Heathersleigh Homecoming (55 page)

Just as suddenly as he had taken it, he now released Amanda's hand and calmly moved away. Amanda clutched her own fingers around whatever it was he had just secretly given her. Geoffrey walked across the ground, taking his place again in the vicinity of his father.

The moment she could do so without calling attention to the fact, Amanda hurried a quick peek down beside her and opened her hand.

The keys!
The very same keys he had taken from the tower of Heathersleigh Hall!

But why such stealth just to give them back?

Amanda glanced up again. One look at Cousin Gifford's face told her clearly enough. He obviously was not party to what Geoffrey had just done.

“If there is anything we can do,” Cousin Martha was saying.

“Thank you, Martha,” returned Jocelyn. “That is very kind.”

But Amanda was hardly listening. Geoffrey was staring straight toward her.

She nodded her acknowledgment of the transaction with an imperceptible tilt of the head, though with bewildered expression. Geoffrey returned the nod so slightly that only she saw it, then followed it with the hint of a smile.

It was a smile, Amanda thought—perhaps the first such expression she had ever seen on his face—that seemed to contain no motive or guile. Maybe he too had changed in the year since she had seen him, she thought. Their eyes held each other's in a strange and rare moment of shared understanding. It reminded her of the drive they had taken together, which had been almost pleasant. Slowly Amanda returned his smile, then nodded slightly again.

Gradually the tide of well-wishers ebbed and flowed, and soon Geoffrey and his father were engaged in conversation with someone else.

“He gives me the creeps,” whispered Catharine at Amanda's side while Martha and Jocelyn continued to talk.

“Who?” said Amanda.

“Cousin Geoffrey, who else?”

“He's not so bad,” mused Amanda, whom the encounter had made curiously pensive.

“I hope they're not waiting for an invitation to come back to Heathersleigh,” whispered Catharine again, this time directly into Amanda's ear. “I can see Mother thinking about it already.”

The hint of a smile creased Amanda's lips.

“That's exactly what they're waiting for,” Catharine went on softly. “Look at Cousin Gifford—can't you tell, glancing back over at Mother and Martha every so often. He's just waiting for a chance to snoop around without Daddy there.”

“That's terrible, Catharine,” whispered Amanda, though she could not help being amused. “You're so cynical.”

“Don't do it, Mother,” whispered Catharine, coaching her mum from afar.

“Catharine, stop it!” whispered Amanda in return. “You're going to make me start laughing. Besides, they'll hear you.”

“But I can see her weakening. Look how she and Cousin Martha are chatting away. I can see it in Martha's face. She can almost taste Sarah's tea cakes.—
M—o—t—h—e—r
!” whispered Catharine in a loud exhale.

A brief snicker escaped Amanda's lips. She tried to recover herself, throwing Catharine a look of silent command, to which Catharine replied with an equally silent,
What did I do?

“Oh-oh, here comes Geoffrey again. Run, Amanda.”

“Catharine!” laughed Amanda, unable to help herself. “You are going to get us all in trouble. Look, he's just going over to talk to someone else.”

Geoffrey was indeed sauntering away from the small family reunion. Amanda did not speak to him again that day.

As Martha eventually moved away in the direction of husband and son, Jocelyn's younger sister, Edlyn, and her husband, Hugh, approached. Feeling it their duty to attend, they came forward with an understandable awkwardness, for the interview was bound to be a difficult one.

Jocelyn's heart both sank and roused itself in indignation as she saw them approach. After the cruel letter Hugh had written about Charles, how could any word of sympathy about his death now carry much meaning?

As the Wildecott-Brownes approached she managed to catch Timothy's eye in silent plea. He knew her meaning in an instant and was at her side the next.

“Edlyn, hello,” said Jocelyn as graciously as she was able. “How good of you to make the effort to come all this way.”

The two sisters hugged without touching.

“We're very sorry, Jocelyn dear.”

“Thank you.—Hugh,” she said, nodding to her brother-in-law at Edlyn's side.

