Wayward Winds (36 page)

“This . . .
thing
,” repeated Charles. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I don't know, Sir Charles . . . none of us knows. I just pray to God our suspicions are wrong.”

Charles did not pursue the matter further.

“Is this . . . this
thing
you speak of,” Charles asked after a moment, “is it connected with the suffragettes?”

“Not that we know of. But then there's your daughter, as I say, who shows up right in the middle of both. And with Christabel Pankhurst off in Paris, who knows what quirky people she's mixed up with?”

When Charles hung up the phone, he knew instantly that he and Jocelyn needed to talk and pray.

 69 
Serious Talk With the McFees

Charles left his office and immediately sought his wife.

“Jocie,” said Charles, “let's go for a walk.”

She rose and they left the house together, wandering first toward the heather garden. He filled her in as they went.

“You know,” said Charles, “come to think of it, let's go see Maggie and Bobby. We need some good sage advice.”

As they went, Charles explained what had come to him almost immediately after getting off the phone with Admiral Snow—to write Amanda a letter.

“What would be your purpose?” asked Jocelyn.

“To warn her—I honestly believe she is in danger.”

“Danger! Charles . . . surely—”

“I don't necessarily mean physical danger. Good heavens, three years with the Pankhursts—I shudder to think what she might have been involved in. But with this change, I don't know . . . somehow I feel a turning point may be coming in her life, and I am not sure we ought to continue being silent.”

“But do you think it would do any good, Charles?”

Charles sighed. “That I don't know. In a way, I suppose I am doubtful. Yet I almost feel we must say something, whether she heeds it or not. We are her parents, after all. We still have a responsibility
to her before God. That's why we need to talk and pray with Maggie and Bobby—I don't
know
what is the right course.”

They arrived at the cottage. Maggie greeted them, though a look of concern was visible on her face. They saw the reason soon enough. They entered the large sitting room and found Bobby seated inside, an unheard-of state of affairs during the middle of the day. His aging face lit up as they entered. He attempted to rise, but thought better of it and settled back down into the couch.

“Master Charles, Lady Jocelyn—good of ye t' come by!” he said. His voice sounded tired.

“Are you ill, Bobby?” asked Jocelyn.

“Just weary,” he replied. “Don't know what it is, but my energy's up and left me. But ye didn't come t' hear me complain about my old bones, I'm sure o' that.”

Charles laughed and sat down beside Bobby. Jocelyn also took a seat while Maggie busied herself in the kitchen with preparations for tea.

“You're right, Bobby,” said Charles. “But I am concerned. You look rather worn out.”

“Ay, that I be.”

“The favor we have to ask requires only your brain, and your years of wisdom.”

“Whatever wisdom the Lord might have blessed me with along the way, it'll be his doing and none o' me own. But the thinkin' part o' me is still working as well as ever. You're welcome t' what ye can learn from it.”

“I am happy to hear that,” rejoined Charles, “and grateful. We would like to talk and pray with you about Amanda again.”

“Has there been some word from the lass?” asked Maggie from the kitchen.

“Not from her,” answered Jocelyn, “but
about
her.”

“What kind o' news?” asked Bobby.

A brief silence fell, interrupted only by the sounds of cups and water, spoons and saucers, from Maggie's hands. Charles waited until all four held steaming cups of tea in their hands, then briefly filled the old couple in on the reason for the visit.

“Maggie, Bobby,” he concluded, “I know you're not parents yourselves. But I'm not sure it takes a parent to give good advice,
and we need some. These people Amanda has apparently become involved with do not, I believe, have her best interests in mind.”

Charles went on to explain that he was thinking of contacting Amanda.

“What does a parent do,” he said, “when he sees danger ahead to which a young person is altogether oblivious, yet knows his headstrong son or daughter is almost determined to go down the slippery slope right into it? How hard should a parent fight when they see something their son or daughter either cannot or will not see?”

“So you're thinking of writing to her?” said Maggie.

“That is the idea that came to me—should I write and warn her? Sometimes it even crosses my mind to go to London and forcibly bring her home with me. But almost as soon as I think it, I realize I cannot do that.”

“The prodigal's got t' say, ‘I will arise an' go t' my father,' because he wants to,” put in Bobby. “The good father the Master spoke of waited patiently.”

“It is the most difficult thing I have ever faced!” groaned Charles. “Especially when you can't see what the future holds. Is the danger I perceive really all that bad? Do I sacrifice the posture of patient waiting in order to warn her?—I don't know. I've never wanted to force Amanda. Even now, it seems that we must leave her free to make her own decisions. Yet what if they are simply bad decisions? Where does a parent's responsibility begin and end?”

“How old would the lass be now?” asked Bobby.

“Twenty-two,” answered Jocelyn.

“Ay . . . 'tis an awkward age fer a parent.”

“Why do you say that, Bobby?”

“Because the young person's nearly grown, and
thinks
he's completely grown, but is in many ways still lookin' at the world through the eyes o' self as he did at fifteen.”

Charles and Jocelyn glanced at each other and sighed. The description could not be more fitting of their daughter.

