100 
The Streets of London

Amanda slumped to a chair in her London hotel, face ashen, the thin yellow paper falling out of her hand to the floor. It was the same communication that had been delivered hours before to her mother at Heathersleigh Hall.

Winston Churchill had just left.

How long she sat in a stupor, Amanda had no idea. Finally she rose and stumbled in a daze out into Saturday afternoon London.

Somehow—she could not have said how—the rest of the day passed.

Timothy Diggorsfeld sat despondent in his study. He had not eaten so much as a half dozen bites of Mrs. Alvington’s supper.

“Lord, how can I possibly face tomorrow?” he said to himself for the fiftieth time. “It is hopeless. I have nothing to offer my people, because I have nothing to offer myself.”

All afternoon and evening, the smiling, laughing, exuberant face of his friend Charles Rutherford had loomed in the eye of his brain, suddenly so much larger than life—such a true friend and man who had had such an effect on his own life and ministry.

Dear, dear Charles! he thought, eyes filling again with tears that refused to stop.

What could he do in remembrance of Charles? What legacy could he leave his friend?

Suddenly came the idea. Why should he not preach the very sermon Charles himself once gave from his pulpit?

He had asked Charles, after he had been a Christian for some time, to speak a message that was dear to his heart. With fondness he recalled the long talk they had had about intimacy with God and how such closeness could be attained between men and their Creator. At the time, Charles had been reflecting on much that had been in his own heart prior to his conversion.

In a sense it had been Charles’ own personal testimony of faith couched within the structure of a sermon. As Timothy recalled, the message had been hard-hitting and direct. That was the sort of man Charles Rutherford was—forceful, straightforward, intellectually honest, and unafraid to look himself in the eye.

He would deliver it again, thought Timothy. Tomorrow . . . in remembrance of Charles!

The resolve that some tiny good might come from this hour of such intense personal agony enabled Timothy to take a deep breath—his first of the day.

Where Amanda’s feet took her as afternoon gave way to evening, she hardly remembered.

She walked miles through streets and parks, her mind senseless. She was unable to think, unable to focus her brain on anything definite.

Motion became the sole determinative feature of her being. Movement did not console her, but it kept her limbs busy enough that she did not have to confront that most dreaded enemy which had suddenly begun to make its true nature known—the Self she had almost begun to look at after arriving in Switzerland.

But she would be able to hide from herself no longer. Suddenly everything was changed.

Tears had not yet come to Amanda’s eyes. She was too deep in shock to cry.

She would weep in time. When she did, bitter indeed would be the sting from the hot tears down her cheeks. For they would be the anguished tears caused by the eye-opening truth that she had never been a true daughter to her father . . . and that her chance to become one was now gone forever.

The telephone in Timothy Diggorsfeld’s study rang. He leapt for it.

“Rev. Diggorsfeld?” said a familiar voice.

“Yes.”

“It’s Winston Churchill. My secretary told me you were in earlier. I am sorry for not getting to you sooner, but it’s taken some doing to track you down. I apologize for ringing so late, but I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”

“Yes, yes, thank you for calling,” said Timothy. “I’ve heard. Lady Rutherford rang me earlier.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I am concerned for their daughter, however—Amanda. That was the purpose of my coming to your office. Jocelyn, er, Lady Jocelyn said that you—”

“Yes, she’s been notified. I called at her hotel the moment I arrived back in the city.”

“Can you tell me, then, where she is?” asked Timothy.

“At the Hotel Clairmont,” replied the First Lord.

“Right, thank you—I’ll go out and try to see her immediately.”

“If there is anything else I can do, for you or any of the family,” said Churchill, “please do not hesitate to contact me.”

Timothy had scarcely put down the receiver when he was out of the house again on his way to the Clairmont.

He arrived twenty minutes later. Amanda was not in her room.

Timothy descended to the lobby pondering what to do. He went back out into the evening air and walked briefly in the nearby streets, then returned. Still she was gone.

By now it was getting dark. Perhaps she had gone somewhere, thought Timothy. She might not be planning to return tonight at all. Perhaps she had even left the city.

He left a message at the desk, requesting that Amanda get in touch with him, then returned to the parsonage of New Hope Chapel.

Amanda hardly noticed when darkness came. She continued to walk and did not arrive back at the Clairmont until sometime after ten o’clock. She had eaten nothing since lunch. She did not check for messages.

Eventually she was swallowed up in that simplest, yet in some ways most miraculous, of the Creator’s gifts to his creatures—sleep. Now she had but one Father, and he watched over her most tenderly in these hours after the loss of the other he had given her, and blessed her with a deep and restful slumber.