Heathersleigh Homecoming (The Secrets of Heathersleigh Hall Book #3)

By Michael Phillips

As the Great War escalates, Amanda Rutherford is betrayed by those she trusted most and forced to flee to protect the war secrets in her possession. Meanwhile, her family in Devonshire learns they must commit a son as well as a father to the conflict. And in a remote alpine chalet, a few weary souls find refuge from physical danger--but not the tur

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781441229557

Michael Phillips

Professor Mike Phillips has a BSc in Civil Engineering, an MSc in Environmental Management and a PhD in Coastal Processes and Geomorphology, which he has used in an interdisciplinary way to assess current challenges of living and working on the coast. He is Pro Vice-Chancellor (Research, Innovation, Enterprise and Commercialisation) at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David and also leads their Coastal and Marine Research Group. Professor Phillips' research expertise includes coastal processes, morphological change and adaptation to climate change and sea level rise, and this has informed his engagement in the policy arena. He has given many key note speeches, presented at many major international conferences and evaluated various international and national coastal research projects. Consultancy contracts include beach monitoring for the development of the Tidal Lagoon Swansea Bay, assessing beach processes and evolution at Fairbourne (one of the case studies in this book), beach replenishment issues, and techniques to monitor underwater sediment movement to inform beach management. Funded interdisciplinary research projects have included adaptation strategies in response to climate change and underwater sensor networks. He has published >100 academic articles and in 2010 organised a session on Coastal Tourism and Climate Change at UNESCO Headquarters in Paris in his role as a member of the Climate, Oceans and Security Working Group of the UNEP Global Forum on Oceans, Coasts, and Islands. He has successfully supervised many PhD students, and as well as research students in his own University, advises PhD students for overseas universities. These currently include the University of KwaZuluNatal, Durban, University of Technology, Mauritius and University of Aveiro, Portugal. Professor Phillips has been a Trustee/Director of the US Coastal Education and Research Foundation (CERF) since 2011 and he is on the Editorial Board of the Journal of Coastal Research. He is also an Adjunct Professor in the Department of Geography, University of Victoria, British Columbia and Visiting Professor at the University Centre of the Westfjords. He was an expert advisor for the Portuguese FCT Adaptaria (coastal adaptation to climate change) and Smartparks (planning marine conservation areas) projects and his contributions to coastal and ocean policies included: the Rio +20 World Summit, Global Forum on Oceans, Coasts and Islands; UNESCO; EU Maritime Spatial Planning; and Welsh Government Policy on Marine Aggregate Dredging. Past contributions to research agendas include the German Cluster of Excellence in Marine Environmental Sciences (MARUM) and the Portuguese Department of Science and Technology.

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© 1999 by Michael R. Phillips

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-2955-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover illustration © Erin Dertner / Exclusively represented by Applejack Licensing

