A New Dawn Over Devon (19 page)

“So it seems to me. God works good from all things. And through the pain of his death, the plough has driven deep into your heart. Yet through that breaking are the truth-flowers of his character and his teaching coming to life within you. You didn't come home only sorry for what you had done. You've come home, sorry . . . yes—but also wanting to grow.”

Amanda began to cry. Timothy reached out a reassuring hand and laid it on her shoulder.

“I feel so horrible,” sobbed Amanda softly. “Now I
want
to know him. I am hungry to know everything about him, about what he
thought and did. Yet I was with him all those years, and I wasted them. I could have had so much!”

Another long silence followed. It was broken by the entry of Timothy's housekeeper from the kitchen.

“I have some tea things, Mr. Diggorsfeld,” she said.

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. Alvington,” said Timothy, rising. “Here, let me take that tray.”

She handed him a tray containing two plates and silverware, biscuits, sliced bread with meats and cheeses, napkins, and butter. He set it on a low table between his own chair and the couch where Amanda sat.

“I'll just be back in a minute with the pot of tea,” said the housekeeper and left the room.

Amanda's tears subsided. She dabbed her eyes and rose at Timothy's invitation to have something to eat.

 26 
Light Goes Out of the Fountain

In Vienna, Mrs. Hildegard Halifax sat silently in her favorite easy chair in the sitting room, her large black eyes staring straight ahead.

The huge house on Ebendorfer Strasse, once so full of life and bustling with activity, was empty and quiet like a great many-roomed mausoleum. Its many windows had become like intrusive eyes probing inward with their accusing stares. The Fountain of Light it had once been called. But if there had ever truly been light existing within these brick and windowed walls, there was none now. Whatever it might have more accurately been called, it was now rapidly being extinguished by a power its inhabitants had vastly underestimated—the power of right and truth.

Mrs. Halifax had been reading the morning newspaper, but it now lay still on her lap. Beside her sat a small writing table with her stationery, cards, envelopes, and favorite pens. But she had no more interest in writing at the moment than she did in reading.

She was not a woman given to morose reflection. But some stray thought had inexplicably triggered her thoughts in the direction of events of the previous year. The reminder sent her brain into a renewal of smoldering fury. She had never thought of Amanda as actually her own daughter-in-law. The marriage, if such it could be called, had been hastily arranged merely to insure that the girl remain with
them when old Mrs. Thorndike returned to England. The temporary visit to Vienna, which Amanda had originally assumed would last no more than a week or two, would not have allowed them time to turn her fully to their dark cause. A marriage offered the perfect solution. But there had been no permanent affection for her. She had merely been useful to them. She was merely an object to help them achieve their ends. And at first it seemed they had succeeded.

But then she had outwitted them and escaped. How, Mrs. Halifax still couldn't imagine. As a result they were now out of favor with the higher powers of the Alliance. Her house, once a thriving hubbub of intelligence activity, even empty was now scarcely large enough to keep her and Hartwell Barclay out of one another's way, each blaming the other, and both blaming her son Ramsay, for the breakdown that led to Amanda's escape and their subsequent fall from grace. Their petty natures, obscured by people and activity and self-importance, now came to the surface and grated on each other every moment.

Barclay came and went. She hadn't seen Ramsay in weeks. The war was going badly. And Mrs. Halifax had the uncomfortable feeling that she was going to be caught beneath the house of cards when it finally fell.

She did not like being alone.

She was a woman ill at ease, but unfortunately not from the healthy pangs of conscience. Whether or not her conscience was still alive at all would have been a difficult question to get to the bottom of. Instead, she was ill at ease from the indignation that consumed her—anger toward Amanda, toward Ramsay for not being able to control her, toward Barclay for his quiet demeanor and calm superciliousness that never took blame for anything. She was angry with everyone. She would not have been capable of recognizing it as such, but in her own way, Hildegard Halifax was even angry with herself.

She had always been cold and calculating. She cared about the cause, of course, but mostly for the benefits and wealth that came to her as a result. But things were not turning out as she had planned when she took the first steps down this road.

When she and her young son had been sent to England years ago, she knew what was expected of her. And there was no denying that she enjoyed the danger and intrigue. She was proud of having snagged Lord Halifax. He never had so much as a clue he was being seduced until it was too late for him to back out. She had not been
a young woman even then, but she had used her wiles to maximum effect. He had been putty in her hands. Seduction came easily for her, one who was consumed with herself. And she had to admit that the luxury she had enjoyed in England was more pleasant than living within the war zone here on the Continent.

Ramsay's mother smiled. In a way it was too bad the old man had died. She might have turned him to the cause eventually too.

Yes, everything according to plan . . . until Amanda—the little vixen!

The dark scowl returned to her face. How could such a stupid little thing have turned the tables on them! It was almost as if some invisible power had protected her and kept her out of sight across Europe. All Ramsay's attempts to locate her had been useless until she was safely in England, and it was too late.

Their network was undone, and everyone was blaming them!

A great imprecation suddenly burst from the woman's lips. The same moment her hand came crashing down on her writing table, breaking the eerie silence throughout the house and sending pens and stationery flying in all directions.

 27 
Timothy's Counsel

Timothy allowed Amanda to compose herself as they prepared their plates and waited for the tea. When they were seated with steaming cups in their hands, he spoke again.

“But this is not why you came to London,” he began. “On the telephone you indicated that you wanted to ask for my counsel about your marriage.”

Amanda nodded.

“Mother and I have discussed it at length,” she said, “but I just don't know what to do.”

She went on to share with him the gist of her own thoughts and the conversation she had had with her mother about her options, as well as telling him briefly about Sister Anika and Sister Agatha and their differing views.