“Our sympathies, Jocelyn,” he said.

Stiff handshakes passed between aunt and uncle and the youngest Rutherford daughter, who was less inclined even than her mother to extend forgiveness. Amanda, however, who knew nothing of the letter and had seen neither aunt nor uncle since the dinner at their home some two years earlier, greeted both warmly.

“Timothy,” said Jocelyn, turning to her side, “I would like you to meet my sister and her husband—Hugh and Edlyn Wildecott-Browne. Hugh and Edlyn, may I present Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld.”

Handshakes followed.

“Hugh, you may remember,” Jocelyn went on to Timothy, “wrote me that very interesting letter two years ago—the one that Charles and I shared with you, and asked you to help us understand.”

“What letter was this, Hugh?” said Edlyn, glancing toward her husband.

A series of nervous throat-clearings and a slight reddening of neck and cheeks accompanied the religious solicitor's attempt to explain the communication whose content he had never divulged to his wife.

“Yes, a very interesting letter indeed,” said Timothy, moving purposefully in Hugh's direction. “It was a letter, if I may say, that I found very difficult to understand as well. I think it is time you and I had a serious talk, Mr. Wildecott-Browne.”

Timothy led the man off across the grounds in such a way as to leave Hugh very little alternative but to accompany him. What passed between them neither man ever revealed to another soul. But its result was another letter to Jocelyn some months later, this time of very different tone, expressing contrite apology for what he had done earlier and for so completely misunderstanding the facts of the situation. By that time he and Timothy had begun meeting once a month for lunch.

Before the year was out, Mr. Wildecott-Browne had resigned his church deaconship so that he and his wife might become regular attendees of services at New Hope Chapel on Bloomsbury Way.

 115 
Healing and Looking Forward

The party of travelers arrived back at Heathersleigh Hall about five that afternoon. To Catharine's relief, the return trip was made
without
accompanying relatives from London.

“Catharine, you were positively terrible!” said Amanda on the train. “You almost made me laugh in front of Geoffrey.”

“What was this, girls?” asked Jocelyn.

“Nothing, Mother,” Catharine said. “I was just afraid you were going to invite our dear London relatives back to the Hall.”

“Actually, I wondered if I ought to,” Jocelyn replied. “But I simply didn't have the heart to face guests . . . not now, not after the service. I wanted to be alone with my family. I hope they were not offended.”

“If I know Cousin Gifford,” said Catharine, “he was very offended, and is probably stewing about it right now.”

“They're really not all so bad,” said Amanda, though she could not help laughing a little to hear Catharine carry on. She never realized how funny her sister could be. “They were very kind to me in London, in their own way. Of course Geoffrey proposed to me, and
that
was beyond the bounds.”

“Geoffrey proposed to you!” exclaimed Catharine. “Cousin Geoffrey . . . that slimy weasel!”

Now even Jocelyn and Timothy could not help laughing.

“He had a horrid big diamond ring and everything. I'll admit, I wasn't particularly gracious in my response,” said Amanda.

Suddenly she paused, and a sad smile of irony passed across her face.

“Although,” she went on after a moment, “who knows how different my life might be if I
had
accepted? Even marriage to Geoffrey would
have been better than the fix I got myself into in Vienna. And he did slip me these when his father wasn't looking.”

She held up the brass ring with two keys dangling from it.

“What—you mean he gave them to you today?” Catharine said. “When?”

“When we were talking after the ceremony.”

“What are they?” asked Jocelyn, puzzled.

“The keys from up in the old tower,” Amanda replied. “I didn't know he had them until he showed them to me—it was probably three years ago. He took them from here—that time they were visiting at Heathersleigh, remember, when he and I went up to the tower when the rest of you were talking downstairs. I'm afraid I was rather mean to him, and I guess he thought he would get even by taking the keys.”

“And he gave them back to you today—how peculiar,” said Jocelyn. “What did he say?”

“Not a word, Mother. And I didn't ask. I have the feeling he did it behind his father's back.”

