Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  All winter and now into the spring, he had been scurrying about making preparations. He had gathered equipment and supplies, seen to every detail, refined his drawings and diagrams, and consulted with experts in Bristol and London. There was still no large-scale development of generation or transmission networks in England, although such was being hotly talked about in many circles. The Electric Lighting Act was under discussion in the House of Commons. Bringing electricity to Heathersleigh, powered by an on-site generator, was therefore as much experimental as it was practical. Many were watching to see how the Rutherford project, as it was dubbed, would fare.

  The lord of the manor of Heathersleigh could easily have afforded for others to carry out the menial aspects of the labor. But neither he nor George was about to miss out on this project! Charles had designed the system himself. He and George and their servants had built with their own hands the small house in back that would house the generator. And they planned to install every inch of wire themselves.

  As the project neared completion, and as word of it spread throughout the south of England, almost daily some visitor or another appeared at the Hall to observe progress and to question Charles about this or that aspect of his daring scheme. If it worked, and if lights indeed blazed throughout Heathersleigh Hall during the darkest of winter nights, the success would no doubt prompt far more than curiosity. Every wealthy householder who could afford such an installation would clamor for electricity, although few would be capable of understanding the scientific intricacies involved. Already Charles was finding requests coming his way to help with, design, or oversee other similar applications. His resignation from Parliament had not lessened his reputational profile. If anything, Sir Charles Rutherford was now in the public eye to an even greater extent than before.

  He would consult, he said, but he was not interested in pulling wire up and down and throughout every castle and country manor in England! If George eventually required a lucrative occupation, here was one knocking on his very door.

  The caller who arrived at Heathersleigh one afternoon about a month after Amanda’s birthday, therefore, was not at all what Charles might have expected. Jocelyn found her husband in the corridor of the second floor of the north wing, boring a hole through the mortar of the stones in preparation for feeding wire through into his study.

  “We have guests, Charles,” she said as she approached.

  “Who is it, Jocie?” said Charles from the floor. He continued to turn the auger.

  “Mrs. Powell and her son.”

  A puzzled expression came over his face. He now glanced up from where he lay on his back. His hand stopped.

  “Lady Holsworthy?” he said. “She hardly seems the type who would be interested in electricity.”

  “Electricity is not the purpose of their visit, Charles.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Our daughter,” replied Jocelyn in a voice whose concern Charles could hardly fail to notice.

  “Oh . . . I see. Well, is there any way you can handle it, Jocie? Tell them I’m filthy and smack in the middle of it. Give her my regards, and my apologies.”

  “It is Lady Holsworthy and her son,” repeated Jocelyn with emphasis. “Word of Amanda’s seventeenth birthday has apparently spread more rapidly than we might have hoped.”

  “I see,” said Charles. He sat up on the floor. At last the gravity of the situation began to dawn on him.

  “Charles,” persisted Jocelyn, “I want you to come down . . . I need you to be there with me.”

  His wife’s imploring tone at last alerted Charles to the fact that there was more to the situation than met the eye. He set down the auger, rose from the floor, and slapped at his trowsers two or three times, mortar dust filling the air.

  “You are filthy!” laughed Jocelyn.

  “Let me just wash my face and hands and put on a clean shirt and trowsers. I’ll join you in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Charles,” said Jocelyn sincerely. “This is not an interview I particularly want to handle alone.”

  Charles hurried back to his room to change, reflecting as he did upon the past few years and upon the daughter who had grown more and more distant as her teen years had progressed. He recalled his and Jocelyn’s original talk with Diggorsfeld and the prayers they had offered in the heather garden since. Notwithstanding the almost cheerful disposition that had come over Amanda in the last couple of weeks, Charles felt a weight of renewed anxiety tugging at his heart. He thought of Timothy’s exhortation not to be afraid to exercise the hand of parental leadership. What would this day bring? he wondered.

  He approached the drawing room a few minutes later, his heart and mind full of the daughter in whom he had taken such pride only a few short years ago. Back then, Amanda had been so much like him. Now her outlook could not have been more different from his own. Even as he hurried down the corridor he heard his wife babbling on in a most uncharacteristic manner. He knew she was doing her best to keep the conversation lightly afloat until he arrived.

  Jocelyn turned toward him as he entered with visible relief.

  “Lady Holsworthy,” said Charles, moving across the room and extending his hand, “how nice of you to pay us a visit. How is the marquess?”

  Atworth Powell, the marquess of Holsworthy, presided over one of the grandest estates in all the south of England, lying some twenty miles northeast of Heathersleigh in the rolling hill country of Somerset. His hunts were legendary, both at his residence, Holsworthy Castle, upon his twenty-thousand-acre highland estate in Scotland, and, as Charles well knew, even in the countryside around Heathersleigh.

  “My husband is well, thank you, Sir Charles,” replied the woman, reaching up to take his hand. “He is in Canada at the moment.—You remember my son, Hubert,” she added, gesturing with her hand, now free, to her right, where stood a young man of moderate height and muscular build.

  “Of course—how are you, Hubert,” said Charles, “I haven’t seen you for years.”