Timothy listened carefully. When Amanda was finished he sat for a few moments quietly thinking.

“How long were you actually married before you left?” he asked at length.

“About two weeks,” answered Amanda.

“And your, uh . . . Mr. Halifax—I am so sorry to bring this up, but . . . he was involved with another woman at the time?”

Amanda nodded with embarrassment.

“And from what I understand, he later threatened you?”

“He said he would shoot me if I didn't come with him, if that's what you mean.”

Timothy nodded slowly as he took in the information.

“Well, Amanda,” he said at length, “it seems clear to me that both legally and scripturally, a divorce would certainly be in order. No judge in England would deny such an application. And as a minister, I would say, too, that scripturally the same is true. Your husband committed adultery and that
is
the one clear biblical ground for divorce.”

Timothy paused for a moment.

“Tell me about the marriage itself,” he asked. “Were you coerced?”

“How do you mean?” replied Amanda. “No one
made
me do it. I was foolish, but I knew what I was doing.”

“But according to your mother, there was apparently a certain amount of mind control involved, was there not?”

“I was not myself—that much is for certain. Yes, they twisted my thoughts around. But I went along, foolish though it was.”

“Would you say you were pressured, then?”

“Perhaps,” nodded Amanda. “Yes . . . pressure was definitely applied when suddenly they suggested Ramsay and I marry so quickly. But I cannot in good conscience say that I was coerced. I was terribly bewildered. Mrs. Thorndike was returning to England. I had no money. I thought I had nowhere to go back here in England. I see now how stupid it was to think that, but that's how confused I was at the time. I couldn't go back to the Pankhursts' home. I didn't want to go to Cousin Gifford's and Martha's. I felt almost as though I had no choice but to stay. And Mr. Barclay convinced me that I would be seen as a spy if I returned.”

Again Timothy was silent. When he spoke again, his words were not what Amanda had expected to hear.

“Amanda,” he said, “have you considered the possibility of an annulment?”

Amanda stared back across the table.

“An . . . annulment?” she repeated.

“That's right—filing papers to have the marriage declared invalid . . . as if it had never existed.”

“No . . . I hadn't thought of such a thing. Is that a possibility?”

“I will have to look into it,” replied Timothy. “But I think a strong case could be made in favor of it, especially given your family
background and what is now known about Mr. Halifax and his mother's spy connections. I think it is a strong possibility that their chief motive may have been to lure you into their camp for the purpose of their spy ring and the war. That alone might be sufficient grounds. The fact that you escaped and left him immediately after learning of the other woman, and that you and he were only married for two weeks prior to that time—yes, I think you have a very strong case for annulment.”

“It would certainly be a relief not having to go through life as a divorced woman. But I want to make sure it is also the right thing to do.”

“We shall all pray about it further,” said Timothy. “You talk to your mother. In the meantime I will consult with a solicitor who is in my congregation. We will need to think through the implications. It may even be that the marriage would not be recognized in England at all. But I will look into all that for you.”

“I am so grateful,” said Amanda.

“And if and when the time comes, I will help you with the papers and legalities.”

“Perhaps Uncle Hugh would help.”

“I will talk to him as well.”

“Thank you, Timothy. I owe you so much . . . we all do. I only wish I had known sooner what a good friend you were.”

Another long silence followed. When Timothy spoke again, it was in an entirely new vein, and was even more unexpected than his suggestion of a few minutes earlier.

“Amanda,” he said, “I would like to talk to you about something else—your future after all this is settled.”

“My future?” repeated Amanda, puzzled.

Timothy nodded. “It is no accident,” he said, “that in God's economy you are now seeing things much differently than you once did. I believe God has a purpose in it.”

“What kind of purpose?”

“A purpose for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe God intends to use your experience in the lives of others.”

Amanda smiled. “Catharine said almost the same thing on the way here.”

“Then perhaps this is more than simply a whim of mine. It may well be that other young women who do not understand how to rightly relate to the authorities in their lives, especially their parents, will benefit by what you have to tell them. Betsy, for example. I think her coming may be involved in what I am saying.”

“But how could I help them? I'm the worst kind of example.”

“Perhaps that is the very thing God will use.”

“But how?”

“By sharing your experience and the wisdom you have gained from it. Virtue is so desperately needed today among young people. God may want to use your experience, even your mistakes—
especially
your mistakes—to help others see the need for virtue.”

Amanda considered his words thoughtfully.

“I suppose that would be some consolation,” she said, “if good could come out of it somehow.”

“That's always the way God works—bringing good out of circumstances that seem worthless to us. Never forget, it is dung, refuse, and waste that makes living things grow most vigorously.”

Amanda smiled at the analogy.

“I appreciate what you have said, Timothy,” she said. “I have been so unvirtuous in my attitudes all my life. So what you say sounds strange and foreign. But I can promise you that I will pray and think about it further.”

“That is all I could hope for.”

“On the train Catharine and I prayed together. One of the things I prayed was that God would show me what to do with regard to my future. After what you have said, I will continue to pray in the same way.”

The two fell silent a moment.

“—But we have been talking for nearly an hour about me and my problems,” said Amanda. “I am curious how things are with
you
—your church and your parishioners, I mean.”

Timothy tried to smile, but without success.

“I am afraid things are not much better on that front,” he said, “though I very much appreciate your asking.”

“People are still complaining?”

Timothy nodded. “Yes, and I fear their complaints are striking root at denominational headquarters in Birmingham. I have preached nothing within a hundred miles of controversy since the trouble
broke, but I am met with the same cold, silent stares from half the congregation every Sunday.”

“What is to be done?”

“I honestly do not know, my dear . . . I honestly don't know.”