“I bet Cousin Gifford put him up to taking them in the first place,” said Catharine.

Maggie was at the Hall waiting for them when they returned. Along with Sarah, the two of them had prepared a sumptuous tea for the weary mother, daughters, and London minister.

As they sat with cups in hand later that evening talking casually, gradually the sense began to envelop all five, including Maggie, that a threshold had been crossed, that with the service behind them a new season of healing and regeneration had begun.

It was clear to all that a great change had come over Amanda. Each one saw it. The intrusive, importune personality they had been acquainted with since her childhood had remarkably begun to give way to a calm, even reticent, demeanor. More often now she waited for others to speak, listening, absorbing, thinking, reflecting on what was being said around her rather than blurting out whatever came into her mind. And as she listened, it was clear her ears were open to the flow of conversation, eager to learn, to hear what others thought . . . hungry to glean from them. Her mother and sister, who had not been with Amanda for eight years, occasionally glanced at each other. Though Amanda had now been home for four days, they
still did not know what to make of this soft-spoken young lady in their midst.

That same evening, not to monopolize the conversation but realizing the importance of doing so, almost confessionally, Amanda began by degrees to fill in the details of her story since leaving Heathersleigh. She spoke softly and humbly, and the telling was not without many tears and interruptions. But she knew that for the healing of her homecoming to be complete, she must open her heart to mother and sister and pastor and allow them to be part both of her pain and her repentance. It nearly broke Jocelyn's heart to listen.

“Obviously it wasn't,” said Amanda as she drew to a close after about an hour, “but sometimes I think the whole awful mess I made of the last eight years is almost worth it for the experience of being at the chalet. I didn't realize it at the time, but those dear sisters and their stories, their love for me and acceptance of me, and their complete honesty all played such a part in finally opening my eyes to see myself. Maybe their openness and transparency was, in a sense, a mirror held up to my own face. They were all so
real
. I hardly knew what was happening to me, even though I was right in the midst of it. One of the first things I need to do, once I catch my breath, is write them a very long letter, thanking them.”

A quiet smile came over Amanda's face.

“You know, it's funny,” she said after a moment. “I can almost feel the spirit of the sisters coming over me right now. I have the feeling they are praying for me. Suddenly it feels good. For so long the idea of being prayed for infuriated me. Why was that, Rev. Diggorsfeld?”

“No doubt it rubbed your rebellion a bit too raw for comfort, as it often does to people in such a frame of mind,” replied Timothy. “When one is running from God, one of the things they hate most of all is the thought that another is praying for them.”

“Well, I certainly did. All of a sudden I can scarcely believe I was the same person.”

Amanda exhaled a long sigh.

“Another reason I need to write that letter,” she said, “is to apologize to Sister Hope for some of the things I said.—Oh, how could I have been so mean to so many people!”

Again she began to cry.

“It is so hard not to feel an overwhelming sense of guilt,” she moaned, “for everything! For what I said to the sisters, for how I
treated Geoffrey . . . for horrid things I said and did to all of you—so many times I can't stand to think of it. I'm so sorry! And especially for Daddy and George. How can I not think that maybe if I had come home sooner, this wouldn't have happened and they might not have died?”

“You are not responsible for their deaths, Amanda,” said Timothy.

“But how can I not feel guilty?”

“It is true that if you had come back sooner you might have had the chance to be reconciled in this life. However, I am certain good will come of it, and that God will use it somehow to help others. But as far as what actually happened with the ship, that is a burden you
cannot
carry.”

“But I can hardly bear it.”

“God is sovereign. This awful war which is consuming the world is certainly much larger than any of us.”

“How can I know the difference between what I am supposed to feel, as you say, and not?”

“There are proper guilts we must face and shoulder to some degree all our lives. The Lord uses these to keep us humble and reliant on him. But there are false guilts as well which we are
not
meant to carry. Satan is always trying to mix up the two in our minds and make us carry what we shouldn't, and at the same time tempting us to make excuses for ourselves in those very areas where we are meant to be accountable. Learning to distinguish which is which is the challenge of dealing with guilt. But above all we must remember that nothing we do or do not do can thwart or alter God's ultimate plans or will. As I said, he is sovereign. He is sovereign even in the midst of our sin.”

