Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  Charles laughed and sat down beside Bobby. Jocelyn also took a seat while Maggie busied herself in the kitchen with preparations for tea.

  “You’re right, Bobby,” said Charles. “But I am concerned. You look rather worn out.”

  “Ay, that I be.”

  “The favor we have to ask requires only your brain, and your years of wisdom.”

  “Whatever wisdom the Lord might have blessed me with along the way, it’ll be his doing and none o’ me own. But the thinkin’ part o’ me is still working as well as ever. You’re welcome t’ what ye can learn from it.”

  “I am happy to hear that,” rejoined Charles, “and grateful. We would like to talk and pray with you about Amanda again.”

  “Has there been some word from the lass?” asked Maggie from the kitchen.

  “Not from her,” answered Jocelyn, “but about her.”

  “What kind o’ news?” asked Bobby.

  A brief silence fell, interrupted only by the sounds of cups and water, spoons and saucers, from Maggie’s hands. Charles waited until all four held steaming cups of tea in their hands, then briefly filled the old couple in on the reason for the visit.

  “Maggie, Bobby,” he concluded, “I know you’re not parents yourselves. But I’m not sure it takes a parent to give good advice, and we need some. These people Amanda has apparently become involved with do not, I believe, have her best interests in mind.”

  Charles went on to explain that he was thinking of contacting Amanda.

  “What does a parent do,” he said, “when he sees danger ahead to which a young person is altogether oblivious, yet knows his headstrong son or daughter is almost determined to go down the slippery slope right into it? How hard should a parent fight when they see something their son or daughter either cannot or will not see?”

  “So you’re thinking of writing to her?” said Maggie.

  “That is the idea that came to me—should I write and warn her? Sometimes it even crosses my mind to go to London and forcibly bring her home with me. But almost as soon as I think it, I realize I cannot do that.”

  “The prodigal’s got t’ say, ‘I will arise an’ go t’ my father,’ because he wants to,” put in Bobby. “The good father the Master spoke of waited patiently.”

  “It is the most difficult thing I have ever faced!” groaned Charles. “Especially when you can’t see what the future holds. Is the danger I perceive really all that bad? Do I sacrifice the posture of patient waiting in order to warn her?—I don’t know. I’ve never wanted to force Amanda. Even now, it seems that we must leave her free to make her own decisions. Yet what if they are simply bad decisions? Where does a parent’s responsibility begin and end?”

  “How old would the lass be now?” asked Bobby.

  “Twenty-two,” answered Jocelyn.

  “Ay . . . ’tis an awkward age fer a parent.”

  “Why do you say that, Bobby?”

  “Because the young person’s nearly grown, and thinks he’s completely grown, but is in many ways still lookin’ at the world through the eyes o’ self as he did at fifteen.”

  Charles and Jocelyn glanced at each other and sighed. The description could not be more fitting of their daughter.

  “What should we do?” asked Charles.

  “Warnin’ folks is a tricky thing,” Bobby went on. “Them that’s most in need o’ good strong words o’ counsel is oftentimes the least willin’ t’ listen.”

  “And it’s worse yet when sons and daughters have some grievance against their parents,” added Maggie. “Nothing falls quite so unwelcome upon the heart and mind of an independent youth as advice.”

  “But wisdom and sound judgment in such a case are often clouded by factors which only years of experience can recognize,” added Charles. “I know that I had my own moments of foolishness when I was young. I suppose it’s natural. But now that I am older, I am finding it more and more difficult to understand why the voice of experience is so unwelcome. I would say the same of myself when I was younger—why was I reluctant to listen?”

  “Why is it,” added Jocelyn, echoing the same frustration, “that at the times when they most need the sober judgment of parental insight to guide them into the fullness of adulthood, so many young people find the input of mother and father odious and insulting to the elevated sense of their own maturity?”

  “Is it because they want to think that adulthood is complete before it actually is?” suggested Charles.

  “I suppose we’ve all been guilty of that,” laughed Jocelyn. “It is difficult to recognize that wisdom comes with years.”

  “Heedin’ the advice and counsel of an experienced parent or mentor,” now put in Bobby, “—especially when that advice goes against the natural inclination o’ the flesh—’tis one of the chief indications of a mature and growin’ character. ’Course age of itself doesn’t always bring wisdom. There’s foolish and crotchety old folks as well as young ones. But years are one of the best teachers life has.”

  “It’s such a strange thing,” said Jocelyn. “If ever there was a time of life when you would think people would want advice, it would be during the years when they are young. I would love to have had the kind of relationship with my parents where they prayed and sought God on my behalf.”

  “Ah,” said Bobby, “but young people approaching the season o’ manhood and womanhood convince themselves that they possess the right t’ make every decision without parental influence. An’ the worst of it is that they think they possess the wisdom t’ make those decisions wisely and prudently. The sad fact is, most o’ the time they’re workin’ against their own ultimate good and happiness.”

  “I don’t understand it at all,” said Jocelyn.

