With trembling hand she lowered the lid to the secretary portion. Above the desk was a small nine-inch-wide drawer. Carefully now she pulled it out. The drawer was small, only four or five inches deep. Inside her eyes now fell on the key she had seen resting there all her life.
“What is it for?” she remembered asking her own mother.
“Something about the secretary, I think, dear,” Mrs. Crawford had replied. “My mother used to speak mysteriously about it, but I never saw a lock anywhere about the cabinet, and never knew what it was for.”
“But if Grandmother said—”
“She was old by then, Maggie dear. She may have been mistaken.”
And there the key had lain all these years.
Maggie now removed it and turned it over slowly in her fingers. A tingle went through her. Something was here, she was sure of it.
Find the key and unlock the mystery. . . .
She was now convinced that the words her grandmother had written carried a meaning underlying that of the Scripture itself.
What mystery could this key be meant to unlock?
————
Suddenly sounds interrupted Maggie’s reminiscences. Her reflections were cut short as she glanced up to see a familiar carriage approaching along the lane through the wood.
111
Grandma Maggie’s Embrace
The moment Maggie saw her visitors, she stood up in the midst of her garden. When she realized Amanda was with them, she began nodding to herself. “I should have known it, Lord,” she said quietly. “Now I know what you were saying this morning. I don’t know why it wasn’t the first thing to come to my mind. I suppose I’m getting a bit thickheaded in my old age.”
She walked forward, tears already on their way. Again Amanda leapt from the carriage before it had stopped and ran forward. Amanda went straight to her arms and was swallowed in the grandmotherly embrace.
“I am so sorry about Bobby,” said Amanda softly. “I only learned of it a short while ago.”
“My season of heartbreak is past,” said Maggie. “I am now able to rejoice that the dear man’s in his new home. So don’t be sad for me.—Oh,” she said, now stepping back to arm’s length as she held Amanda’s shoulders and gazed upon her, “just look at you. It so gladdens my heart to see you, Amanda dear! I have prayed for you night and day all these years.”
“I know you have, Maggie,” said Amanda, “and for the first time in my life I can tell you how appreciative I am that you and dear Bobby didn’t give up praying for me. I was very stubborn, but I am finally home. Thanks to the prayers of all of you who kept loving me.”
Catharine and Jocelyn now came forward, and additional greetings and hugs, kisses and tears innumerable followed.
“Oh, but my heart is sore for the three of you,” said Maggie, looking at each of her visitors with such depths of compassion. “My Bobby lived a full life and was ready to go, but poor Master Charles and Master George—”
Maggie’s voice caught in her throat. The three gathered around her, the bereaved offering comfort to their friend. After a few tearful moments in a fourway embrace on the edge of Maggie’s garden, they gradually moved apart. Then at last did a few smiles slowly begin to brighten the Heathersleigh landscape.
“Come in . . . come in,” said Maggie. “We’ll have some tea. I want to hear all about my dear Amanda. I can hardly believe you are actually here, my dear! You have grown into a lovely woman indeed.”
The smile on Amanda’s face, and accompanying tears, was so different than any expression Maggie had seen on her countenance before. Amanda appeared years older, and, as much as might be said under these painful circumstances, more at peace with herself than Maggie had seen her.
Thirty minutes later, as Jocelyn sat watching Maggie, Amanda, and Catharine talking together around Maggie’s kitchen table for the first time ever like grandmother and two grown-up granddaughters, she quietly took in the features of her two daughters.
Maggie was right, thought Jocelyn—Amanda was indeed a woman now. The eyes of her motherhood could hardly fathom it. Though Catharine was larger than all three of them, at twenty she still displayed the signs of youth. Her animated gestures and boisterous laugh and infectious energy curiously reminded Jocelyn of Amanda as a girl. How strange, yet how marvelous, Jocelyn thought, that in a way they had reversed personalities. Now it was Amanda quietly watching, listening, and absorbing, while Catharine chattered freely away. It was Amanda who sat with face slowly moving back and forth, smiling and responding, yet more reluctant to speak than before, taking it all in with the eyes and ears of mature adulthood.
Amanda’s face had thinned, and both high cheekbones and jaw were more pronounced, lips, even in this difficult time, more inclined upward toward a smile than in past years, and evenly spaced white teeth not bashful to reveal themselves. The overall effect was of a woman’s not a girl’s face, and a pretty one, thought Jocelyn, thin and—strange as it was to think it—peaceful. Amanda’s brown hair, lightly curled, was shorter than her mother remembered it, framing a full forehead, whose lines revealed thought and intelligence at last pointed in the right directions. She looked out upon the world from green eyes that seemed somehow larger than before, and more perceptive and awake, as if searching for meaning. They bore just the hint of a few lines at their edges, showing that youth was giving way to maturity, lines that may have come to her eyes four or five years ahead of their time, but whose pain would do its work and thus serve her character well. She walked slowly now, not always rushing ahead, even hanging a step or two behind Catharine, displaying a new reticence of nature that became her with grace.
