A New Dawn Over Devon (9 page)

 8 
A Drive to the Coast

Summer came to Devon. But the fragrant middle months of 1915 brought little warmth to Heathersleigh, only nostalgically painful reminders of Charles Rutherford's favorite time of the year.

In mid-June the telephone rang, itself a reminder of Charles's fascination with invention and technology and the many modern advances he had brought to the region. Jocelyn answered it to find their friend and spiritual mentor, Timothy Diggorsfeld, on the other end of the line, calling from London.

“Timothy, it's so good to hear from you,” she said. “I was commenting to Catharine and Amanda only yesterday that we needed to get you down for a visit.”

“Actually, that's why I called,” replied Timothy. “I wondered if next week would be convenient with you for a battle-weary London pastor to escape to the country for a respite with his friends.”

“Of course, Timothy—you are welcome anytime. When should we expect you?”

“I will take the first train out Monday morning.”

“Then we will meet you at the station.—Oh, I am so glad! It has been rather dreary lately. It's hard not to think of Charles all the time.”

The phone went silent a moment.

“I miss him, Timothy,” Jocelyn added softly.

Timothy could hear the quaver in her voice. “I know, my dear,” he said. “So do I. We shall have a cry again together on Monday, and remind one another of the happy times his life brought us.”

Both widow and pastor were in tears when they hung up their respective telephones a minute or two afterward.

Timothy arrived in Milverscombe as planned five days later.

As he stepped out of the train, however, he saw four ladies awaiting him, not three, one of them obviously quite young. The moment his foot touched the platform, Catharine bounded forward and smothered him in a huge embrace. The others followed with more reserve.

“Timothy, how wonderful to see you,” said Jocelyn, approaching with a smile. Hugs followed as Catharine stepped back.

“And meet the newest member of our family,” she went on, “—for now, I should say. Timothy, this is Elsbet Conlin. Elsbet, I would like you to meet our dear friend, Rev. Timothy Diggorsfeld.”

“Hello, Elsbet,” said Timothy, bending his lanky frame down slightly so that he might look into the girl's face from her own height. “I'm very happy to meet you.”

She smiled and shook his offered hand.

“Let me get my bag. Then, Elsbet, you can tell me how you come to be here.”

That evening the three Heathersleigh women sat with their two guests in the sitting room enjoying tea and biscuits. After sharing memories and shedding tears remembering Charles and George again together, with smiles on their faces and love in their hearts, Timothy gradually managed to draw Elsbet into conversation. By evening's end he had succeeded in getting more smiles to break out on her face than had any of the others in two weeks. She had just told him about her night in the cave.

“You know what sounds good to me after all this talk of caves,” said Jocelyn as the evening advanced and yawns and silences indicated that beds were beckoning, “—a picnic at the sea. Who would like to drive down to the coast tomorrow?”

“A capital idea!” consented Timothy. “I've never actually been to the coast of Devon. I hear there are great stands of chalk like at Dover.”

“Then, girls, we shall get busy early and have Sarah help us pack a basket of provisions.—What do you think, Elsbet?” asked Jocelyn. “Would you like to drive to the sea?”

“My father loved the sea,” she replied indirectly.

“And you lived near the sea with him, did you not?”

She nodded quietly.

“Perhaps you could show us where you lived,” Jocelyn added.

Elsbet glanced down.

Jocelyn had not been successful in learning any details of Elsbet's past life, and was concerned that someone must be looking for the girl.

“We will just go for a drive and enjoy the coast, then,” she added with a smile.

————

The next morning a little after ten o'clock, the Rutherford Peugeot was filled with the two Rutherford daughters, Elsbet, Timothy Diggorsfeld, and Jocelyn at the wheel, bounding through the Devonshire countryside for the coast some twenty miles to the south.

Jocelyn was able to drive to a flat clearing about a quarter mile from the ocean. They piled out of the car and walked the rest of the way, Amanda carrying blankets and pullovers, Jocelyn and Timothy each holding an end of the basket laden with provisions.

Slowly Elsbet and Catharine inched ahead, as if the smell of the ocean was drawing them like the aroma of hay in the barn to a weary horse. By the time they were halfway, both girls broke into a run together.

A few minutes later, all five stood at the edge of a plateau which sloped down unevenly toward the water. The day was warm, and both sky and sea were a brilliant blue.

“It is positively spectacular!” said Timothy.

Though the bluff overlooking the sea was high, within minutes Catharine found a place where it was possible to climb down and was already scrambling in the direction of the water.

“Look,” she cried back above her, “there are caves in the bluff!”

Seconds later Amanda and Elsbet were after her.

“Timothy,” said Jocelyn as she began spreading out the blankets on the grass, “thank you for coming. We needed this.”

“So did I,” he replied. “How are you and the girls doing?”

“We manage. But every day is filled with painful reminders.”

“I know, my dear,” said Timothy, laying a tender hand on Jocelyn's arm. “You are in my constant thoughts and prayers.”

