Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  As they walked away, Amanda knew her mother was murmuring a prayer for the poor boy whose plight they had just witnessed. The fact did nothing to soften Amanda’s heart. She hated Rune Blakeley. If she were older she would see that he was punished for his brutality.

  How dare he treat her as he had—and talk rudely to her and her mother!

  She glanced back for one last look over her shoulder, then turned and continued at her mother’s side. As the day progressed, the injustice she felt for lame young Stirling, and her hatred of his father, gathered to itself a smoldering irritation against her mother for being so unconcerned, as Amanda judged it, in the face of the horrible encounter. How could she just walk off as if nothing had happened?

  A determination rose up within the young daughter of Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn Rutherford that day. She resolved to do more than just pray for things like her parents did or take people an occasional ham. When opportunities were presented her she would do something that made a difference.

  Praying—what did that ever accomplish!

  Her mother’s words repeated themselves over and over in her mind throughout the afternoon: I am a woman. There is nothing I can possibly do.

  She would be different, Amanda determined. She would not let indifference dominate her life as it had that of her parents ever since they had become so religious! And she would never let being a woman hold her back. After all, Queen Victoria had influenced the entire world for more than half a century—more than any man.

  Amanda still recalled the late queen’s eyes and gentle voice as she looked into her face. I am sure you will turn the world on its ear when your time comes, won’t you, dear? the soft voice sounded in her memory.

  “Yes, I will,” whispered Amanda as they rode silently home from the village that day. “Yes . . . I will!”

  They called this the Edwardian era, the age of men. But women were making their mark everywhere too. Not all women were like her mother, timidly following behind their husbands and never doing anything for themselves.

  Amanda certainly had no intention of living such a passive life. She would assert herself. Maybe she could never be queen. But she would make her mark, just as she and her father used to talk about before . . . before he had changed, and become so complacent to everything around him, and her mother along with him.

  When she was older, she would come find Rune Blakeley if it lay within her power; then she would give him what he deserved!

  64

  Opportunity and Adventure

  The dimly lit coffeehouse in Vienna, situated as it was so near the university, had been a center for student debate, discussion, and political dialogue since the days of Napoleon.

  Now in the heady days of the first decade of the twentieth century, with socialism in vogue throughout Europe’s centers of learning, it was a popular gathering spot for those who considered themselves singularly capable of changing history. Not an evening went by in the Vienna Kaffe Kellar that discussion did not range from democracy to revolution. In the process it covered nearly everything between.

  “What do you think?” said a young man at a corner table, apparently in his mid-twenties. He took a tentative sip from his steaming cup of strong coffee. “Will it come to revolution in Russia?”

  “It appears likely,” answered the other, a twenty-year-old student from England visiting the city for the first time, “if the reports are true.”

  “Oh, but they are true,” rejoined his companion. “I was in Moscow last year. Russia’s war with Japan has weakened the government, and the student movement remains strong. There will be revolution within the year—depend upon it.”

  “You sound enthusiastic,” remarked the young visitor. His tone was uncertain, yet curious.

  “But of course. The possibilities for changing the social fabric of Europe have never been greater. Revolution is the answer to our dreams. You told me you are a socialist.”

  “I am, but—”

  “But what? Our time has come—the moment when history takes its new course. It is those such as you and I who will bring it about.”

  “You really think it is possible?”

  “Only for those who are not afraid of the adventure—those who are willing to seize the chance when it comes to them.”

  It fell silent a moment. The younger of the two sipped from his cup of weak tea and grimaced slightly. If it were true, as many of his friends on the Continent claimed, that the English were incapable of making good coffee, it was equally axiomatic that the rest of Europe could not brew an acceptable pot of tea.

  “What kind are you, my friend?” asked the coffee drinker at length. His voice contained, as he intended, a tone of significance and intrigue.

  “How do you mean?” asked the student.

  “Are you one of the few? Do you possess courage for the adventure ahead?”

  “I’ve always considered myself unafraid to face new challenges,” answered the youth.

  “Even in the face of opposition and persecution?”

  “What persecution?”

  “Some would consider those of our outlook a devilish cult. But they are merely those who have not seen the light of revelation.”

  “What revelation?”

  “The fountain of truth.”

  The student’s eyebrows lifted at the cryptic statement, but he decided for the present not to inquire further into its meaning. “What are you called?” he asked.

  “We go by no name. We know ourselves. The source of the fountain’s light must remain hidden for now.”

  They drank again from their respective brews.

  “So, my friend . . . are you eager to seize the opportunity?” asked the drinker of strong coffee.

  “What opportunity? Be more specific,” said the drinker of weak tea.

  “To join our number, to become one of the enlightened, to be one of the fountain’s chosen when the new era dawns. There are always opportunities in times of change, opportunities which can involve making a great deal of money very easily.”

  “Money means little to me. I am well provided for.”

  “Is that why you travel?”

  “One of the reasons. It relieves the boredom.”

