Wayward Winds (30 page)

 57 
Milverscombe Parish

The final strains of the morning's closing hymn reverberated up and around through the parish church of Milverscombe, and echoed out into the village and faintly into the surrounding countryside. The zeal of the voices creating the music was heightened, it is true, by the celebration on this day of the healthy new lives recently arrived in the village. Yet celebration of worship was heard nearly every week at this time, a vibrancy which resulted in the difficulty of finding an empty seat when services began.

It could hardly be said that everyone in the community attended the services of the Church of England every Sunday morning. Yet the spiritual life of the parish had certainly deepened and widened its impact in the years since Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn had become such visible and active participants in it.

This husband and wife, the leading man and woman in the community, could not have been more loved by its people. The reason was simple. They sought to follow their Master's example. They had begun late in life to learn of spiritual things. But once begun, they learned quickly and well the practicalities embodied in chapters five, six, and seven of the Gospel of Matthew, because they sought to
do
them. And despite the personal trials which were part of that life, they sought always to spread that which they had been given.

They had allowed God to make of them that most unusual breed of man and woman to be found upon the earth—great in both the
kingdom of God
and
in the kingdom of man. Usually the one form of greatness excludes the other. How precious must it be in the Lord's sight when that one form of greatness
includes
the other.

They were called Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn by the common folk of the region who had for generations looked up to the lord of the manor with the reverence, respect, and esteem the people of Great Britain had for their landed nobility. But these two had become great in that eternal kingdom, not because of the
Sir
or the
Lady
, but because they had made themselves both servants and friends to every man, woman, and child within reach of their hands of ministration.

Such feeling could not have been in more evidence on this particular Sunday in February of the new year. For young Hadwin and Gildan Osborne had just been christened and, by permission, their godparents named Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford. If this man and wife had only three children of their own, one of whom at present disavowed that relationship, they were being blessed by a rapidly expanding family of godsons and goddaughters throughout the community.

Out the open doors of the church, past the busy hand of vicar Stuart Coleridge, streamed the good folk of Milverscombe. Now came the highlight of the week, standing in front of the church for a
second
hour visiting with everyone in attendance. Such custom had begun quietly, as Charles and Jocelyn had determined together that they would shake the hand of every villager each Sunday before leaving for home.

“Where can have originated the practice, Jocie,” Charles had said one day two years earlier on their way home from Sunday worship, “of glumly shaking the hand of vicar or priest, then silently filing out of the church, glancing neither to the right nor the left at one's neighbors, and moving as if drawn by some invisible force immediately and irresistibly toward home.”

Jocelyn had laughed at his portrayal, though the words could not have given a more accurate representation to the reality.

“What we are going to do next Sunday,” Charles had continued, “is sit in the very back pew, and get outside before anyone has a chance to walk away. We shall be there waiting for them . . . and I am going to shake every man's and woman's hand and at least say ‘hello' or ‘the Lord bless you' before they scamper off!”

What had thus begun almost as a challenge, in the two years since had become a village tradition.

On most Sundays the crowded hubbub of happy faces clustered around Charles and Jocelyn at its core. Yet the informal time of visitation had drawn and bonded the whole community together in many unpredictable ways, such that a spirit of camaraderie existed even between individuals and families who had scarcely known one another before.

Sunday mornings became the agency whereby news, friendship, invitations, and unity were spread throughout the village and community. No occasion for gossip was this, but for prayer requests and answers to prayer, and mostly simple friendship. Not a Sunday went by without numerous dinner and tea invitations circulating throughout the crowd. Thus was the fabric of the community woven into a beautiful garment of hospitality, service, and caring.

To miss “church and fellowship,” as it came to be called, required almost a bedridden state. And even in such cases, when news of a sickness or injury was reported, half the congregation usually made their way to whatever home was involved, taking the fellowship of the day with them. Truly the life of the parish had burst out from the walls of the church building, to be carried by lips and hands and hearts throughout the paths and byways of the region.

“Jocie,” Charles called amidst a sea of heads and boisterous conversation and laughter, “I'm going out to Mudgley's for an hour or so. You take the car—I'll walk home later.”