To the sisters of

The Mother of Good Counsel Home

St. Louis, Missouri

and to the sisters of

Christusträger Schwestern

Hergershof, Germany

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication Page

Epigraph

Introduction

Prologue

Part I: On the Run

1. Whisperings

2. Out of Vienna

3. Chalet of Hope

4. Trieste

5. Liaison to the Admiralty

6. Close Encounter

7. Across the Border

8. Dreariness

9. Clandestine Beacon

10. Milan Station

Part II: Refuge

11. Messrs. Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz

12. Alpine Waking

13. The Sisters of the Chalet

14. Reflections on Their Guest

15. Jilted Farmer’s Daughter

16. Churning Butter

17. Vienna Storm Clouds

18. A Walk to Grindelwald

19. Raw Trainees

20. The Will of God

21. Reading Night

22. Telegram

23. New Story and Discussion

24. Heart of a Giant

25. Orphaned Kid

26. Unexpected Origins

27. At Sea

28. Milan Again

29. Dream Turned Nightmare

30. Whence Originates Goodness . . . and Why?

31. Kapellbrücke

32. A Walk in the Village

33. Heathersleigh

34. Unpopular Conviction

35. Deep Intelligence

36. Christmas Plans

37. Persuaded by the Heart

38. Back to Milan

39. Living Miracle

40. Chalet Christmas Party

41. Dark Night

42. Frau Grizzel

43. Miraculous Birth

44. Christmas Morning

45. Heathersleigh Christmas

46. Christmas Dinner With Meat for Discussion

47. New Year and Changes

48. A Bad Father

49. Sister Regina’s Story

50. Narrowing Circle

51. Significant New Book

52. Ramsay Sinks

53. Becoming a Daughter

54. Against Entreaties and Persuasions

55. Unpleasant Reflections

56. Bold Confrontation

57. Departure

58. Lauterbrunnen

59. Strangers in Wengen

60. Stormy Night

Part III: England

61. Attack

62. Intelligence in the Alliance

63. War Closes In

64. A Letter and a Nightmare

65. Revised Plans

66. Sharing a Corner of God’s Heart

67. Paris

68. High-Ranking Defection

69. Rising Determination

70. Number 42

71. Mademoiselle Très Chic

72. Questions

73. Overheard Schemes

74. Surprise Intruder

75. North From Paris

76. Ramsay’s Fury

77. Spy vs. Spy

78. A Visitor to Heathersleigh

79. Jocelyn and Stirling Blakeley

80. Missing Clue

81. Beneath Channel Waters

82. Channel Reflections

83. What Next?

84. Surprise Caller

85. The Admiralty

86. Change of Plans Aboard the Admiral Uelzen

87. Deciphering the Clues

88. North Hawsker Head

89. Unexpected Visitors to English Shores

90. Moving In

91. Break-In

92. Frantic New Message

93. Hostage

94. Lights Out

95. Face-Off

96. The Fog Lifts

97. Father and Son

Part IV: Shock and Grief

98. A Bomb at Heathersleigh

99. A Friend’s Devastation

100. The Streets of London

101. Autumn Rains and Memories

102. Sunday Morning

103. The Call of Intimacy

104. Respectable Prodigality

105. A Meeting of Friends

106. An Honest Talk

Part V: Heathersleigh Homecoming

107. Heartache at Heathersleigh

108. Unless a Seed Fall to the Ground . . .

109. Heathersleigh Homecoming

110. Glimmers

111. Grandma Maggie’s Embrace

112. Mother and Daughter

113. Going Home to the Father

114. Plymouth Memorial

115. Healing and Looking Forward

116. Milverscombe Remembers

117. A Mystery Revealed

118. Mysteries Solved and Puzzles Remaining

119. Heathersleigh’s Women

120. What Do You Want Me to Do?

121. Overdue Letter

About the Author

Fiction by Michael Phillips

After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. . . . When he came to his senses, he said . . . I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men. So he got up and went to his father.

Introduction

The Universal Parable

The remarkable thing about the Bible is that its stories are timeless and universal, and also very, very intimate. From Genesis onward, the insightful reader sees both the great, sweeping, majestic human condition, and his own, mirrored in the men and women of the scriptural account.

In compiling the Holy Book, though using fallible men to do so, the Holy Spirit has woven a miraculously personal tapestry of human life. Only the most unseeing individual can progress far in the Bible without eventually standing back to gaze with wonder at that tapestry, realizing that the emerging portrait being woven into the fabric . . . alongside the face of the Lord . . . is his or her own countenance and spiritual character. Nowhere do we find this personal tapestry more clearly than in the Gospels.

The Gospels paint a picture of you and me beside that of the Man whose life story they tell.

Though on the surface the Gospels appear to be a biographical account of Jesus Christ, at a more profound level they are intended to prompt a far deeper response than a typical biography. The Gospels tell two stories. They illuminate both the character of Jesus and that of his listener.

At every point this dual story is active. Response to Jesus is everything—whether it be the response of James and John, Peter and Andrew, the crowd, the rich young ruler, the Pharisees, children, blind men, prostitutes, tax collectors, kings, prophets, wise men, or shepherds.

Jesus continually looks into the eyes of his listener and says, "This story, this teaching, this principle, this parable, this truth is about you as much as it is about me. What will you do? You must in some way acknowledge what I say, who I am, and my Father’s claim upon you. In short . . . you must follow me or turn your back and walk away. Neutrality is not possible. You must respond."

I intentionally use the word listener in the singular. Jesus always gazes into one set of eyes at a time. Jesus spoke to crowds, to groups of Pharisees, to the twelve, to the seventy. But he always addressed each individual as if he or she were the only one present. That is why I say the scriptural account is a tapestry of the Lord’s face and mine and yours . . . as if we are the only persons in the universe. It is the story of my personal response—as I become that listener—to the Lord’s teachings, to his challenges, and to his claim upon me.

As I read of him walking beside the Sea of Galilee and approaching the sons of Zebedee, it is not primarily to them he speaks at that moment. The words Follow me, in that timeless and universally intimate eternal now, are intended for only me. James and John have already made their decision. Now it is my turn. Will I leave my nets and follow him? That is the eternally significant question.

No abstractions clutter the Gospels. The four books penned by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are, of course, important literary and historical documents—probably the most significant historical documents ever written. But they are not primarily historical. Their first purpose is not to record history but to elicit response. At the core they are personal documents.