  “If money means little to you, does the cause?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The two continued to speak in low tones.

  “There is someone I want you to meet,” said the native of the Continent. “He has been looking for one like you who is able to travel freely.”

  “To do what?”

  “Nothing strenuous, I assure you. At first, only to take an occasional small package past your own border officials.”

  The student laughed. “Nothing could be easier!” he said.

  “Ah, now it is you who sound enthusiastic.”

  “Just the sort of prank I would enjoy!”

  “Then come,” said the other, rising, “I will take you to meet my friend tonight.”

  65

  The Place of Heather

  Charles Rutherford arrived back from London late that afternoon. His day had been eventful enough in its own right. After his meeting with Prime Minister Balfour in the morning, he had met later in the day with the leadership of his own Liberal party.

  These were momentous times, and the lord of the manor of Heathersleigh was squarely in the thick of them. His heart, however, was heavy rather than enthusiastic about the prospects that faced him, and he greeted his wife with a preoccupied smile.

  Jocelyn’s welcome was subdued as well, her mind still troubled by the incident in the village that day. Both husband and wife knew their ears were needed for one another, so they left the house together immediately after tea. Hand in hand they walked across the entryway and down to the heather garden they had together reclaimed from the encroaching woods and begun cultivating some years ago.

  Their talk with Timothy Diggorsfeld during his first of many visits to Heathersleigh five years earlier had sparked a new round of horticultural
creativity. Since then, they had worked tirelessly among the heather plants, praying as they worked for Amanda and the similar work the hands of the Lord would perform in the soil of her garden when she at last relinquished the tools of it into his care. As a result of their efforts, several new paths, a stream, and a small wooden bridge had been added to the garden, all the labor of Charles’ and Jocelyn’s own hands.

  The heather garden was now their favorite haunt about the place. Especially on such a warm autumn evening as this, when probably half the various species were in bloom, it was peaceful and lovely.

  They followed the brick-lined path into the garden, strolling casually and aimlessly through its winding depths, passing between hedges and single shrubs and beside rock gardens. They crossed the small winding stream in several places, here by bridge, now by large rocks in its midst. Except for a few species of dwarfed pine, nothing grew here but heather blooming in variegated shades of white, pink, and purple. As was now their custom, husband and wife prayed silently as they went.

  “It is an unlikely plant to be capable of such beauty, is it not, Jocelyn?” finally remarked Charles as they ambled along.

  Jocelyn smiled in acknowledgment. “Just like this face of mine,” she said, “which you always insist you see beauty in, however unlikely that is. I must admit I still have a difficult time believing you.”

  “You are beautiful, Jocie, and I will keep telling you, until you believe it. Even then, I will not stop.”

  “There are times when even a simple I love you from your lips sends me into a fresh round of doubts about myself. Even after so many years, I find it hard to believe someone could love me as you do.”

  “I know,” replied Charles with a serious face. “Such is your path to walk. But you must walk it, Jocie. You must keep moving forward, reminding yourself that even these stem from the Father’s love for you, for the deepening of your character and your trust in him. You must keep telling yourself that you are his handiwork . . . and you have his fingerprint to prove it.”

  She sighed. “I do know that, Charles. I even believe that the Lord gave me you to help me know what his love is like. It’s just so . . . well, it’s still so difficult to see this thing as a mark of God’s love. You say I am beautiful. But sometimes I wonder if I shall ever believe it . . . truly believe it in the depths of my heart. . . .”

  “There is a mystery in all lovely things,” he mused. “Beauty has so many facets. The beauty in one human face, especially, may be more difficult to find than in another. There is a beauty that presents itself to the first glance. But there is a deeper radiance that takes time to see. This deeper beauty is all the more special in that it is reserved for the eyes of the truly discerning. Heather is just the same. Its beauty is perhaps not for all to see.”

  It was quiet a moment or two.

  “There is indeed a quality of mystery about heather,” added Charles, bending over to check on a plant, “altogether unlike the beauty of rose or the orchid or the tulip. Nor does it contain the fragrance of a hyacinth.”

  “The plant itself is really quite ordinary,” said Jocelyn.

  “Even ugly,” rejoined Charles. “In many parts of the world, at most times of the year, it is considered little more than a weed that grows where little else will survive—a wiry little annoyance even sheep and goats are reluctant to eat. And yet . . .”

  Charles paused and gazed about him, gesturing with his arm.

  “—and yet all together, the infinite variations of hue, when the colors mix and flow into one another like this—there is such an inexplicable and subtle beauty to it. I have grown to love it like few other growing things. I cannot imagine how I could have been so unseeing all those years.”

  “We were unseeing of many things,” said Jocelyn with a sad smile. “Thankfully we are learning to appreciate them at last.”

  “But I grew up here, Jocelyn! Overgrown as this place was, the heather must still have bloomed. Of course it bloomed. Remember what Timothy said—heather is so rugged it blooms whatever its surroundings. So it must have flowered here all year round, every day of my boyhood and youth, and after I was grown. But until the Lord began opening my eyes to his world and his work in it, I never saw its beauty.”

