Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “What is a vacuum?”

  “An enclosed and sealed area from which the air has been removed.”

  “How do you remove air? Air . . . air is nothing!” exclaimed Amanda, throwing her arm about her as she rode.

  Charles and George both laughed.

  “Don’t laugh at me, George,” said Amanda. When her father laughed in the midst of a conversation, that was one thing. But she would not tolerate being ridiculed by her brother.

  “He meant nothing by it, dear,” interposed Jocelyn. “It was only that what you said had a funny sound to it.”

  Soothed for the moment, Amanda let the incident pass. George and Charles gradually resumed the discussion, but now without Amanda’s participation.

  As was often the case, their talk diverged from fuel and electricity after a time, and came around eventually to various of the political issues he was presently thinking about, on this occasion prompted in Charles’ brain by the encounter with his nearest neighbor.

  “What do you think, George,” he said as they rode, “—should all men be treated equally, even if one is more intelligent, capable, and knowledgeable?”

  “How do you mean, Papa?”

  “For instance, take two men—one well-educated, informed on the issues, responsible and clear thinking, and the other a peasant who can neither read nor write and knows nothing of the world situation. Now—should both be allowed to vote, and should their votes have equal weight, even though the one is more qualified to render a rational, intelligent, and well-informed determination about what is best for the country?”

  George did not answer immediately, but pondered his father’s query.

  “Or,” Charles went on, “turn it around. Take a man like Mr. McFee, and assume him literate and knowledgeable on the issues and yet at the same time he is poor. Put alongside him a wealthy landowner who is perhaps a drunkard and knows little about the state of his nation. Should the wealthy man possess the power to vote and determine policy, while the well-informed poor man has none?”

  “What about women?” interjected Jocelyn.

  “A good point,” rejoined Charles. “What indeed?”

  “You know Emmeline Pankhurst and some of her crowd would have women equal with men at every turn.”

  “Mrs. Pankhurst may carry it further than anyone. But what do you think? How would you, George, my boy, weigh the relative value to society of the vote of a poor, uneducated, illiterate man, or a drunken, uninformed nobleman, alongside that of a conscientious, educated, thoughtful, intelligent, and well-informed woman?”

  Again the four rode a few moments pondering the implications of Charles’ inquiry. Amanda had remained thus far curiously silent, but it would not last much longer.

  “At present,” Charles went on, “the man has the vote, not the woman, however qualified she may be to wield it perhaps more wisely than he in a given instance. Is that how it ought to be?”

  “Why don’t you change it, Mother?” said Amanda.

  Jocelyn laughed. “Even if there was something I could do, it is still the men who have to decide.”

  “Why only men?”

  “Because they’re the ones who sit in Parliament.”

  “Is this state of affairs right?” Charles now persisted. “If the matter came before the Commons, what ought I to say to my colleagues concerning such a matter?”

  “You should say that—” Amanda blurted out.

  But she got no further before her father’s hand went up to silence her. These were no frivolous questions, and he wanted to carry the dialogue with his son through to its conclusion.

  It was silent a few moments. Young George Rutherford was one of those rare individuals who had realized early in life that the best thinking is done with the mouth closed. He was not anxious to speak until he had something to say.

  “I know, Papa!” interposed Amanda impatiently, when several more seconds had passed. She could hardly tolerate her brother’s slow deliberation over things.

  “I’m sure you do, but give your brother the chance to answer.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I asked him the question.”

  Again it was quiet. Amanda’s impatience was visible as she fidgeted in her saddle.

  “Something other than wealth and social standing ought to be the measure—is that what you want me to see?” said George tentatively.

  “You’ve begun to get hold of the thing, but only around the edge of it yet. Grab hold of the center.—Think, George! What is that other thing?”

  “Is it that character should be more important than wealth or standing?” said George after another minute.

  “You’re getting closer,” said Charles.

  “Deserving people ought to vote,” interjected Amanda. She had been patient long enough.

  “Not a bad answer, Amanda, insofar as it goes,” replied her father. “But it doesn’t go far enough. Who are the deserving?” he asked, turning toward her.

  “Good people.”

  “Who defines that goodness?”

  “Parliament, people in power . . . the queen—people like you, Papa.”

  “Ah, my dear,” replied Charles, “but the queen and I and people like us . . . what if we become greedy and selfish and want to keep all the power for ourselves?”

  “The queen would never do such a thing.”

  “England has had its share of rogues on the throne.”

  “Not Queen Victoria.”

  “And when Victoria dies?”

  Momentarily Amanda was stumped. It had never occurred to her that the ageless lady was other than immortal. Charles took the opportunity to comment further.

  “If we are the ones who define good, and we become bad—then where will the country be?”

  “You would never become bad, Papa.”

  “Some people do, Amanda.”

  “But not you.”

  “Perhaps not. But one never knows. All men and women possess the capacity for good, as well as for evil. Some people do become greedy and selfish, even though no one thinks it could happen to him. How does a nation protect against that?”