“That's good,” she replied, jostling little Hadwin Osborne in her arms. “Maggie, Agatha, Catharine, and I, and a few of the others are going over to Sally's for a bit.”

Next to her, the proud mother of the newborns held Gildan, the other half of the pair, while every woman of the community pushed and pressed and clustered about to see and poke at and babble a few unintelligible words into the two pink little faces.

“It looks like you may be joined by about fifty others,” rejoined Charles, laughing. “Maybe I should take Andrew with me.”

“I'd be sorely grateful!” now came the father's voice from somewhere amid the mob of women.

Everyone nearby laughed.

Gradually a portion of the throng began separating into two groups separated along lines of gender, twenty or more of the women beginning to move in the direction of the Osborne house. Jocelyn loaded her car with the new mother and Maggie and the two babies,
while Catharine joined the other women on foot. An equal number of men followed Charles in the direction of Gresham Mudgley's sheep farm to observe the progress toward full electrical power in his barn, and what wonders might lie in store for their own homes one day. Some, meanwhile, continued to visit outside the church, while yet others began slowly making their way toward their own homes.

“What do you think, Sir Charles,” said Mudgley as they went, “is the crisis past now that the Germans have withdrawn?”

That a simple man like Mudgley was both interested and knowledgeable concerning current affairs in the world was not so remarkable considering that the lord of the manor had been holding lectures at the Hall for several years for the men of the community, on topics ranging from politics and the scriptural duties of a husband, to technology and the Gospel of Mark. Indeed, Milverscombe parish was changing in more ways as a result of Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford's influence than the camaraderie evidenced after services on Sunday mornings. In addition to drawing the men of the region into more of a tight-knit social bond, the men's gatherings had greatly increased the general cultural and societal literacy of the entire community. At the same time, Jocelyn met with the men's wives in another portion of the Hall, where many things emerging out of her nurse's training were discussed, including sanitation and hygiene, infant care, as well as encouraging Maggie to add scriptural teaching about marriage for women. It could truthfully be said that the lower classes were being brought into the modern century at a rate easily four times more rapidly in and around Milverscombe than in the rest of the country. And the scriptural injunction for the older women to teach the younger made lives much easier and more fulfilling for the newer brides and mothers.

“I don't know, Gresham,” answered Charles as they walked along, the other men crowding about to hear. “To tell you the truth, I fear the world has not seen the end of such displays of power. Eventually one of them could become dangerous.”

“You sound worried, Sir Charles,” said Rune Blakeley.

“I do not think it unlikely, Rune, that there will arise a crisis one day from which neither side will back down. Can you not envision Russia and Germany eye to eye, neither willing to admit it has made a mistake?”

A few of the men nodded.

“These are indeed worrisome times,” Charles went on. “Yes, I think it is accurate to say that I am worried.”

“But Germany and Russia, Sir Charles,” said the man called Bloxham, “that's got nothing to do with us here.”

“Don't be too sure, John,” replied Charles. “I read in the
Times
just yesterday evening that the Germans are infiltrating more and more of the waters off our coastline.”

A serious look passed across his face. When he spoke again, the men could sense that these were things he had been thinking about deeply. “It's a different world now, as I've been telling you,” Charles said. “The nations of Europe are more interconnected. I think we may have to face the fact that change may be coming to all of us—change we cannot predict.”

“Even here, Sir Charles—to Devonshire?”

“We may yet have to consider what is our duty as loyal Englishmen,” nodded Charles. “Yes, even in Devonshire. Change may be coming to our lives sooner than we think. Many of our sons may be called upon to protect our waters and colonial interests. Remember how the wars in Africa and in the Crimea drew so much out of England fifty years ago. Our whole economy was affected and we lost many good men. I have the feeling this could be even worse.”

A good many questions followed, such that by the time they reached their destination, the discussion continued for another forty minutes about the current state of the world rather than the electrical progress being made at the Mudgley farm.

