A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “The family Bible!” exclaimed all three women nearly at once.

  Amanda took it in her two hands, brought it forward, and set it on the desk.

  “It has been here all this time right in front of us,” she said, “and we never knew it.”

  Jocelyn leaned forward and opened the cover board, then began thumbing through it slowly and reverently.

  “Oh, how I wish Charles and George could be here for this,” she said.

  “Maybe they are,” Catharine added.

  38

  Preparations

  The scene at the Chalet of Hope was nearly as full of expectancy and excitement as if a guest were coming rather than that Sister Hope was leaving.

  Hope herself was both nervous and excited, bustling about, packing, trying to remember everything, and struggling most of all not to cry.

  London was the last place she would have chosen to go. It represented so many shattered dreams in her life—dreams of a happy childhood, dreams of the mission work, dreams of a long marriage, dreams of a family. All these lay on an altar somewhere in England.

  Part of her feared that God might require her to once again lay another dream on yet another altar. But what could it be? And who was she to question it if God should demand a sacrifice of her? Wasn’t he always good and generous?

  Listen to me, she thought to herself. I believe that God is good. Why should I fear any gift from him?

  Behind her, Gretchen entered the room with some fresh laundry.

  “Gretchen, have you seen my blue dress?” asked Hope, trying to banish the anxious thoughts from her mind.

  “I have it right here. Are you almost ready?”

  “I think so . . . but I cannot help being nervous!”

  “You will have a good time. The Lord will be with you, and we will be with you in prayer and spirit. You know that the Lord is calling you back to England. He has something there for you.”

  “I know, and I am excited too . . . but a little afraid.”

  “Of the war?”

  “I don’t think it is that so much.”

  “Afraid of what, then?” said Gretchen, setting down her armload on the bed.

  “Every time I left London,” replied Hope, “it was with the hope that I would never return. I left once for Birmingham, then again for New Zealand, then yet again for Switzerland. All these happy years here I never thought I would go back. I never wanted to go back. Now here I am preparing to go to London again. As I said, I cannot help being a little afraid.”

  Hope smiled. “But at least this time I know that it is just for a visit,” she added, “and that I will return. That makes the parting bearable. I will soon be home again with my wonderful family of sisters.”

  Hope turned and gave her friend a long hug, trying to hide the lingering pang that had come to her heart with the last words she had spoken. She only hoped they were true, and that she did come back soon.

  Meanwhile, in Sister Galiana’s room, preparations of a more secretive nature were under way. Galiana was making a card for each of them to sign and was busy at the moment creating a beautiful likeness of the chalet with their beloved mountains in the background.

  “How do you do it?” said Sister Anika. “That is beautiful enough to frame!”

  Below, Sister Marjolaine was at that moment sneaking into the house with a brown paper parcel in her hand. She hurried on tiptoe up the stairs and glanced about for sign of Sister Hope. Hearing her and Sister Gretchen down the hall, she crept into Galiana’s room and closed the door behind her. Several busy heads turned toward her.

  “I’ve borrowed the most delightful book from Herr Buchmann,” she said excitedly in her characteristic high-pitched voice. “It is filled with wonderful short stories that take place in the Alps. That way Sister Hope will be able to read for a bit as the mood strikes her rather than read an entire book.”

  “I wish Herr Buchmann would write his story,” said Sister Agatha. “What a book that would make.”

  “Perhaps one of us will have to write it for him,” suggested Sister Marjolaine as she began to unwrap the book so that she could wrap it again in colored paper. She also planned to add some Alpine flowers she had pressed between its pages. “I don’t think he has any idea how much people would enjoy it. Why don’t you write it, Sister Agatha?”

  “I could never write a book!” she exclaimed.

  “Just let him tell you the story and then write it down in his own words.”

  “Right now I am too busy with my package for Sister Hope to think about such things,” she answered. “See, I filled a little lace bag with small hard candies. I know that a train ride can get very long and one’s mouth gets dry. I want her to have something sweet to keep in her mouth.”

  “It is lovely. She will enjoy it very much.”

  “This was such a wonderful idea of yours, Sister Agatha,” said Sister Luane. “She is going to be so surprised when she opens her bag and finds gifts from each one of us.”

  “What are you putting in, Luane?”

  An embarrassed look came over her face.

  “I’ve written a little story,” she said shyly, “about our chalet . . . and about us.”

  “How wonderful! May we read it?”

  “Not now—I would be too embarrassed. I want to give it to Sister Hope to remember us all when she is away.”

  “Perhaps you are the one to write Herr Buchmann’s story,” said Sister Marjolaine.

  Sister Clariss walked into the room and placed a small packet of handkerchiefs tied with a yellow ribbon on Sister Galiana’s bed, and the enthusiastic discussion continued.

  Throughout the day the surprise parcel continued to grow, with homemade sweet biscuits, dried fruit and raisins, and more handmade notes and cards.

  Later in the afternoon Sister Galiana found Sister Gretchen alone in the kitchen.

  “What will you be hiding in Sister Hope’s satchel?” she asked.