  “Very well, thank you, sir,” said the visitor with the confidence and bearing of an adult of thirty, though he would just turn twenty in the summer of this year. The two shook hands, during which, already divining the purpose of the visit, Charles sought his eyes, that he might find what there was to discover within their depths. No mention was made, either now or throughout the visit, of their earlier difference of opinion in the matter of the fox, the sheep, and Mr. Mudgley’s hens and the vegetables.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Powell,” said Charles.

  The marquess of Holsworthy was reported to be one of the wealthiest men in England. His only son stood to inherit both fortune and title. Most fathers in the kingdom would have considered the lad a most excellent catch for any daughter. Besides his money, he was one of the best-looking young men in England, which fact he himself knew as well as did anyone who laid eyes on him. The lord of the manor of Heathersleigh, however, was no more in the habit of viewing such matters in the same way as did the world he had once so highly esteemed.

  He and Jocelyn had known that such a day as this would come. Yet, as always seems the case, the moment had arrived sooner than they had anticipated. They had discussed the matter amongst themselves and resolved time and again to clarify their minds to Amanda. They wanted no misunderstanding over the future attentions of young men to arise.

  They had not yet done so, however. Amanda did not make it easy for either of her parents to talk openly and honestly with her. In truth, they could not help being intimidated by her, afraid of what she might say or do. She had made it all too clear that their guidance in her life was anything but welcome.

  Now the day had come.

  Such visits were an inevitability when lovely young women reached a certain age. Most families and most young women looked forward to them. But Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford hoped for something other than the traditional avenue of romance for their son and daughters—a path perhaps trod less frequently, but whereon virtue and ch
aracter were more highly esteemed than good looks, flirtatious personalities, and fat bank accounts.

  This was the first such call to occur at Heathersleigh. It would doubtless not be the last.

  On this particular day, Charles had just shaken hands with a young man whose previous actions had shown him to be of doubtful character. The reason for the visit was written all over the young man’s face. Charles’ own daughter sat with a silent smirk in her eyes, no doubt knowing what her parents were thinking, and enjoying their discomfort. As Charles took a seat, he thought to himself that he must do what was right, whether or not his daughter agreed with him or liked the result, and pray that God would somehow cause good to come of the consequences.

  Hubert now sat down. Charles turned and took a seat next to his wife.

  “Is tea coming, Jocie?” he asked.

  “Yes, dear—Sarah’s on her way.”

  “Wonderful!—I’ve been working hard and could use a cup,” he said in the direction of their guests with a smile. “What do you know about electricity, Hubert?”

  “Not a thing, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “Interested? I’d be happy to show you what we’re doing here. My son George is up on the second floor right now, hard at work on it.—I believe you and he are about the same age.”

  “Uh . . . yes, sir—I believe we are indeed,” replied Hubert Powell. “But, actually, to tell you the truth . . .” he added, glancing unconsciously in Amanda’s direction, then quickly back toward Charles, “I’m really a bit of a dolt at such matters—usually leave all that to our servants. I really think I would prefer to stay here.”

  The crack of a private smile appeared around the edges of Amanda’s lips, but she said nothing.

  “I was just telling Lady Rutherford what a lovely young lady Amanda has become,” said Lady Holsworthy. “Isn’t she a pretty one, Hubert?” she added, turning toward her son.

  Hubert was the positive apple of his mother’s eye. More important, however, he was his father’s son and therefore a man of the world in the full sense of the word, even at nineteen. He did indeed find this young girl lovely, as everyone in the room recognized well enough. It was his attraction to her that had prompted this visit. His mother’s presence was but a pretext. Rumors of certain oddities surrounding Sir Charles and his wife had reached Hubert’s ears, and he had been reasonably certain he would never secure an audience without his mother in accompaniment.

  “She is like a flower ready to burst into bloom,” he said in response to his mother’s question. He turned briefly toward Amanda with a smile.

  Amanda received the compliment as though she had heard the words for the dozenth time that day. Perhaps she was in the habit of saying just such sweet nothings to herself. She looked straight into the young man’s eyes and nodded slightly with a coy expression in which was mingled a hint of haughtiness.

  Jocelyn saw the nod, and it nearly took her breath away. Where had her daughter learned to behave so around men!

  Tea and biscuits came. The usual small talk followed, including a discussion of the weather and recent trips to London. It was Hubert who turned the shallow repartee to the subject of gardens. It hardly seemed a likely subject for the son of the marquess of Holsworthy. Yet neither of the elder Rutherfords was surprised when he skillfully led the conversation by circuitous paths to the grounds of Heathersleigh, then expressed his desire to see them.

  “Perhaps Miss Rutherford might be good enough to show me around,” he said, turning toward Amanda.

  “A capital idea, Hubert!” said Charles before Amanda could reply. “Why don’t we all go outside and enjoy one of these last few days of winter together. I don’t think it is too chilly for a stroll.” He rose immediately and led the way from the drawing room and out of the house.

  Knowing that to object would not help his cause, Hubert swallowed his annoyance, rose from his chair, and followed Amanda’s father outside with the rest.

