“But does not everyone believe, more or less, in the Christian faith?” asked Lady Holsworthy, with just the slightest return to formality in her tone.
“Perhaps. One might say, I suppose, that many heathens believe in the way that you mean the word.”
“How do you mean the word, then?”
“A man’s faith is that by which he lives, Lady Holsworthy. One can hardly be said to ‘believe’ something if one does little practical about it in consequence. By belief, therefore, I mean that by which a man or woman attempts to order his or her every moment. For me, as I say, that is now a matter of finding the will of the Father and then doing my best to do it.”
“How do you do that, if you do not mind my asking?” said Lord Hubert.
“I pray. I search the pages of the Bible for guidance as to how I should conduct my life. And I engage in a constant dialogue with the Lord, in which I ask him what he would have me do or think or say in a given instance and ask for his help in doing it.”
“Did you ask him what you should say here—today . . . right now?”
“I did,” nodded Charles.
Again the room fell silent. Amanda’s embarrassment had by now turned to silent rage over her father’s presumption at speaking so brashly to one who had come calling on her. Whatever thaw the past weeks had brought in the air between her and her father, a new cold front had immediately moved back in.
“And you, Lady Rutherford,” said Lady Holsworthy after a moment, flustered again, “are you . . . that is, do you concur—what I am trying to ask is if you go along with your husband in . . . with these, I must say—well, they would seem to be rather unusual views, are they not?”
“I see nothing at all unusual in them, Lady Holsworthy,” replied Jocelyn with a pleasant smile. “Indeed, I cannot imagine a more natural thing in all the world than that a creature should live in close and happy relationship with its Maker. How Charles and I could have been so blind to this central truth for so long we have wondered about and laughed about and wept about many times over the past ten years. In any event, to answer your question—I wholeheartedly go along with everything my husband has told you. I too attempt to order my life according to what the Father would have of me. I also am a believer in exactly the way Charles has described it.”
“I see. Well . . . this—I must say, this is . . . it is most unexpected. I daresay, most people would find it as . . . as surprising as I confess it has been to me.”
“No doubt you are right, Lady Holsworthy,” said Jocelyn. “We do not make it our practice to be quite so forthright concerning our beliefs unless we are asked about them.”
“I certainly apologize if my candor has made you uncomfortable,” said Charles.
“No . . . not at all, Sir Charles . . . think nothing of it. I only say . . . yes, well, it caught me off my guard is all.”
“Then perhaps we should move on to the practical matter at hand,” said Charles. Lady Holsworthy again moved uncomfortably this way and that upon the plush settee, pretending to straighten her dress. “I want to answer your question, Hubert,” Charles continued, turning toward the young man, “as straightforwardly as I am able. Therefore, I must say this. I cannot at this time consent to the honor you request. Before giving you a decision one way or the other, as I have alluded to, my wife and I will have to discuss and pray about the matter. Such is our practice before all decisions. We will seek what is God’s will on the matter as well as what we feel to be best for Amanda.”
“I see,” replied Hubert, shifting slightly and unconsciously straightening his lapels. He was not accustomed to being refused, and what he saw as Sir Charles’ sanctimonious bearing was beginning seriously to annoy him. “And you take it upon yourself to speak for your daughter?”
“She is seventeen,” replied Charles. “As I say, my wife and I are rather old-fashioned in these matters. In the matter of your request, as it was addressed to me, yes—I take it upon myself to speak for my daughter.”
It was all Amanda could do to sit still for this. One thing she had begun to learn, however, was to keep her temper inside. She had not learned to rule over it, but she had at least grown capable of keeping silent when to do so suited her purposes. She knew it would not do to cause a scene here and now.
“Then clearly it is time for us to take our leave,” said Hubert, rising, “as it seems, Sir Charles, with all due respect, that you leave no room for any opinion on the matter but your own.” The sarcasm in his tone left no doubt of his irritation, for he was one, not unlike Amanda, who usually got what he wanted.
Lady Holsworthy rose also and bade her respectful good-byes. The instant their visitors were out the front door, Amanda disappeared to her room.
In another two minutes the wheels of the departing carriage were crunching along the gravel drive, the mother relieved to get away from the place, the son silently fuming over the rebuff visited upon one who could have any eligible young woman in England at the snap of his fingers.
86
Mothers and Daughters
Later that same afternoon, when she had not seen Amanda for several hours, Jocelyn went in search of her daughter. She found her in her room.
She knocked, then opened the door. Amanda was sitting in a chair by the window. When her mother appeared, she glanced up, expressionless.
Jocelyn walked in. “I take it from your face that you are displeased,” she said. “No doubt with your father and me.”
“If the mortification of your speaking with such directness about your religious peculiarities wasn’t bad enough,” replied Amanda, “Father acted as though I wasn’t even there.”
“What would you have had him do?”
“Consult with me for one thing—it was me we were talking about.”
“Are you honestly telling me, Amanda, that you want the young Powell to call on you?”
