She wrote in the fine hand her husband had always admired, and for which he would scan each day’s bag of envelopes as if ten thousand pounds were waiting in the one addressed in the proper hand.
My dearest Alec,
I have read your letter a dozen times and more in the week since I received it. Each word is almost as precious to me as the memory of your own dear face. Your final words have given me so much encouragement. Isn’t that typical? Here you are at war, facing who knows what dangers, while I am safe in our dear old Stonewycke. Yet it is you who are encouraging me. It is cold outside, but a cheery fire helps me to keep my spirits up. We have had rain, then warm sun, then a chilling, all in twenty-four hours. Our beloved Scotland’s weather, you know! What you wouldn’t probably give for some of our cold! Oh, Alec, I love this old place, this dear Stonewycke! Sitting here brings me such peace sometimes. There is a heritage . . . a legacy to this place that makes me feel part of ancient truths, ancient people, roots and strengths that extend far beyond my own vision.
I feel something of the same thing being married to you. For you, dear Alec, are like Stonewycke in so many ways—strong, solid, immovable.
You bring me strength, you have loved me so, you have helped make me who I am by believing in me, loving me, trusting me, and giving yourself for me. You are my Stonewycke—my peace, my heritage. Though I forget all else, I will never cease to thank God for you, my dear! I cannot imagine life without you.
Events of late have made me more aware than ever of the special gift He has given us, and especially of the sacrifices of love you have made for me. You know of the struggles of Allison and Logan. I fear their floundering relationship is not improving. I pray there is some truth to the adage that things are always darkest just before the dawn. I know that God must have brought them together for a purpose—
Joanna glanced up from her desk at the soft tap on the dayroom door. She laid down her pen and turned.
“Come in,” she said.
Logan’s appearance was considerably improved since his encounter with Allison several hours earlier. He had bathed, combed his hair, and shaved. He wore a tweed suit, fresh white shirt and necktie. In his hand he held the checkered cap that had once belonged to his old friend Skittles, and over his arm was slung a woolen overcoat. Joanna realized immediately that he was dressed for travel, though even without the clothes she would have been able to read in his eyes and by his demeanor that he had come to say goodbye.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Lady Joanna,” he began formally.
“Not at all,” answered Joanna. “Would you care to sit down?”
“I think I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.” He paused, shifting his hat to his other hand and took a deep breath before continuing. “I did not want to leave without seeing you first.”
“You are leaving, then?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“I’m sorry your visit must be so short. I sense this wasn’t in your plan.”
“No, it wasn’t, Lady Joanna. You see, Allison and I—”
He stopped, raising his eyes momentarily to the high-vaulted ceiling. Joanna could tell he was on the very edge of self-control, desperately fighting to retain his grasp on his emotions.
“It’s not working out between us,” he went on, blurting out the words and forgetting his formality. “I came to you today because I want you to understand that the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt Allison. I don’t take lightly—”
He stopped, unable to continue. Sensing his emotion, Joanna rose and went to him. She took his arm and gently led him to the sofa where she urged him to sit. She took the place beside him and laid her hands on his, which were cold and trembling.
“You don’t plan to come back, do you, Logan?” she said at length.
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes, squeezing back tears. “I would still like to believe in miracles, Joanna. But I doubt one is possible in this case. Our wants and needs are so different, and we can’t even talk civilly about it. I’m sure the fault is mine, but what can I do? I’ve tried to change, to be the kind of husband she wants. But she deserves something more, and it would have been better for me never to have married her in the first place.”
“But you did marry, Logan,” said Joanna. “You have a child. You opened yourself to those responsibilities. This isn’t a game of cards where you can throw in your hand if things fail to go your way.” She saw him visibly wince at her apt analogy. “The last thing I want to do is speak harshly to you when you are hurting. Believe me, I feel for the pain you are going through. And it’s hardly in my nature to criticize. But since it seems that for now I’m the only one left, then I must speak clearly to you.”
“I deserve everything you have to say,” Logan replied contritely. “I can’t help it if I’m not made for the kind of life Allison wants. And because of my mistake, it’s making us both miserable.”
“There are no mistakes with God. Marriage is a unity, Logan, a symbol of the unity that is to exist between believers and their Lord. Do you know what unity is? It’s not like and like. It’s a joining of opposites. It’s not unity unless there is diversity coming together. That’s what marriage is meant to be—diversity, differences that come together and join as one.”
“But we’re too different!”
“There’s no such thing as too different. The greater the differences, the greater the unity, therefore the greater the love.”
“It’s no use, Joanna. What you say may be right. But we’re not unified.”
“That’s true, but not because the marriage was a mistake but because the two of you aren’t committed to making it work, to achieving the unity God intended in the face of your very diverse personalities.”
“But how long are we supposed to go on being miserable?”
“You think being unhappy is a valid excuse for breaking a sacred vow?”