  “I have written out several Scripture passages on little pieces of colored paper,” Gretchen answered. “I am rolling each one up and tying them with ribbon. I plan to fill up a little paper box with them, and on the top I will write, ‘Open and unroll one of these little treasures whenever you are feeling tired or lonely.’”

  “That is a wonderful idea,” said Galiana. “I think we will have Sister Hope’s bag so full of unexpected treats and gifts that it will take her all the way to England to find them all.”

  Kasmira had been watching the preparations for several days without saying anything. Gradually Sister Hope noticed that the young Muslim believer had become more withdrawn and anxious, and less like her new peaceful self.

  “What is it, Kasmira?” she asked finally as they passed in the upstairs hallway later that same day.

  Kasmira dropped her eyes.

  “Will you go outdoors with me?” she said softly.

  “Of course,” nodded Hope.

  They walked downstairs and out the door together, and made their way silently around to the front of the chalet near where the crèche was set up at Christmas. It was Kasmira’s favorite place, and she often came here to reflect and pray.

  “I live with war all my life,” Kasmira began at length in her thick accent. Her words were still soft. “Each moment around me was danger and fear. But here I have peace and safety. . . .”

  Her voice began to quiver as she glanced up into Sister Hope’s eyes.

  “I have fear for you . . . if—”

  Kasmira began to cry.

  Hope took her in her arms and pulled her close.

  “I will be in our Lord’s hands all the way,” she said tenderly. “God is my good Father, and we have nothing to fear. I will be back with you before you know it.”

  39

  Visitor From Switzerland

  As the time grew short and the miles shrank, Hope Guinarde’s heart beat more and more rapidly within her. It had been a long and tiring train ride, not to mention a somewhat bumpy channel ferry crossing
. She had been gone from the chalet almost a week, and, after a day in London before leaving for Devon, she was now nearly at the end of her journey.

  By the time the train began to slow and the conductor announced Milverscombe, she could hardly contain her anticipation.

  She had only known Amanda a few brief months. The girl was young enough to be her daughter, and at the time of their acquaintance in Switzerland, they had hardly hit it off as the closest of friends. And their parting had been strained to say the least. Yet Hope felt she was returning to visit a lifelong friend.

  She stepped off the train full of so many emotions, not knowing what she would find, yet knowing the Lord had something unknown and wonderful waiting for her. She hardly had a chance to glance around before she heard her name called out above the hissing steam of the engine.

  “Sister Hope!” cried the familiar voice.

  If Hope had had any lingering doubts about how Amanda would receive her after their tense meeting a year and a half earlier, they were gone in an instant.

  She looked toward the sound to see Amanda running toward her with arms outstretched. Vaguely she saw two or three other figures behind her. But she had no chance to think of them further, for the next moment Amanda had her in her arms. She returned the hug, tears flowing freely.

  “Oh, Amanda,” said Hope, “it is so good to see you.”

  She leaned back and looked deeply into Amanda’s eyes. “You look well!” she said.

  “As do you,” whispered Amanda. “Thank you . . . thank you for everything!”

  “For what?” said Hope.

  “For loving me enough to send me home.”

  Hope smiled and nodded. Her heart was too full for words. Notwithstanding the letters they had received at the chalet, she had hardly been able to dare dream that her exhortations of the previous winter would be used to so turn Amanda’s life toward home. But one look in Amanda’s face showed just how great the transformation had been. The hard, resistant independence had been replaced by a radiant childlikeness, and Hope could see that Amanda was finally at peace with herself.

  Behind them, Amanda’s small entourage now approached.

  “I am so glad you are here!” Amanda said as they withdrew from the embrace, dabbing at their eyes. “Now I want you to meet my family.”

  Amanda turned, slipped her arm through Hope’s, and brought her a few steps forward.

  “Mother, meet Hope Guinarde . . . Sister Hope, this is my mother, Jocelyn Rutherford.”

  Sister Hope extended her hand. “Lady Rutherford—” she began.

  But more words never came from her mouth. The next instant Hope found herself swallowed in Jocelyn’s embrace. The grateful mother could no longer hold back her emotions and sobbed without reservation.

  For several long moments the two women held each other in the silent embrace of mutual love and respect.

  At length Jocelyn spoke, whispering into Hope’s ear words of gratitude that she had longed to express to this dear woman.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “You will never know how grateful I am.”

  Hope nodded. She could not reply. Her own throat and eyes made speech temporarily impossible.

  “And my sister, Catharine . . .” said Amanda, continuing with the introductions. Hope nodded with a smile to Catharine over Jocelyn’s shoulder.

  “And I would like you to meet a visitor in our home, Elsbet Conlin—Betsy, this is Sister Hope.”

  Hope and Jocelyn parted.

  “Hello, Betsy,” said Hope, looking down and smiling as she took the girl’s outstretched hand.

  At the touch of her fingers and the gaze of her eyes, Hope’s heart leapt with love and feelings undefined. She did not yet know that the girl before her was motherless and fatherless. She knew nothing about her. But immediately the look of her eyes plunged straight into Hope’s heart, and something told her it was for this child standing in front of her that the Lord had sent her to England.

