Jamie MacLeod

by Michael Phillips

  It took very little time, after Jamie had poured out her whole story, for Mrs. Gilchrist to reach her decision. At first Jamie protested, thinking that she could hardly take what she did not earn. But with four children in the household, Emily had little trouble persuading Jamie that she would indeed earn her keep. Moreover, Emily felt Jamie would be a perfect companion to take with her on her visitations. For these “services” Jamie would receive her keep, and lessons.

  But from almost the moment she saw her, Emily Gilchrist sensed in this young lost, homeless, confused little lamb, a tender spirit into which she longed to pour herself. She saw her not as a wandering waif on the streets, but as a developing woman waiting to be loved and nurtured. The blossoming of the beauty that lay dormant within her was to Emily Gilchrist as strong a reality as Jamie’s ragged clothes, if only it could be discovered and then given room to grow. Jamie became to Emily as a daughter, a rough-hewn offspring, no doubt, whose speech and manner and whole carriage required the most basic instruction and training, but whose heart was already in the right direction. The lessons in which Jamie participated, therefore, were of a deeper and more life-changing sort than either she or the tutor imagined. Emily gave herself wholeheartedly to the strengthening and nourishment of Jamie’s whole personhood. And she was not to be disappointed. For it did not take many weeks before the change began to be apparent. From the outward changes in apparel and etiquette and social behavior, over the months a radiance emerged in Jamie’s eyes that told of far more than mere physical maturation. A flowering of perfect womanhood, which at Sadie’s would have died a closed bud on the vine, was at hand.

  Jamie’s room on the second floor was fit for a princess. Its huge bay window looked out onto the broad lawns and lovely gardens of the manse, and allowed warm streams of light to bathe the place all day long. To Jamie it was all so unlike anything she had seen that a certain numbness followed her for several days. She walked about as one in a dream. Her life since her grandfather’s death had been so full of change that by now she was scarcely surprised. It seemed as though the footsteps of her life were not her own to order but were being guided by an unseen hand, toward she knew not what. Therefore, she took everything as it came, if not without a little bewilderment at first, with nonetheless delight at the enchantment of the fairy tale into which she seemed to have landed.

  The spacious beauty of the vicar’s fine home offered a physical reflection of the sweet and peaceful spirit that dwelt there. Immediately Jamie was openly welcomed as one of the family, and it was this love, rather than the soft sheets and warm bath and clean clothes, which watered the seed lying fallow in her own heart, causing it to sprout and begin sending down roots into the eternal. She was made to feel as though she were an individual, significant to these people who scarcely knew her; and she observed the free flow of love between William and Emily Gilchrist, and among them and their four children. She and her grandfather had loved one another. But something more far-reaching was here—or perhaps in the cottage on Donachie, she had been too young to sense it. Now she was ready to receive the love they offered as a gift from on high.

  Benjamin, eleven, was the eldest of the Gilchrist children, followed by his two sisters, Caroline, nine, and Cecilia, eight. These three were typical children, occasionally loud, full of play, and exuberant with life; yet they were full of respect and highly fond of Jamie. The youngest, four-year-old Kenneth, was of another breed than his siblings—far more lively, and to some more critical observers, downright spoiled. But though he was always up to his three-foot-high neck in some sort of trouble, he maintained such a cherubic smile and tender heart that he had not a single enemy among relatives or acquaintances. He had, in fact, not been spoiled by his parents at all; they simply did their best to channel the extra activity and energy he seemed to have been blessed with at birth. Young Kenneth adored Jamie from the moment he saw her.

  The small staff of servants about the manse was comprised of Mrs. Wainwright the governess, Sarah the cook, and Walter the coachman, who also acted as groundskeeper. Jamie saw Mr. Avery the most—the older children’s tutor, a middle-aged man of slight frame, and extremely nearsighted. In his youth he had aspired to the clergy, but his quiet, shy, self-effacing nature proved a drawback in that profession. He found himself more effective in shaping the minds of children than of his peers, and practice demonstrated him indeed more gifted in that regard.

