Heathersleigh Homecoming (21 page)

 33 
Heathersleigh

Jocelyn, Catharine, and Maggie were all standing at the Milverscombe train platform saying their final good-byes. To one side Mr. and Mrs. Sherborne were speaking with the conductor about some last-minute arrangements concerning the luggage. In a few minutes Catharine would be leaving with her former tutor and his wife for Oxford, where they had agreed to take her to visit the women's colleges.

“I wish you were going, Mother,” said Catharine. “Maybe it's still not too late.”

“Now that the prospect of your actually leaving is here,” returned Jocelyn, “I am beginning to wonder if I made the right decision about staying home. But I am afraid it
is
too late to change my mind now.”

“Grandma Maggie,” said Catharine, turning to Maggie and embracing her, “you will have to visit Mother every day to keep her from being lonely.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Maggie, “—oh, but look . . . here comes Mrs. Blakeley.”

The three women turned to see Rune Blakeley's wife hurrying along the platform toward them.

“Agatha!” laughed Jocelyn. “You look like
you're
running to catch the train!”

“Not the train but Miss Catharine before she leaves,” replied Mrs. Blakeley. Out of breath, she stopped and walked the last few steps. As she reached them, she held a box tied with string out toward Catharine.

“Catharine dear,” she said, “would you mind giving this to Stirling when you see him?”

She smiled and her face colored slightly. “You know how mothers are,” she added. “It is the first time he has been away from home. I had to send him some fresh bread and a meat pie.”

“Of course, Mrs. Blakeley,” replied Catharine. “We shall be having dinner together tomorrow afternoon.”

Mr. Sherborne now approached, showing an interest in the box. “Perhaps we can encourage Stirling to share his good fortune with us,” he said.

“You mind your own business,” laughed his wife. “A university student is not meant to share his gifts from home.”

“Charles and I both appreciate your taking Catharine to Oxford,” said Jocelyn in a more serious tone to Mr. Sherborne.

“I am looking forward to seeing the university myself,” replied Mrs. Sherborne. “Just think what opportunities young ladies have now to dedicate themselves to learning. What times we live in!”

A whistle sounded behind them.

“All aboard!” boomed the conductor's voice.

Another flurry of hugs and farewells and handshakes followed. Then the three travelers boarded the coach. In another minute Catharine's head popped out an open window above where the others stood on the platform.

“I'm back!” she said brightly.

“Have a good time, Catharine,” said Jocelyn. ‘Don't worry about me—you just enjoy yourself.”

“I will, Mother . . . although I may worry about you just a little—oops! I feel the train starting to move!”

Inch by inch, Catharine's face, still leaning out the window, began to move away from them. Jocelyn, Maggie, and Agatha Blakeley slowly walked along in the direction of the train's movement. The engine quickly began to pick up speed, and after another few moments they stopped, satisfying themselves with a last lingering round of waving hands as Catharine gradually receded from view.

“I love you, Mother,” Catharine called out.

“I love you, Catharine,” replied Jocelyn.

And then she was gone.

Jocelyn turned away, dabbed once or twice at her eyes, then drew in a deep breath, turned, and looked up at her two friends with a bright smile.

“Well,” she said, trying to buoy up her own spirits as she spoke, “my little baby girl is off to see the university! Who would have thought it!”

The three turned and left the platform together.

“You know, Jocelyn,” said Agatha softly, “Rune and I have more to thank you and Sir Charles for than we will ever be able to tell you. We will never forget all you have done for our family.”

Jocelyn glanced over at Stirling's mother with a smile. She nodded, as if to say,
I know . . . I understand
. Both knew that no words were capable of expressing the many thoughts and feelings they shared together.

Later that afternoon, Jocelyn moved about in the kitchen gathering a tray of tea things to take into the sitting room. Behind her, she heard Sarah Minsterly enter.

“I can do that for you, Lady Jocelyn,” said the housekeeper.

“I can manage, Sarah,” replied Jocelyn. “You may go back to whatever you were doing.”

“I haven't much to do, Lady Jocelyn. There's no one but yourself to cook for, and Hector is off to Totnes, and you gave the others the week away.”

“Yes, and aren't you going to take the time to visit your sister?”

“I plan to, ma'am. I will take the train into London tomorrow.”