“That’s not fair, Joanna,” replied Logan. “You make it sound like I’m slapping God in the face because I’m admitting that Allison and I can’t get along.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing. He’s the one who brought you together, and now you’re turning your back on something that was clearly His doing.”
“But I can’t believe God expects us to go through the rest of our lives in misery just because we made the mistake of getting married in the first place.”
“I told you, there are no mistakes with God. You both gave your future to Him, and your marriage was the result. But even if it was a mistake, once married, your marriage then became part of God’s perfect plan for each of you. You can’t go back and undo it. He has already taken up your marriage, drawn it into His plan. It is now the same as if He had intended it all along. So even if I admit to its being a mistake back then—which I don’t—it is still a more serious mistake to turn your back on it now. Logan, maybe there are times when dissolving a marriage seems to be a tragic necessity. Only God knows. But I do know that, contrary to how freely men and women—even Christians—allow their marriages to break up, God’s plan is for reconciliation, not separation. He ordained marriage, and He intends for husbands and wives to stay together. Don’t make the mistake of disobeying God’s command for the sake of a little temporal happiness.”
“So you think God expects people to be miserable just to stick together even if they no longer love each other?”
“I don’t know what God expects,” replied Joanna. “But I do know that His people are not free to choose the kind of life they think best suits them. Your life is no longer your own. As a Christian you are no more at the center of the decision-making process. God’s instructions must take preeminence. Then we must put others ahead of ourselves. That is always God’s way. I would say the very same thing to Allison. The life of the Christian is a life of denying yourself—there can be no true happiness without that.
“To answer your question, no, I don’t think God wants us miserable. But love has far less to do with marriage
than most people think. People say they no longer love each other and use that as an excuse for walking away from a marriage. But love has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of obedience. Are they going to obey the Lord, or not? Are they going to commit themselves to the marriage, in obedience to God, or not? People were making a go of ordinary—even dull—marriages for centuries before this modern notion of being in love became such a part of it. People back then understood commitment. They understood that every marriage relationship has its problems and you make the best of it. People nowadays understand so little about what marriage really means at its core. And I’m afraid so do you, Logan. Every marriage is hard. Every two people are incompatible in many ways. A happy marriage is not one that doesn’t have those things, but one where you learn to put the other first and thus use those incompatibilities as opportunities for serving your mate. That’s what makes a marriage work.”
“Well maybe I’m just not cut out for that,” said Logan. “You might be right. But maybe I don’t have what it takes either for marriage or for being a Christian. I only know I can’t be happy until I figure out just where Logan Macintyre belongs!”
“But don’t you see? You’ll never be happy while putting yourself first. That’s not the way happiness works. The world is upside-down from God’s way. The only path to happiness, Logan, is by giving yourself, sacrificing yourself, for others—even for Allison. There just is no happiness apart from that. There’s only more misery with yourself as ruler of your own life.”
“But what about Allison? She’s unhappy, too. She can’t be content while I’m trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do. I’m doing this for her as much as myself.”
“Oh, Logan, don’t fool yourself. The best thing for Allison is for you to be by her side. If you’re going to do this, then at least be man enough to take responsibility for it on your own shoulders. That’s nonsense about it being for Allison’s best. There is only one best for a couple, and that’s for each to lay down his life for the other.”
“Okay! It’s selfish of me. It’s my decision. I hate myself for it, but right now I can’t see any other way!” As he spoke, he pulled himself to his feet.
Joanna knew the conversation was over. She rose also after a brief awkward pause, then put her arms around him in a loving, motherly hug.
“Logan, I will always love you as a son. But in that love I must honestly tell you that God will not let you off so easily. His love is too great to do that. You can turn your back on it now, but because of His loving grace, He will one day bring you back to face this again.”
Tears had gathered in the corners of Logan’s eyes, but he walked to the door in silence and did not allow them to overwhelm him. Once there, he paused, and turned back to his mother-in-law.
“Goodbye, Joanna.”
She could see the struggle within him. He turned again, and hurried out the door, as though he might lose his resolve if he hesitated any longer. But when the door clicked shut, it seemed to announce that, for now at least, the time for reflection, for self-evaluation, and for repentance was past.
Tearfully Joanna returned to her desk. But she could not bring herself to write the kind of letter due a struggling soldier at war. Then she recalled the words of hope that Alec had quoted: Perplexed, but not in despair . . . cast down, but not destroyed.
Was I too hard on Logan? she wondered. She had certainly not said what he wanted to hear. Yet he had to be told the truth, hard or not. No good could come of glossing over it. Perhaps the day would come when her words would come back to his mind, and perhaps then they would penetrate deep enough to have impact. For now, there was but one thing she could do.
Joanna fell to her knees beside the sofa. To the Source of hopeful promises she would turn in prayer. Her Lord would sustain her, and more, He would not allow Logan to be destroyed by his own self-will. Her prophetic final statement to her son-in-law was more than mere words. She had spoken the truth. God would not let go of His dear child.