  Amanda’s lips had no ready reply.

  “If there is an elite—however it is defined . . . by wealth, by property, by education, by one’s knowledge of affairs—then the possibility exists for a class system in which one segment of the population will be able to lord it over another. In other words, if there is an elite—whoever it is—the possibility exists for slavery . . . even if a society turns itself upside down, as the French did theirs in 1789, and the elite becomes comprised of commoners. The French revolutionaries made the aristocrats their slaves. Any elite has the capacity to abuse its power. Such has been true, even of our own nation at times past in our history. Thankfully we are more enlightened in these new days, though we still have much work to do. But there are some nations on the Continent where such slavery yet exists because elite ruling classes still wield far too much power.”

  He paused, then continued.

  “You only considered one side of the question, Amanda—that is, that the present system is incomplete. That was accurate, but only partially so. But you must learn to look at all sides of a thing to get inside the full truth of it. If you had done so, you would realize that seeing the problem doesn’t always yield a solution. You must see not only what is wrong, but what needs to be done about it—what change must we make in order to set things right. You did not stop to think. The instant I asked George the question you wanted to begin talking. You cannot get to the bottom of things when your mouth is moving.”

  In the moments his father and sister had been thus occupied, George had begun to get hold, as Charles had said, of the center of the thing.

  “It is not just their character or goodness or wealth or even being informed, is it?” he said, “that ought to determine who votes. It is just that they are . . . people—that all people ought to be treated equally and ought to be able to vote no matter about all th
e rest—whether they are rich or poor, men or women, or even educated or not. Is that it?”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Charles. “Good boy! Equality mustn’t be regulated, or eventually it will break down into some new form of inequality. It is the fact that we are all humans together that makes us unique. That fact alone ought to make us equals before the law.”

  Amanda gave her horse a kick and galloped off ahead. She was no expert horsewoman, and her seat was considerably less than graceful. But she would not listen to such correction of her ideas and praise of her brother’s without some demonstration—even a silent one—to display her disapproval.

  12

  Something Strange in the Garret

  Being out in the woods had invigorated George’s brain. He returned from the ride with his mind bent on exploration.

  Even as they rode up to the great Hall which was his home, he looked up and let his eyes rove over its walls and turrets, three wings, and the fearsome eastern tower, with the gaze of potential adventure. Its three floors, basement, and mysterious garrets full of tiny rooms presented such a plethora of possibilities, he had not even set foot inside all of its seventy-five or hundred rooms. In days long forgotten, most had at one time or another been occupied and used by family, staff, and servants. Now many stood vacant or were filled with musty-smelling boxes from the dim past, adding a quiet odorous aura of antiquity to the place.

  It was a home that offered endless intrigue to the boy, whose inquisitive mind was alive to adventure wherever he might discover it . . . and especially eager to understand the way the physical world was put together.

  “May I explore the garret today, Papa?” he asked as they dismounted outside the barn, where Hector Farnham now began taking charge of their mounts.

  “I suppose so, George, my boy,” replied the lord of the manor as they walked toward the house while Amanda ran ahead. “What is your plan?”

  “Just explore.”

  “In hopes of finding something?”

  “I don’t know. What is there to find, Papa?”

  “Nothing that I know of, George,” laughed the father. “No ghosts—that’s for certain, no matter what people may say.”

  “What about the noises, Papa?”

  “What noises? I’ve never heard them.”

  “Amanda says she has.”

  Charles laughed. “I have the feeling your sister’s imagining things. But why don’t you go up there and see if you hear them.”

  “Thank you, Papa!” said George excitedly.

  “I doubt I’ve been in the garret since I was a boy,” added Charles. “I don’t remember much very interesting then. I’m sure it hasn’t changed, except that more cobwebs are likely hanging from the beams.”

  Later that same afternoon, George’s puttering in the attic regions of the house had led him to the end of a corridor where an odd-looking wall blocked further exploration.

  He stared at it a few moments, then glanced about. The paneling was different, both in coloration and mode of construction, than in the rest of the upper portions of the Hall. It seemed to be of a different wood, and not so old.

  George approached, then rapped lightly against it with his knuckles.

  Was he imagining it, or did it have a hollow sound?

  Without pausing to think through the implications, the next instant he had turned and was hurriedly striding back the way he had come. He would carry his search further. Quickly he left the low-ceilinged garret, descended to the second floor, and made for the north wing. From its attic spaces he hoped he might be able to approach the same region from the opposite side.

  “Amanda, Amanda, come with me,” said George excitedly as he went, seeing his sister leaving her room. “Come see what I found!”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Something strange up in the garret.”

  “The garret—ugh! I wouldn’t go up there for anything. There’s nothing but spiders and horrid old webs hanging about.”

  Undaunted, and not realizing he had stumbled upon the threads of a generations-old mystery concerning the Hall that was his home, George continued on his way.

