Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  Mother and father walked on some distance in silence. Gradually the conversation returned to yesterday’s visit and questions of its purpose in the mind of the future marquess of Holsworthy.

  “She was much too at ease with the attentions of that young man,” remarked Jocelyn.

  “You remember when we were walking outside,” said Charles. “I could not help listening. I was surprised to see her so skilled at receiving his words, was even encouraging him.”

  “It was such an uncomfortable situation.”

  “I should not have agreed to let her attend that event in Copperstone last Christmas. She was different almost from the next day. I could see that the taste of the world got into her and made her yet more dissatisfied with us.”

  “What could you do? For years she has pushed and pushed for more freedom. You were only letting out the tether to see if it might make her less hostile.”

  “Perhaps,” sighed Charles. “But sometimes parents have to put their feet down, even when their children are as old as Amanda is. The more I pray, the more I find myself thinking that now is exactly such a time.”

  “Are you referring to London and the upcoming season?” asked Jocelyn.

  Charles nodded.

  “I am having strong doubts,” he went on, “that the round of London’s parties and balls is in our daughter’s best interests.”

  “I shudder at the thought of it,” replied Jocelyn. “I do not think being at the center of society will be good for her in the least. It will only deepen her self-centeredness.”

  “I’ve been wondering if we should bring her out at all.”

  “That is the way it’s done,” sighed Jocelyn.

  “Amanda’s character is more important than the traditions of society, more important than what people think of us, more important than what she thinks of us.”

  “We need to pray further.”

  “Let’s pray right now,” suggested Charles.

  He led the way to the nearest bench. They sat down and silenced their spirits for a few minutes. Jocelyn was the first to pray.

  “Lord,” she said, “help us know what is in your heart for us to do with our dear Amanda.”

  “We need your help, our God,” added Charles. “You are Father of us all, and you are Amanda’s Father. You love her and want what is best for her even more than we do ourselves. Show us what that best is, Lord, and what you would have us do.”

  “Develop her character, Lord. Turn her from independence.”

  “Break her pride, Lord, whatever it takes.”

  “Deepen virtue within her. Place in her heart a hunger for you, a hunger to be your daughter.”

  “Open her eyes to see our hearts, and our love for her.”

  “Tame her wild vines, Lord. Bring them under the tender pruning of your loving knife.”

  “Help Amanda to discover the mystery of the kingdom, the mystery of your life in her heart.”

  Their prayers drifted into the silent regions where both husband and wife dwelt alone with Father and Savior to them both. The prayer for guidance was one the Lord would not delay answering. It did not take long for both Jocelyn and Charles to recognize what his answer was.

  “I think our course is clear enough,” Charles said.

  “It will not be easy,” rejoined Jocelyn. “She has her heart set on going to London.”

  “You’re in agreement with me, are you not,” he asked, “that the time isn’t right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I want to make sure we’re together on this. And on a related matter, what do you think I ought to do regarding the Powell boy?”

  “He is certainly not the kind of young man I would want to consider as a potential son-in-law,” replied Jocelyn. “Or that I would want to call on Amanda at all, for that matter.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I think that decides it for me. I will write him this afternoon, saying that I think it best to deny his request until further notice.”

  “We’ll need to talk to Amanda about all this . . . and soon.”

  Charles sighed, then nodded. “I cannot say the prospect is one I look forward to. But you’re right—we mustn’t allow any uncertainty to drag on.”

  “I’ll arrange a time tomorrow,” said Jocelyn.

  88

  An Unwelcome Letter

  The future marquess of Holsworthy had just completed his luncheon and was dressing for a ride when the afternoon post arrived.

  Noting the return address on one of the envelopes, and reminded of the mortifying conclusion to his interview at Heathersleigh Hall, he felt a temporary renewal of outrage for the insult which had been paid to him there. His first thought was to burn the envelope without opening it, which was certainly no more nor less than any correspondence from that quarter deserved.

  He could not bring himself to destroy the letter, however, for he was certain it contained an apology. His injured pride demanded the satisfaction of reading it . . . and gloating that Charles Rutherford had come to his senses.

  Already considering to what soirée he might escort the lovely Amanda Rutherford in the next week or two, the young man let a smile play upon his lips while his fingers tore at one edge of the envelope. If this was an invitation for a return visit to Heathersleigh, he would make sure to word his acceptance cleverly. He would show the pompous fool that he was not someone to be toyed with.

  Dear Master Powell, the letter began,

  Lady Rutherford and I wish to express our sincere appreciation to you and your mother for your kind visit last week to Heathersleigh Hall. I want especially to thank you for the honorable manner in which you paid us a gracious call to consult me, as Amanda’s father, with regard to your desire to see more of her in the future. In these days of rapidly changing values and traditions within our society, I very much appreciate the respect demonstrated by your approach.