Jocelyn could hardly prevent tears at the sight. She had never known whether to hope for such a day, and now here it was. Her reverie was interrupted by the sounds of Amanda’s voice.
“As I see the two of you,” said Amanda to Catharine and Maggie, “talking about so many things and such good friends, I realize how much I have missed out on by being away all these years. I only wish . . .”
Her voice faltered. She stopped and looked away.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” said Maggie, reaching out and placing a warm hand on top of Amanda’s. “The Scriptures say that the Lord will return to us the years the locusts have eaten. I believe he will give those years back to you as well.”
“But—”
“Yes, I know we’ve suffered our losses. And our earthly eyes cannot see how good can come of it or how those years can possibly be restored. But the Lord will see to all that too.”
Dusk had begun to descend as Jocelyn and her two daughters rode back to the Hall several hours later. They had not been back for long when Timothy telephoned, saying he would be out to Devon the next day.
112
Mother and Daughter
That evening, spirits at the Hall were subdued.
It had been a long day. Even the ride out to the cottage, in its own way, had wearied their hearts. Amanda especially had a myriad of new emotions to face. The realization that Bobby McFee was gone, and that she had not known it, added an extra weight to the burden she bore concerning father and brother. As the evening progressed, she grew especially quiet.
“How are you, my dear,” said Jocelyn, “—tired?”
“I am, Mother. And very drained,” replied Amanda with a thin smile. “This was a very hard day for me.”
“I know,” nodded Jocelyn. “I am tired too. We have all been through a great deal.”
A peculiar look came over Amanda’s face. She seemed to be trying to say something.
“I was . . . I’m sorry . . .” she faltered.
“What is it?” said Jocelyn.
“I’m so sorry—but I was afraid to come home. I . . . didn’t know if you would—”
She began to cry.
Jocelyn was on her feet, sat down next to Amanda on the couch, and had her in her arms in seconds.
“I know it must have been one of the most difficult things you ha
ve ever done,” whispered her mother softly. “But I am so glad you did . . . if ever we need to be together, it is now.”
“And with Daddy—I feel so awful . . . so guilty . . . I don’t know if I will ever be able—”
Amanda’s voice broke.
Jocelyn held her, gently stroking her hair and patting her softly on back and shoulders. On the other side of the room, Catharine quietly rose and glided out, sensing again the need for the two of them to be alone.
It was for Jocelyn a moment of healing almost greater than anything the day had already contained. To hold her daughter again, and to have her at peace, able to receive her comforting embrace without twisting and squirming away, was a privilege she had not allowed herself to imagine she would ever experience. It lasted but a few seconds, but Jocelyn thought she had never felt such inner contentment as in those precious moments, such that she almost briefly forgot that Charles and George were gone.
For several long, precious moments Amanda allowed herself to weep in her mother’s arms, more relaxed and at peace than she had ever been in Jocelyn’s embrace. It felt so good to let her mother hold her.
Slowly Amanda sat back away, wiped her eyes, and smiled.
“Thank you, Mother. I am just very, very tired,” she said. “I think maybe I need some time alone . . . and then a good long sound night’s sleep.”
“You are home, Amanda dear. Your room is still as you left it. However you can be comfortable, whatever you want to do . . . I want you to feel that . . . I think you know what I am trying to say—this is your home too.”
“I know, Mother—I realize it now . . . thank you.”
“Good night, my dear. We’ll have a good big breakfast together in the morning.”
Amanda stood but hesitated a moment as she gazed into her mother’s eyes.
“I love you, Mother.”
Jocelyn’s eyes filled.
“Thank you so much,” Amanda went on, “for being the mother you have been to me . . . thank you for everything. I am so sorry I didn’t see all you did for me, and all you have been for me sooner.”
“We all have to grow, Amanda,” replied Jocelyn tenderly. “I have had to grow myself. Perhaps now we can begin growing together. I love you, my dear.”
Amanda smiled again, then turned and walked toward the stairs. Jocelyn watched her go, then turned back into the sitting room, found her chair again, sat down, and wept freely.
113
Going Home to the Father
Amanda climbed the stairs to her former room.
How much the same it looked . . . yet how very different. How transformed did the eyes of adulthood make all the familiar sights of her childhood, at once smaller yet somehow larger, so poignantly and nostalgically imbued with new meaning.
As she went Amanda remembered her talk with Timothy about going home to her fathers. She had arisen and gone to one father’s house, though as Timothy had said, it was her mother’s arms that had received her. Going to her other Father would be equally difficult.
Amanda sat down on her bed. A telegram had come earlier in the day, informing them that the memorial for the men of the Dauntless had been scheduled for Thursday. The weight of what had happened suddenly came back upon her with renewed force. Tears again filled her eyes, and she wondered how there could be any left. It seemed by now the well would have run dry.
How long she sat motionless, numb, stricken with sorrowful contrition, Amanda didn’t know. Gradually words from yesterday’s sermon crept into her consciousness.
The crying need of our time . . . is intimacy with God, our Father . . .