  “Ye can’t be too hard on them fer their foolishness,” said Bobby. “I say that speakin’ as one perhaps a wee more knowledgeable o’ what the lass might be goin’ through than yerself. I can understand it because I was such a youth meself—hotheaded and foolish. I didn’t want anyone tellin’ me what t’ do. If I do have any sense in this thick head o’ mine now,” he added, chuckling momentarily but then turning serious again, “’tis not as much as the Lord could’ve given me had I been more trustin’ o’ my elders a wee sooner in my life.”

  “I can hardly believe that about you, Bobby,” said Jocelyn.

  “Ay, ’tis true. I was a thickheaded lout when I was a lad. I’m only grateful the Lord got hold o’ me and eventually shook some sense into me.”

  A brief silence fell.

  “Maybe this is an opportunity the Lord wants to give Amanda, Charles,” suggested Jocelyn after a minute or two. “If what you said when we were walking over here is true, and a turning point is approaching in her life, perhaps the Lord wants her to be confronted with a hard decision, so that she has to face what kind of character she wants for herself.”

  Charles nodded. “You may be right,” he said. “I do have the feeling this is such a time. But for someone like her, doing what Bobby said and taking advice when it goes against your own will . . . that is one of the most difficult things for a person to do.”

  He sighed at the seeming impossibility of the situation, then turned to their host.

  “Well, then, Bobby,” he said, “what do you think? If you can sympathize with Amanda, and were of similar inclination yourself at one time, what is your counsel? You know that we’ve tried to give her the freedom to figure all this out on her own. But does a time come when a parent has to speak out? And yet . . . would a letter perhaps risk alienating her yet more?”

  “Ay, it might. ’Tis a chance ye take.”

  “You don’t sound very hopeful.”

  “The predicament’s an ancient one, Master Charles,” said Bobby, “the struggle between one’s own judgment—an’ we always trust that, just because it is our own—an’ the judgment of another. The mature young man or woman is capable o’ layin’ pride aside, recognizing that age an’ experience may give extra weight t’ the perspective o’ som
eone older. But immaturity, on the other hand, rejects such counsel, assumin’ his own judgment is all he needs. This latter ’tis aye the great folly o’ youth, as I well know. But it may be Lady Jocelyn’s right, that now is the lass Amanda’s time t’ be faced with the two ways o’ respondin’ an’ havin’ t’ decide which kind o’ person she wants t’ be.”

  Charles thoughtfully took in Bobby’s words.

  “It is still difficult for me to see,” he sighed at length, “how this resistance to our input could have become so extreme in Amanda’s case, when we worked strenuously to instill positive and godly values in our family.”

  “Sometimes the rebellion is most vigorous in such cases, Master Charles. ’Tis one o’ the great mysteries o’ parenthood. But in the end of it, I don’t see that ye have any choice. The Lord obviously put the idea into yer head. If ye’re right and there is genuine danger involved . . . ye must write her.”

  “And if she doesn’t hear and rejects our counsel?”

  “Like I said before . . . ’tis a chance ye take. If yer heart’s motivated out o’ love fer the lass, whatever may come of it now, good has t’ come of it in the end.”

  70

  Unwelcome Letter

  When the letter arrived for Amanda at the Halifax home, she had been enjoying a happily pleasant day. The last thing she was thinking of was her family. With scarcely a moment’s thought as to what could be its contents, and taking no note of the hand which had penned her name, she saw nothing of the return address. Still talking gaily with Ramsay, she slit the envelope and pulled out the two sheets inside.

  Whether she would have opened it at all had she known of its origin or purpose would be impossible to say. As it was, by the time the truth dawned on her, she was several lines into it. By then some unknown force—whether curiosity or anger, perhaps wondering if after all this time her father might have had a change of heart, or merely the inability to lay it aside once she had begun—compelled her to continue.

  Ramsay saw the expression on her face turn serious, then ashen. Gently he led her to a chair, eased her back into it even as she read, then left her alone.

  The words she read, in her father’s hand, were the following:

  My dear Amanda,

  I pray this finds you healthy and well. Such we pray for you daily, for you are in our thoughts constantly. Even more in our hearts.

  Admittedly I made many mistakes as your father, which I regret and for which I have tried to express my apologies. However, I tried always to give you the freedom to think and question and be your own person. I know it has not seemed that way in your eyes. Yet such was always my goal and my hope as your father.

  Except for the objections your mother and I raised at the time of your leaving, we have subsequently kept silent concerning your going to the city to join the Pankhursts with their political fight for women’s suffrage, even though we felt the cause a temporal one which would leave you empty and unfulfilled in the end. We have maintained that silence till now. We knew that you had to make such a discovery for yourself, and that no amount of expostulation on our part would change your mind.

  As I am occasionally in the city, it cannot have escaped my attention that you have entered certain social circles and become a part of London society generally. This also has been an exercise which, though I am grateful to cousin Martha for the love she obviously has for you, in the end, I have known this will not satisfy the hunger for fulfillment which lies in the soul of every man and woman. Yet I judged it best to maintain my observations from a distance, and to limit my involvement on your behalf to prayer.