“What should we do?” asked Charles.

“Warnin' folks is a tricky thing,” Bobby went on. “Them that's most in need o' good strong words o' counsel is oftentimes the least willin' t' listen.”

“And it's worse yet when sons and daughters have some grievance against their parents,” added Maggie. “Nothing falls quite so
unwelcome upon the heart and mind of an independent youth as
advice
.”

“But wisdom and sound judgment in such a case are often clouded by factors which only years of experience can recognize,” added Charles. “I know that I had my own moments of foolishness when I was young. I suppose it's natural. But now that I am older, I am finding it more and more difficult to understand why the voice of experience is so unwelcome. I would say the same of myself when I was younger—
why
was I reluctant to listen?”

“Why is it,” added Jocelyn, echoing the same frustration, “that at the times when they
most
need the sober judgment of parental insight to guide them into the fullness of adulthood, so many young people find the input of mother and father odious and insulting to the elevated sense of their own maturity?”

“Is it because they want to think that adulthood is complete before it actually is?” suggested Charles.

“I suppose we've all been guilty of that,” laughed Jocelyn. “It is difficult to recognize that wisdom comes with years.”

“Heedin' the advice and counsel of an experienced parent or mentor,” now put in Bobby, “—especially when that advice goes
against
the natural inclination o' the flesh—'tis one of the chief indications of a mature and growin' character. 'Course age of itself doesn't always bring wisdom. There's foolish and crotchety old folks as well as young ones. But years are one of the best teachers life has.”

“It's such a strange thing,” said Jocelyn. “If ever there was a time of life when you would think people would
want
advice, it would be during the years when they are young. I would love to have had the kind of relationship with my parents where they prayed and sought God on my behalf.”

“Ah,” said Bobby, “but young people approaching the season o' manhood and womanhood convince themselves that they possess the
right
t' make every decision without parental influence. An' the worst of it is that they think they possess the
wisdom
t' make those decisions wisely and prudently. The sad fact is, most o' the time they're workin' against their own ultimate good and happiness.”

“I don't understand it at all,” said Jocelyn.

“Ye can't be too hard on them fer their foolishness,” said Bobby. “I say that speakin' as one perhaps a wee more knowledgeable o' what the lass might be goin' through than yerself. I
can
understand it
because I was such a youth meself—hotheaded and foolish. I didn't want anyone tellin'
me
what t' do. If I do have any sense in this thick head o' mine now,” he added, chuckling momentarily but then turning serious again, “'tis not as much as the Lord could've given me had I been more trustin' o' my elders a wee sooner in my life.”

“I can hardly believe that about you, Bobby,” said Jocelyn.

“Ay, 'tis true. I was a thickheaded lout when I was a lad. I'm only grateful the Lord got hold o' me and eventually shook some sense into me.”

A brief silence fell.

“Maybe this is an opportunity the Lord wants to give Amanda, Charles,” suggested Jocelyn after a minute or two. “If what you said when we were walking over here is true, and a turning point is approaching in her life, perhaps the Lord wants her to be confronted with a hard decision, so that she has to face what kind of character she wants for herself.”

Charles nodded. “You may be right,” he said. “I do have the feeling this is such a time. But for someone like her, doing what Bobby said and taking advice when it goes against your own will . . . that is one of the most difficult things for a person to do.”

He sighed at the seeming impossibility of the situation, then turned to their host.

“Well, then, Bobby,” he said, “what do you think? If you can sympathize with Amanda, and were of similar inclination yourself at one time, what is your counsel? You know that we've tried to give her the freedom to figure all this out on her own. But does a time come when a parent
has
to speak out? And yet . . . would a letter perhaps risk alienating her yet more?”

“Ay, it might. 'Tis a chance ye take.”

“You don't sound very hopeful.”

“The predicament's an ancient one, Master Charles,” said Bobby, “the struggle between one's
own
judgment—an' we always trust that, just because it
is
our own—an' the judgment of
another
. The mature young man or woman is capable o' layin' pride aside, recognizing that age an' experience
may
give extra weight t' the perspective o' someone older. But immaturity, on the other hand, rejects such counsel, assumin' his own judgment is all he needs. This latter 'tis aye the great folly o' youth, as I well know. But it may be Lady Jocelyn's right, that now is the lass Amanda's time t' be faced
with the two ways o' respondin' an' havin' t' decide which kind o' person she wants t' be.”

Charles thoughtfully took in Bobby's words.

“It is still difficult for me to see,” he sighed at length, “how this resistance to our input could have become so extreme in Amanda's case, when we worked strenuously to instill positive and godly values in our family.”

“Sometimes the rebellion is most vigorous in such cases, Master Charles. 'Tis one o' the great mysteries o' parenthood. But in the end of it, I don't see that ye have any choice. The Lord obviously put the idea into yer head. If ye're right and there is genuine danger involved . . . ye must write her.”

“And if she doesn't hear and rejects our counsel?”

“Like I said before . . . 'tis a chance ye take. If yer heart's motivated out o' love fer the lass, whatever may come of it now, good has t' come of it in the end.”