I repeat—response is everything. Jesus lived, Jesus taught, Jesus died . . . to be responded to. If I read the words Follow me as spoken only to James and John or Peter and Andrew or the rich young ruler, as detached historical encounters having little immediate bearing upon me, the life of Jesus itself loses its power in my life altogether. It is either my story, my response . . . or it is nothing.

Where do I take my place in the gospel drama?

Am I one of the seventy? Do I stand watching and listening among the crowd? Am I a silent and unresponsive observer of the miracles who walks away thinking to myself, Hmm . . . interesting, but who never appropriates that miracle of new life for myself? Am I an angry Pharisee? Am I a Thomas full of questions, a Nicodemus who comes by night, a Martha who fusses, or perhaps the rich young ruler, who, when confronted eye to eye with the challenge of following, sadly turns and walks away?

Where do you find yourself in the gospel drama?

Within the Gospels this principle of personal response is no more vivid than in how we relate to the parables. Do we see our own faces in those seemingly simple stories? If not, we have missed their life-changing import. We have not beheld the gospel tapestry in its full yet very subtle and weakness-exposing glory. Its colors and textures shift and change in the light, and must be turned just so for the images being fashioned by the divine hand to be seen for what they are. It is a tapestry-portrait of intricate colors and blends, whose figures and representations often do not reveal themselves at first glance. As Jesus tells each and every parable, he holds up a mirror in which I am intended to see my own face. That is the subtlety of the tapestry-in-progress.

We are all well familiar with the parable we call the prodigal son, found in Luke 15:11–31. I call it the universal parable. I am convinced that it represents a microscopic view of the entire human drama on earth. We have a good, prosperous, and benevolent Father, from whose loving presence we have strayed. It happened in the garden with Adam and Eve. It happens with every man and woman who has ever lived. We leave our Father’s home. We leave the garden life he intended for us, wandering from his embrace, abandoning our trust in his goodness, disobeying his commands, squandering our inheritance as his sons and daughters. Call it sin—which it is. Call it disobedience—which it is. Call it rebellion—which it is. Or say simply that we have turned away from the loving care of our Creator-Father. All these descriptions of our condition are appropriate and true. We are a prodigal humanity.

In actual human lives such as yours or mine, not every individual is a wicked and visibly rebellious person. There are axe murderers and prostitutes and good churchmen and -women. Yet whatever the individual characteristics of the far countries to which we each go, we are all prodigals together. Our universal straying, therefore, takes many forms—from outright rebellion and disobedience against God, to casual independence and unintentional drift. We want our inheritance, which is life, but we want it apart from him. We do not want to live out that life in our Father’s house. We are just like the prodigal son. The underlying prodigal-mistake to which all succumb is a universal one: We think it is possible to create a satisfying life apart from the God who created us, or if we do include him in our calculations we do so on our own terms, keeping his expectations and demands at a minimum. In the end this lethal assumption is always revealed for the fallacy it is. All must eventually do what the prodigal did—arise and return to our Father.

We must go home.

And what do we find when we return? That our Father’s goodness and love and grace and forgiveness are boundless in open-armed embrace. He has been waiting for us all along! Indeed, he has been watching for us—believing we would return. He is waiting to run out and greet us with rejoicing even before we are all the way back. That is the kind of Father we have. Nowhere do we see God himself so succinctly and wonderfully characterized as in the father of the prodigal in Luke fifteen.

The prodigal parable is universal for another reason. Most men and women, especially in today’s world, find themselves living out one or another aspect of this story within their own family relationships. When I say, as I did earlier, that we all find ourselves in the Gospels, I think we also all find ourselves within this one parable—as a father, a mother, an elder brother, as one of the servants, possibly as a neighbor or cousin or uncle or aunt, as one of the prodigal’s friends in the far country to which he sojourned and where he gradually squandered his inheritance . . . or as the prodigal himself.

Do you know anyone at this moment who is estranged from mother or father? Then you are living out, right now, a role within this parable. And it may be that you will be called upon to take an active part in the unfolding drama before it reaches its conclusion.

Never has the story been so heartbreakingly applicable within Christian families as it seems to be during these times in which we live. The assault upon the institution of the family has rarely been so unrelenting and severe. That assault is coming precisely at the point where young people are the most vulnerable—in the transitional stage between childhood and adulthood. They are encouraged and goaded by every element of society to become antagonistic toward, lose their trust in, and often break off their relationship with their parents completely. Scarcely does a family exist without scars from the battle.

