Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “Ah, I see,” said Charles, nodding his head as he grasped his wife’s meaning. “We are right in front of her, as the heather was there for me to see, if only I had looked.”

  “You and I, and even George,” Jocelyn went on, “—I suppose Catharine is a little young for it to be said of her, but the rest of us are all so changed by what the Lord has done, and to us the change is nothing but good. Yet Amanda remains, at least so far as we can tell, completely oblivious to its beauty. To her, it seems, our conversion has been a negative rather than a positive in our family’s history.”

  “I am constantly conscious of something like the same principle when I am in London,” said Charles. “Most of my colleagues shake my hand and talk and joke and carry on as always. The issues change, of course, but the political discourse and repartee all continue year after year. Sometimes I want to stand up in Parliament and shout out, ‘Hallo, all of you—don’t you realize I’m different? Aren’t you aware that my life has changed, that the Lord Jesus Christ has changed me? I’m a completely new man . . . don’t you see it?’”

  “It would be of no use,” murmured Jocelyn. “Perhaps it is as the Lord said—that they don’t have eyes to see.”

  “There are a few who understand,” he continued, “but then they are generally looked upon as peculiar as well. Even though I, in my own way, try to speak spiritual perspectives into the discussions if an opportunity presents itself, most don’t really grasp what I’m talking about. Most of my close colleagues are so progressive in their views—exactly as I was myself for so long—that the spiritual dimension altogether eludes them. Yet now that I see things from an eternal rather than a worldly vantage point, I can’t avoid seeing God’s principles everywhere!”

  “If you’re not focusing your eyes otherwise, it is natural to look only on the surface. It takes a different kind of eyes to see what’s hidden.”

  “Like the nuances of the heather. One has to train oneself to see it. Otherwise, one will never see the subtle mystery.”

  “Not only do you have to train yourself to see it,” suggested Jocelyn, “don’t you think that perhaps you must love something before your eyes are opened to the secrets it has to reveal?”

  Charles thought a moment, then began slowly to nod his head.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I realize that I did begin to love this garden before I became aware of all its intricacies. Even before our talk with Timothy and all the work we began to do here, something prompted love to begin growing in my heart.”

  He paused a moment, then a smile broke across his face. “In fact,” he said, “do you remember that day—it couldn’t have been more than a month or two after the queen’s Jubilee—when I came excitedly to find you?”

  Now Jocelyn joined in his laughter.

  “I remember,” she replied. “You said you had something wonderful to show me—I thought you’d discovered a buried treasure or something! And it was only a patch of scruffy little bushes out near the woods with tiny little purple and white bells all over them. I wondered what the fuss was about.”

  “But that was the beginning of everything we’ve done here since. Once I fell in love with the heather garden, it began to reveal the subtleties of itself to my heart.”

  “Because now you were seeing it differently, through eyes of love.”

  “Perhaps love is indeed the eye-opening ingredient, just as you say.”

  “Jesus called the kingdom of God a mystery.”

  “As Paul called the life of the Spirit of God within us,” added Charles. “How he accomplishes this nurturing work in the human character is indeed a mystery.”

  Jocelyn glanced back at the ancient house which was her home, its grey walls now soft in the last glow of the sunset. A smile came over her face.

  “Let me in on your secret!” said Charles.

  “It’s silly,” said his wife.

  “I want to hear it anyway.”

  “Your talking of the mystery of the kingdom sent my mind spinning off and thinking of what mystery means when most people hear it. Then I found myself wondering about this old Hall with all its doors that have rusted shut and its rooms we haven’t even explored. George seems to think it’s all very mysterious indeed. But what we’re talking about is something even greater, isn’t it? It is a mystery of character, not rusty doors and dusty garret rooms.”

  “It is the human drama,” added Charles, “unfolded within the heart of every man and woman—the mystery of God’s life. It is a mystery waiting for every man and woman to uncover within his or her own heart, as his or her own character unfolds—the mystery of what God is making . . . of me!”

  “However many so-called mysteries an old place like Heathersleigh might contain—whatever our George might stumble upon in all his exploring, though I doubt he’ll discover much—they are all nothing compared to the mysteries of the human spirit.”

  “I suppose it is no wonder that such mysteries are hidden from the eyes of many,” said Charles, “—sadly, like our own Amanda at present.”

  “Is that perhaps why the Lord said that for those who do not see, everything is in parables—in other words, shadowy and confusing?”

  “No doubt. But it is agonizing for me to have our own daughter be one of the unseeing. It absolutely defies my brain to ponder how, after the way we’ve taught her, she can be so thoroughly blind to the realities we’ve discovered. I used to believe in a strong cause-and-effect relationship between a person’s training and that person’s later outlook. I am gradually coming to see, painful though it is, that such a theory fails to account for personal choice and motive of heart, which are aspects of temperament which I don’t suppose can be taught. I love Amanda so much. Yet she is unaware of the foundation of that love.”