Sarah paused and stood silently.

“What is it, Sarah?” asked Jocelyn.

“Well, that is . . . will you be . . . that is, here all alone and all—”

“I will be just fine, Sarah,” smiled Jocelyn. “I want you to go to London and enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, ma'am—thank you.”

The following day, after taking Sarah to the train and seeing her off, Jocelyn returned once again to Heathersleigh Hall. She parked the car in front, got out, and went inside. As if by force of habit, she went to the kitchen and began making a pot of tea. When it was ready, she carried the tray of tea things, cup, saucer, and a few crackers, up to the bedroom and private sitting room. As she went the sound of her own footsteps seemed to echo off the walls with desolation. The whole huge house which had once rung with life and activity and laughter and children's voices . . . now stood empty and deserted.

Her step slowed as she reached the top of the stairs, then stopped. For several long seconds she stood.

The house was so quiet and dark. She glanced down the stairway, then along the empty corridors. Silence. Emptiness.

Suddenly Jocelyn felt very much alone. A great wave of sadness swept over her. Never had she felt so alone.

Would this house ever know laughter again? she wondered. Would the happy shouts of many voices ever fill its corridors and ring out across the lawn and garden?

Trying to shake off the doldrums, at length Jocelyn continued on to her rooms. She set the tray down on one of the small tables, then turned to her dressing table. She caught her eye in the mirror. The sight of her own face somehow increased all the more her sense of isolation.

She tried to take a breath, but the effort caught in her throat. Suddenly the floodgates gushed open. She turned, sought her bed, and before she had even managed to lie down, was sobbing from the depths of her being, stomach and throat aching as she wept.

She cried for Charles. If ever she needed his strong arms around her and soothing words in her ears, it was now. But he was gone.

She cried for George, thrust so young into the cruel ravages of war. Whenever she thought of him, she was afraid. Many mothers sent sons off to war and never saw them again, and she did not think she could bear it.

She cried for Catharine, knowing that another daughter might be leaving for a time.

And then great sobs shook her body as she wept for Amanda.

It took many long minutes, but gradually the tempest began to pass. As the heaves and tears slowly subsided, Jocelyn tried to pray for each one of her family. She prayed that she would trust God for the care of them all. But the effort was not particularly successful. She was sad, she was afraid, and she was alone. And no words of prayer—as hard as she tried to be thankful for her present circumstances—could alleviate how she felt.

At last she fell into a peaceful sleep.

When she awoke several hours later, dusk had descended over Heathersleigh Hall. Jocelyn rose, dressed for bed, crawled under the blankets this time, and was soon once again fast asleep.

 34 
Unpopular Conviction

As Amanda turned, saddened by the incident with the old woman, and began making her way back to the chalet, Sister Anika came out of the bakery. She ran ahead to join her.

“Hello, Amanda,” said Anika. “I didn't know you were in the village.”

“I was doing a couple of errands for Sister Hope and Sister Marjolaine.”

From her first day at the chalet, Amanda had been struck by Sister Anika's beautiful features. Tall and slender, she carried herself with stateliness and poise, and seemed like a lady who belonged more in some king's court rather than on a farm in the Swiss Alps. Her eyes, the most arresting part of her countenance, were large, blue, and always full of light, and were complemented by thick straight hair of a shade which might be called dark blond. Her pretty smile, never far from her lips, revealed perfect glistening teeth and was capable of melting the most severe grumpiness in an instant. One flash from eyes, lips, and teeth in concert together was to behold the sun suddenly exploding from behind a cloud.

“I just saw an old lady back there who spoke so rudely,” said Amanda. “Most of the villagers are very friendly. But she was downright crotchety.”

“There are many people living all around in the hills,” Anika said as they walked. “They are all so different. When I first came I didn't think I would ever stop seeing new people. Though it was difficult to get to know them. The Swiss tend to keep to themselves. That old woman was probably Frau Grizzel. She is a very unhappy lady. She was unhappy long before you and I came here.”

“How long have you been here?” Amanda asked.

“Let me see . . . it would be eight years now.”

“Eight years—don't you ever think about getting married and having a home of your own?”

“I was married for several years,” Anika replied.

Amanda's reaction as she glanced to her side showed her surprise well enough. It also hit closer to home than she expected. She waited.