In truth, Amanda was not especially taken with Hubert Powell. But the fact that her father disapproved of him automatically made her his defender.
“Perhaps that is a decision I would like to make for myself,” she said.
“And perhaps it is one that we feel we are in a better position to make than you.”
“What gives you and Father the right to speak for me?”
“We are your parents, Amanda. What greater right exists than that?”
“I am seventeen.”
“Exactly.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you are seventeen, and never more in need of your parents’ oversight and guidance. You are a mere girl.”
“I am old enough to decide for myself what I think is right.”
“That is the folly of youth, dear Amanda. At seventeen you are capable of seeing almost nothing accurately—especially those things that have to do with yourself. If you had made a lifetime habit of wise choices, it might be different. But you have not done so, Amanda. You haven’t even started yet. You need our eyes to help you see things as they really are.”
“I need your eyes. Ha.”
“That is the role we are supposed to occupy in your life—helping you learn to see accurately and truthfully.”
“And I suppose you think that means deciding which young men I must associate with . . . or if I am allowed to associate with young men at all?”
“In no more area of life are our eyes so important as that.”
“Am I to have no say in the matter?”
“I said no such thing. But it is important that you trust us to know what is best for you.”
“You only want to control my life!”
“We want what is best for you.”
“What if I do not agree what that best is?”
“We are trying to help you mature so that you will blossom into God’s flower, not become a weed that grows wild and never blooms.”
“What if I want to see Hubert?”
“Then you have to trust us above your own wishes.”
“What gives you that right to say such
a thing?” asked Amanda again.
“That we are your parents?” replied Jocelyn for the second time. “God has given parents authority in their children’s lives.”
“And how long is that authority supposed to last?” asked Amanda bitingly. “It seems I have endured it long enough!”
“Until a son or daughter is fully capable of making wise decisions and discerning the Lord’s will on his or her own.”
“And when do you think that might be? I’m already seventeen. Will I be capable at twenty? At forty? At seventy? How long do you intend to keep me under your thumb?”
“Amanda, please,” implored Jocelyn. “Wise decisions involve learning how to listen to God’s voice. That takes years and years. Everyone must continue learning it all their lives. There is no precise moment when a young person is suddenly wise and capable. It is a long process. We are only trying to help, trying to do our best for you because we love you so deeply.”
“We—you keep saying we.” Now Amanda switched tactics. “Surely you do not agree with Father about everything he said. You are only going along with him because you think you have to. How can you have become such a positive doormat?”
“What—where did you get such an idea?”
“I can hardly believe how you let him lord it over you!”
“Oh, Amanda—nothing could be further from the truth. I agree with your father completely.”
“You were a girl once. Surely you understand how I feel more than he can.”
“Perhaps I can. But I am still your mother. You cannot think your father loves you more than I do.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“If he loves you enough to do what is best for you even against your own will, do you not think I would love you enough to do the same?”
Jocelyn’s heart twisted as she gazed at her daughter’s hostile face. This was not how it was supposed to be between a mother and daughter! She had hoped and dreamed of so much more!
————
The young woman of fifteen lay on her bed, face down in her pillow, quietly crying herself to sleep. Poised between girlhood and womanhood, for the first time in her life, she had dared speak an objection to her mother.
“Why can’t I go?” she had asked, trying to put on the confidence of the woman.
“We have an image to maintain, Jocelyn,” replied Mrs. Wildecott. “Your father’s position demands certain sacrifices from us all. There are those here in India who would simply not understand if they saw you with him in public.”
She turned to go.
“How can you say such a thing, Mother?” said Jocelyn to her back, a hint of forceful annoyance in her voice. “Don’t you care more about me than people we barely know?”
It was hardly a rebellious rejoinder. Yet hearing it from Jocelyn’s usually timid mouth, her mother had spun around in shock. She stared at her daughter a moment in disbelief, then replied, “Jocelyn, you may not accompany your father. It is only my love for you that forces me to such a decision. I am trying to keep you from being hurt. I do not want to hear another word about it.”
Mrs. Wildecott turned and left the room. Jocelyn stared after her, desperately trying to pretend that her mother’s words hadn’t stung.
The little girl in her had now returned, pulling her back into her shell. Her mother had closed the door behind her, shutting Jocelyn into her refuge. This was the only place she felt safe from the stares, safe from the silent rebuke, safe from her mother’s censorious glances.
“She doesn’t care about me,” Jocelyn whimpered to herself through her tears. “She doesn’t care. She doesn’t know how much it hurts. She only cares about what other people think of us. That’s all she’s ever cared about, what people will think of my face. She doesn’t even love me.”
The realization could not have been a more bitter one. She had never uttered the words aloud before this day. But suddenly out they had popped from her mouth. Had she been able to retrieve them, she would have continued to cry in silence. But they had been spoken. The sound of her own voice reverberated in her ears . . . she doesn’t even love me . . . doesn’t love me.