“I know we are supposed to give thanks and even to be joyful, but how is it possible?”

“I don't know if we are supposed to be joyful,” replied Timothy. “I haven't been very good at that either. We've each lost our best friend. Who says we should be joyful? But we
can
give thanks. Not that it happened. I cannot
thank
God that Charles and George are gone. But I can thank him that he is good and will make good come of it in the end. But that will never make me joyful. I still wish it had not happened.”

Jocelyn nodded. “It is reassuring to hear you say it,” she replied. “Elsbet's sudden appearance, I must admit, has been a welcome distraction. Sometimes having someone else to worry about helps take your mind off your own troubles, if only briefly.”

“And you know nothing about her?”

“Only that apparently both her mother and father are dead. But whether she has other family . . . we haven't been able to learn. It sounds as though her father was murdered.”

“Would you like me to make some inquiries?” asked Timothy.

“Oh, I would be appreciative,” replied Jocelyn.

“And her family name . . . is Conlin?”

“That's right.”

“But you have no idea of the father's name?”

“None.”

“Well, I will see if I can learn anything.”

After about an hour Timothy and Jocelyn heard the girls' voices climbing back toward them. A few minutes later Catharine's head appeared, then Elsbet's, and finally Amanda's. Breathing heavily and perspiring from the climb, they threw themselves on the grass and blankets, where Jocelyn had a sumptuous cold lunch set out before them.

“Mother, it looks delicious!” exclaimed Catharine. “I worked up an appetite down there.”

“What did you find?”

“Several caves and—”

“It's not so big as the one where I slept,” interrupted Elsbet.

“Any hidden pirate treasure?” asked Timothy.

“Only crabs and smelly sticky grass,” answered Elsbet.

They all laughed as the girls dived into lunch. The mood quieted. Catharine was the first to rise back to her feet twenty or thirty minutes later. Slowly the others rose also and found themselves going their own ways. The urge to explore was still strong in Catharine, and before long she had disappeared again. As Elsbet began to walk after her, Jocelyn rose and followed. An undefined fear that she might wander off came over her. She did not want to leave their enigmatic guest alone. She hoped the setting might prompt their new friend to talk.

Amanda's thoughts turned inward. She rose also and walked in the opposite direction from her mother until she had gone some distance along the bluff.

The high view of the sea reminded her of the Dover overlook where Ramsay had taken her. Soon she was engulfed in sad and painful reflections of the prodigal sojourn that had taken her to Vienna a year ago as the war had broken out, then to Switzerland and finally back to Devon. Would the memories ever stop haunting her?

After walking some thirty or forty minutes along the bluff, and gradually encountering more rocky terrain, she turned back. In the distance she saw Timothy walking the way she had come two hundred yards away. She did not shy away from the encounter as she might have a year or two earlier, but continued forward, and gradually approached him. She smiled warmly as they met. Timothy paused, then turned and continued at her side.

 9 
Layers of Self-Insight

They walked for a minute or two in silence.

“I am always struck with how peaceful life seems to become once you get out of the city,” sighed Timothy at length. “I should definitely do it more often. This setting is so beautiful. There is something about the sounds and smells and sight of the sea that cannot help but get into your spirit.”

Amanda nodded. After another several steps, Timothy spoke again.

“You've been thinking about your father, haven't you?”

“How did you know?” replied Amanda softly.

“For one who understands something of what you are going through, it is not difficult to see.” Timothy paused, then added, “My ears and heart are open if you would like to share your thoughts with one who also loved him.”

Amanda nodded reflectively.

“It will take me a long time,” she said as they went, “to fit everything together. There is so much to get used to, so many changes. More thoughts have been tumbling through my brain than I know what to do with. I've been such a slow learner.”

She paused briefly, struggling to find the right words.

“Please don't think me stupid, Timothy,” she said. “I know it is a simple thing, but I think I am finally realizing how important it is what kind of person you make of yourself.”

“I would never think you stupid, Amanda,” said Timothy.

“But I have been. Maybe you are too kind to say it, but I can.”

“We all have lessons to learn in life—myself no less than you,” said Timothy. “Truth comes to us in layers of deepening insight. We each have to reach the point, through the circumstances of our lives and through the consequences of our choices, where we are able to peel off successively more of those layers.”

“That is a good description,” said Amanda. “But it feels like I'm peeling off my skin. It hurts to see what I have been.”

“Some truth is painful,” Timothy agreed. “And what may appear a simple realization for one individual may represent half a lifetime's struggle for another.”

“But why should truth be painful?”

“Because the uncovered layers bite deep into the heart and soul of each of us uniquely. And if there is sin to deal with in the process, the revelations hurt.”

Amanda did not reply. That fact she knew only too well.

“You are now learning truths,” Timothy went on, “that some men and women never discover. Do not think your growth insignificant because it comes now and did not come sooner in your life.”