To understand the complexities of that battle, and to be encouraged and energized to give God thanks in the midst of it, I think we profit enormously by reading afresh the parable of the prodigal, with the gospel mirror held up to our own souls. In some cases this prompts the conviction of the son to arise and return. In others it allows the parental heartbreak to accomplish its divine purpose. To others it gives great hope.

Often the complexities and prayerful struggles within the parable are not apprehended at first glance. It takes time, and often personal experience, to delve beneath the surface to gain some of the deeper insights and ask some of the more difficult questions prompted by the story. What, for example, was the role of the prodigal’s mother during the time her son was away? How did her mother-heart bear up under the season of waiting? And how long was the prodigal away—a year . . . ten years? Was there contact with him during that time? Did he write home and ask for more money once his inheritance ran out? Did his mother ever send him a care package? Was there communication between father and son prior to that tearful meeting on the road?

I find these questions not only fascinating, but also of huge practical consequence for those suffering through painful and fragmented relationships. In attempting to apply the truths of Luke fifteen, prodigalized families face a wide range of questions not specifically addressed in the biblical account. What ought to be a father’s or mother’s response if the homecoming is not accompanied by true repentance? What does a parent do if the visit is not for the purpose of reconciliation at all but is self motivated and ends with the question, Dad, I need some money. What if the angry prodigal comes home simply because there is no place else to go?

When does one kill the fatted calf and rejoice at the homecoming? What might be the adverse effect of celebrating prematurely? What is the nature of the inheritance? Is it always financial? Are there other inheritances which today’s prodigals squander?

What about prodigals who never actually leave home, whose rebellion is lived out right under the parental roof? How do parents in such circumstances carry themselves? What about those whose rebellion against parental authority is obscured by an immature, self-righteous form of seeming spirituality which looks down on their parents rather than holding them in honor and esteem? Many prodigals go through life and never see their own face in the mirror when they read Luke fifteen, and thus never recognize themselves as prodigals at all.

What about interfering relatives, grandparents, siblings, and friends who justify the actions of the prodigal and subtly blame the parents for family division, preventing the husks of the swine to accomplish their chastening and redeeming work? What about those who hide behind the curtain of neutrality, not wanting to take sides in a family dispute? These are they who never recognize that when Jesus told the parable there was a true right and a true wrong, and that while forgiveness was called for from the parental heart, it was the prodigal from whom repentance was required.

What about those Job’s counselors who sow seeds of dissatisfaction, discontent, and brooding accusation, those who call themselves the prodigal’s friends, but who are in fact purveyors of the modern psychology of guilt-free nonaccountability? They want to be accepting, noncritical. These are they who dismiss any need on the prodigal’s part to face with tearful remorse what is genuine wrongdoing and sin. These so-called friends can be the most damaging of all, excusing rather than confronting, shifting blame, justifying, speaking subtle and character-damaging lies into the prodigal’s receptive ear: They don’t understand . . . it was right for you to do what you did . . . you have to shed your youth and be who you are . . . it is right and normal to stand up for your individuality and independence . . . you have to be yourself, not what they expect you to be . . . they were controlling and you were right to break free. . . . Such fleshly evasions prevent rather than exhort toward wholeness.

Homecoming is impossible as long as the Self rules, as it surely does in these blame-shifting and self-justifying excuses which are in the very societal air we breathe. And as long as homecoming is delayed, for just that long is mature character likewise prevented.

At root I find intriguing the simple question why? Why did the one son go and the one stay home? Why do young people raised in the same environment respond to their circumstances so differently? Why do young people raised in loving and caring environments find it necessary to rebel against them?

These and a host of other extremely difficult questions are faced every day by the families of prodigals—questions that test the limits of their faith and endurance. In this age when personal accountability is such an odious concept in the world’s eyes, and when intolerance, anger, and blame toward parents are the last things young people are encouraged to face and repent of—even by Christian peers, pastors, youth leaders, mentors, and friends—it is becoming sadly more and more rare that full reconciliation occurs in most families. All too few Christian teachers, pastors, and counselors are calling upon young people to repent for their prodigal hearts.

Our society expects us to live with our differences rather than seek biblical solutions for broken relationships. The prodigal story, therefore, as familiar as it is to most of us, is being lived out to its reconciliatory and healing climax less and less with each passing year.

We ought not underestimate each of our own vital roles in the ongoing drama of this parable. There are prodigals around us at every moment. They are in every crowd, every Bible study, every prayer group, every school class, walking beside us on the sidewalk, standing in line with us at the bank or market. Every congregation every Sunday is filled with them.