  He paused a moment, gazing at the shrubbery around him.

  “Have you noticed,” Charles went on, “how the heather even changes shades—or seems to—depending on the light, appearing different in a morning sun than at evening’s dusk?”

  “I have noticed,” said Jocelyn.

  “The yellow or blue of the primrose or the purple of the viola is the same yellow or blue or purple in every setting. But heather always seems to summon a slightly different hue to show its admirer.”

  “Like the infinite expressions of the human face?” suggested Jocelyn with a small smile.

  “It does make you think that God created each face and flower and placed a different message inside each one for us to discover as we gaze upon them . . . and ponder the One who made them.”

  “I do love the way everything that bears God’s image is a little different than everything else.”

  “Do you see why I am so fond of Timothy’s analogy of God’s fingerprint—because all fingerprints are different and personal? Everything God made is so wonderfully unique. And unlike the rose or the tulip,” Charles went on enthusiastically, “which are so regal they cannot help but be stunning, heather is beautiful only to those eyes to whom it reveals its subtle secrets.”

  “A revealer of moods and subtleties?”

  “Exactly—it speaks as much to the imagination as it does to the senses . . . like my beautiful wife!”

  “Charles!”

  “It’s true.”

  He paused as a thoughtful expression came over his face.

  “—yet for so long,” he added, “I was unable to see the heather’s nuances, though they were right in front of me. I was able somehow to recognize the principle when it came to human beings. But I was slower to awaken to the secrets of nature.”

  “Perhaps because during those years your intellect predominated over your imagination,” commented Jocelyn. “You only beheld what your intellect saw.”

  “You are a shrewd one—you have me all figured out!” laughed her husband. “We’ll have Professor Freud paying a visit to Heathersleigh before long to consult with you and garner your opinions!”

  Jocelyn paused, stooped down, and plucked a blooming purple tip off one of the knee-high shrubs. She stood and held the flowery twig to her eyes for closer examination.

  “Its intrigue must be why heather is legendary in Scotland and Germany and other places,” she said as they continued on. “Someone in your family back in ancient times must have understood its complexities and loved it. Otherwise why would they have named the estate Heathersleigh?”

  “I’ve never heard how the place came by the name,” replied Charles thoughtfully.

  “Heathersleigh—place of the heather?” mused Jocelyn. “Whoever named it, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a clue to the name somewhere in that Bible Gifford was asking about,” laughed Jocelyn. “Do you think it will ever turn up?”

  “We’ll turn George loose on it,” rejoined Charles. “After the connections he found between that locked old basement room and the garret, perhaps there are others. Perhaps some yet undiscovered chamber may contain family secrets.”

  “George was poking around up in the attic of the west wing the other day. He still insists there is a whole network of hidden corridors up there. That boy’s curiosity is remarkable!”

  “And his imagination!” laughed Charles. “He reminds me of myself at his age,” he added, “—always tinkering and fiddling with something. Although I never undertook to explore the Hall the way he has.”

  66

  Different Human Plants

  The conversation about their children reminded Jocelyn of the day’s incident in the village, which in the course of their walk she had almost forgotten. Now
she related it in detail to her husband.

  “All three are different,” sighed Charles, shaking his head, “but especially George and Amanda—they’re like night and day. It’s so much more than can be explained by the fact that George is a boy and Amanda a girl.”

  “They’re like different human plants,” sighed Jocelyn, twirling her little branch of heather. “That much is easy to see—and they’re growing in such different directions.”

  “What have we done wrong, Jocelyn,” asked Charles, “that Amanda seems so resentful of the perspectives we are trying to bring to our family? And why have George and Catharine, on the other hand, fallen in so naturally with them?”

  “I thought we had done with blaming ourselves after talking and praying with Timothy,” said Jocelyn.

  “It’s difficult not to place a burden of guilt upon myself when one of my own children seems to despise what I stand for. And look, Jocie—Amanda’s attitude has only soured since then, not improved.”

  “We mustn’t measure the answers to prayer by our own timetable, Charles. You know that.”

  He nodded. “Yet how can a man help but feel he’s done something wrong?”

  “Amanda is fourteen years old, and she has been a strong and independent thinker for years. You can hardly blame yourself for that.”

  “Unless she came by her independent streak from me,” he smiled.

  “Independence can be a virtue or a vice, depending on whether it is used to do God’s will or resist it.”

  “But it can hardly be denied that for the first years of her life I encouraged her to make up her mind for herself, to question and even to disagree with me if she was so inclined. I thought I was doing her such a service—expanding her mind, teaching her to think. Now I feel I overdid it. Not that I don’t want all three, Catharine and George included, to think. What parent doesn’t want that for his child? It’s the resentment of rules, which I feel my training somehow fostered, that concerns me. I certainly never intended to encourage that. How can I not feel that I contributed to her present hostile attitudes?”