And now at last came the tears, if not quite in a flood, at least in full measure. For young Jocelyn Wildecott had long before this learned to swallow the hurt of her childhood with dry eyes and aching heart.
Mercifully, as they often do, the tears brought sleep. And if it did not altogether knit up the raveled sleeve of her care, for the next hour she was at least granted the peace of being oblivious to them.
When she awoke, it was not her mother’s words that first came to her consciousness, nor even her own, which had deepened the heartache. Instead, though marriage had always seemed a remote possibility, she found herself thinking what it might be like to have children of her own.
“I will do everything I can to let them know how much I love them. I will tell them every day! I will be the nicest, most loving mother there ever was. Never will my daughter doubt my love. I will love her so much . . . love her . . . love her . . .
————
Thirty-two years later, the memory only made her own daughter’s words all the more unbearable.
“Love!” cried Amanda at her mother with derision. “Can you honestly believe everything Father said was from love?”
“Of course,” replied Jocelyn. “What else could it possibly be?”
“Don’t make me say it!” said Amanda.
“Your father loves you with all the depths of his father-heart, Amanda. Only a lesser love would give you your own way.”
“Love me! All he wants is to keep me cooped up here, seeing no one, with no social life, maybe one or two parties a year, and turning away all the young men who come to call. He wants to keep me from the slightest freedom. He wants to rule my life and keep me here as if I were in prison! I can’t wait to be in London this winter. When are you going to let me grow up and be an adult and stand on my own two feet?”
“When you are ready to grow up,” rejoined Jocelyn. “When you act like an adult. When you begin thinking like a mature and respectful individual.”
“I’m old enough for that now. Most parents let their children live their own lives by the time they are my age. Why, I am old enough to be married.”
“Your father and I are not most parents,” Jocelyn replied. “We are your parents. And we do not happen to think that independence at seventeen is what the Bible teaches.”
“I am sick to death of hearing about what the Bible teaches, as if that has anything to do with my life!”
“It has everything to do with it. Only someone who didn’t love you at all would let you do whatever you pleased.”
“You speak as if I were five years old . . . and an idiot besides!”
Jocelyn ignored Amanda’s comment and continued. This might be her only chance to say some things, and she would say them. “Unfortunately,” she went on, “when you were younger we often didn’t love you as we should have. We let you do as you pleased. We are sorry now, for we see how harmful it was.”
“Harmful—how? How did it hurt me!”
“Harmful to your character, Amanda. Look at you—you are completely full of yourself.”
“I am not!” Amanda shot back.
“Oh yes,” Jocelyn went on. “I’m afraid that Amanda Rutherford is the only person in the whole world you’ve come to care about.”
For the briefest of seconds, a glimmer of uncertainty crossed Amanda’s features. Then her face hardened. “Well, then, who else should I care about?” she spat.
“Now it is my turn, Amanda—don’t make me say,” replied Jocelyn sadly. “If you don’t know, then that is something you will have to discover for yourself. If you truly don’t know, then I pity you, and God forgive me for failing to teach you so basic a truth.”
“Pity me?” repeated Amanda in mingled anger and incredulity. “You pity me! Look at your face—if you pity anyone . . . you ought to pity yourself!”
&n
bsp; The words blasted against Jocelyn like hot air from a furnace. She turned and fled the room. Tears were already beginning to sting her eyes, both from her daughter’s cruel words and from her own outburst which had prompted them. She could not even make it halfway to the stairs before the bitter weeping began.
Her mother’s heart was pierced through with a knife, and she sobbed as she ran.
87
Parental Concern
The day following the visit from Lady Holsworthy and her son, Charles and Jocelyn walked out of the Hall into the chill of the evening. Their hearts were full of concern. By common consent they made their way hand in hand toward the heather garden.
“I’m anxious for her, Charles,” said Jocelyn at length.
Charles nodded. His face wore a sober expression. He too was concerned.
Jocelyn now related to her husband the heated conversation with Amanda of the previous afternoon.
“Oh, Charles,” she said as she finished, “I shouldn’t have lost my composure with her. But she can be so headstrong and rude, I just couldn’t help it!” She had not told Charles of Amanda’s final words to her. She could not even bring herself to utter them again, even to him.
“We have taken her to the Lord time and again, Jocie,” said Charles gently. “His plan for Amanda will not be thwarted because you are an emotional mother who feels pain for what she is doing to herself. Besides—what did you say exactly?”
“That she was full of herself, and that she was the only person in the world she cared about.”
“There—you see. She may have taken offense, but you spoke the truth. As much as I love her, Amanda is full of herself.”
“I just don’t understand, Charles. Why has all this happened? I wanted so much to be a good mother!”
“You have been a good mother, Jocie. But we have to accept our share of the responsibility. We indulged our first two children. We followed the ways of society. George was somehow spared the self-centeredness such usually causes by finding much to satisfy his curiosity—or perhaps he has simply been granted the gift of a gentler temperament. But Amanda is different. She has always needed a firmer hand, and we did not use it with her.”
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