But the prodigals among us—and you may be one of them, as may be your pastor, your teacher, your brother or sister or best friend—are not always dressed in rags and eating with pigs. Prodigals can be respectably clothed and comport themselves as anything but what they are. Church activities and spiritual groups and cliques can be well-disguised far more easily than one might think. Many prodigals are well-groomed behind smiling facades of self-sufficiency and independence.

Yet there they are in our midst. And too few of us are urging them toward the most important business of their lives—home-going.

Here is an enormous truth: The door into knowing the Father’s heart, the door into intimacy with God our Creator, often opens first toward one’s earthly parents. Your opportunity is to be a true friend to the prodigals you encounter—not one who justifies and excuses them in their quiet pride and self-reliant alienation. You who understand the import of this parable, you can be the best friend it is possible for a prodigal to have. You can help turn their hearts toward home.

There is an order to be observed. God gave us parents so that we would learn to love, honor, obey, and trust him. Such is the underlying lesson in the classroom of that earthly relationship. It is a school which cannot be bypassed. Where a wrong attitude exists toward a parent, that same attitude will inevitably lie as an unresolved irritant and inhibition to growth in one’s relationship with God. It is simple cause and effect in the spiritual realm. Secretly harbored anger, bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness—no matter how far shoved into the subconscious—will forever prevent the deepest intimacy with God . . . until they are held up to the light and relinquished.

Be a friend to the prodigal.

Hold up the mirror of accountability.

Be the Lord’s ally and partner for the reconciliation of the world, by urging, exhorting, and encouraging toward homecoming.

Such is among the reasons for this series—to explore some of these complex but vitally timely issues and challenges in more depth than usual. Especially is it my hope to prompt reflection and prayer in two areas, one on each side of the generational fence:

First, to explore the grief and suffering of the father and mother during what must surely be one of the greatest trials of life. I hope this will enable us to come more personally to grips with the opportunity they have to learn to thankfully partake of that waiting, prayerful, hopeful, tearful, agonizing aspect of the divine Fatherhood.

And second, to explore what it means to go home, and how to do so fully and completely, so that the heart of the prodigal is truly made whole. I find myself intrigued by this process, wherever and in whatever circumstances a prodigal finds himself—and sometimes it is a long process which must come in slow stages and by infinitesimal degrees—of awakening to the necessity of at last saying, I will arise and go to my Father.

Therefore, as interesting, even compelling, as may be many of the other personalities in this saga, especially those of Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford, this will always in a foundational way be Amanda’s story.

Real-life circumstances, however, are unpredictable. It is a wise man or woman who when confronted by some duty or necessity fulfills it quickly. Delay can be costly. Healing can occur within a single heart, and God will use such to fulfill his purposes. But in terms of earthly relationships, reconciliation is often sought too late. A lifetime of grief must then be borne which might have been prevented had the promptings toward awakening been heeded earlier.

Homecoming ought never be put off.

One final personal note concerning the location of the fictional Chalet of Hope. The high mountain air in that region is just as described—at least I found it so. I have never forgotten the overpowering sense of wondrous quiet when standing at Männlichen overlooking the awe-inspiring drop of more than 4,700 feet straight down into the valley of Lauterbrunnen. Since that moment I have always wanted to set a story there.

It was to those same high Alps that George MacDonald traveled in 1865. I like to imagine him standing at that very spot and feeling similar sensations. Very soon thereafter he used the region as a backdrop to recount the quickening of spiritual consciousness in one of his most memorable characters, Robert Falconer. It was also very near this setting where Hannah Hurnard received the inspiration for and wrote Hinds’ Feet on High Places.

It seemed fitting somehow that Amanda likewise be given an opportunity to breathe that cleansing air, to see what it might be able to accomplish toward her dawning awakening.

Jungle Mission

1897

The cluster of small buildings—primitive by London standards, but luxurious alongside the huts of sticks, straw, and mud found in the nearby jungle—had seen many happy times since the mission sent the young couple here.

But on this day the memory of singing and laughter would turn to weeping.

The season when hymns of joyful praise echoed from the mouths of the native Maoris was over.

The witch doctor had declared it. None dared question his pronouncement. In the superstitious minds of the tribe, his power was greater than that of the young French missionary and his English wife, whose pregnancy the native women had watched progress with eager curiosity and anticipation.

It was now ten minutes past the toll of the chapel bell.

Husband and wife sat silent and waiting in the small church they had completed with the help of the villagers six months earlier. Both knew something was wrong.

Fifteen, eighteen, even twenty worshipers should have been here by now. There were always between fifteen and thirty on hand, a good many of the village men among them. There had even been talk that the chief was showing interest in hearing the stories firsthand, rather than from his people, and might make an appearance.

