Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  The castle was not exactly a welcoming sight. It had been built four hundred years before, not to welcome but to strike fear into the spirits of any who dared approach it. But Allison was glad, nonetheless, to see it.

  She needed the protection of its thick granite walls just now, for her own personal walls were growing far too weak for her liking.

  36

  Grandpa Dorey

  But even Stonewycke’s thick walls did not prove fortress enough for Allison. However much she tried to shut out every outside element that attempted to intrude upon her inner being, she could never fully shut out herself. And her own thoughts, and nothing else, caused her unrest.

  For years she had allowed the flow of her existence to be determined by her confused and often conflicting emotions. Even after she had reached an age where serious thought began to be possible, she continued to steadfastly avoid analyzing why she acted as she did, why she felt as she did, and what her responses to life should possibly entail. In short, she avoided looking honestly in the quiet of her own soul at the most basic of life’s questions: Who am I, and what should I be about?

  Since her earliest childhood years, she had known two things: that her family believed in God’s active participation in their lives, and that her family held a position of importance and esteem. As a child she adopted the external appearance of pursuing her parents’ spiritual values. Yet as she grew into her teen years, without revealing it to any observers, more and more she began to sense a divergence between what she came to term her “religious” parents and her own inner spiritual void. How could she know of the turmoil and struggles and periods of doubt that her parents and great-grandparents had experienced on the way to their present lives of faith? All she knew was that they spoke and acted as if God were an intimate friend, while to her “religion,” as she called it, was dry and impersonal. The end result of this divergence was the feeling that somehow there was something wrong with her intrinsic being. She was out of step. Something about her was incomplete and inadequate. She was supposed to be like them, but wasn’t. Yet she couldn’t help it. And, of course, the more this feeling grew upon her, the more she tried to hide it from view, both from her parents and great-grandparents, and even from herself.

  Added to this was the knowledge that everyone looked up to her mother and father, and the matriarch and patriarch of the community, Lady Margaret and Grandpa Dorey, with a love and veneration akin to that given to royalty. The fact could hardly escape her that the family line had come down from the Lady Atlanta through the women of the family—all solid, virtuous, strong, capable, and—in Allison’s mind—far more religious and compassionate toward Strathy’s common folk than she. And now here she stood, next in line to wear that mantle, and yet totally lacking the attitudes and qualities which set her mother and great-grandmother apart in people’s minds. They would all expect her to be like them, to be just as good and selfless and wise and strong and godly. Yet down inside, Allison knew all too well that she was none of those things. And maybe never could be.

  The result was a growing feeling of pressure, from about her tenth year on, to be something she was not. In the bewildered, hurting inner self of a girl struggling to enter into her own womanhood, young Allison through the next several years came to resent the very things she wanted most to be. What she considered to be her inability to measure up to standards set before her in both matters of spirituality and her place in society, caused her to begin tearing away at those very foundations of virtue and holiness.

  Thus her own spiritual and personal insecurity, by the time she was fifteen, had taken the form of an independence that seemed bent on carving out a life for herself which was at odds with everything previous generations stood for. In her innermost being—a part of herself by now so hidden that even she did not know of its existence—she still hungered desperately for the reality of a friendship with God such as she witnessed daily in her mother and father, and even more so in the older people. But on the surface level of her daily life, she resisted their attempts to say that God was a “personal” God. He’s not personal to me, she thought, and I don’t need Him! I can make it just fine on my own; I don’t need them OR Him.

  And in the same way she seemed determined to rebel against the very attributes within her mother and great-grandmother that others so admired, even resenting their goodness and qualities of strong character. To defend her own insecurity, she tore at the very roots of her being, seeking to find refuge in being someone of importance. She scoffed at her father’s common origins and her mother’s identification with the poor of the community. Because she was not secure in who she was, she attempted to elevate her stature in the eyes of the world, clinging to an elusive sense of superiority. But even her seemingly egotistical pride could not conceal to perceptive eyes that deep inside remained a pain which nothing but a personal encounter with the God of her fathers and mothers could heal.

  And now, at seventeen, she still had not allowed herself to reflect on these matters. When thoughts of conscience came, she quickly dismissed them as childish carryovers from the outmoded values of her elders. She did not need them, she tried to convince herself. This was a new age, and she would be her own person. She did not recognize the steady tapping on the door of her heart. Her hour had not yet come, but it was nigh at hand. The prayers of the generations before her were on the verge of being fulfilled in her. For no word from the mouth of the Lord returns void, but always accomplishes that which He pleases. The prayers of the righteous avail much in the lives of their descendants, for the Lord pours out His love and mercy to the third and fourth generation of those who love Him and keep His commandments. The prayers young Maggie prayed in her exile—fulfilled in part in the life of her granddaughter, whose more recent prayers for her own daughter combined with them in the mysterious stream of God’s mighty purpose—now came to bear on the heart of young Allison MacNeil, resistant to God, yet chosen by Him to share in the inheritance of the saints.