 58 
Father and Son

Charles and George were busy stringing wire from Heathersleigh to an electrical transfer station they were building on the outskirts of Milverscombe, from which plans were already being laid for bringing electricity to some of the local businesses and homes. Their own small generator could not light the town, but they hoped to bring in an electrical source large enough to do so.

The Electric Lighting Act of 1909 had established laws and regulations for local agencies desiring to supply electricity to rural areas. But little was being done yet in a widespread way for the connecting of transmission networks. The two Rutherfords, father and son, hoped successfully to demonstrate that such could be accomplished in a practical and cost-efficient manner.

Toward that end Charles had put up a large portion of Rutherford capital, with which he had purchased materials and supplies and hired as many men as he could afford and keep busy. Only a few months earlier he had succeeded in gaining a government grant of ten thousand pounds for the project to supplement his own resources. This had enabled him to bring even more men from the area into his plans.

Rune Blakeley and his nineteen-year-old son Stirling had already been working with Charles and George for about a year, both being instructed in the rudiments of electricity. Plans were also being made
for Stirling to attend university the following fall, where he would follow George to Oxford.

As they worked together, father and son fell to talking about not only the future of Stirling Blakeley and electricity, but about their own.

“What do you want to do, George, my boy?” asked Charles. “What about
your
future? Surely you don't intend to string wire with me forever.”

“Why not, Father? I'm perfectly happy here. I find electricity so fascinating, an opportunity on which to build a livelihood.”

“But don't you have mountains you want to climb, vistas to cross, horizons to conquer—youthful ambition and all that?”

“This is exciting work, bringing electricity to Devonshire,” replied George. “What we're doing will follow all through the country one day. And we're doing it here first. I almost feel like we're exploring something altogether new.”

Charles laughed. “Right you are. I feel the same way.”

“Maybe I'm not the ambitious sort. I hope it's not a weakness, Father, but for now I'm content with what I am doing.”

“What about more education, as we've talked about once or twice before?”

“I want to work with you as much as I can. Being at university was fine. I love to study, and I might one day like to continue my education. If I could live here and go on with higher studies at the same time, that would be different.”

“You really like it at home?”

“Are you kidding! I love Heathersleigh.”

“You know that we're only too happy to help with the cost of further schooling?”

“I know that. You've told me so before. I appreciate your generosity, Father, but—”

George stopped.

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Father?” he said with a smile.

“You know better than that, George, my boy. Your mother and I love having you with us. Heathersleigh will always be your home. It's only that—”

Charles paused. A momentary look of pain crossed his face.

The smile from George's intended humor disappeared. He could tell that his father had been reminded of something that was none too pleasant. “What is it, Father?” he asked.

Charles sighed and glanced away. The wire went limp in his hands. George waited.

“I suppose ever since Amanda left,” said Charles at length, “with all her talk of parental control and my forcing my ways and ideas on the rest of you . . . maybe I've been especially reluctant to do anything resembling that with you.”

“Oh, Father, don't even
think
that about me!”

“I just want to make sure I give you every opportunity to get out on your own, to think for yourself—”

“Father, please,” interrupted George. “I don't even want to hear you say such things. Amanda had it all mixed up. I love her, but she never saw things as they really were. Surely
you
realize that.”

Charles nodded. “The accusations of a child go deep into a parent's heart,” he sighed, “whether true or not. Her leaving has really shaken my confidence, not only as a father, but as a person. It has caused self-doubts to surface that I've never had to face before.”

“I don't suppose I can really understand what it has been like for you, never having been a parent,” replied George. “But when I think of some of the things Amanda said to you and Mother, it angers me even after all this time. You've not only given me every advantage, you've given me complete freedom to develop as my own person, to think independently, to personalize my faith without you forcing it on me. When I was at Cambridge I saw young men making all sorts of choices once they were away from home. And I knew what choices I wanted to make.”

“You can honestly say that your beliefs are entirely
yours
?”

“Absolutely. That doesn't mean you haven't been influential in my life. You
have
been, in every way. You taught me, trained me, introduced me to the principles of God. You taught us about the Bible. You pointed me in certain directions, and gave me intellectual and spiritual shoves, I suppose you could say. But I had to keep the momentum going on my own, and decide on my own ultimate destinations.”