But it was becoming more obvious with every passing second that such a singularly important event would not happen today.

Where is everyone? finally asked the young mother-to-be. Her voice did not exactly contain fear, yet betrayed the concern that had been building in her mind.

I don’t know, sighed her husband, trying to sound calm. In truth, he was more worried than he let on. As he had lain awake last night, his wife of two and a half years breathing softly and peacefully beside him, he had heard disconcerting sounds far off through the Wanganui jungle. He did not want to wake her then, nor did he want to alarm her now. But he had a bad feeling.

For another five minutes husband and wife sat in silence. Both were praying in mounting anxiety.

The missionary slowly reached over and took his wife’s hand. She clutched it too eagerly. He knew the instant he felt her clammy perspiration that she was scared.

It was time to get her to a safe place. It was obvious there would be no service on this day. He started to rise.

Suddenly a dull, thudding thwack echoed through the chapel.

The missionary wife leapt out of her seat.

What was that! she exclaimed.

Her husband knew well enough exactly what it was. Some of the native men had taught him the use of bow and arrow, with which every man in the jungle was deadly accurate.

He was on his feet in an instant, pulling his wife’s hand with sudden urgency.

Come . . . come quickly! he said, moving toward the door.

What—

Just come!

In moments they were out of the chapel and flying across the ground to the small adjacent structure of their home. He half dragged her behind him as fast as she could manage.

A quick glance over their shoulders revealed that the first fiery arrow had been joined by a half dozen more. Within minutes the chapel was ablaze.

Schnell . . . geh unter . . . in dem Keller! implored the Swissman, in panic abandoning his English as he threw back the faded, threadbare scrap of rug and yanked up the hinged door.

It had been one of the instructions he had argued against when they sent him here. How could he earn the trust of the natives if he kept secrets from them? But he had built the secret room below the floor of their home at the insistence of the board’s director. Now he was glad for the mission’s foresight.

He fairly dove into the dark opening himself, then quickly helped his wife down the steep ladder, a precarious operation given her advanced condition. He fumbled about, lit a candle, settled her onto a cot, then turned.

Where are you going! she said. She no longer tried to hide her terror.

To talk to them, he replied. He turned back briefly to face her.

No, please . . . stay with me.

If they don’t see me, they will search until they find us.

Klaus . . . please!

I have to talk to them and show them I am not afraid.

But I am afraid!

He paused, drew his face close to hers, gazed into her eyes, and kissed her.

So am I, he said softly. But the Lord is our protector. He sent us to these people. We must not flinch at the devil trying to undo our work. We knew there would eventually be resistance. We have to weather this with courage and faith, even if it means starting over.

Please, Klaus—

Just pray, my love. He is with us.

But—

Blow out the candle when I am gone, he said. Here are the matches in case you need them. I will be back before you know it.

He squeezed her hand, kissed her again, then turned and hastily ascended the ladder.

Tears filled her eyes even as she felt the baby kick inside her womb.

Why did men insist on being brave and courageous and spiritually-minded at times like this?

Before she could think further, she heard the secret door above close tightly down upon the floor. A scraping sound followed. Klaus must have moved something on top of it.

She leaned over and blew out the candle, and was left alone and trembling in the darkness.

Whisperings

High on a mountain path, where the air was thin, clean, and invigorating, a woman in her late forties—bundled up with several sweaters, mittens, and hat—walked alone, her heart full of prayer for one whose name she did not know.

As is not unusual for men and women of prayer, both her object and purpose were vague and undefined, yet such did not deter her from the vitality of this day’s supplications. What had prompted her up and out at this early hour, only the Spirit of God knew. She had ceased inquiring into whys, wherefores, times, and seasons years before. She had begun to learn that most elemental yet difficult of life’s needful lessons—to trust.

It had not been an easy lesson.

She had studied in the various classrooms of tragedy, heartbreak, and disappointment. And Romans five had done its work. Suffering had indeed produced perseverance, character, and hope within her. Nor had that hope disappointed, for God had poured out his love into her heart.

As the Comforter had carried out that maturing operation within her, she had come to cherish the healing power of hope, and thanked God for developing within her an expectant heart.

Though her memory bore its share of deep personal scars, her eyes glowed with peace and with the wisdom that came from walking at her Master’s side in that hope, listening to his voice rather than trying to make sense of life’s unanswerables.

She knew her heavenly Father. She knew him to be both sovereign and good, and infinitely so. In that truth she rested, because she knew she could trust him. As she prayed on this morning, therefore, she knew that all would be well.