“But it would have been so much better had I begun the process long ago.”

“In some ways perhaps. But there are other ways in which you may not have been ready for it until now. Who can say why? The story of your life is like no one else's, as is mine, your father's, your mother's, Catharine's, George's, even little Betsy's, whose story we don't even know.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Don't forget, even your father did not turn his face toward the Lord until his late thirties. We all must respond to God in the circumstances in which we find ourselves.”

“I see what you mean,” Amanda nodded.

“And, too, I believe that everything occurs by God's timing. Therefore, the development of your faith is in his hands. Your responsibility is to fall in with it now that it has come, exactly as your father and mother did when that moment of response came for them.”

“Thank you, Timothy,” said Amanda. “You have always been so kind to me, more kind than I deserve. I will always regret how I used to treat you. I don't know how you can stand me.”

“Amanda, please, don't even think it,” rejoined Timothy. “But tell me what you were reflecting on a moment ago when I met you.”

“About what I used to be like,” replied Amanda with a sad smile.

She paused briefly. Timothy waited.

“When I was younger I always thought I wanted to make a difference,” Amanda went on, “to do great things, to change the world. That's why I left home. But I was so naive and self-centered. I looked at Father and Mother after they became Christians and thought they were accomplishing nothing of value. Yet now I see how much influence they actually had in so many lives in the community.”

“Not just in Devon,” added Timothy, “but in London as well.”

“The outpouring of affection that I have seen toward my father since I came home, and toward Mother too, has been remarkable,” Amanda continued. “There's no one who doesn't have a story to tell about something one of them did.”

“I'm certain it would be the same if you could question the men your father served with in Parliament.”

“I never saw all that before. I don't know how I could have been so blind all those years. It has made me realize that God's way is different than I always assumed, upside down from how I used to look at things. I wanted to change the world by a massive stroke, like my joining the suffragette movement. What I find myself thinking now is that perhaps God would have people change it one little piece at a time, even if in ways that are invisible to others.”

“A keen insight, Amanda. That was something your father certainly believed.”

Amanda nodded. “He understood far more than I gave him credit for,” she said, “such as that the kind of person you are becoming is more important than what you do. That is the part of the world we are most supposed to change one little bit at a time, isn't it?—
ourselves
.”

They walked along for some moments in silence.

“Our father taught us to think, and to think in big ways,” Amanda went on. “It was probably his greatest gift to George, Catharine, and me as we were growing up. So many snatches of conversation now come back to me, times when he would probe and question us.”

“I can envision it even as you describe it.”

“He always tried to stretch our minds and how we looked at things. Yet I used that gift to turn away from him. Not very logical, is it?”

“Young people aren't usually terribly logical in their responses.”

“He gave me freedom to think and dream in ways many fathers don't. He encouraged us to imagine possibilities, to look at every side of a question, even to disagree with him, in order to sharpen our brains and our thinking skills. My father was following God's example, wasn't he, Mr. Diggorsfeld—excuse me, Timothy—in the way God gave man free will. My father gave
me
free thought, so to speak, by training my mind when I was young. It breaks my heart to realize what I did with such a gift.”

She turned away, eyes flooding with tears.

“I thought one of your resentments,” Timothy probed, “used to be that he urged you toward Christian ideas. I thought you were angry at being forced to adopt his value system.”

Amanda thought a moment.

“Yes, I suppose I did resent that,” she said at length. “My mixed-up reactions still confuse me. At the time I thought he and Mother were trying to control every aspect of my life. I felt constrained by it.”

“Yet now you are talking about the freedom and latitude he gave you?”

“Freedom is the last word I would have used to describe it back then,” rejoined Amanda with a sad smile. “Yet now everything looks different. They really did give us freedom, didn't they? But not the kind of freedom my immaturity wanted. I'm certain both George and Catharine would say it was a very liberating environment in which to grow up, while I found it constraining. The difference was because of
me
, wasn't it? Not Mother and Father. I thought I was escaping their restraints by leaving home, when actually all I was doing was living out the consequences of my wrong use of that freedom.”

“Might it be,” suggested Timothy, “that your father gave you intellectual and imaginative freedom by encouraging you to think in large and diverse ways, while in the area of attitudes, behavior, and how you treated others, he expected you to obey certain standards?”

“That may be it exactly,” nodded Amanda, “the distinction between attitudes and behavior on the one hand, and the intellect on the other. My parents didn't give us the same latitude ethically and behaviorally that they did creatively and intellectually. You're right, they expected a standard of respect and gracious behavior.”

“Does that seem so unfair to you now?”

“Not at all,” replied Amanda. “Why I resented those restraints on my independence is hard to understand. As I look back, it seems that they were insisting on nothing more than common sense and normal kindness. All parents try to teach their children proper attitudes and behavior, don't they? The problem with me was that I was so completely self-centered, so filled with selfish attitudes, that I didn't want anyone telling me what to do.”