Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  Charles continued tentatively forward as his eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light. Now he saw the man’s face—it was the preacher from yesterday’s encounter on Jermyn Street. He stopped, some fifteen feet from the altar. He recognized the man at about the same moment the minister realized he had a visitor.

  The two men stood a moment gazing uncertainly upon one another. An expression of anxiety suddenly spread over the other’s face as recognition dawned.

  Charles saw the change and was mortified that his mere appearance should make another so uneasy.

  “Please,” he said hesitantly and with a pang of sorrow, “I mean no harm.”

  “I thought perhaps you had come to . . .” The man stopped.

  “To cause you more trouble than I did yesterday?” suggested Charles.

  The other did not reply.

  “I assure you, nothing could be further from my mind. Actually—”

  Charles hesitated, and looked away with uncharacteristic nervousness for one of his social stature.

  “—actually,” he repeated, “I came . . . to apologize for my rudeness.”

  The word came as such a surprise to the young minister that he stood for a second or two speechless.

  “I . . . I assure you,” he began after a moment, “there . . . there is no need—”

  “But there is,” interrupted Charles. “I was boorish beyond belief, both to you and the young lady.”

  “As I tried to express,” said the young man, gaining his poise and now desirous of putting Charles at ease, “we are most grateful for what you did.”

  “Nevertheless, I beg you to accept my apology.”

  “Granted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do not always accompany my people on such outings as yesterday’s,” added the minister. “It is not exactly my preferred method of spreading the news we have been given to communicate. Yet I go with them upon occasion to demonstrate my support. I am glad I did yesterday—otherwise, you and I might not have met. In any event, you are entirely forgiven. Set your mind at ease.”

  Charles sighed. A momentary silence followed.

  “Did you have a chance to read the pamphlet?” asked the pastor. “I see it is still in your hand.”

  Charles glanced down and smiled.

  “Yes . . . yes, actually I did manage to read most of it on my way here, just now as I walked along. This is the one you gave me yesterday. I am embarrassed to think what I did with it. I went back to retrieve it a short while ago.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I disagree with almost every point this pamphlet makes.”

  “Yet still you came?” the pastor asked.

  “My conscience could not live with the memory of my behavior. I had to apologize. I hope you do not take offense by my saying I disagree with what is said here,” Charles added, nodding toward the pamphlet in his hand.

  The man smiled. “Not in the least. Intellectual agreement is at the bottom of my list of spiritual concerns. The intellect is important, don’t misunderstand me. But nothing is more unnecessary for faith than intellectual conviction of rightness at every point.”

  “I am hoping you will be able to tell me where I might be able to pay a visit on the young lady,” said Charles. “I must make apology to her as well.”

  “That will be easy enough. She and her husband live not far from here.—Before you go, would you like to come into my study and have a cup of tea with me?”

  “Tea—my, that does sound good!” replied Charles, laughing lightly. “I haven’t had a cup all day. I suppose the time got away from me.”

  “Then, please—come,” said the minister, turning and gesturing his arm forward in invitation. “I do not get the pleasure of many morning visitors. I will enjoy having someone to chat with—probably more in fact than you will enjoy the tea!”

  Charles followed him to one side of the small sanctuary. They passed through a narrow door, down a dimly lit corridor, and at length into a small but comfortably furnished study, into which the late morning sun streamed with cheery silence. A thin trail of steam was already rising from the spout of a copper kettle which sat on the flat black top of a small iron stove. The pastor offered Charles a chair, while he opened the tiny stove door and tossed in another scoop of coal. He then proceeded to place three spoonfuls of tea in a porcelain pot that stood on a small oak table and to pour hot water from the kettle over the leaves.

  “There, that should do it, I think,” he said. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  He turned back to face his visitor.

  “I am Timothy Diggorsfeld,” he said. “I am the pastor here.”

  “My name is Charles Rutherford,” his visitor replied simply. It was the first occasion he had encountered where he might legitimately have introduced himself as Sir Charles. Yet he strangely shrank from mentioning either title or property.

  “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Rutherford,” said Diggorsfeld, shaking Charles’ hand. “Whatever may have been troubling you yesterday,” he added, taking a chair opposite his guest, “I can already ascertain that you are a man of character, simply because of what you have done here today.”

  “I’m afraid I still have a good deal to learn,” confessed Charles.

  “To learn—how do you mean?”

  “About life, I suppose,” replied Charles, uncertain himself what he had meant.

  The pastor took in his words without comment, then rose again to check the tea. He gave the pot two vigorous stirs with a spoon, then prepared two cups.

  “Milk?”

  “Please.”

  “Sugar?”

  “Only milk, thank you.”

  Diggorsfeld poured the tea from the pot, handed his visitor one of the cups, then returned to his chair with the other.

  “Well worth the wait!” said Charles, smiling with satisfaction as he breathed in deeply of the aroma, then probed with a few tentative sips with his lips.

  Both men were silent for a minute or two. The pastor considered what to say to this unusual man who had obviously been antagonistic to the Christian faith the day before, but who today seemed strangely and warmly open.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Rutherford?” he asked at length.