“You didn't resent the changes I tried to make in our family when you were still a boy?”

“Resent them—what would give you an idea like that?”

“Amanda did.”

“Amanda was . . . well, Amanda was Amanda. I certainly did not share her resentments.”

George paused momentarily.

“I've never tried to put it in words before,” he said at length. “Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I should have expressed to you how I admired that you changed your perspective on the world, how I admired your withdrawal from Parliament.”

“Why
admire
it?”

“It showed me you were willing to stand up for what you believed,” replied George. “That influenced me in probably deeper ways than I may even have realized myself. I found myself wanting to be the same kind of man that you were. I saw you making decisions based on conviction and belief, not from pressures of society or peers.”

“That's a pretty remarkable thing for a son to say to his father.”

“You
forced
nothing on me,” George went on. “You taught me to think, Father! What more priceless gift can a man pass on to a son? You can't let Amanda's distorted perspective keep you from seeing the whole picture. Don't let her leaving obscure your vision from how much Catharine and I love you and respect you. You were the best father I could imagine. Especially after being at University and talking with others. I met lots of people at Oxford. No one had a father like you. So many complained that they were being forced into one career or another or into one field of study or another, or in some other way pushed in directions against their will. I always found the saddest cases the young men being pressured into the ministry and priesthood by their fathers. The more people I met, the more unusual I realized my own upbringing was. You instructed us, taught us, trained us, but always encouraged us to think for ourselves, even occasionally to oppose what you thought, taking different sides of different arguments just so that we would look at some particular issue we were discussing from every possible angle. I still remember a discussion we had once riding through the woods when we were talking about changing times and the various classes of people in England. You intentionally kept changing sides in the discussion, always trying to get us to look at the question from different angles. You were
always
doing that,” he added, laughing.

“I'm not sure I remember the incident as well as you seem to.”

“You wouldn't, because you did that a thousand times. Every time we discussed something, you were shifting positions, asking questions, shining light on the topic in a slightly different way, just so that we
would
think for ourselves. Amanda's saying that you forced your views on us is just exactly upside down from what really happened. You cannot imagine, Father, how thankful I am for the way you instilled curiosity, thought, question, and mental vigor into me as I grew.”

Long before George was through speaking, Charles' eyes were full of tears. Now suddenly he broke down altogether and began weeping freely. The wire he had been holding fell to the ground. Unconsciously he turned away.

It was silent for a minute or two as the tears continued to flow.

Softly Charles felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. The next moment he found himself wrapped in the strong embrace of the son who was now the taller of the two. He returned George's embrace. They stood for another minute in silence.

Gradually the two men, who loved one another as only a true father and son can, parted.

“Thank you, George,” said Charles in a quavering voice. “You cannot know what a burden you have lifted from my heart.”

It was silent for several minutes. Gradually they resumed their work. After some time had passed George spoke again.

“I do have some things I would like to do, Father,” he said. “You taught me to think, and you taught me well. I would like to travel someday, to see more of the world. I might even like to go to America. And maybe I will want to continue learning, possibly at the university again. I don't know. I appreciate the opportunities you've given me, both past and future. But what I was trying to say before is that I'm in no hurry. I have my whole life ahead of me. It's not every son who has the chance to work side by side with his father as I do. I want to make the most of it.”

“Not many young people would say such a thing.”

“Not many young people realize that their parents can also be their friends. I am beginning to realize it more now than when I was younger.”

Again tears welled up in Charles' eyes. This was a day of healing he would not soon forget.

“Wherever I go, whatever I do, whatever I become,” George went on, “I will always first of all be your son.”

“You make me proud, George.”

“No, Father, it is I who am proud to say such a thing. I am proud to be your son, not because you used to be an M.P. or because you are lord of the manor or a Knight Grand Commander, but because of who you are . . . the man you are. You helped make me who I am. And I am more grateful than I've probably ever told you before today.”

In the distance they saw Rune and Stirling Blakeley riding up to join them.