All her life she had kept God at arm’s length. If intimacy was the highest goal, thought Amanda, she had certainly failed to reach it. She had not let him get close, or anyone else for that matter. She had had a few friends, but none of particular significance or permanency. Where were they now? And in those most important relationships of all—with her father and mother and with God himself—she had done all she could to build up walls to prevent intimacy.
The great invisible enemy of God’s highest purposes . . . prideful independence of heart . . . I am my own.
He might as well have been talking straight to her, thought Amanda. Being her own, being answerable to no one—all her life that very drive had been her sole creed. Now Sister Hope’s words mingled with those she had heard from Timothy’s mouth, which she now knew were her own father’s.
Laying down the right of self-rule is the business of life—the only business of life. To learn this one lesson is what we are here for.
Had she ever even thought of such a thing—placing into another’s hands the right to make a decision on her behalf? She knew the answer well enough. She had never consulted or considered anyone but herself, neither her father nor mother nor God. She had endured parental oversight as a teenager only so long as she absolutely had to. The moment an opportunity had presented itself to escape from it . . . she had turned her back on Heathersleigh.
Until today. Now here she was back home, in the room of her childhood. And what had all those years accomplished? They had robbed her of some of the most precious years she might have enjoyed with these people she loved.
Did she want to continue being her own? Could she look deeply into her heart? Did she finally have courage now to do what she could not do at the chalet?
Yes, Amanda said to herself.
She would probe, whatever she found, however it may hurt to be honest with herself. She was at last ready to admit what she had been.
Slowly Amanda got down on her knees. Beside her bed, on the very floor where she had once ranted and fussed with how she thought she hated life at Heathersleigh, she began to pray.
“Oh, God,” she said softly, “I am so sorry for seeking only my own will. I am sorry for not learning what my mother and father tried to teach me. All my life I did nothing but put myself first.
“I am so sorry,” Amanda repeated, weeping freely.
“I don’t want to live that way any longer, Lord,” she went on, praying softly through her repentant and healing tears. “I want the intimacy Daddy spoke of in that sermon. I am sorry for thinking I could rule my own life. Forgive me. Show me how to be close to you. Help me . . . I want to call you my Father.”
At the word, Amanda broke down and sobbed. It was some time before she could continue.
“Oh, God!” she struggled at length, “forgive my blindness toward my father. Teach me to know both you as my heavenly Father and him as a father whom I now love. Please don’t let it be too late in some way for me to be a good daughter.
“At last I truly want a Father,” Amanda continued. “I am ready to become a child, the right kind now, if you will help me, if you will show me how. Teach me to become my daddy’s little girl, and yours too. I think I am finally ready to be the person you want me to be.”
Amanda’s prayers fell silent. Slowly she began to breathe more easily. When she continued, her voice was calm and deliberate.
“Take me, Lord,” she said, “—take me as I am. I want to give myself to you completely. Take away my independent spirit. If there is any good thing in me, anything you can make use of, please do so . . . and make me your daughter.”
114
Plymouth Memorial
Timothy arrived by train at Milverscombe on Tuesday morning. He had arranged for a supply minister, a student at Highbury Theological College, for the following Sunday. He was therefore able to remain with them through the weekend.
Early Thursday morning, he accompanied mother and daughters into Plymouth by train for the memorial for the men lost on the Dauntless.
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have you along, Timothy,” said Jocelyn as they rode south through the Devon countryside to the coast. “I am not sure I could do this alone. I always depended on Charles, perhaps more than I realized, to protect me from the pressures and stresses of the outside world. With him gone, it is so good to have a dear brother with us.”
“You will learn to be strong in your own right, Jocelyn,” Timothy replied. “You are a strong woman. You have not perhaps till now had to rely on that strength. But believe me, speaking as one who has watched you through the years, you will rise to the task. You are much stronger than I think you have any idea. Charles contributed to that, no doubt. But I have the feeling you have gained more spiritual muscle through the years than you know.”
“Timothy is right, Mother,” said Catharine, “isn’t he, Amanda? We can all see your strength. Daddy saw it too.”
Jocelyn smiled. “You are both dears,” she said. “But I cannot help being afraid, Timothy,” she added, turning toward him again.
“Of what?” he asked.
“Of the future without Charles.”
“You will be strong, Jocelyn. You have two fine daughters to help you. And you may call on me whenever you need me.”
“As much as I cannot imagine the future without Charles, it would be incomprehensibly worse without you. You have been a good friend to our family.”
“As your family has been to me,” replied Timothy. “You are my family . . . I think you know that.”
Jocelyn smiled and nodded.
They arrived in Plymouth, were met at the station by an escort from the Royal Navy, and were taken by automobile to the naval parade grounds. There they went through the ceremony stoically, all dressed in black, the London minister now taking the place of an elder brother to the small clan of Rutherford women. Jocelyn stood somber and silent on Timothy’s right and Amanda next to her, with Catharine on Timothy’s left. Jocelyn’s face was veiled. The two girls wore hats.
First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill rose to speak. Partway through his remarks, he singled out Commander Charles Rutherford for special commendation. Though they remained steady, none of the three could prevent a flow of tears at hearing their husband and father honored in front of so many.
Heathersleigh Homecoming Page 41