“But how do I live with myself, Rev. Diggorsfeld? How can I face the future? How is it possible for me to face myself?”

“For one thing, young lady,” he replied with a smile, “I think you need to start calling me Timothy, like everyone else around here. I gave up the
Reverend
a long time ago under this roof.”

Amanda smiled sheepishly.

“All right, I'll try . . .
Timothy
. Though it sounds funny coming from me.”

“What would you say to her question, Maggie?” said Timothy. “You have had to face the death of your Bobby. How do you go on?”

“Life is not always a fairy tale,” said Maggie. “In this life, the Christian often has to find victory in the midst of heartbreak.”

“A good reply!” exclaimed Timothy. “What about you, Jocelyn—how would you say we go on?”

“Isn't that the lesson of the cross,” said Jocelyn, “that our ultimate victory comes later?”

“Exactly,” rejoined Timothy. “I couldn't have said it better myself. You can always depend on these ladies to give you good advice, Amanda. Let me try to respond to your question about facing the future by saying this,” he went on. “This world will always bring suffering because we are sinners, but ultimately all will be reconciled. The cross is the symbol of suffering and death, just as it is the symbol of triumph and victory over the grave. You and your father
will
be restored to each other, Amanda, but in no fairy tale. Rather in the reality of eternity.

“Another lesson of the cross is that sin has consequences. You have to live with that, my dear, learning that portion of its lesson too. I do not like to say such a thing at this time. Yet if you want to know how to go on with your life, what good will it do you for me to speak empty words? So, yes, wrong choices have consequences. You have to face them. One of the consequences for you is that you will not see your father again.”

Amanda began to weep. The realization was so bitter she could not stand it.

“But in the midst of those consequences,” Timothy went on, “we may focus our eyes on the ultimate victory of eternity. That is the majestic triumph of the cross! We live in this world amid the consequences of sin, while looking toward that final triumphant reconciliation. It is what life as a Christian in this world is all about. And so at the same time as I say what I just did about consequences, I would also tell you that God's forgiveness is so tender that he wants only to wrap his arms of love about you, and hold you, and assure you that life will be good again. The challenge before you will be to somehow appropriate both the Lord's and your father's love and forgiveness.—You know that your father loves you right now, don't you?”

Amanda nodded.

“I know that you will learn to live in that knowledge, in the actual reality of knowing that he is still with you, but in a new way.”

A long silence followed. Timothy looked around at the four women, and now addressed each of them.

“I would say the same thing to you all,” he said, speaking as the elder statesman of the tiny congregation. “You have all lost your men. Maggie, you your dear Bobby. Jocelyn, Amanda, and Catharine, your dear Charles and George. In a sense you are alone now. God has plans and purposes that often go beyond our sight. The four of you must help each other to stand tall, encouraging and exhorting and leaning upon one another and giving one another strength.

“God has a purpose for each one of you, and for Heathersleigh—yes, both the Hall and the cottage—to fulfill. We cannot see what his purposes are, but I do not believe this is the end for you four, but rather a beginning. Something lies ahead, a new chapter in your lives.”

“What kind of something?” asked Catharine.

“I don't know. But I do know that God has given to women a special courage and special strength for such times as these.”

“Special strength?” repeated Catharine.

“Of course. In many ways women indeed are the stronger of the two halves of humanity. Not in brute physical strength, but in a host of inner ways where even greater strength is required. Some women never discover those reservoirs within themselves. But God has chosen that the four of you have no alternative. In a way, I am almost excited to see what might lie ahead, for this tragedy that has befallen us indicates in some way, I think, that God has some great thing in store, something he will reveal in time. Whatever it is will grow out of the ashes of your pain, and will flower as the result of the compassion perfected by your suffering.”