Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  How much had happened since . . . yet how quickly the years had flown by.

  Then he had all his life before him, or so he thought. He had been a mere thirty-eight, dubbed by the London Times one of England’s top ten politicians to watch, a rising Liberal star in Parliament with a better-than-likely opportunity to become prime minister someday. Everything he had ever wanted had seemingly been laid before him on that day when the invitation with the royal seal lay on his desk from Queen Victoria’s office, signifying the ceremony in London which would confirm his knighthood.

  How far away that day seemed at this moment.

  Now he was fifty-two. His hair contained more grey than brown. Though deep contentment resided in his heart, his eyes did not burn with the same fire of vision they once had. Though he still felt young and vigorous inside, he could sense age imperceptibly laying claim to his earthly vessel. He couldn’t keep up with George now, either on the back of a horse or when wrestling on the lawn. He found he had to be more attentive to back and knees. Bobby McFee was now so stooped over he walked like a wizened little old gnome out of a fairy tale. Charles smiled at the thought. He wondered if the same fate awaited him thirty years from now.

  The smile turned gradually melancholy, then disappeared. Why on some days did all thoughts return eventually to sad reminders of his middle daughter?

  He had been made a Knight Grand Commander. But what did the Sir in front of his name really mean now? He would trade it all in an instant for . . .

  Charles glanced away and drew in a deep breath. He had shed enough tears over her during the last three years. He didn’t feel like crying again just now. The mood had to be right to allow tears to come, and he did not feel like enduring their pain on this day.

  He turned and began pacing about his office, gazing absently at the da Vinci drawing, then the paintings of his father and grandfather, at the faded but still colorful Persian rugs on the floor, at two or three of his own small inventions. His little motor, for which he held the patent, had been overtaken by the rush of electrical technology such that it was outdated almost before he could begin putting it to use.

  Everything changed so fast these days. It was hard to keep up with all the developments. The thought caused him to glance upward where light from Edison’s invention illuminated the room.

  Now his gaze fell to a quick scan of his bookshelves. Their contents had changed markedly in the last fourteen years. In place of Darwin, Wells, Shaw, and Huxley, now the spines of Henry, Schaff, Moody, Strong, Spurgeon, Jukes, and Symonds gazed back at him, along with more than two dozen of the Scotsman’s novels. His tastes had changed. His whole outlook had changed. The autographed first edition of Darwin’s Origin still sat on his desk between the ivory bookends, as a reminder of his past. But it had been joined by three well-worn Bibles—a copy of the Authorized Version, a Revised Version, and a copy of Dr. Weymouth’s New Testament, published in 1903. Beside them on the desk sat a copy of the newly published Tercentenary Commemoration Bible, which he had not had a chance to investigate yet in any depth. He was more interested in the brown packet next to it, which contained proofs for the Gospel of Mark sent him for review and comment by Professor Moffatt from Oxford in preparation for the publication of his modern language New Testament. It was scheduled to be completed a year or two from now. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, to actually participate in some small way in the production of a new edition of the Scriptures.

  Slowly Charles walked to the window and let his gaze drift about the Devonshire countryside he loved. Autumn was well advanced. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, except for the numerous beech scattered about the hillsides. A chill in the air signaled the approach of winter. Rain and storms would be upon them soon.

  And Christmas. But the thought brought no surge of childlike anticipation. The holiday would forever after be incomplete until their family was whole again.

  Today’s paper carried news that Germany had finally backed down in Morocco in exchange for a relatively worthless portion of the French Congo. War had again been forestalled. He should be happy. Why was his heart so heavy?

  Charles knew well enough.

  Whatever surface smiles he wore, whatever laughter came from his lips, however much he and Jocelyn and Catharine and George enjoyed life with one another these days, in the midst of whatever business he was about, even in the midst of exciting opportunities that came his way like the Moffatt project, there remained a portion of his soul that was always heavy.

  His heart could not but be sorely burdened for Amanda. How could he cease to care that one he loved so dearly was estranged from them?

  Again Charles sought the window. Staring out upon the now solitary landscape where once had rung the happy laughter of three little children, somehow helped to keep the tears at bay. Gradually thoughts of electricity and knighthood, Leonardo and books and Bible translations faded. The father’s mind filled with memories of those precious years that slip by so quickly, and whose promises and hopes and dreams so often seem to go unfulfilled.

  He had tried to pour himself into all three of his children equally, though obviously in different ways. Each was uniquely special to his heart.

  Yet Amanda’s rejection of the training he had tried to give stung with particular pain. She it was who somehow had more deeply inherited his own outlook and way of looking at things. He had always considered that she and he were bonded together as father and daughter in an unusual and wonderfully special way. George and Catharine had grown into more blended expressions of both himself and Jocelyn. But Amanda had always been so much like him, her intellect and vision so like his.

  Amanda was a questioner. He had helped fashion her so, and had so relished that aspect of her nature. And now that mental vigor and feisty spirit had actually been turned against him. Even after three years, Charles still could hardly believe it.

  The grief over the loss of his daughter—whether temporary or permanent, how could he possibly know?—had by now gone down into the deep quiet places of his being, there to be cherished in his quiet inner sanctuary of painful worship with his Father.