Last night’s was the first snowfall of the season, a mere dusting of half an inch. Autumn had scarcely begun, but she could feel the change in the air. Colder temperatures would come, and snow would descend upon them by the yard rather than the inch. Yet she always relished in the first fresh fall of every new winter. It never failed to remind her of the gentle, quiet ways in which God often answered her prayers differently than he had Peter’s from the Joppa housetop, not with giant white sheets, but rather with tiny crystalline flecks of joy. How many times, it seemed, did the snow come quietly and at night—like a million silent invisible answers to prayer—to cover the landscape with peace.

And with the powdery whiteness had come again, as so many times before, the sense of preparation for a new opportunity to care in some way for one of God’s dear ones.

When he first began sending people, she had been full of questions. As years had passed, however, and her comrade sisters had joined her, and as people had come and gone, she had learned that when the prompting came, she must simply pray for a quieting of her heart, that the Spirit’s needful whisperings might be heard.

Who was coming and what might be the need were specifics rarely revealed beforehand. She and her sisters must merely be ready, and pray for the human soil into which they would be given opportunity to plant the seeds of their compassion, prayer, and tender ministration.

Twenty minutes ago before coming out, she had given instructions to Sister Agatha to begin getting a room ready.

Out of Vienna

On a train increasing its speed as it bore south out of the great Austrian capital of Vienna, Amanda Rutherford Halifax sat back in her seat with eyes closed, trying to steady her nerves, calm herself . . . and think.

Her heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil.

The image and voice of her husband of less than a month, Ramsay Halifax, still rang in her ears crying after her in angry defeat as the train pulled out of the station.

Amanda . . . Amanda!

The echo of his shouts reverberated in her brain. She had never seen such a side of him before that moment. The look of wrath in his eyes pierced through her as if he was glaring at her even now, as in truth he was, though all he could see was the back of the last car of the train.

She could never go back to him, thought Amanda, not ever again. Not after what she had learned. Not after realizing what he was, and how she had been used.

The sickness gathering in her stomach right now was not about politics. It had nothing to do with conflict between nations. At this moment she was not thinking of the fact that the world was at war. Her personal anguish concerned no ideologies.

It was about another woman. Amanda felt dirty.

How could she have been so foolish as to marry Ramsay!

She thought she knew him. But she hadn’t known him at all. She had only seen the surface, what he had wanted her to see—the suave, confident journalist, so dashing and charming and worldly-wise. She had never paused to look beneath the smiling veneer, to ask herself what Ramsay might be like inside.

Now she was far from home. Reminders of the war were all around her—the propaganda posters lining the station walls, soldiers everywhere en route to the nearby battlefields in Belgium and France. She was trapped in a foreign country that was fighting against her homeland, alone behind enemy lines.

Tears gradually filled Amanda’s eyes.

They were not quite yet the tears of contrition, but rather tears of mortification at having been so blind. But at least she had awoken from the stupor that had landed her in this fix. Therefore, the tears were beginning to wash the cobwebs from her brain. Her heart would come in for its share of that same cleansing in time. When it did, full healing repentance would not be far behind.

But right now Amanda’s thoughts were on the present.

How was she ever going to get back to England!

If the little money she had stolen at her mother-in-law’s house in Vienna didn’t run out, surely someone would hear her accent and get suspicious.

If she could just get across the border into neutral Italy, and then maybe into France.

But how!

Oh, God, she moaned silently, help me!

Even as Amanda sat frantic and afraid, though temporarily out of reach of her husband in the southbound train out of Vienna, Ramsay Halifax stood on platform nine of the Südbanhof, peering into the distance where the train had disappeared from sight seconds earlier. He could still faintly make out the dim clacking of its iron wheels receding along the tracks.

Within seconds his mother hurried up, followed a moment or two later by their white-haired colleague Hartwell Barclay. Though puffing, his face showed no sign of red. He was, in fact, boiling over in a white wrath. Mrs. Halifax’s eyes, too, glowed with a fire into whose origins it would be best not to inquire. Their collective fury at that moment might have been enough to cause any but the most stouthearted angel to tremble.

Neither of the two older members of the triumvirate was accustomed to being outwitted, especially, as they judged her, by such a lightweight as Amanda. She had been so easily manipulated and brainwashed in the beginning. It never occurred to either that she would actually summon the gumption to resist them, much less make a run for it. They had turned her to their cause with so little effort, they had never considered the possibility of her defection. They had also underestimated the faculty her father had honed in her for vigorous thinking. Indeed, even Amanda was unaware of it. But in time the mental vigor that Sir Charles Rutherford had trained into all three of his children would find its muscle, and enable this wayward child to discover her way.