  And the instrument in God’s hand to begin this process of healing was one in whom the treasured generational flow of righteousness was also silently at work. How could the nearly crippled old Digory MacNab have foreseen that his quiet prayers in his lonely loft would stretch across the years, down through time, to unlock the hearts of both his own posterity and that of his beloved Maggie, for whom the humble witness of his life had accomplished so much? But no man can ever know how far his prayers and the impact of his life will reach. In the infinite provision of God’s wisdom, the prayers of the righteous always come full circle, though none but the God who inspires them will ever know the full stories of their impact.

  For now, in the somber solitude of a cheerless upstairs room in the austere castle known as Stonewycke, and in the darkened stable loft where the spirit of a godly man’s prayers still dwelt, the loving heavenward cries of former generations were at last coming to bear upon the hearts of two young people. The Hound of Heaven, who had been stalking them all their lives long, was closing in.

  Allison stood quietly staring out her window into the dreary wet below. What she was thinking she hardly knew herself. Her mind was more confused now than it had been two days ago. She had been so looking forward to that party. Now the mere memory of it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Everything was all wrong now! Life had been smooth enough—a little boring, perhaps, but at least predictable—before. But now that he had come, it was all mixed up! Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone, left them to get home by themselves without having to meddle with their car? He had no right to interfere! And who was he, anyway? Supposedly the nephew of some stupid old groom. She doubted it! He was a fake. Limping with the wrong foot! But of course everyone thought he was wonderful, thanking him for getting her home safely. Why, you’d have thought he was the son of the Prime Minister, the way her father treated him. But that was just like him, just like them all! Always making over the peasants and ignoring her. Didn’t anybody care that she had almost been swep
t away by the flood? What if that bridge had given way? Then what would they think of their precious Logan Macintyre? What a fool she had been to let him kiss her! Now he would think she felt something for him. He’d begin to take liberties. And, of course, she hadn’t felt anything for him. She couldn’t have! He was a nobody. He had no family. No position. What she had felt was nothing more than—well, it was nothing at all! She had been cold and afraid. Everything was just an accident! It meant nothing! She couldn’t trust her feelings for him. She’d been emotionally caught up in the party and the storm, it just all—

  Allison turned away from the window, hesitated a moment, then fled her room. She could take no more of this inner mental wrestling with herself. Everything was all a jumble!

  She couldn’t go outside. It was wet and cold. Even worse, she might run into him. And that would never do. She wanted no more chance meetings. Who could tell what he might do?

  Perhaps a good book would liberate her overactive mind and help her to concentrate on other things. She turned and walked toward the library.

  As she opened the great oaken door of the austere, book-lined room, Allison stopped short. There stood her great-grandfather in front of a shelf of first editions of Scott. He had been reaching up for one of the volumes when he heard the door open, and turned. Escape was impossible for Allison, who did not think she wanted to see anyone. But when he smiled, she realized that a small part of her at least was glad to see him.

  “Ali, how nice to see you,” he said in that soft and sincere tone he used most often these days.

  “Hello, Grandpa Dorey,” she answered, trying to be friendly but her voice betraying a touch of formality. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” she added, as she made to retreat.

  “You haven’t at all,” he said hastily. “Do come in and sit down.” He let his hand fall from the shelf and moved to one of the comfortable brocaded chairs positioned for the use of readers. He sat down, indicating an adjacent one to her. “I’ve been hoping I’d see you,” he went on, his whole demeanor indicating that this encounter was much more to his liking than a leather-bound Sir Walter Scott.

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to see how you were after your ordeal.”

  “What ordeal, Grandpa?”

  “Your mother told me about the unfortunate events of two days ago. I’m sorry the party and all that followed turned out such a disappointment for you.”

  “Disappointment?” She may have placed many labels on that day, but somehow “disappointing” would not have been one of them. “I suppose it was rather disastrous,” she went on after a brief pause, “but—well, it wasn’t so bad.”

  Dorey chuckled softly. “I had nearly forgotten the capacity you young people have for making the most out of everything. A rather godly attribute, too, when you think about it. For after all, He originated the truth that it is possible for all things to work for good—though of course on a much higher plane.” In truth, he had forgotten no such thing. He knew perhaps better than anyone that the older one becomes the more clear that truth becomes, and that often the young are utterly blind to it—as he had once been. But he had been feeling a gentle prodding to speak to her for some time, and thus made the most of the opportunity when it at length presented itself.

  In her present rather befuddled state, it rankled Allison that her great-grandfather had chosen to turn what might have been a pleasant conversation into another religious dissertation. He was usually less irritating in that regard than any of them. Thus she took a more biting tone than she ordinarily would have with him.

  “I don’t see how you, of all people, can say that, Grandpa.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “After all you’ve been through,” said Allison, “how can you claim that God works everything for good?”

  “I didn’t exactly say He does work everything for good,” Dorey replied. “I said it is possible for all things to work for good.”

  “Don’t split hairs, Grandpa. What’s the difference?”

  “A great deal, my dear. God works things for good only when we allow Him to. The Bible says He works all things for the good of those who love Him if they are living according to His purpose. That’s a rather big if.”

