice. But I am not in too much pain.”

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “It’s my hip. I was being clumsy and tried to reach too high. . . .”

  “Did you fall?”

  Maggie nodded. “I’m afraid I slipped,” she said softly.

  “Your face is pale.—Catharine, run for Dr. Cecil.”

  In seconds Catharine was out the door.

  “What can I do for you, Grandma Maggie?” asked Amanda. “Would you like tea . . . or water?”

  “That sounds delightful, dear. Some water . . . then when I can sit up to drink it, I would enjoy a cup of tea.”

  “How long have you been here?” asked Jocelyn, trying to get herself under Maggie and gently lift her to a sitting position without causing more pain.

  “Perhaps two or three hours. But you are here now—I will be fine.”

  Amanda arrived with a glass of water and helped her swallow two or three sips.

  “Thank you, dear . . . I am feeling better already,” sighed Maggie wearily. “—Not much of a birthday,” she added. “I am sorry to be such a bother, and that I’ve ruined your party for today.”

  “Maggie—think nothing of it,” said Jocelyn. “We will just bring our party here and spend the day with you instead.”

  “What about all the people who were coming?”

  “Let us take care of everything,” insisted Jocelyn. “You just rest.—Here, put your arm around my shoulder . . . come, Amanda . . . we will try to get you into your bed, if it doesn’t hurt too much.”

  Slowly and carefully Jocelyn and Amanda got Maggie to her feet, then made their way to her bed, mostly carrying her to keep weight off the hip which Jocelyn feared might be broken. Neither of them missed the wince of pain that came to Maggie’s face when they lifted her.

  “I don’t care how you object,” said Jocelyn as at length they eased her down. “We are finally going to have a telephone line installed here to the cottage. That will be your birthday present.”

  “It would have done me no good today, dear—I was unable to move.”

  “Nevertheless, you must be able to get in touch with us.”

  Maggie nodded. She did not like to give in either to the advancement of technology or the advancement of age. But she could no longer deny that both were rapidly gaining on her.

  “You are right,” smiled Maggie. “I am sorry for being such a stubborn old woman.”

  “You are a dear old woman!” rejoined Jocelyn. “And I love you too much not to take the best care of you I can.”

  34

  I Want to Be Good Like Daddy Said

  A week later Amanda came upon Betsy sitting alone and quiet on the first-floor stair landing.

  Amanda approached. “You look like you’re thinking about something,” she said.

  Betsy glanced up toward her.

  “I have two ears that are available for listening if you would like them,” Amanda added, sitting down beside her.

  “I was thinking about something my daddy once said to me,” said Betsy.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he wanted me to grow up to be a good girl.”

  “That is good advice,” smiled Amanda. “And do you want to be?”

  “Yes . . . I want to be good like Daddy said my mother was.”

  It was quiet a moment or two.

  “I was also remembering,” Betsy added, “what you said about things growing in my heart.”

  Amanda took in Betsy’s words with surprise, though she did not show it. She had not suspected that the serious things they discussed had penetrated into the girl’s consciousness. At Betsy’s age, it was difficult to tell what she was thinking, and to distinguish between the child-girl oblivious to life’s meaning, and the slowly dawning woman awakening within her that was beginning to be drawn by deeper currents.

  As Amanda sat quietly at Betsy’s side, a silent prayer rose within her. Lord, she prayed, whatever Betsy needs at this moment, give me the right words.

  At last she turned toward Betsy. “Do you know something, Betsy?” said Amanda. “Your daddy was a wise man to tell you to be good. But do you know that you can’t be good all by yourself? You need someone’s help.”

  “Whose?”

  “Do you remember Mr. Diggorsfeld from London?”

  Betsy nodded. “Can he help me be good?”

  Amanda smiled. “Well, Mr. Diggorsfeld has helped me,” she said, “and he has helped our whole family. But the greatest help he has given us is to tell us about someone else. Do you remember when he told you about the man called Jesus?”

  “Yes. I remember him saying that he lived in people’s hearts, though I still cannot understand it. I don’t think my daddy knew about Jesus.”

  “Neither did my daddy until Mr. Diggorsfeld told him. But he does now. And maybe your father knows about Jesus now too. What Mr. Diggorsfeld said,” Amanda went on, “is that when Jesus lives in our hearts, he helps us to become better children, and better men and women. So, Betsy, Jesus is the one who helps us become good
.”

  “My daddy told me to find people who would help me be good.”

  “That was wise of him to say. Jesus is that person, though your father didn’t know it before he died. He is the only one who can.”

  “How does he do it?”

  “You have to ask for his help,” replied Amanda.

  “But didn’t Mr. Diggorsfeld say we couldn’t see him?”

  “Yes, but he can still help us . . . inside.”

  A puzzled look came over Betsy’s face.

  “There is a garden in your heart, Betsy. And if you ask him to come live there, Jesus will be the gardener and will make good things grow in it and help take out the ugly, nasty weeds.”

  Amanda paused and looked at Betsy. When she spoke again, her voice was tender.

  “Do you know that there are weeds growing in the garden of your heart?” she said. “The weeds are called sin. We all need Jesus’ help to get rid of those weeds so that good flowers will grow. You’re not as good as you want to be, are you, Betsy?”

  Betsy shook her head.

  “Neither am I,” said Amanda. “I am not good at all. But I want to be too, just like you do. You have told me that there is hatred growing in your garden.”

  “My heart doesn’t feel like there are good flowers growing in it,” said Betsy sadly.

  “You’re right. Hatred is a dreadfully ugly weed,” rejoined Amanda. “And it will ruin your whole garden if you do not get rid of it. It is not very pretty, just like selfishness and meanness. All those weeds were growing in my garden too. I was not a nice person at all, Betsy. I was mean and cranky and disrespectful.”

  “You!”

  “Yes—I wasn’t very nice at all.”

  “Are those weeds gone now?” asked Betsy. “They must be, because you are one of the nicest people I have ever known.”

  “Thank you, Betsy,” smiled Amanda. She put her arm around the girl and drew her close. Betsy let her head rest on Amanda’s shoulder. “They are not completely gone. But Jesus helps me every day to pull a few more weeds out of my garden to make room for the flowers he is growing inside me.”