  Jocelyn sighed. Her mother’s heart knew the same pain. She had wanted so much to give Amanda a wonderfully happy childhood that would progress into an adult relationship of deep friendship and mutual respect between mother and daughter. But her relationship with Amanda was turning out so differently than she’d hoped. Despite her most strenuous efforts to do otherwise, Amanda was being hurt . . . just as she had been.

  ————

  The memory was only a feeling.

  No event, no image, no specific picture came to Jocelyn’s mind. Only a dull ache in some deep corner of her heart where the little girl she had once been still lived.

  She was walking . . . walking along an unknown path, alone. She could feel hot tears in her eyes. What had caused them, she didn’t know. Had something happened? Had she done something bad, naughty, disobedient? Had she accidentally broken something? In a way, that would have been easier. But she rarely remembered being naughty or bad. She was too afraid of what her mother might say to misbehave.

  Except for unintentional actions, such as when she’d slipped on the carriage step, it was not what she did that aroused her mother’s biting disapproval. Rather it was simply who she was. That made it hurt all the more. Her mother simply didn’t like her. She had known that anguishing truth from earliest memory. Her mother disapproved of her very existence. There was nothing she could ever do to win the stern woman’s acceptance.

  And now as she walked, the last words she had heard still echoed in her ears. They sounded out like a curse against her that would follow her the rest of her days:

  “I only hope when you grow up, Jocelyn,” said the voice she knew only too well, “that you feel the pain of motherhood that I have known . . . and that your children cause you as much trouble as you’ve given me.”

  ————

  Jocelyn shook the memory away.

  She would not let discouragement from the past gain a foothold in the present. Her life was good now, she reminded herself. God loved her. Charles loved her. And he had helped her love herself.

  She was God’s daughter. There was no moment when she did not exist within the tender care of his love. When he looked upon her in his heart, he smiled. She must focus on t
hat truth and not allow herself to lose sight of it!

  Biting her lip, she forced her thoughts to the present. Charles’ words still sounded in her ear: She is unaware of the foundation of that love.

  “It is such a difficult line to walk,” he now went on. “You love your son or daughter and want them to be happy. So you want to give them what they want. At the same time, when you set out to live by certain principles, you run the risk that they will not understand, that they may resist or even turn away when you can’t give what they want.”

  “I really think it is more difficult being a mother now—as a Christian, I mean—than it was before . . . before I was thinking about what sort of mother God wants me to be. Sometimes I get so discouraged when Amanda looks at me the way she does. It is so defeating. It is—”

  She looked away and began to cry softly, her determination crumbling.

  “—it’s like my mother is coming back to haunt me,” she added through her tears, “through my own daughter.”

  Charles put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.

  “I think we need to ask,” he suggested gently, “whether children who get everything they want are truly happy. My nephew Geoffrey has been indulged from the cradle and is terribly spoiled, yet he seems to have a perpetual frown on his face and a whine in his voice. No, I think Timothy was right in the counsel he gave us. As hard as it is, we must keep our priorities firm and our authority in Amanda’s life clearly established . . . whether she is grateful for it at present or not. Amanda’s choices are going to be her own to make. We cannot assume the burden of guilt for what she brings upon herself. And, Jocelyn, you must not let yourself compare what we are doing with what your mother did. She was cruel and selfish. You love Amanda and are truly trying to do what is best for her. You must keep telling yourself that!”

  She could only nod through her now-diminishing tears. He pulled her closer and held her tightly.

  “Amanda will see deeper into the Lord’s purposes in time,” he murmured. “We have to believe that. If we learned to revere the hidden hues of the heather, surely the Lord will open her eyes one day to the spiritual hues around her. Maybe that is one of the reasons he gave us the heather—to remind us of that promise.”

  Jocelyn nodded.

  “Perhaps we should think of Heathersleigh not only as the place of heather,” she said with a sniffle, “but also as the place of the promise.”

  “Learning to appreciate blooming flowers is one thing,” Charles said, “learning to apprehend the mysteries of God’s kingdom and view one’s parents in a more eternal light—those are more difficult truths to see.”

  “In time she will see the heather for what it is, you and me for the people we are in the Lord, and the truth of God’s love for her. We are praying. The scales will fall from her inner eyes sooner than they did from ours. We must always remember the promise and the secret of the heather.”

  “Would you like more tea?” Jocelyn asked after both had quietly contemplated the implications of their discussion.

  “Is there any left in the pot?”

  Jocelyn opened the lid and peered inside. “About half a cup. I think it’s still hot.”

  “I’ll finish it then,” said Charles.

  His wife emptied the contents into his cup, added a bit of milk, and he drank it in one swallow.

  “It’s getting dark,” he said as he set down his cup. “What would you say to our finishing this conversation in the library? Somehow I find myself in the mood for the companionship of books and mysteries out of the literary past.”

  She had already risen and picked up the tray. “I would say let us do exactly that.”

  69

  Exploration

  The flickering of a single candle sent shadows dancing upon stone walls that perhaps had not seen light for more than a century. George shivered, more from excitement than fear, as he held the candle high, illuminating yet another turn in the dark, close passageway. Where would its meandering take him?

