Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “Even if she acquired her spunk from you, she is still the one who must choose what she does with it.”

  Charles nodded. “She has never done well with restrictions,” he said.

  “Amanda’s own motivations and choices in the matter must be taken into account,” rejoined Jocelyn, “just like George’s and Catharine’s—and they are responding entirely positively to our becoming a Christian family together. George loves the Lord and is devoted to you. His garden is blooming. We must just wait longer for Amanda’s, that’s all.”

  Charles nodded thoughtfully. “A man can’t help wondering, however, about his own role in those choices. What if I had not been away in London so much of the time? What if I had been more assertive in conveying my spiritual perspectives right when the change came?”

  “We were struggling to understand everything ourselves,” reminded Jocelyn. “We didn’t speak out so much to the children initially because we were talking so much over between ourselves, trying to come to terms with a whole new way of looking at life. And then you and I had to learn a whole new way of being together as husband and wife. That wasn’t easy—telling you to be more assertive!”

  “It wasn’t easy for me to do, either. I couldn’t have done it without your prodding,” he added, laughing. “You had to make me lead.”

  “I was happy to help,” laughed Jocelyn.

  “It remains difficult,” said Charles, pensive again. “For so long I believed in equality all the way around. I was extremely uncomfortable trying to think of myself as the so-called authority of the family.”

  “But you saw the scriptural necessity of it. And you’ve stepped into your role as head of the home naturally and wonderfully.”

  Charles nodded. “Only with your help and encouragement,” he said. “I didn’t particularly like doing it. Temperamentally I would still prefer a more liberal, egalitarian approach. But if God tells me that I must be the head of the family, I really don’t have any choice but to do my best at it. Perhaps my struggle in this area has also contributed to Amanda’s difficulty in accepting our changed priorities. I have to admit that even as her father I was occasionally intimidated by Amanda, which added to that difficulty. It was far easier to be your spiritual head, because you welcomed it, than to be Amanda’s.”

  “Amanda intimidated us both,” sighed Jocelyn.

  “That feeling is still there. More than ever, she resists all mention of spiritual matters.”

  “Your character is what must speak louder in the end than all the rest,” reassured Jocelyn.

  “I do hope it will,” Charles replied with a sigh. “But I must admit, I see little that my character has caused in Amanda’s heart other than annoyance, even bitterness.”

  “Remember the lesson of the heather,” Jocelyn urged, “and what Timothy told us to do—pray for her. We must give God time to perfect his work in Amanda, Charles. Look how long it took for him to break through our outer shells.”

  They walked on several moments in silence. Charles was the first to break it.

  “Even after seven years of trying to fall in with God’s designs,” he said, “there is still so much I find difficult to understand—such as the effect of spiritual values on children growing into adulthood.”

  “I know. It is hard to watch them, now that they are having to make determinations of belief for themselves.”

  “Do you ever wonder, Jocie, how it might have been different had we been Christians from the start? Different for George and Amanda and Catharine, I mean.”

  “Of course I wonder. How can I not? But I don’t know, Charles—would it have been different? It seems to me that one has to take life as it comes. When the Lord spoke, you listened. You gave your heart to him. You told me what you had done, and after a struggle, and your help, my heart responded as well. Since then I think we have honestly tried to obey him. We haven’t done so perfectly. But whatever mistakes we’ve made, our desire and prayer has been to do as he wants us. George sees the man you have become as a result, and he honors it. He wants to be the same kind of man. Amanda doesn’t see it in either of us. She resents me as much as she does you—resents my going along with you in everything, as she sees it. She is blind to the kind of sharing give-and-take and prayerful dialogue we constantly engage in. She has no idea how much freedom and latitude your loving headship allows me, nor how much trust you place in me. She doesn’t have eyes to see any of those things yet. Opening her eyes is not something you or I can force her to do.”

  Charles sighed. “I continually pray exactly that for Amanda,” he said, “that she will allow the Lord to open her eyes. But I cannot help wondering if there is something more we should do.”

  “What can we do but live faithfully? We must pray the day comes when she will see the Spirit at work both in us and in her own heart. It is the Lord who must cause Amanda’s garden to bloom. At present she hasn’t given us the option to actively cultivate her soil, so we must pray and leave it to him.”

  They had worked their way around in a circuitous loop that brought them back to the path by which they had entered the garden. Along this walk they now saw Sarah making her way with a tray.

  “Thought you two might enjoy another cup o’ tea before we all settled in for the night,” she said.

  “Ah, Sarah, you are a dear!” exclaimed Charles. “Thank you!”

  “You are most welcome, sir.”

  “Will you join us?”

  “Oh no, sir. I’ve the kitchen to tidy up. And you both looked so peaceful together as I came, I thought I had never seen such a couple as the two of you.—I could not intrude in that, now could I?”

  Charles laughed.

  “Well, Sarah, you are very kind . . . but we would be delighted to share our tea with you.”

  “Thank you just the same, sir.”

  She turned and walked back to the house. Charles and Jocelyn sat down on a flat stone bench with the tray of tea things between them. Jocelyn poured out two cups, which they sipped at for several minutes in silence.