  Life went on. He could laugh and converse and work and function in all ways necessary, keeping the inner anguish from view. He knew Jocelyn did the same. Who but the two of them, or another parent who had suffered the same tearing between himself and son or daughter, could understand what they felt? He had accustomed himself to the pain. But that made reminders of it no less keen.

  He knew there were those who would say he should not dwell on what was past, that he should look ahead, and let Amanda live her life as she chose.

  But would he ever stop caring . . . could he ever stop? She was his daughter and he loved her. It hurt that she despised him. It would always hurt. It was not something he could pretend wasn’t there. It wasn’t something time alone would heal. Time made him able to endure it. But time couldn’t heal the parental wound.

  He missed Amanda. He missed her vibrant personality and their vigorous exchanges. And no matter what wonderful times he still enjoyed with George and Catharine, nothing could altogether assuage the ache of knowing a piece of his own flesh, his very nature, had been severed from him. It was sometimes a grief he thought too painful to bear.

  Yes, thought Charles, he would trade all he had ever done and been, he would even give up Heathersleigh itself, to be reunited with his daughter, to feel her arms of trust around him, to see her embrace Jocelyn, content again to be their daughter.

  53

  Light . . . Or Darkness?

  Charles turned from the window and picked up and scanned again the letter which had arrived in today’s post.

  Today’s communication from Hartwell Barclay was quite different than the invitation to his ball in Cambridge several weeks earlier. This was no invitation. In these words Charles could feel more of what was perhaps the man’s true nature than he had previously allowed himself to reveal.

  My dear Mr. Rutherford, it began.
<
br />   I confess to deep disappointment that you neither attended the gathering last month at Heathwood Green, nor felt the courtesy of explaining your decision to be appropriate. No doubt you had your reasons. However, our cause moves forward. Times are dangerous. The future we seek approaches, and dedicated individuals such as yourself are needed. We must know whether you are with us. Opportunity will not last forever. The future of your nation is at stake. Consider your course well. Opportunity is always double-edged. A new order of Light will soon emerge. Will you be part of it?

  Earnestly,

  H. Barclay

  The words were couched in cordiality and friendliness, but an unmistakable message lay hidden between the lines.

  It almost seemed to carry the ring of an ultimatum. Who was Hartwell Barclay anyway? Was he truly about their nation’s business . . . or his own?

  As on that day fourteen years ago, though in an entirely different way, Charles felt again that his future lay before him, that much depended on his response to this letter, more even than he was aware.

  “Lord, show me what you would have me do,” he whispered.

  For several more minutes Charles sat thinking. If he wrote and expressed what was on his heart, and his words were misconstrued . . . who could tell what might be the consequence? Perhaps that was a chance he must take in order to stand for light and truth. Not Mr. Barclay’s version of so-called “light” but for true truth.

  He went downstairs to seek Jocelyn. He showed the paper to her. She read it through twice, then glanced up with puzzled expression.

  “What do you think, Jocie?”

  “I haven’t even met the man,” she said, “but he would frighten me. I see why you felt reluctance before. Something strange is at work here. I would very strongly urge you not to become involved further.”

  Charles nodded seriously as she spoke, weighing her words carefully.

  “Something is wrong,” Jocelyn continued. “I can sense it. It feels like some kind of political factionalism is involved here, almost conspiratorial.”

  “That is a strong statement.”

  “Secret objectives they are reluctant to share, taking offense when questioned or opposed, which I read so clearly in Mr. Barclay’s letter—those are classic symptoms of schism groups. Such movements are always dangerous.”

  Charles nodded, took the letter, and returned to his office. Jocelyn’s confirmation was all he needed. Her instincts were usually sound on such matters. He should have asked her advice more directly before allowing himself to become involved even to the limited extent he had.

  He sat down at his desk, took out a sheet of paper with his letterhead, and began to write. Thirty minutes later he again returned downstairs and handed a single sheet to his wife.

  Dear Mr. Barclay, she read.

  As much as I appreciate the interest you have shown and the apparent confidence you have in me, I must say that none of the questions which have concerned me about further involvement with you have been satisfactorily addressed. I love my country, and I am concerned for its future. It has been my experience, however, that truth, as you claim to love so highly, is rarely produced by methods of stealth and secrecy. I have attempted to be straightforward, direct, honest, and sincere with you. But I have not found such open disclosure concerning your goals and objectives and background to have been reciprocated. I am sorry to be so blunt, but I cannot help feeling you are hiding something, hoping to win my loyalties before revealing exactly what you envision for the so-called new order. I must therefore decline any further contact with what you call the Fountain of Light.

  I am, Mr. Barclay,

  respectfully yours,

  Sir Charles Rutherford,

  Heathersleigh Hall, Devonshire

  Jocelyn looked up, then nodded slowly.

  “It’s direct,” she said, “but I think you are doing the right thing.”

  54

  Hugh Wildecott-Browne

  Hartwell Barclay read the letter he had just received for a second time.