  As I indicated to you on that day, my wife and I pray about all important decisions we face. We feel neither prepared nor qualified always to know what is best to do in every situation that arises. Thus, some years ago, as we attempted to explain to you and your mother, when we gave ourselves to our heavenly Father to become followers of Jesus his Son, we also placed into his hands the prerogative to make our decisions for us. I realize this is a difficult perspective to communicate to those who may not be likewise inclined. Notwithstanding this difficulty, this has been, and remains, the manner in which we order our ways.

  In this light, and having consulted with our Father on the matter, and having both received from him the same sense of how he would have us proceed, Lady Rutherford and I must now respectfully decline your request to call upon our daughter in the future.

  Please understand that this decision has far less to do with you than it does with Amanda. We simply do not feel she is prepared at this time in her life to receive the attentions of a young man such as yourself. Maturity of character must precede any such involvement. Toward such an objective, as Amanda’s parents, we feel we must dedicate ourselves with steadfast vigor and prayer.

  I am sincerely yours,

  Charles Rutherford

  Heathersleigh Hall,

  Milverscombe, Devon

  Before Lord Hubert had even completed the final paragraph, Charles’ letter lay crumpled on the floor, while the young man stomped outside to the stables in a rage.

  He would get even with that arrogant religious fool one way or another!

  The afternoon was anything but pleasant for the five-year-old piebald gelding that was dubiously honored to carry the young heir of Holsworthy on his ride. The poor beast returned to the stables exhausted, and with whip welts up and down its back.

  89

  Explosive Talk

  On the same afternoon that Hubert Powell was tearing with reckless abandon over the Somerset countryside, Amanda Rutherford was making her way down a long hallway at Heathersleigh to her parents’ private sitting room. Her mother had asked her there for “a talk.” Immediately
upon entering the room, Amanda knew the meeting would be anything but pleasant.

  Recognizing in her father’s expression a new determination to enforce the authority she so bitterly resented, Amanda instantly drew herself up. With sullen and haughty countenance she took a chair and sat erect. Her clear blue eyes stared coldly out from her face, seeming to focus on nothing in particular.

  Her father stood across the room next to an oak sideboard. “Amanda,” he began, “after the visit by Lady Holsworthy and young Hubert two days ago, we felt it imperative to have a serious discussion.”

  Amanda sat immovable, like a block of ice, revealing by no slightest twitch or expression that she heard a word.

  “We need to talk to you,” he went on, “about the future, about your life, about what will be expected of you . . . perhaps about what we expect of you. By your countenance and noncommunicativeness, it is clear you would rather not consider our points of view. I am certain you wish you were instead free to make your own plans independent in every way from us. However, we are still your parents, and we have an obligation to fulfill, and therefore we must do our best for you.”

  He paused briefly, then went on.

  “Your mother and I have done much wrong as parents,” he said. “To our great regret, we did not understand a great many things when you and George were younger. We did not see clearly the role that parents are to occupy in the lives of their sons and daughters. But as the Lord revealed our duty to train and discipline and guide your development, we did our best to carry it out. We have seen, however, that such efforts on our part have caused you some unhappiness and confusion. We regret this, and we sincerely apologize that the circumstances of the past ten years have been difficult for you.

  “Be that as it may, the obligations of parental love still rest upon our shoulders. And there are two decisions we have made—your mother and I together—about which we need to inform you. The first is: Yesterday afternoon I wrote to Lord Hubert Powell, telling him that it would not fit in with our wishes for him to call upon you further.”

  At last Amanda made sufficient movement in her chair to show that she was alive, and that she heartily disapproved of her father’s effrontery. She adjusted her position slightly, then spoke in a controlled and measured voice.

  “You felt no need to talk the matter over with me?” she said stiffly.

  “No, we did not,” replied her father. “We felt in a matter such as this, in which you yourself were so directly involved, that your own judgment would be impaired. Your mother and I talked the matter over, prayed together, and we feel this decision is in your best interests.”

  “I see,” said Amanda icily. “You think you are given to determine what is best for me?”

  “In certain cases, yes. Young Powell is not a worthy suitor for you, nor for any young woman who values character.”

  “And as a Christian you feel it is right of you to judge and condemn him?” she said disdainfully.

  “I neither judge nor condemn him. But your mother and I would be foolish not to exercise the discernment which our experience provides. We feel that you may be too blinded by motives of your own to see what is perfectly clear.”

  Amanda did not reply. She was furious. But the smoldering fire of resentment against her father’s presumption was yet gathering heat, and was not quite ready to burst into flame.

  Sir Charles resumed.

  “Before continuing with the second matter,” he said, “I want to say this, and I implore you, dear Amanda, to hear me. Please do not reject my words. If at all possible, put away your youthful pride for a moment and listen to this exhortation. It is simply this: There is no greater measure of maturity and character than the capacity to listen to the counsel of others about oneself.”

  Charles paused to give his words time to sink in. He could not tell from her posture or her countenance whether Amanda was still listening or not.