  67

  Happy Evening

  I wondered if we would ever have children,” smiled Jocelyn. “Now we have three. And two are on the threshold of growing up.”

  “Time races by. Do you remember the evening I asked you to marry me?”

  “What kind of a question is that!” laughed Jocelyn. “Of course I remember. How could I forget? You were so regal in your dress uniform.”

  “I almost had to drag you there.”

  “Not exactly drag me . . . but I’ll admit I was apprehensive at first. When we walked in, and I saw all those people in their gowns and uniforms—I thought I would die of embarrassment.”

  “You did splendidly. No one would have known.”

  “Right at first—I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this—I was angry with you. I almost turned and walked out.”

  “Angry,” laughed Charles, “—why?”

  “I thought you’d lied to me.”

  “Lied!”

  “Well, all right—maybe that’s too strong. Fibbed, then.”

  “About what? I would never lie to you, or fib either.”

  “I know that. And I knew it then too. But you had talked me into accompanying you to that affair by saying it was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would make me feel uncomfortable. And then we walked in, and—”

  “It wasn’t that big an event. Why, Jocelyn, you’ve mingled with M.P.s and spoken with Queen Victoria. That was just a little military soirée.”

  “I met Victoria after you taught me to believe in myself—and even that was difficult. But back then—Charles, those were not the kind of events I was accustomed to. I was mortified when we arrived. I wanted to shrivel up and hide. Will you never understand what it’s like to feel self-conscious about everything? I didn’t want anyone to see me . . . especially with you.”

  ————

  The festive sounds of music, celebration, and voices faded behind them as twenty-
three-year-old Jocelyn Wildecott followed her escort out of the grand ballroom into the moonlit gardens adjacent to the seventeenth-century mansion where the gala event was being held.

  She let out a quiet sigh of relief. It was good to be out of there! Too many people. Every one of them beautiful . . . perfect . . . with every hair in place. What was she doing here? How had she let Charles talk her into it!

  The cool evening breeze felt good on her face.

  Charles had insisted that she must be with him when he received his honor on this night. She had reluctantly agreed. And thus far, after she had recovered from her initial fear and anger, he had succeeded in putting her somewhat at ease. There had even been a few times, as they danced together, when she had almost forgotten her face, forgotten that they were in the midst of a crowd, and been swept up in the happiness of the moment.

  They were only moments—brief respites in an evening of all-too-familiar anxiety—but they were real. Somehow, Charles was able to make her forget more than anyone ever had. Even then, it was hard to believe, even though he said her red scar meant nothing to him—that he cared about her because of the person inside.

  The setting out here, away from the crowd, was one for leisurely strolling. Yet the instant they left the ballroom, Charles’ steps took on uncharacteristic vigor. He grew silent. After several long minutes, he spoke.

  “Thank you for coming tonight, Jocelyn,” he said. “It would not have been the same without you.”

  She did not reply. She had not quite put all her nervousness to rest. But as she quietly followed his meandering through the grounds, she could feel her hand on his arm gradually relax. The sounds from inside faded further behind them. A full moon and abundant garden lanterns lit the hedge-lined walkways under their feet.

  “In fact,” Charles went on, “I never want to go anywhere without you again.”

  “I enjoy being with you too, Charles,” replied Jocelyn, at last finding her voice.

  “I’m not sure you know what I am saying.”

  A look of question passed across Jocelyn’s face. She glanced up toward him, then quickly back down at the ground. Suddenly her cheeks were very hot. The feeling was not from the red of her birthmark.

  “I had . . . there were two reasons I had for wanting you to come here this evening. . . .”

  Charles paused briefly.

  “I wanted to bring you, not only to accompany me to the ball . . . I also had something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Of course, Charles, what is it?” said Jocelyn softly. Her cheeks burned.

  “It’s just that—well, you see, I’m getting a new post. I’ve been assigned to Manchester.”

  “Oh . . . oh, I see.”

  “No—it’s not what you think. It’s not that I’m trying to soften my good-bye. What it is . . . well, I don’t want to say good-bye at all. I can’t go north alone, don’t you see? I can’t make such a change without knowing that you will be there with me.”

  “I . . . I don’t . . .” Jocelyn faltered.

  “Jocelyn, what I want to ask you . . . is . . . will you be my wife?”

  The words fell like bricks crashing onto her head. She must have misheard! Did he say . . . wife? It could not be . . . he could not have said such a thing to her!

  She stopped and looked up. Charles was gazing into her face, a smile on his lips. Jocelyn stared at him in disbelief, her eyes wide, mouth half open.

  “Jocelyn Wildecott,” he said softly, “will you marry me?”

  Still she stared. Her heart pounded.

  “But . . . but, Charles . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  Again words failed her.

  “I mean it, Jocelyn. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Already she had begun quietly to weep. She turned away. She could not return his earnest gaze. It was too wonderful, yet too awful! She had never dared dream such a moment would come. But she could not marry someone like Charles . . . someone like Charles Rutherford!