  Betsy returned her gaze, smiling and unflinching, until Amanda spoke again.

  “Do you have more bags?” she said, interrupting Hope’s thoughts.

  Hope turned. “Oh . . . yes, just one,” she answered.

  “Then shall we get it and be off to the Hall? We have a nice tea all waiting for you!”

  40

  Preservation of the Doctrine

  A small, select committee of ecclesiastics sat in a plain room around an oval wood table. Whether there was a Bible in the room could not be said for certain. A glance around the table revealed none. Had one been present, it would doubtless have remained as closed as the minds here gathered in the name of preserving what were thought to be its sacred creeds.

  There had been talk. Various reports had been filed. The complaints had reached this executive body. Discreet investigations, interviews, and personal observations had been carried out. And now these august defenders of the faith must render a decision based on their collective years and their love for the traditions of their elders.

  “As I understand it,” the chairman began, “the chief charge facing us is unorthodoxy.” The speaker was a man whose seventy-three years had provided more abundantly for the expansion of his waistline than his mind. And though he was personally unfamiliar with the case, the briefing of his loyal lieutenants was all he would need to pass judgment. Of all things he could not tolerate, unorthodoxy sat at the top of the list. Doctrinal correctness was far more important in his eyes than ethics, or even morality itself. He would far more quickly cut off fellowship for doctrinal slippage, as he saw it, than for anything to do with a man’s or woman’s obedience or disobedience to the commands of Christ. Orthodoxy was his God, and he served the idol with all the passion of one from the church at Sardis.

  “He is a difficult man to pin down,” said the woman to his right, a certain Mrs. Packer, tall, robust of frame, and with ample black-grey hair neatly bundled atop her head. Her demeanor, even her professional dress, made it clear she had learned well from the example of the Pankhursts, though she disdained them, and was the equal of any man in both ambition and determination. She enjoyed the role of authority and had her eye on the chairmanship when Roul stepped aside, as he was reportedly planning to do at year’s end. She had first been contacted by one of the church’s deacons on behalf of the disturbed membership. Never caring much for Diggorsfeld, she had immediately taken over the investigation with relish. “He avoids saying anything which contradicts Scripture outright,” she went on. “But his bias is undeniably liberal. It is clear he does not give proper emphasis to the tenets and doctrines of the denomination.”

  “Such as?” inquired Chairman Roul.

  “Animals in heaven and that church attendance is not mandatory are two of the most obvious,” she replied. “In addition, he refuses to urge his people to tithe, and there are hints of scandal involving a married woman.”

  “I see . . . these are serious charges,” rejoined Roul in solemn tones. “The latter could be especially useful, if it becomes necessary to rouse the people against him, to illustrate how heretical teaching leads to moral decline. A rumor dropped into the right ears is always effective. Do we have sufficient evidence otherwise to move against him?”

  The members of the committee glanced around the table at one another. No one spoke, for none of them did possess such evidence.

  “We have been watching him for months now,” said the treasurer of the committee, Mrs. Paulus, “ever since the first reports reached us.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “The same points of objection that Mrs. Packer reported.”

  “But as I look at the chapel’s statistics,” now put in the only member of the committee who was not convinced, Vice-Chairman Taylor, “it appears that attendance is actually on the rise.” He was younger than either Packer or Paulus, and had not completely relinquished his mind to the will of the committee. His capacity to think for himself, however, was diminishing by degrees the more frequently he sque
lched his objections and went along. As a young seminarian he had been full of spiritual ideals and enthusiasm. But there is no underestimating the power of organizational church orthodoxy to engender a spirit of fear within its membership, the first casualty of which is always the capacity to inquire of God outside the rigid boundaries of that orthodoxy. And sadly, Taylor’s former zeal for truth was invisibly being supplanted by the attempt to protect his position within the hierarchy of which he had made himself a part.

  Chairman Roul glanced to his right.

  “That, uh . . . may be true,” replied Mrs. Packer. “There have been reports of increased attendance for some time. It is one of the factors in the case that has puzzled us.”

  “I thought the dissenters were leaving him.”

  “Some, it is true, have stopped attending until the matter is resolved.”

  “But others say his popularity with the people is enormous.”

  “When I was there the chapel was packed,” put in Taylor. “And enthusiastic. I don’t know that I have ever seen one of our clergymen so well liked by the people.”

  “Except, of course, for those raising the complaints.”

  “Yes . . . of course—I suppose that is true.”

  41

  Good Will Be Called Evil

  Even as the executive committee, unknown to him, pondered his fate, Timothy Diggorsfeld rose to answer the door of his parsonage. There stood a young man he judged to be in his late twenties whom he had never seen before.

  “Someone gave me this little leaflet,” he said, showing Timothy a small folded paper in his hand. “It had this address on it. Can you tell me . . . is this true, what is written here?”

  “Why don’t you come in and have some tea with me,” said Timothy, “and show me exactly what your question is.”