  Between Mr. Avery coaxing Jamie’s mind into new avenues of activity, and Mrs. Gilchrist accomplishing the same for her spirit, changes became evident about her more quickly than she herself realized. She had been a bud waiting to open, a beautiful butterfly trapped in the chrysalis of its surroundings, struggling to break its shell that it might soar forth.

  Jamie took lessons daily with the three older children in the third-floor room, once a large attic used for storage, but now converted into a schoolroom. An eager student, applying the rudiments she had learned from her grandfather and the new principles given her by Mr. Avery, she soon mastered the first primer. But learning to read was merely a gateway into further worlds of knowledge for Jamie. Science, history, and mathematics—with which she found she had to struggle; music and literature all followed in their due course. Skilled in both insight into human nature and methods of teaching, Mr. Avery led her on gradually, giving her only sufficient bites to thoroughly whet her appetite for more. He saw in his new student just the germ of the truth-loving spirit that Mrs. Gilchrist saw, and did not want to crush the bud while it was still struggling to open. But his instincts were rewarded, and before many months he found he was kept in a constant state of blessed perplexity trying to keep up with her insatiable appetite for learning. For such is the product of a mind nurtured to learn on its own rather than force-fed through what is erroneously termed the educational system.

  Of all Jamie’s new experiences, few could compare with the delightful times when Mrs. Gilchrist would wander into her room. They often talked for hours, seemingly spontaneously, about a host of different things. But these discussions and visits were purposefully designed by Mrs. Gilchrist to draw Jamie out as a way of subtly sharing a new way of life with her.

  Frequently the topic of conversation would be the object of their visitation that day, for Jamie had begun to accompany Mrs. Gilchrist on her rounds. Jamie’s genuine compassion was gratifying to the older woman, as was her openness to speak of her own thoughts and feelings when their talk turned in that direction.

  “Do ye think poor Mrs. Ehlers will be able t’ do somethin’ fer her boy?” Jamie would ask.

  “It is hard to say, Jamie,” Emily might reply. “The lad has become involved in a bad crowd. But he refuses to see where it is leading him.”

  “Ye’d think his own mither’d be able t’ influence him.”

  “Perhaps if she had begun to train him in his early years; but he was allowed to run free in his childhood. And now it is much more difficult to bring him back into the fold.”

  “Jist like the sheep,” Jamie offered. “There’s always a rowdy ane whas got t’ gang his ane way.”

  “But the Good Shepherd will not rest until he’s brought back—and neither will his servants.”

  “Is that why ye keep visitin’ them folks doon in the Inches an’ round aboot?” Jamie asked.

  “Yes, that’s certainly part of it, Jamie. Though it’s not only the people in the Inches who need to hear about God’s love, for there is great need in that respect, even here in Cornhill. But the servants who would go to the Inches are fewer than those who might be comfortable talking to people in Cornhill. Why, most of those poor people there would not even be welcome in my husband’s own parish, though he has often tried to encourage such openness between the classes!”

  “But isn’t that what the church’s fer, mem?”

  “Yes. But sadly it is not always perceived in that way. We become so accustomed to our own little worlds that it is difficult to open them up to people who may be different and make us
feel uncomfortable. Most of the people in our churches are not actually trying to be cruel or heartless in their biases toward the lower classes—though some are. But most are merely afraid.”

  “Afraid o’ doin’ guid, Mrs. Gilchrist?” asked Jamie, surprised.

  Emily smiled in answer, then said, “I suppose it does seem a bit ridiculous. If only they could see it that way. But I decided long ago not to be ruled by my fears. The Bible says, ‘For God hath not given us the spirit of fear: but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.’”

  “Are ye not jist a wee bit afraid when ye gang there—I mean, t’ the Inches? I was the first time I went alone, especially when them boys started teasin’ me.”

  “I have been afraid also,” Emily replied. “I remember the first time I went to visit the sister of a servant of one of our parishioners. She was in the later stages of pregnancy and having a difficult time. As I climbed those rickety stairs, I could not believe the poverty. My heart was pounding and my hands were trembling so, I wondered if I would last through the morning. But I did.”

  “Because ye are a strong an’ courageous woman,” Jamie put in, with something like awe in her voice.