16
Training
The dark room suddenly blazed with light.
Logan had been sleeping heavily, and in the first moments, seemed only able to respond in slow motion. He lifted his head from his pillow. Men were pushing their way into his room. To his groggy senses they sounded like an army. Well-armed as the intruders were, however, there were but three of them.
“Get up!” one of them shouted.
Clumsily Logan swung his feet out of bed.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? What is this?” he asked in French, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Who are you?” demanded the man who had spoken before, belligerently ignoring Logan’s question.
Logan propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with shaky hands. “Maurice Baudot . . .” he said sluggishly. “Je m’appelle Maurice Baudot,” he repeated, as if with more certainty.
“D’où venez-vous?”
“Avignon . . . I’m from Avignon.” Logan rubbed his eyes and tried to shake the sleep from his head.
“What is your business here?”
“I am a wine merchant . . .”
All at once his interrogator’s cruel look faded into a smile. He handed his rifle to one of his companions and drew up a chair, which he proceeded to straddle comfortably.
“You forgot that we changed your occupation last night,” said the man, now in a friendly voice. “Otherwise, not a bad show. You even remembered to reply in French, which is not easy for a Britisher waking from a dead sleep.”
“Thanks,” said Logan indifferently. “Now can I go back to sleep?” He was already halfway to his pillow.
“And I loved your groggy act,” chuckled the man. “Sometimes the quickest tip-off is a steady flow of answers that are too well rehearsed.”
“You call that an act!” said Logan, “after you had me traipsing over twenty-five miles of mountains yesterday followed by four hours of deciphering instructions?”
The early morning intruder was one of Logan’s Special Operations instructors, and their exchange one of many such mock-up exercises. In the intelligence training course that Logan had begun three months earlier, he could never tell from which direction his readiness was to be assaulted next. The course was nearly at its conclusion, and he had been made proficient in a variety of activities, from blowing up bridges to walking down a street looking as inconspicuous as possible. He was nearly ready to set out on the path he had chosen.
It was odd. He had never actually made a conscious decision to take Arnie up on his offer. When he had left Allison at Stonewycke, he had headed aimlessly south. He spent a few days in Glasgow, and, though his mother was undemanding, requiring of him no tedious explanations, he soon could not bear the quiet, pensive atmosphere the visit seemed to thrust upon him. He didn’t want to think of anything. At least not so soon. He had to keep moving, and so before many days had elapsed he had said farewell to his childhood home, and was on the road again.
It took him two drifting weeks to reach London, and the first stop he made was at Arnie’s office. He had never said to himself, “I’m going to London and take that job.” But perhaps he knew all along that that’s what he was eventually going to do. For one thing, the danger of the assignment no longer troubled him. Perhaps he felt, without knowing it, that he had less to live for now. When he walked into Arnie’s office, all he wanted to do was get away, to forget. What better way to do so than in the shadowy, unreal world of the espionage game?
As soon as his visitors departed, Logan fell quickly back to sleep. If nothing else, during the last months he had been kept too exhausted to think of anything beyond the rigors of the training. Some time soon he would turn his attentions back toward his problems with Allison. But for now, he was just too tired.
When Logan completed his training a week later, he was entitled to a leave before entering the field. He wanted none of that, however, and requested an immediate assignment. Thus, before the week was out, he found himself standi
ng before one Major Rayburn Atkinson on a secret RAF air base in the south of England.
Atkinson, a career man in the regular army, was the consummate military personality. He had received three field promotions during the Great War, and the Victoria Cross for heroism during the second Battle of the Marne in 1918. It seemed as though the second “war to end all wars” would prove his swan song, however, for at its very beginning at Dunkirk, Atkinson received wounds resulting in a left arm amputation and a blinded left eye. But he was not the kind of man to be easily placed out of the action on some dusty shelf. He fought the military bureaucracy as valiantly as he did the Germans, and it was not long after his recovery that a place was found in this vital department of Intelligence. He was now the key liaison between agents and their government. It was his responsibility to apprise agents of their assignments, and see to it that they were properly equipped for their tasks. In short, a good many of the agents sent on dangerous missions into enemy territory depended on Major Atkinson for their very lives.
It would not have been difficult for Logan to find himself intimidated by this iron-willed man, and Atkinson seemed determined to do just that. He sat, stiff-backed, behind his desk, his pinned-up sleeve seeming more a badge of honor than of shame. The black patch over his left eye said as much as the steel-gray right eye, which spoke of boldness, courage, and not a little defiance.
“I see you finished training only less than a week ago,” he said in a voice that was no less commanding despite its low volume.
“Yes, sir,” Logan replied, standing at attention in front of the desk, with all the respect this old soldier deserved.
“You refused the leave to which you were entitled?”
“Yes, sir. I had just had a lengthy leave three months earlier.”
“Your record indicates you have a wife.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yet you turned down a leave prior to embarking on a dangerous assignment from which no one can be certain you will return.”
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