  “Not at all,” replied Charles.

  Diggorsfeld was not a man much given to the popular version of small talk called chatting. His question, therefore, was probing and straightforward. It bore not a trace of prying insensitivity. The conversation which ensued as a result of it was stimulating, and would prove life changing for both men.

  27

  Unusual Errand

  Even as Sir Charles sat talking with his new acquaintance in London, another man slouched in the corner of a Devonshire pub, silently cursing himself for having hired an imbecile to carry out an important task. Drumming his fingers impatiently, he peered once more toward the doorway of the Hedge and Fox, wishing there had been some way to avoid coming to Milverscombe himself.

  He was confident no one in the village would recognize him—especially since he had hardly set foot inside this miserable aggregation of cottages for years. He had allowed four days of beard to accumulate on his face before coming and was now dressed in what he hoped would pass for workingman’s attire. Even someone who knew him could stare directly into his face without making a connection. No more opposite station from his own could be imagined than that of which he now appeared a member. Still, he knew he must exercise caution and take every care possible.

  He sincerely hoped, however, that his disguise would not be required much longer. He was used to finery, and these clothes made his skin crawl.

  Where is the fool? he thought, taking a sip from the warm pint of stout in front of him.

  The man hadn’t shown himself yesterday morning as per instructions. By late afternoon the man in the pub had concluded himself swindled out of the ten pounds he had paid as down payment for services. But the fellow had finally
arrived when it was far too late in the day to carry out the plan. The visit to the Hall had had to be postponed another day.

  It was a delay the watcher could scarcely afford, for it was rare indeed to find an occasion when the entire Rutherford family was away from the Hall. He was well enough aware of Jocelyn’s aversion to society and of the momentous occasion that had persuaded her to venture forth, accompanying her husband and children to London. The family was due home later that day—their arrival now much too close for comfort.

  But he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. So he had decided to chance it, to conduct the search this very morning, before their return. But the fool should have been finished by now. . . .

  Had he known of Charles’ visit to New Hope Chapel, he would not have been so agitated. But he did not know of it. Therefore he continued to drum his fingers and steal surreptitious glances at his pocket watch, carefully concealed in his ragged pocket.

  ————

  Meanwhile, three miles to the west and about an hour earlier, a stranger had presented himself at the front door of Heathersleigh Hall. He had ridden up in a small buggy, not expensively appointed yet neither of the plain functional sort which might be seen in the village. By appearance it would seem to confirm him to be exactly what he presented himself—a tradesman of some skill and knowledge, from Exeter, sent on a mission most urgent. He was dressed as befitted his supposed calling and carried a leather satchel in one hand.

  The bell was answered by Sarah Minsterly.

  “Good morning to you, mum,” said the man in an official tone. “My name is Oscar Saxelby. Might I have a word with his lordship? It is a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “Mr. Rutherford is in London, sir,” replied Sarah.

  “Perhaps Lady Rutherford, then.”

  “She is with him.”

  “Ah . . . I see,” said the man called Saxelby in somber tone. These were facts he knew only too well, although the expression that passed across his face was very convincing. “That does present us a bit of a problem,” he said. “It is urgent that I inspect Lord Rutherford’s library. I am afraid I would not be able to get back for—hmm . . . let me see,” he said, opening the satchel and now consulting a small appointment book, “—for at least a week,” he concluded. “I have been hired by the office of the Secretary of State for National Heritage, and you see, I must call on all the estates and large houses in Devon . . . and time is of the essence, mum.”

  “Time . . . I don’t understand—what’s it all about, Mr.—” She hesitated.

  “Saxelby, mum.”

  “What is this all about, Mr. Saxelby? Certainly it can wait until Mr. Rutherford—”

  “Silverfish, mum,” interrupted Saxelby. “I’m afraid I have the unpleasantness to report that there has been a serious outbreak of silverfish infestation in the region.”

  “Silverfish infestation?” repeated Sarah, growing more and more bewildered by the minute.

  “Yes, mum—books being destroyed by the nasty little creatures at an alarming rate. They eat the glue and the paper, mum. It is a rather dreadful development for anyone who loves books. They can destroy an entire library, mum. No one even knows they are on the attack until it is too late. They have also been known to get into a lady’s linen and destroy whole closetfuls.”

  A gasp of astonishment now escaped poor Sarah’s lips.

  “I see you grasp the seriousness of the situation, mum,” said Saxelby. “Which is why I simply must inspect Lord Rutherford’s library at once, as I am all the private libraries in Devon. In cases where we discover the infestation in time, we can take steps to—”

  “Please . . . please, Mr. Saxelby,” interrupted Sarah, “come in.”

  She fairly pulled him through the door, which she closed behind him.

  “Follow me,” she said. The next instant she was making for the main staircase with as rapid a walk as she felt was dignified, with Saxelby hurrying to keep pace with her. In less than two minutes he found himself standing in the dark, quiet, musty library of Heathersleigh Hall, Sarah Minsterly gaping at him with huge eyes, as if awaiting an immediate verdict on the state of Lord Rutherford’s prized and priceless literary possessions.