  “No, hardly that!” laughed Emily. “I was able to endure the sights and smells of the poverty by realizing that there was no way I could make it in my own strength. Only as I began to rely on God’s power, to remind myself continually of His mission of love which had brought me to that place to begin with did I find I could go on. You see, Jamie, I was afraid. But I knew I could not allow myself to be ruled by that fear. For then that spirit of fear would have prevented me from being ruled by God’s Spirit.”

  “Then it’s all right t’ be afraid, jist so long as—”

  Jamie hesitated, not quite sure how to put this new thought into words.

  “Weel,” she finally went on, “as long as we dinna forgit aboot God.”

  “Yes,” Emily answered. “He wants us to trust even our fears to Him.”

  “It sounds easy, Mrs. Gilchrist. But I canna think it truly is.”

  “In one sense, it is the most difficult thing a person will ever do. Yet, in another sense, what could be simpler? For whom are we asked to trust? The God of the universe, the Creator, the One who gave himself for us. I only pray that one day Mrs. Ehlers’ son might see all this. It is simple, Jamie, but sometimes difficult to do—life’s greatest challenge!”

  “There’s got t’ be a chance for him because look at me!” Jamie declared.

  Emily reached over and placed her arms around the young girl’s shoulders. But soon Jamie grew pensive.

  “What is it?” Emily asked.

  “I was jist thinkin’,” Jamie replied.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Weel,” Jamie began slowly, “one thing’s been troublin’ me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My gran’daddy tried t’ teach me aboot God, like I’m sure Mrs. Ehlers tried t’ teach her boy. But when my gran’daddy died, weel, I guess that wi’oot anyone around t’ remind me, I jist began t’ forgit.”

  “And now, are you recalling the things you learned as a child and the way of life your grandfather demonstrated to you?”

  “Thanks t’ you an’ Mr. Gilchrist, ’deed, mem, I think I am!”

  “It is the Lord who causes the seeds of teaching to grow.”

  “But I’m thinkin’ He’s usin’ yersel’ a lot.”

  Emily Gilchrist smiled. “But the seeds had long been planted in you, Jamie. You may not see that. But it is as clear to me as the sunshine and rain. I am almost coming to know your grandfather himself, just from you. I can see influences that he no doubt planted in you long ago. And that very thing gives me hope for the Ehlers’ boy, too. A seed, even a tiny invisible seed, can grow. And prayer can many times be the water that causes it to sprout.”

  “But I canna help wonderin’ what would hae happened if ye hadna found me.”

  “God has His ways,” Emily answered. “And I believe if you have a truly seeking heart, you will come to God. He never leaves the honest, searching, humble, open heart alone. He will always fill it with himself.”

  “But it worries me t’ think,” Jamie went on, “that if I’m off by mysel’ again, that maybe I’ll forget jist like I did before.”

  Emily placed her arm around Jamie and drew her close. “If your roots are deep enough, that won’t happen. Keep your heart open to Him, Jamie, and obey Him and do as His Word tells you. And in the meantime, with God’s help, we will be sure to do a proper job of gardening! Oh, Lord,” she prayed, “we thank you for your great and personal love for us! Never let us turn our backs on you. Keep us always close to your heart. Keep our minds on you, keep our hearts in love with you, and keep our actions in obedience to you. Help us, Lord, to be your children and to live as you would have us live. We are so weak and we need your help so badly. Draw near us, Lord, and purify our hearts in service and love and obedience to you.”

  Jamie sat in silence, Emily’s arms wrapped tightly around her. Tears of peace streamed down her cheek. It was the first time she could remember the love of a woman, the love of a mother, surrounding her and giving the little girl in her heart the only home an orphan ever truly longs for. And wrapped around them both were the invisible arms of a loving Father, in whose love none are orphans but all are dearly loved children and heirs of the eternal.