  While his parents had been occupied in the heather garden, George had begun rummaging in one of the little-used storerooms on the second floor of the north wing. He had originally wandered there for no reason other than curiosity, drawn by doors behind which one could never tell what might be found. Old books, chests, ancient tools, contraptions, and devices from ages long past, anything and everything intrigued young George Rutherford. He had spent his short lifetime finding interest in other people’s castoffs—and more often than not, some use as well.

  An old wooden chest in one corner of a large closet in the storeroom had caught his attention, primarily from the carving upon its sides. Testing it, he found the latch unlocked and carefully lifted back the heavy top. Within minutes he was elbow deep in what he found inside—records, receipts, journals, and logs of some kind that seemed to have to do with ships and the sea. But the chest was not the discovery for which he would remember this day. The real find was what lay underneath it.

  Seeking better light with which to examine the chest’s contents, George had closed the lid and dragged the box out of the corner and toward a window where the last rays of sunlight still streamed in. No sooner had he moved it five or six feet than his interest in the old chest suddenly vanished.

  The movement across the floor had dislodged several loose floorboards. His curiosity aroused yet further, George easily removed the unattached boards. Within moments he found himself staring down into a blackness that resembled an indoor well.

  The next instant he was running back through the corridors of the house at full speed to fetch candle and matches. Ten minutes after the discovery, with mingled fear and awe and an explorer’s excitement, George lowered himself down into the blackness.

  What his feet discovered was not exactly the yawning pit of some long-forgotten dungeon—as his imagination had already made of the darkness—but the crude stone steps of a narrow circular stairway leading downward from the room where the chest had been stored. Once he saw what manner of construction lay beneath him, George cautiously descended into the darkness with candle in hand. Presently he found himself standing in a narrow stone corridor, wide enough only for a single person to pass and of a height equal to the distance between floors in the main portion of the house. The passageway had clearly been fabricated between the walls of various of the rooms or wings of the place, though for what purpose George hadn’t an idea. Neither could he guess where it might lead.

  Feeling no small sense of trepidation, yet nearly beside himself with curiosity and the thrill of discovery only an adventurous youth can know, he crept forward, checking his pocket to make sure he had an ample supply of matches in case some sudden gust should extinguish his candle.

  He lost all sense of direction after three or four turns. After ascending one more circular staircase like the one he had crept down, George slowly made his way yet more deeply into the central regions of the great and ancient Hall.

  70

  Pinnacle of Success

  Meanwhile, in the library of Heathersleigh Hall, the explorer’s two parents had each taken a book and sat down together, intending to spend a quiet evening reading. Almost immediately, however, their conversation resumed and the two books remained closed.

  “But what of your day?” Jocelyn said. “I told you of the incident with the Blakeleys in the village. You said when you arrived home that there were developments in London.”

  “That there were,” sighed Charles. “My quandary over the future has suddenly increased many times over.”

  He set the book down on his lap and glanced about pensively.

  “Eight years ago,” he said, “I would have been thrilled by today’s events.”

  “What events?—it sounds exciting.”

  “I had a couple of rather significant meetings this morning. In the first, Prime Minister Balfour offered me the chair of a new Commission on Preparedness.”

  “He offered a chairmanship . . . to you?” said Jocelyn in surpri
se.

  Charles nodded.

  “But . . . preparedness—for what?”

  “For war.”

  “War,” repeated Jocelyn in alarm.

  “I’m afraid so. Not imminent, of course, but in the event that the unrest of the Continent should spread.”

  “But why did he not choose someone from his own party?”

  “Balfour’s Conservative majority is weakening. The Boer War threw everything into flux, and the labour movement continues to grow. Sentiment for the new socialist Labour party is gathering momentum. I think Balfour knows he has to reach out beyond strict Tory boundaries to maintain his grip on power. It’s not so much that this commission is politically significant in itself—aside from the gravity of the world situation, of course. But the offer does symbolize a reaching out between parties. And in all candor, Jocie, I think some people have their eyes on me for the future.”

  “Do you think the Conservatives will manage to hold the government together?” she asked.

  “It begins to seem unlikely.”

  “So you anticipate an election?”

  “Mark my words, Jocelyn,” Charles replied, “unless I misread the political signs completely, there will indeed be elections within two years.”

  “And then?”

  “Unless I am again badly mistaken, we will be back in power, and could remain in control of the government for some time. I truly think the age of liberalism has arrived.”

  “But you said you had two meetings,” she said, prompting him for more.

  “Yes,” replied Charles, “the other was with the leaders of my own party.”

  “Is it the moment you thought might come?” she asked quietly, drawing closer and slipping her hand through his arm.

  “You are a more astute politician than you let on,” smiled Charles.

  “I am interested for your sake.”

  “To answer your question—yes . . . the moment of truth has arrived.”

  Again he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s ironic,” he said. “Something I anticipated for so long, and which seven or eight years ago represented the very pinnacle of power and success in my ambitious imagination—now it has come.” He paused and smiled almost sadly. “And yet rather than elation, my mood is one of melancholy.”