“After three years,” Anika went on, “I discovered that my husband was involved with another woman.”

A momentary gasp escaped Amanda's lips. She had not expected it in the least.

“We had not known each other very well,” said Anika. “But I was in love, you see, and thought that was all that mattered before marriage. I was far too young at the time to marry at all.”

A look of pain passed over Amanda's face. She began to stammer. “Oh, I'm sorry . . . what did you do?”

Anika paused thoughtfully. Something made her turn and look straight into Amanda's eyes. Amanda turned her head quickly away. She almost felt as though Sister Anika must know about Ramsay, though that could hardly be.

“I was raised in a godly home,” Anika said after a few moments. “I never dreamed anything like that would happen to me. I cried and cried. I thought my life was at an end. My husband and I separated for a time. I could not be with him after learning what I had. I felt so betrayed.”

“And . . . then what did you do?”

“I didn't know
what
to do. I thought of running away, just disappearing. I felt so humiliated. I talked to many people, my parents and minister. After several weeks had passed, my father and the minister went to my husband and confronted him with what they had learned. They urged him to repent and break off his relationship with the other woman and rededicate himself both to me and to the Lord. I was prepared to take him back. But he was angry toward them and said dreadful things. So upon their counsel, after searching the Scriptures myself, I divorced him.”

Amanda gasped again, and her expression registered surprise. “When was that?” she asked.

“Twelve years ago.”

“And you never remarried?”

“I never considered it.”

“Why?” asked Amanda.

“Because in God's sight, Hörst was still my husband.”

“I don't understand. I thought you said you divorced him.”

“What he did could never change the fact that in God's eyes we were married . . . I believe married for life.”

“But you divorced him.”

“Yes, because he had committed adultery. But that sin of his could not justify my taking a new husband.”

“But he wasn't your husband any longer.”

“Actually, I believe he still was, and still is my husband to this day—in the sight of God. A
divorced
husband, it may be, but still my husband.”

“But . . . but that's so . . . it seems contradictory. You are divorced, but you still consider him your husband?”

“To most people what I have said would seem only so much nonsense. But I believe that in the economy of heaven, only death ends marriage. Divorce doesn't
end
a marriage but is only a means God devised for separating a husband and wife who, for various reasons, can no longer live as a husband and wife are meant to live. It separates them but does not
end
their marriage. At least that is how I see it.”

“I have never heard such a thing.”

“That is why I say we are separated,” Sister Anika continued, “—divorced. But in the economy of heaven I believe I still have a husband. Therefore, I am not free to remarry.” After a painful yet beautiful smile, she added, “And the experience has helped draw me into a much closer relationship with the Lord.”

“I have never heard anything like that before,” repeated Amanda.

“I was always taught that divorce is something the Bible allows under certain very specific circumstances, but not remarriage. In my case, I was scripturally advised to divorce. But I did not feel I could remarry. And this is how the minister of our parish counseled me when I was considering the divorce. He said, ‘Be very, very prayerful, Anika. If you divorce, you will not be scripturally free to remarry . . . ever.' Our curate, however, disagreed. After that, I searched the Scriptures on my own. I took many long walks along the dikes near Amsterdam pondering what I was to do.”

“What did you find?”

“That I agreed with the minister. I found that marriage was for life, even though divorce sometimes severed that marriage in the
world's eyes. I could not escape Paul's words to the Romans which say that a woman who marries another man while her first husband is still alive is an adulteress. I could simply find nothing in the Bible about remarrying without twisting the words. I came to realize that I was accountable. I married my husband. I made lifelong vows. The divorce did not break them, it only suspended them. But I remained accountable for not seeing the defects of character which eventually revealed themselves. I believe I have to take permanent responsibility for the failure of the marriage too, because I married him. Sister Agatha disagrees with me. She believes that because my husband was not a churchman, and because he committed adultery that I
am
free to remarry. But I cannot take her counsel above what I think the Bible teaches.”

“But . . . did you never wish to be married again?” asked Amanda.

“Of course,” Anika replied. “There are many times I am lonely, even now. And I would so liked to have had children. But I would never think of disobeying the Scriptures merely to satisfy my own loneliness. Obedience is far more important than that. As I said, I am accountable too. If occasional loneliness is the price I must pay for my mistake, then that is something I am willing to endure.”