  ———

  Thus Jamie grew—in mind, and body, and spirit. What Finlay had begun in that old stone cottage in the heart of Donachie was now finding its completion in the stately manse in Aberdeen. Each day Jamie grew to know Finlay’s God and Emily’s God more personally. He was now becoming her God also. What she had accepted mentally from Finlay’s lips on Donachie, she now received in the stillness of her heart. The words spoken by a grandfather were quickened into her spirit by the one Father. She began to read the old Bible again. But now the words spoke directly to her. And when she prayed, she spoke not to some unknowable and infinite deity, but to her very own Father. She had loved her daddy; she loved her grandfather even more; and no one could replace the mother she had found in Emily Gilchrist. But the one relationship all men and women long for at the root of all others is this Father. And that at last Jamie had begun to find.

  Questions of the heart she directed to Emily. But to Mr. Avery she often went with theological queries.

  “I dinna see how God can be three folks all wrapped up in one,” she said one morning during catechism lessons.

  Now Mr. Avery’s genius for teaching was largely comprised of this: that when a question arose which he had not anticipated, he did not squelch it or give it a pat answer, but used it as a springboard for further discussion and learning. He was as ready to lay aside his planned lessons as to pursue them, taking whichever direction he felt could yield most learning of the best kind. If his students learned less of their memorized responses to the shorter catechism, they learned more of something far more valuable—the practical lessons of life, upon which the development and maturation of character are based.

  “It’s called the Trinity,” he replied patiently; “three persons in one.”

  “Weel, it seems t’ me that three persons must be three persons.”

  “Take Mr. Gilchrist as an example,” replied the tutor. “He is three persons in one.”

  “Like God?” exclaimed Jamie.

  “Not exactly,” laughed Mr. Avery. “But looking at him might make it easier for you to understand what I mean. To his mother he is a son, to his parishioners he is a vicar, and to his children he is a father. See, three persons in one—three different aspects to his overall character.”

  “But he has only one body,” said Jamie. “When Jesus was on earth, He was here, an’ God was in heaven—an’ then the Holy Spirit . . . weel, I jist dinna understand Him at all!”

  Mr. Avery said nothing for a moment, pondering how to make it clear. Suddenly he had an idea.

  “Come with me to the kitchen for a
moment,” he said.

  Puzzled, Jamie followed, wondering what spiritual lessons could be had there. Sarah must have wondered also, for she gave the tutor and his youthful entourage a most peculiar look as they entered.

  Mr. Avery took a chunk of ice from the counter where Sarah had been thawing a fish, and proceeded to demonstrate how the substance contained three elements in one: water, ice, and steam.

  At last Jamie understood. But the greatest lesson of the day was the confirmation that the things of the spiritual world can be found in every aspect of life. She happily shared this realization, to the extreme pleasure of her tutor. They then returned to the schoolroom and the tedious subject of grammar, of which, along with pronunciation, Jamie stood in sore need.

  Knowing that the heart was of ultimate importance, Emily nevertheless added to Jamie’s curriculum lessons the first rudiments of social graces. Practicality considered, she knew Jamie would before long have to make her own way in the world. Even if her heart was pure gold, if she spoke like a shepherd girl from the hills and did not know how to behave with decorum in society, she would never be able to obtain a position as a maid or a governess or a cook or even a housekeeper. Thus Emily took it upon herself to make a presentable woman of her.

  Tedious and frustrating as Jamie found it, she worked hard because she wanted to please Emily. And in addition, she knew it would please her father. For she still clung to the desire to validate her father’s dying hope that she might one day be a lady.

  “I canna haud the fork richt!” she exclaimed in frustration during one exercise on table etiquette. “It picks up the food jist as weel no maitter hoo I’m hauding it!”

  But day after day the lessons progressed and Jamie tackled each obstacle with a determination which was inherent in her nature. Before summer was past, neither Sadie nor Robbie, nor indeed even old Finlay, would have recognized her. Her ragged clothing had long since been replaced with two or three lovely dresses purchased especially for her by Emily. Her shiny dark hair had grown until it fell in lustrous waves well past her shoulders; Emily suggested that nothing be done to it, for it looked most elegant just like that. Her movements had taken on a sort of unaffected grace, though there were times, especially while she was playing with young Kenny, that she forgot everything she had learned and tumbled like a boy over the carpet.