Now she was gone. All three who stood on the empty station platform knew that if Amanda was allowed to get to the West, she could seriously threaten their subversive spy network.

Barclay turned to Ramsay.

You fool! he seethed. Why didn’t you see this coming?

Look, Barclay, don’t play your power games with me! young Halifax shot back. It won’t work. You don’t intimidate me.

How could the two of you let her out of your sight!

I told you before, rejoined Ramsay, "the two of us happened to be gone at the time."

You should never both have left! persisted the elder statesman of the three. Though an Englishman, he had cast his lot with the German and Austrian cause. He knew perhaps better than either of the others how much they stood to lose if Amanda divulged what she knew to the right people in London.

Be that as it may, Ramsay shot back, "you were the only one home when she bolted. Why didn’t you stop her?"

Please, please! interrupted Ramsay’s mother. This is no time for argument. We still have to stop her.

It fell briefly silent. Barclay calmed.

Who do we know in Trieste? he said at length.

I believe we do have some people there, replied Mrs. Halifax.

Wasn’t Carneades planning to stop over there for a few days on his way back to Rome? said Ramsay.

That’s right! exclaimed his mother.

We need to send a telegram, said Barclay. There’s no time to lose!

He turned quickly and led the way across the platform.

Ramsay, said Mrs. Halifax as they hurried back into the station, run ahead and check on the next train south. If we make contact and Carneades is able to intercept the train, you will have to go after her yourself and bring her back. If not, we’ll get in touch with Matteos.

Ramsay nodded, then broke into a run toward the platform tunnel.

Chalet of Hope

In a large, geometrically laid-out, and nicely trimmed garden, more than half empty now and with most of its remaining contents turning brown, two warmly dressed women, by appearances in their mid-thirties, quietly cultivated the rich black dirt with hoe and rake. They paused now and then to remove the dead leaves and vines from the spent plants. Between the women a wicker bushel basket collected refuse for the compost pile.

The morning was crisp. The elevation was not so very high in this protected meadow of the Swiss Alps, only some 4,100 to 4,200 feet—higher, it is true, than all but Britain’s loftiest peaks in the Highlands of Scotland. The fact that their efforts of this morning, however, had begun by scraping snow off the rows indicated plainly enough that the few hardy autumn vegetables remaining had less than another month before the entire garden would be put to rest for its season of winter dormancy.

Sister Hope says we are expecting a guest, said one, a Dutch woman by the name of Anika.

Do you know the details? asked her friend, German-born Luane.

None are known. As always . . . we know not the day nor the hour.

Who do you think it will be this time—a mother with young children, a family escaping the war . . . ?

Perhaps another solitary young woman to join us. I remember how lost I was when I arrived.

They continued to talk quietly as they raked and cleaned the ground. In front of them rose the Jungfrau and her accompanying sister sentinels, dazzling white now from last night’s snowfall. This high sweep of peaks retained spots of white most of the summer, but now the entire range was freshly blanketed.

Anika and Luane were so accustomed to their surroundings and the spectacular scenery that they now scarcely gave thought to what a picturesque vista their home, the mountains, and even they themselves in the garden would have presented to the eye of an artist. The peaceful panorama of which they were part was enhanced all the more by Sister Galiana with a yoke over her shoulders, from which dangled two milk pails as she walked from barn to house, Marjolaine returning from the chicken coop with a basket of the morning’s eggs, Regina sitting on the porch churning yesterday’s milk to butter, and Clariss behind the house hanging linens on the line for what promised to be a fine bright day in spite of the chill. From the house could faintly be heard the singing of Sister Agatha’s voice through the open window of the guest room, which she was airing out and making ready with clean sheets and down comforters.

On the opposite side behind the two garden workers stood the chalet which was home to the nine members of their small Alpine community. It sat at the edge of a small wood some four hundred yards down the slope from the village of Wengen. A stream ran from the wood near the house into a small pond, which was frozen over through the winter months, but around which during the summer bloomed more than two dozen varieties of Alpine wild flowers.

It was not a particularly remote locale for the Swiss Alps. Villages, hamlets, and farms were scattered about the landscape everywhere, both high and low. But the city-dwellers in the European metropolises from which most of the sisters had come would have considered it remote indeed. The nearest city of significant size was Bern, thirty-five miles to the northwest. In the opposite direction to the northeast, beautiful Luzern lay some forty miles distant. And five miles straight down to the mouth of the valley, situated between the two lakes Thunersee and Brienzersee, sat the fabled resort town of Interlaken. The entire region was known as the Bernese Oberland.

The village of Wengen itself sat perched on a delightfully isolated grassy and lightly wooded plateau