  Anger rose up within him. Not violent anger, but of the quiet, seething variety. Of the sort compelled to exact revenge.

  He was not used to being rebuffed by individuals he had gone to such lengths to befriend. And spurning his kindness with such pointed and openly critical words!

  This was no longer a matter of mere recruitment. Rather than joining them, by the words of this letter Rutherford had pitted himself against them. Such an outright challenge could not be allowed to stand.

  “Redmond,” he said across the room, “it is time I had a personal chat with the relative we were speaking of before—the brother-in-law.”

  “Browne . . . er, Wildecott-Browne?”

  “Right, the wife’s sister’s husband. It may be we will have to get to the man through his wife.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Make contact, however seems most appropriate. Divulge nothing concerning our motives. If he is a solicitor, we may need more information about him before telling him of the Fountain. But we can see how he is disposed toward the family. In the meantime, get me all the information we have about the estranged daughter.”

  ————

  When Hugh Wildecott-Browne walked into the comfortable lounge a few weeks later, he did not expect to find six or eight individuals awaiting him. The invitation from the professor who said he was a friend of the Rutherfords had said only that a matter would be discussed about which he might be able to help.

  Introductions, pleasant food, expensive wine, and stimulating, though vague, political conversation followed. By the time the discussion at last arrived at that for which the invitation had been sent, Jocelyn Rutherford’s brother-in-law, warmed and relaxed by the wine, and his ego and receptivities skillfully massaged by a lounge full of experienced experts, was in a congenial and responsive frame of mind.

  “You are, as we understand it,” said Barclay at the appropriate moment of opening, “a man of religious feeling.”

  “I am of high standing in my church,” replied the guest.

  “You care about right and wrong, and know the difference?”

  “Of course.”

  “What we have to tell you, Hugh,” continued the lean white-haired gentleman, “is an extremely sad story. You are well familiar with the individuals involved. I speak primarily of your niece Amanda, daughter of your wife’s sister. You know Amanda is not with her parents at present?”

  “I am aware of something to that effect.”

  “Do you know the reason?”

  “I’m afraid I do not. I have never been close to Jocelyn’s family. They are—”

  Wildecott-Browne cleared his throat briefly.

  “—I suppose it would be said that they are not exactly our kind of people. I don’t go in for that business of making a public show of your religion, as if you’re better than everyone else.”

  “We understand perfectly,” nodded Barclay somberly. “You couldn’t have expressed our sentiments more precisely.”

  “Religion is a good thing,” went on Jocelyn’s brother-in-law, warmed by the approval, “but if you ask me, it belongs in the church. I am a man who prefers his religion not made so much of, if you know what I mean.”

  Again Barclay nodded. “We do indeed. I am happy to know that we have not misjudged you,” he went on. “You are clearly a man of conscience and moral decency.”

  Barclay paused and grew serious. “What you are about to hear may shock you, Hugh,” he continued. “For a public man such as Charles Rutherford, or Sir Charles as he prefers to be called—though if ever a man was less deserving of the honor I do not know of him—for such a man to be lauded by the public, when behind the doors of his own home nothing short of such insensitivity and meanness toward his own family went on for years.”

  “Meanness . . . I am afraid I do not understand.”

  “Even cruelty, though it is admittedly a strong word, Hugh.”

  “Cruelty . . . to wh
at specifically do you refer?”

  “You cannot be unaware, Hugh . . . that is to say, there are some things it is impossible to hide . . .”

  Barclay allowed his voice to trail off, leaving Wildecott-Browne to draw his own inference. In the absence of fact, the doubt of innuendo will serve almost as well.

  “You don’t mean . . . the scar on his wife’s face?”

  “No, of course not, Hugh,” rejoined Barclay. Even in the denial, he had achieved his end, which was to place suspicion and mistrust in the man’s mind. “I speak of far more subtle things. I would not like to spread rumors. All I can say is that the poor woman has suffered beyond what any woman should have to endure from a man. Suffered psychologically, I mean, not physically. No doubt she convinces herself that such is her religious duty. But no woman should have to put up with it. Yet what poor Amanda has suffered, which finally left her with no alternative but to leave home when she was old enough to be able, truly is a dreadful indictment against a man who prides himself on being virtuous above his peers.”

  “They have always seemed a bit high and mighty for my tastes,” nodded Hugh. “But I did not know the girl had actually been forced to leave home.”

  “There is nothing else to call it. Of course, they paint a different picture. No doubt your wife has been told another side of it altogether so as to lay the blame on Amanda.”

  Barclay paused, shaking his head sadly.

  “The poor girl, it is all I can say,” he went on. “Her father was so overbearing, even dictatorial, so as to suffocate any possibility for free expression in his home.”

  The room fell quiet for a moment. Wildecott-Browne was not exactly shocked by what he heard, though it was all new to him. The lower side of his nature eagerly lapped up the news, as most unconsciously do, just because it was negative. Already his attorney’s brain was revolving the different sides to the situation.

  “Tell me,” he asked, “is my wife’s sister involved? You say she too has been abused by the man, but what is her relation to her daughter? Is she culpable as well? She always struck me as a gentle and reasonable woman. Surely—”