  Allison smiled oddly. She could tell what he was driving at. But she was not going to be sidetracked.

  “That may very well be,” she said. “It’s all too pious sounding for me. But I still want to know how you can say that all things have worked for your good after the rotten deal you had?”

  He smiled and nodded, not at all affronted by the turn of the conversation.

  “The fact is, my dear, that of all people, I may know it best. When I was young I was determined to make my life go the way I thought was best. I ignored the Lord, and—you’re right—things did not turn out very well. But as I gradually and painfully realized the futility of what I was trying to do, more and more I saw the necessity of giving the Lord my life—all of it, not just bits and pieces here and there. Then He was able to take the reins, so to speak, and begin working everything that happened for my good. And now here I am, content and happy, surrounded by my dear family, at peace and rest, more ready than I ever could have been in the past to be with my Lord. My life is a perfect example of that truth. So perhaps I was amiss before when I said that young people have the capacity to do the same thing. It may be that it is the passage of years that allows one’s eyes to be opened.”

  “But, Grandpa,” insisted Allison, “your life has been anything but happy!”

  “Oh, my dear,” sighed Dorey, “happiness is not what we were put on this earth to strive for, or to achieve. It may come our way; it may not. But we are called to something so much greater.”

  “Like what?”

  “To know Him! If it takes heartache and loss for us to know Him, the price is a small one to pay for the timeless and eternal treasure of that relationship. Ali, do you know that I would not trade one hour, not one minute of my past for years and years and years of earthly happiness! I was such a stubborn young man. It took those years of grief to break the shell of my stubborn pride. And I am so thankful He loved me enough to see the job through.”

  He stopped momentarily, and Allison could almost detect a glow on his face. Though she could hardly grasp the depth of his words, she could sense how truly he meant what he said. He really was, as he said, thankful for the ups and downs of his life. The look on his face sobered her, and took from her the desire to pick his words apart. She could feel the reality in what he was telling her, although her conscious mind was unable to apprehend it fully.

  “So you see, Ali,” he went on, “it is God who turns evil or unhappiness or confusion or heartache into good, even when the recipient is unaware of His hand.”

  Allison knew his statement was directed at her, but she had to ask regardless. “Do you really think God’s hand is on me?”

  “In everything you do, my dear.”

  “But I don’t always try to live by His purpose, like you said. So how can His hand be on me? How can He be working good in my life?”

  “Because He has a purpose for you, Ali. The day will come when you will see His hand guiding you.”

  “If only I could believe that, Grandpa,” sighed Allison, in a rare relaxing of the stoic pretense which she showed the world. “But—”

  “He loves you, Ali!” said Dorey tenderly, taking his great-granddaughter’s hand in his. “And so do I, and the rest of the family.”

  “I just don’t know, Grandpa . . .” she said, her voice unsteady. “It’s so hard to believe that when I’ve been so . . . you know.”

  He gently patted her hand with his, old and gnarled as it was.”There are many who are praying on your behalf, Ali. I am praying that you will know His love . . . and mine, toward you. You are not alone. You can take strength from that.”

  Allison’s eyes were moist now, but she fought the compelling urge to break down. She had to maintain her composure! �
��I . . . I know I must be a terrible disappointment to you,” she blurted out.

  “Oh, Ali,” replied Dorey in a voice full of both anguish and compassion, tears standing in his ancient eyes, “you have never been that! God forgive us if we have somehow led you to think so!”

  “Maybe not to you, Grandpa,” she said, “but I know Mother and Father don’t think I measure up to the grand family traditions.” There was not a trace of accusation in her voice, only broken, self-inflicted hurt.

  “I think you misunderstand them, Ali. I know your father thinks the world of you. He—”

  Suddenly the door burst open, and Allison was rescued from having to show the tears which seemed determined not to stay where they belonged. The door she had opened toward the heart of her great-grandfather quickly shut, and she returned to normal.

  Nat’s red head popped into the library and, breathless, he said: “Oh, there you are, Allison! You’ve got a visitor.”

  37

  Unexpected Guest

  As she descended the stairs, Allison quickly scanned her appearance. She probably should have taken a few minutes to change her clothes, but maybe it would be no one important.

  She had donned her kilt of the green Duncan plaid and a navy cashmere sweater that morning, mostly for warmth. The navy blue knee stockings and oxfords only added to the schoolgirl look. As she thought about her clothing, it momentarily dawned on Allison how quickly her mind had shifted from the deep, emotional concerns of the morning to the trivial. Actually, she was relieved to be able to think of something of no more lasting significance than her clothes. The conversation with her great-grandfather had further stirred up thoughts she preferred to keep in place. She didn’t like all this meditation! The yearnings which had always been buried deep inside her were now stirring into activity. But like all awakenings, the birth of spiritual consciousness would not occur without the pain of the breaking of the shell which enclosed it. And before the process was complete, the being in whose heart that embryo lay would more than once seek refuge in the comfortable womb of the past, resisting the painful process of being born again.