  Charles led the way as the party of five sauntered casually about the grounds. It was clear that young Hubert had it in mind to break apart from the three parents with Amanda. But both Jocelyn and Charles lingered close by, and neither took their eyes off their guest. Amanda was too at ease with the young man’s attentions to make either of them comfortable.

  By and by, as the day was a crisp one, by common consent they found themselves moving again in the direction of the front door.

  85

  Bold Proclamation

  As they walked again toward the house, Hubert Powell moved close to Charles.

  “I am hoping, sir,” he said, “that you will do me the honor of allowing me to visit your daughter upon future occasions.”

  Charles nodded as the young man spoke, taking in his question thoughtfully.

  “Let us go back into the Hall, shall we?” he said. “That will give me a few moments to collect my thoughts with regard to your question.”

  Charles had heard enough about the present marquess to make him more than just a little uncomfortable, if even half the reports were true. He would give any man the benefit of the doubt. If he were talking to the marquess he would be gracious enough. But that could not prevent the man’s weaknesses of character from being well documented. He knew he would hesitate to engage in any business dealings with him or to allow his wife to be alone in the same room with him.

  It was said the son was well on his way to following in the father’s footsteps. The lad had already once been engaged to be married. The reasons for the broken engagement were obscure. But there had been talk, and the young lady had disappeared from public life thereafter for just something under a year. In any event, Charles felt confident that this was not the sort of young man with whom he wanted his daughter on friendly terms.

  Lord, show me what to do, he prayed silently as they walked inside. Give me the words you would have me speak. Turn my daughter’s heart toward you. Accomplish good and bring about your purposes in Amanda’s life. Open her eyes to who she is . . . and to the woman you would make her to be.

  Jocelyn rang for a new pot of tea. They reentered the drawing room and again seated themselves.

  “To tell you the truth, Hubert,” said Charles once they were comfortable, “Amanda’s mother and I are not quite ready to consent to her seeing young men on a regular basis. You see, we are a little old-fashioned in that regard.”

  “Old-fashioned!” exclaimed Lady Holsworthy. “Come, Sir Charles—everyone knows you for a progressive.”

  “I am afraid that was in my former life, your ladyship,” smiled Charles.

  “Your former life! Heavens, Sir Charles, are you a believer in reincarnation?”

  “Not at all,” laughed Charles. “Quite the contrary.”

  “Whatever do you mean, then?”

  “I was referring to my life before I gave my heart to the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  An awkward silence filled the room. Amanda’s face went several shades of crimson at her father’s boldness. The future marquess took in the statement with analytical curiosity, wondering what such a revelation might mean to his plans with regard to the peculiar man’s daughter. His mother shifted nervously in her chair and flustered about for some adequate response.

  “I, er . . . that, is, Sir Charles,” she said, “I see now what you meant, although . . . that is to say, it was not my impression—that is, I had no idea you were—”

  “Yes, Lady Holsworthy,” said Charles jovially, “I am afraid I was altogether a heathen in matters of belief.”

  “Goodness, Sir Charles!” exclaimed the poor woman. “You do have a way of employing the strongest language.”

  “I am sorry. I hope I have not offended you.”

  “A heathen—gracious, Sir Charles, you cannot mean such a thing! How can you possibly be serious?”

  “That is exactly what I mean, Lady Holsworthy. A heathen is no more nor less than precisely what I was. Like millions of others, I assumed myself a good and upstanding individual on the basis of the fact
that I comported myself like a gentleman and had never robbed a bank nor murdered anyone like our ancestor Cain of old. But to my standing before the Creator who made me in his image, Lady Holsworthy, I had never given the slightest thought. Therefore, what could I call myself but a heathen, an unbeliever? That was, as I say, my former life—a life of unbelief, a life lived for no purpose but to fulfill my own desires and do as I myself pleased.”

  Another brief silence ensued, interrupted by the timely appearance of Sarah Minsterly with a fresh tray of tea things.

  “And you say your life is different now?” remarked Hubert with feigned curiosity after everyone had been served. His question stemmed not so much from interest as from the desire to humor the fellow along and see what further outrageous thing he might say. He only wished his father could hear this. He would never believe it when he told him!

  “As different as if suddenly a bright sun had exploded brilliantly over the landscape at midnight in the dead of winter. Ten years ago the light of that sun did rise in my life. It was nothing more nor less than the bright warming sun of God’s love. I have been seeing things from an altogether different vantage point ever since.”

  “What might that vantage point be exactly?” asked Lord Hubert. He glanced over at Amanda. But now, mortified at the direction the conversation had taken, she did not allow him to find her eyes.

  “It is the perspective,” replied Charles, “of how God, my Creator, and his Son Jesus, who is now my Master, view things. I have taken their perspective for my own. I have relinquished my life into their hands. I now attempt to think, see, and respond as I believe it is their will for me to respond. That is not to say that I do so well or effectively, but such is my desire. In short, I became what is commonly called a believer in the Christian faith. As such, it is now my desire to order my ways—including my thoughts and decisions and attitudes and perspectives—accordingly. Again, this implies nothing of how well I do or do not do so, only that such is now the priority of my life.”