  “You have always been a mature girl, Amanda,” he went on, “—mature, that is, in the way of being able to appear older than you were. You are intelligent in many ways. But there is another and more important gauge of maturity which I now urge you to call upon, to enable you to listen to your mother and me. To hear unpleasant but necessary things about oneself requires the greatest of all kinds of maturity. Yet it is the most difficult thing in all the world for young people.”

  Charles glanced at his wife with an expression not unlike helplessness. His eyes conveyed that he would be grateful for any help she might give him.

  “You can trust us, Amanda,” said Jocelyn in the direction where her daughter sat. “We love you so deeply. We want only what is for your best. We want to help you work on aspects of your character that have been neglected. We want to help you mature. We realize our responsibility to teach you the qualities of virtue and maturity that young women need to possess as they grow into adulthood. We should have been teaching these things to you when you were younger. We overlooked much. You are nearly an adult, and we want to help you learn some of these things now.”

  Jocelyn paused, realizing, as it seemed, that she was talking to a brick wall.

  “Please understand, Amanda,” her father now went on, “we are not trying to hurt you by saying these things. We only say that everyone has aspects of their personality which require more work at some times than others. We want to help you, because we love you.”

  He paused and took a deep breath, then at last reached the point of what he and Jocelyn had been building up to.

  “The long and the short of it,” he went on, “is that both of us strongly believe that it is in your best interests that we do not take you to London next month for a formal coming out during this year’s social season. Instead, we intend to spend this next year helping you learn what the Bible teaches in order to be a young lady of virtue and character.”

  These words fell like a great blast of icy wind upon Amanda’s ears. For a few disbelieving seconds, she sat like a statue of stone.

  “You are seventeen,” her father was saying, “but you are not ready to be an adult. You are not mature in the things that matter most. We fear that participating in the social season, rather than contributing to your character, would in fact only deepen motives of self within you. Allowing this would be the worst thing we could do for you.”

  Her parents looked at one another, not knowing whether or not to go on. Nervously Charles continued.

  “We feel you have grown self-absorbed, Amanda,” he said, “and we are concerned for the person you are becoming.”

  The invisible fire was now smoking hot, and the statue coming to life.

  “You are a lovely girl,” added Jocelyn. “But your beauty and station in life have fed a pride and independent spirit within you that would only be made worse in Lond—”

  “You keep saying you want to help!” cried Amanda suddenly. “You want to help me this, you want to help me that! Well, I want none of your kind of help!”

  “We are your parents. We are supposed to help you grow.”

  “Says who?” spat Amanda.

  “Says the Bible,” replied her mother.

  “Well, I don’t care what the Bible says. And I don’t want your help, I tell you. You’ve been controlling my life too long!”

  “Amanda, please—”

  “I won’t listen to another word! You talk about responsibility—well I have no responsibility to live according to beliefs I do not hold. Yes, that’s right! I don’t believe as you do! Just don’t expect me to go along with you anymore!”

  “We are not trying—”

  “The two of you are such hypocrites—trying to force everyone you meet to accept your ridiculous old-fashioned values. You’re relics from some other century—no, you’re worse, because you’ve chosen to live as relics! You condemn everyone who thinks differently than you. You don’t even live in the real world. You’re off in the clouds somewhere, and you think everyone can live that way. Most people can’t, and I can’t!”

&nb
sp; “Oh, Amanda, we don’t expect you to—”

  “You expect me to go along with everything!” interrupted Amanda. “You always have, ever since you changed so much. You’ve always wanted me to become a nice little quiet church girl you could be proud of. I tried to tell you I wanted to live my own life. But no—you wouldn’t listen. You never listened! All you wanted was for me to do what you said. I’ve had no say whatsoever around this house for years. I’m seventeen now, and it’s time you let me grow up and be myself. I can’t be like you!”

  “We’re not asking you to be exactly like us, only to be—”

  “What else would you call it? Quit expecting it of me. Let me be myself!”

  “Even if to give you what you want would hurt you?” said Charles softly.

  “Maybe it is time for me to find that out for myself instead of having to take your word for it.”

  “Having to find out for yourself instead of trusting your parents is one of youth’s most grievous follies. Trust is the doorway into maturity, Amanda . . . not finding things out for yourself.”

  “So you say! But perhaps I don’t believe that anymore. I don’t trust what you say. So what do you propose to do—force me to trust you?”

  “No,” sighed Charles softly, “we will not force you. No one can do that.”

  “You’ve tried hard enough!”

  “We’ve only tried to turn your heart toward your heavenly Father. But the choice to become a man or woman of character is one no individual can make for another.”

  “Well, you can think whatever you want about me, that I have no character and that I’m completely selfish and terrible—”

  “Amanda, dear—please . . . we don’t think you are terrible,” pleaded Jocelyn. But Amanda was no longer listening.

  “Call it whatever you want,” she said coldly. “As I see it, you stopped loving me when you went through your idiotic religious change.”

  “Oh, dear, but that’s not true!”

  “If I’m wrong, then you’ll have to live with it. That is exactly how it looks to me!”