  An awkward silence followed.

  “But . . . but, Charles . . . you can’t marry me,” she said at length.

  “I’ve talked to your father. He’s given his blessing.”

  “But you need someone who can stand proud beside you . . . you . . . you need someone who can be with you at social events . . . someone who . . . don’t you know how people—”

  His finger on her lips silenced her objections.

  “I need someone like you, Jocelyn,” he said.

  “No . . . you need . . . oh, Charles—how can—”

  Tears now began to flow in earnest.

  “Don’t you know that I am proud to be seen with you, proud to have you stand beside me?” said Charles softly. “Jocelyn Wildecott, you are the most beautiful person in the world to me.”

  “But—”

  Gently Charles took her in his arms and drew her close.

  “I want no one beside me,” he said into her ear, “but you. And I want you there forever.”

  And then he was saying it again, his voice strong and tender in the balmy night. “I love you, Jocelyn.”

  When Charles and Jocelyn reentered the ballroom thirty minutes later, the music and dancing had stopped. It was time for the presentations to begin. Jocelyn’s eyes were still red, along with her face. But a contented smile of joy shone through the remnants of her drying tears. She and Charles stood at the back of the ballroom, content in one another’s presence, for the first of the brief speeches that followed.

  “Finally,” announced the admiral at the podium, “we have a special honor to be presented to Commander Charles Rutherford—is Charles . . . Charles, where did you get off to?” he added, glancing about.

  With a last smile of reassurance, Charles left Jocelyn’s side. He strode forward through the crowd, amid enthusiastic applause.

  A brief speech by the admiral followed.

  After ribbon and medal had been pinned to Charles’ dress naval uniform, he and the admiral exchanged salutes.

  “I have a feeling this young man may replace me one day,” laughed the admiral to the approving gathering as he stepped away to allow Charles center stage. “He will be eligible for a rear-admiralty next year!”

  Cheers and more clapping gave evidence that many agreed with his assessment of young Rutherford’s future.

  “Commander Rutherford,” he added, “would you care to say a few words?”

  “Only briefly, Admiral,” replied Charles. “Thank you very much. Thank you all. There is one presentation I would myself like to make.”

  The crowd quieted. Charles’ hand crept toward one of his pockets.

  “I have something here which, I am delighted to announce, has as of just a few moments ago found a new home.”

  Out from his pocket came his hand, which he now held aloft. Between thumb and forefinger glistened an unmistakably beautiful ring.

  “I would like to introduce you all to the young lady who, out in the garden during your last two dances, has graciously consented to become the future Mrs. Charles Rutherford—”

  Oohs and sighs spread through the women in attendance. Heads quickly turned this way and that.

  “—ladies and gentlemen,” Charles continued, “may I present to you Miss Jocelyn Wildecott, a young lady whom I love with all my heart, and whom I will be privileged to make my wife.—Jocelyn, will you come up and join me?”

  Face burning, and hardly feeling her legs and feet as she went, Jocelyn now made her way forward. Clapping and cheering sounded around her, but she scarcely heard it. There was Charles. She was drawing closer. He took her hand. She felt him slip the ring onto her finger.

  Suddenly she was in his arms, clinging to him as if for dear life. For a few moments the clapping continued. Then the music began again. Slowly Charles led her as they began to dance. Gradually the crowd filled in around them. Jocelyn hardly dared look up, but kept her face pressed to his shoulder.

  “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered at len
gth. “You are so good to me.”

  “Love isn’t about deserving each other,” he replied, “it’s about loving each other. After that—what else is there?”

  “How long have you had this planned?” she asked.

  “A while,” Charles answered. “Long enough to buy a ring.” She could feel him smiling as he said the words.

  “How did you know I would say yes?”

  “Because our hearts were already knit together. I could not imagine any other future either of us could have . . . except with one another.”

  ————

  The happy memory of their engagement faded back to the present.

  Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford sat for some time in silence after their tea, almost as if reliving that memorable evening from sixteen years earlier. Gradually their thoughts returned to what had brought them to the garden in the first place.

  68

  The Mystery of the Heather Garden

  You know,” mused Charles at length, “our talk about the difference between George and Amanda and Catharine—and your calling them different human plants—reminds me of what the Lord said about the seed scattered on different kinds of ground. It was the same seed, but it grew differently.”

  “I was thinking about that too,” replied Jocelyn with a smile. “Although my reflections had gone along different lines.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was reflecting on the similarity between Amanda’s not seeing our spiritual priorities at present, and what you said about the heather garden.”

  Charles laughed. “I’m afraid your analogy’s lost me.”

  “You were saying that it takes a certain kind of eyes to see the secrets of the heather in the midst of what at first glance appears so common.”

  “And what, pray tell, does that have to do with our daughter!”

  “Just this—that sometimes eyes can see, but yet not see at the same time. You yourself said this very heather has been blooming in front of you all your life, yet it is only recently that your eyes have been opened to see the subtleties of its beauty. Perhaps God’s working in our lives will be the same for Amanda.”