“Your mistake . . . ?
You
did nothing wrong.”

“I mean my marrying a man who was not going to be faithful to me.”

“You could not have foreseen that.”

“Perhaps not. Yet perhaps I
should
have tried to know him better beforehand. People don't change as much as one might think. There are always signposts of character indicating what is likely to come in the future. But most people have not made it a practice to look for them, or, seeing them, do not pay sufficient attention to them.”

Again, the words bit a little too deep for comfort, and Amanda did not reply.

“Maybe if I had been mature enough to pay closer attention,” Anika continued, “I might have seen Hörst's streak of selfishness and pride which revealed itself when my father and our minister tried to speak to him. I might also have seen that his roving eye indicated danger to a future wife. I was young and careless, Amanda. I married carelessly. I am accountable for that.”

“But it seems all those are hard things to say. Is God really like that? Does he want you to be lonely?”

“No, of course not. God did not put me in the position I am in. I did it myself. I cannot run away from my own contribution to the failure of the marriage, if only in that I should never have married Hörst in the first place. The Lord helped me come to my decision and I am content, though occasionally lonely. I am content because I feel it is the right thing for me to do. I feel no shame in being divorced. I know it was not my doing. But I would feel shame in remarrying. Divorce is not wrong in itself. Remarriage when a spouse yet lives
is
, in my opinion, wrong.”

“It still seems hard.”

“It is only hard because people do not like the idea of taking account for their own failed marriages. They always want to blame the other for the failure, and then interpret the Scriptures in such a way as to justify their remarrying. But in my opinion this is only so much excuse making.”

“You are really hard on those who don't see it as you do.”

“So some of the other sisters tell me,” Anika laughed.

“Like Sister Agatha?”

“Especially Sister Agatha! She and I have discussed this matter for hours and hours on end. She happens to be the daughter of a very happy second marriage, whose mother and father have been married forty-five years. Sister Agatha vehemently disagrees with everything I have just said. And for good reason. She points to her own parents' very happy years together as evidence of the validity of remarriage.”

“What do you say to her?”

“Nothing. We disagree but love one another dearly. These things I have told you simply represent my own convictions. I do not insist that everyone agree with me. It is a good thing, too, because most do not!” she added, laughing. “And I
may
be wrong, you know,” she added with another smile. “Or it may be a conviction the Lord wants
me
to follow, and to help me do so he has given me strong views on it, yet it may not be an absolute truth that applies to everyone. I don't know. This is how I see the matter. But others disagree, and I have no problem with that.”

“If most people disagree with you,” said Amanda, “how do they respond when you tell them all this?”

“I don't tell it to many, because people tend to become angry.”

“Angry, at whom . . . not angry at
you
?”

“Sometimes. There are those who become angry whenever any view is expressed that is contrary to their own. They say I am wrong to have such a conviction, that I am judging everyone who doesn't agree with me, that I am living under the Law. They say all sorts of things. Why is it, do you suppose, that people so dislike when someone tries to obey a conviction of their heart? It puzzles me. Honestly I do not think I judge others. I love Sister Agatha's dear mother. But mostly people I tell get angry toward the minister to put that kind of burden on a poor young brokenhearted girl.”

“What does Sister Hope think?” asked Amanda.

Anika smiled. “You should ask her,” she answered. “My plight has caused her to think and pray about it more seriously than she ever did before. And she has not been able to help being drawn into some of the heated discussions that have arisen between Sister Agatha and me. I think Sister Hope sees both sides. To tell you the truth, I do not think she has fully made up her mind on the issue. Obviously,
she
could remarry if the opportunity ever arose because her husband is dead—although, like me, she does not feel that is what the Lord wants for her. But the whole matter of remarriage is a very complicated question. Sister Hope is so aware of God's grace at work that I think she tends to believe that God can work in the midst of second, and even third marriages at times, just as much as he can in one-man, one-woman lifetime marriages. She is a realist, and I think would say that God is a realist too. He knows that in a fallen world, there will be failed marriages and that we must not condemn those involved in them. I hope I am not condemning. I desire to live in God's grace too, and I try to extend that grace to others. Yet I cannot escape my conviction. In any event, I think Sister Hope tends to disagree with my view of remarriage, though I have never heard her say so specifically.”