  ————

  Lord Rutherford’s instructions had been plain enough, though it was the most curious assignment Webley Kyrkwode had ever been called upon for at the Hall.

  Both Lord Rutherford and his nephew were strange ones, Kyrkwode thought to himself as he carried two long planks up the servants’ stairway to the second floor, and from there up the narrow flight to the garret. If young Henry inherited both the Hall and the title from his uncle, as all supposed inevitable, who could tell what the grand place would come to?

  His own young Orelia had spent half her childhood at the Hall while he had been engaged in one construction project or another for the lord of the manor, playing with her young friend, daughter of one of the lady’s maids.

  But he no longer allowed her to accompany him from the village. Orelia was now fifteen and growing into a buxom and comely young woman. Kyrkwode had seen more than sufficient glimpses into the character of Lord Rutherford’s eighteen-year-old nephew to know that he did not want the young man’s eyes roving in the direction of his daughter.

  The brawny laborer set down the two heavy boards, stood straight to stretch his back, then descended for another load. Building these walls would be the easy part. Keeping an entire corridor hidden from view would be more difficult. And he would have to contrive some locking mechanism not readily detectable from the other side.

  The locksmith in the village would help with that, although Kyrkwode would not be able to divulge the purpose for his inquiry. That should not be too hard to do, thought the builder to himself. He had always been fascinated with unusual doors and clever locks. He had installed any number of such things—usually with the help of both blacksmith and locksmith—not only at the Hall and the cottage for Lord Rutherford, but also for many of the villagers.

  One more should not raise too many questions. Whatever masonry work was required, he would see to himself. When it was completed, only he and Lord Broughton Rutherford would know of it.

  13

  We Can Change the World!

  On the morning following their ride into the woods, in the first-class carriage of the Southwest England Express, the family of Charles Rutherford, Lord of the Manor of Heathersleigh, sped eastward toward their destiny.

  On Charles’ part, the future about to overtake him was one he neither anticipated nor would have chosen. The effect of the next two days upon him would be far different than what he envisioned. Neither could any of the five know what inheritance in unseen realms awaited them, or what sacrifice would be required before each could lay claim to his appointed share in it.

  For Charles Rutherford was a sought man. Not by the queen of England, however . . . but by the King himself. He was about to be made far more than a knight in the world of men. The calling upon him was far higher, into sonship in the eternal royal family.

  “What do you think, Amanda?” he said ebulliently to the daughter sitting at his side, heedless of the higher things at work which had his own heart at the center of their heavenly vortex. “Are you excited to be going into town?”

  “Oh yes, Papa,” his daughter replied. “I can hardly remember anything about the city.”

  “That is scarcely surprising, seeing as you were but three the only other time you and George and I accompanied your father,” smiled Jocelyn Rutherford from the seat opposite, where she sat holding little Catharine. The nanny, Constance Dimble, sat beside her, silent but listening interestedly to the conversation.

  “You will love the city,” remarked Charles. “What about you, George? Do you remember London?”

  Before her brother could reply, Amanda spoke up again.

  “Why, Papa?” she said, wide-eyed with anticipation. “Why will we love the city?”

  “Because of all it represents!—It is a great time to be alive, is it not, Jocie?” Charles added, turning to
his wife sitting across from him. “It’s the age of man, of invention, of progress. No other time in history has offered so much—and here we are with the chance to be right in the middle of it.”

  “And you in the very middle of it,” added Jocelyn, “being honored by the queen personally. Just think, in a short while you shall be Sir Charles, a knight of the realm.”

  Charles smiled with satisfaction to hear the words fall from his wife’s lips.

  “I still can hardly believe I am going to meet her myself,” she added.

  “But you shall, my dear—you shall! No more anxiety?”

  “Some. But I keep telling myself that Victoria will be as kind to me as you have always been.”

  “I am certain she will. It is an honor for us to share together.”

  “Is this really the greatest time there has ever been in history, Papa?”

  “Indeed it is, Amanda!” he answered, turning to face their daughter again. “None of us even grasp just how great an era this is. We have the opportunity before us literally to do what no people before us has done.”

  “What, Papa?” asked Amanda.

  “Change the world, Amanda. Change it for the better—wipe out disease and poverty and suffering and injustice. Mankind will soon be capable of controlling its own destiny.”

  On the other side of his mother, young George sat staring out the window, quietly contemplating the workings of the magnificent invention in which they were seated. He had inherited his father’s fascination with things that worked, and trains were a particular love of his nine-year-old mind. He had not, however, inherited his father’s interest in politics. Of a more thoughtful and melancholy temperament, he showed little interest in the conversation in progress across from him. He contented himself instead with the passing countryside and the sounds and sensations of mechanical motion.

  Amanda had inherited her father’s passion, however, not for the workings of machines but for the workings of society. If he said they could change the world, why would she think otherwise? He was a leader in Parliament, was he not? He was about to be made a knight by the queen. Didn’t he know everything? Amanda was seven and impressionable . . . and she trusted whatever her father said.