  He lifted his nose in the air and sniffed notably a few times with significant expression, then nodded slightly.

  “No odor that I can detect, mum.”

  Sarah sighed in visible relief. Gradually her countenance returned to its normal state, which, even when nothing in particular was amiss, seemed to border on an undefined anxiety.

  “But,” he added, “I will suggest that you leave me alone to conduct the actual search and investigation. I must make use of several unpleasant mineral spirits. You would not enjoy the odor.”

  “Oh . . . oh yes—of course, Mr. Saxelby,” said Sarah, retreating quickly toward the door. The next moment the stranger was alone in the library.

  With stealthy step he went to the door just shut and noiselessly locked himself in.

  He now turned to begin his search. In truth, his name was not Saxelby. Nor would he know a silverfish if one were crawling upon the end of his own long and rather thin nose. But the housekeeper or cook or whoever she was had believed him, and that was all that mattered.

  Now, it was something other than silverfish he had been hired to find.

  ————

  An hour and a half later a buggy drew up to the door of the Hedge and Fox. The man whose name was not Oscar Saxelby got out and walked inside.

  Spotting the man who was assuredly not the Secretary of State for National Heritage, he walked toward the table.

  “Did you find it?” barked his employer in as loud a whisper as he dared.

  “I tell you, guv, I searched them bleeding bookcases from top to bottom, and every table and cabinet and sideboard in the place . . . and it just weren’t to be found.”

  “How is that possible!” cried the other, slamming his hand down on the rough oak table. Heads of the few other patrons of the place turned around. He glanced down and covered his face with one hand.

  “How is that possible?” he repeated. “It has to be five times the size of any other book in the library, with decoration as would make it stand out. Are you sure you saw nothing?”

  “I looked at every book in the ruddy place.”

  “You checked everywhere?”

  “Everywhere but in one secretary.”

  “Why not there?” Again his voice began to rise.

  “It was locked.”

  “You fool! Why didn’t you open it?”

  “I tried, but you told me to make no noise. What would you have me do, guv—throw the thing on the floor and smash it to pieces? You told me the housekeeper was a daft one. But even she’d have come running if I’d done that.”

  The other was silent a moment.

  “Yes . . . yes, I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, then fell into a dark reverie. He would have to get into the library and get a look inside that secretary himself.

  “What did you tell the woman?” he said at length.

  “That there was no sign of silverfish. I said the library was in no danger, and that she needn’t trouble Lord Rutherford about it.”

  28

  Where Does Conscience Come From?

  Memories of his lengthy talk with the young pastor Diggorsfeld still swirled through the mind of Charles Rutherford as the carriage bearing him and his family approached Heathersleigh Hall on their return from London.

  He knew he was a different man than the one who had journeyed to London three days earlier. And not primarily from what had happened at Buckingham Palace. Even memory of the honor he had gone to the city to receive no longer stirred his passion.

  Upon their arrival, the station master in Milverscombe had greeted him boisterously, “Welcome back to Devonshire, Sir Charles!” said the man, deliberately emphasizing the new title. The people of the village were as proud of the honor as if it had been granted
to them.

  “Thank you, Bob,” smiled Charles sincerely. Inwardly, however, he winced at how meaningless the designation now seemed. The very sound of it reminded him of the mental discomfort his trip into London had precipitated.

  Later that afternoon he walked upstairs to his study. How different everything appeared now. On his desk still lay the invitation to the queen’s reception which had stirred such excitement only a few short days ago. Now it lay in front of him as an ordinary sheet of parchment, dull and lifeless, with scarcely interest to draw his eyes for a second look.

  The new Sir Charles gazed about his study, then began to wander aimlessly about the small room. He felt trapped by a past which now offered few answers to the questions which had haunted him ever since his long talk with the London pastor of New Hope Chapel. He walked to the window and stared passively over the countryside a few moments. He turned again into the room. Nothing in it drew him now.

  Absently he picked up his first edition of Darwin and began thumbing carelessly through it. Here and there his eyes fell upon familiar passages, some underlined and with his own marginal notes.

  “. . . the existence of closely allied or representative species in any two areas, implies, on the theory of descent with modification . . . admit that the geological record is imperfect to an extreme degree . . . innate tendency toward progressive development . . . natural selection tends only to make each organic being as perfect as, or slightly more perfect than, the other inhabitants of the same country with which it comes into competition . . .”

  He now noted something to which he had paid no attention during his previous readings of the book—Darwin’s repeated references to a Creator’s occupying a role in the process of natural selection.

  It was curious, thought Charles. From popular rhetoric on both sides of the debate, he had always assumed Darwinism and Christianity to be mutually exclusive.

  “To my mind it accords better with what we know of the laws impressed on matter by the Creator . . .” he read, then paused to reflect on the spiritual implications of the author’s statement. It was strange in Charles’ ears to hear Charles Darwin speak of “the Creator.”