  Now, however, I have recently become aware of your new boarding situation at the Halifax home, and at last I feel I ought to speak. There are factors concerning your friend Mr. Halifax and his mother, as well as some of their associates, which are of grave concern to me. I do not think I overstate the case to say that I consider you in no small danger in thus affiliating yourself with them in this way. I urge you most strongly to reconsider, and to seek other lodging arrangements.

  I know my words may grate against your ears. I hope you will be able to look for the truth in what I say. My dear Amanda, errors and mistakes in judgment can be made. The eyes of experience are often able to perceive rocky shoals ahead more clearly than those of youth. This is a plea that you will listen to the counsel of one who cares for your well-being, and knows something of circumstances and loyalties of which you may be unaware. Please, for your good not my own, listen to my cautions.

  These people you have become involved with are simply not what they seem.

  You are an adult now. I urge you to stand tall and mature and to exercise sober adult judgment. Recognize that my years, my experience, and the mere fact that I am your father may indeed lend a validity to my words of greater weight than what might be your own perspective on this situation. Whatever you may still think of me for what I have done or not done, for your own sake, please heed my words.

  To do this will take great humility and maturity on your part. Such is the most difficult thing a young man or young woman can face. You desire so strongly to manage your own affairs without counsel or oversight. Yet it is a time more than any other in life when you need wise guidance. I call upon you, therefore, to approach the matter with maturity and wisdom.

  No doubt you think you see all things clearly, and consider yourself strong enough not to be swayed. But I repeat, these people are not all they seem. They are more powerful than you have any idea—powerful over minds, over loyalties, even over hearts. You will be a mere pawn in their hands.

  Oh, Amanda, my dear, dear daughter—I love you more than you can possibly know. You will know, as do most young people, when you have children of your own. Only then, it seems, does the depth of parental affection break in upon the mind of son or daughter. To fulfill itself, parental love seems required to extend in two generational directions at once.

  Your mother and I love you, and pray for you daily. For we know that one day you will—

  Amanda threw down the letter in disgust. She would not listen to another word. How dare her father insult her friends, and insult her in the process! She did not need him to preach to her.

  She jumped up, face glowing in rage, and stormed from the house.

  71

  Curious Eyes

  Hearing the front door slam, Mrs. Halifax entered from an adjoining room.

  “Did you and Amanda have an argument?” she asked.

  “No—she received a letter from her father,” Ramsay replied.

  “Oh . . .”

  “That was the result,” Ramsay added, nodding toward the half-crumpled sheets on the floor.

  Mrs. Halifax took in the information with interest, then walked to the window where Amanda’s back was still visible as she retreated with haste along the sidewalk.

  “Go after her, Ramsay. She is in obvious distress.”

  Ramsay left the house and followed Amanda. The instant he was gone, his mother hastened from the window, picked up the letter, and quickly began scanning it for any useful information. Her eyes slowed and absorbed the content with great care when she came to the portions which had unmistakably been written concerning her.

  A very different reaction than Amanda’s rose within her at the words from Sir Charles Rutherford. She could hardly be justified in feeling anger, for the words were true enough.

  Her brow creased in dark reflection.

  They had underestimated Rutherford. He could prove a more troublesome adversary than they had thought. Yet knowing exactly where he stood was a valuable thing to have learned, as well as just how volatile remained the relationship with his daughter. Both pieces of information could prove useful.

  Carefully she laid the two sheets back precisely as they had fallen from Amanda’s hand, then retreated to her boudoir. This development warranted careful thought.

  72

  Shifting Loyalties

  The next eighteen months signaled an era of slow
internal change for Amanda Rutherford. The transformation in outlook came by such infinitesimal degrees, however, that Amanda herself hardly perceived the shifts that were taking place.

  To have called it a period of growth would imply that the changes were wholesome and toward the betterment of her character. Unfortunately, it was too soon to know whether such would be the ultimate outcome of her response to those circumstances in which she found herself.

  All that could be said at this point was that the mental and spiritual ground was being tilled. The fact that she had not yet resolved the foundational wrongness at the core of her own being, however, kept whatever thinking she did from yet doing her much good. She was still thinking mostly of herself, not the best focus for the inward eyes of one seeking maturity of character. Indeed, her reflections during these months distanced her yet further from those places the Holy Hound of heaven must chase her in the end.

  Infuriated by her father’s letter, rather than heed his warnings she instead did what so many foolish young persons do when confronted by unwelcome counsel—she rushed headlong toward the very dangers wiser eyes than her own were able to recognize.

  As her loyalties shifted away from the Pankhursts, she now came all the more to depend on Ramsay Halifax and his mother. At the same time, however, in her deepest heart Amanda could not quite rid her memory of the article about Ramsay. Once sown, the seed of doubt was difficult to dislodge. The tension of being pulled two ways at once was sobering, making her less apt to commit her feelings one way or the other. On the surface she tried to maintain her gaiety. But deep in her heart she began slowly to retreat into a shell of self-protection.

  The mere fact that her father mentioned Cousin Martha in a favorable light, augmented by Geoffrey’s hideous display at a moment of her own vulnerability, for a time prejudiced Amanda against further approach to the home of the London Rutherfords on Curzon Street. She did not visit Martha again for several months, nor reply to the numerous invitations that came for her from Cousin Gifford’s wife.