24 
To London

Two weeks after their conversation, Amanda sought Jocelyn in the sun-room.

“Mother,” she said, “I have been thinking about what you said when we were talking before. I think it was good advice when you recommended that I speak with either Vicar Coleridge or Timothy. I would like to do that. I realize that the first step in learning to make decisions differently is probably to follow wise counsel from those who love me, not reject it as I did yours and Father’s years ago. So . . . you gave me that advice, and I am going to take it.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Jocelyn.

“As much as I do not want to go to the city again, I think I should talk to Timothy.”

“He would be glad to come here.”

“I know he would. But something tells me this is a step I need to take, and go to London this time for the right reason—to learn how to obey. Will you go with me?”

“I’m not sure I should,” replied Jocelyn. “We have Betsy to think of.”

“Yes, of course—what was I thinking?”

“Why don’t you ask Catharine?”

“That’s a great idea. I think I will!”

————

On a cold and drizzly morning a week later, the two sisters sat on the train bound for London. Amanda was quiet and pensive. The bare trees evidencing the approach of winter were the perfect landscape for her thoughts. Would a new spring ever bloom again in her life? Catharine had noticed her mood ever since their departure from Milverscombe. She glanced over several times, then finally spoke up cheerily, trying to draw her sister out.

“You have changed so much, Amanda,” said Catharine brightly. “You have grown so wonderfully in the Lord since you came home. What a story you have to tell about what God has done for you. I know he will use it to help others.”

Amanda looked toward her and smiled, but said nothing.

“In a way, though it sounds funny to say it,” Catharine went on, “I am almost envious.”

Now Amanda’s expression as she listened turned questioning.

“I admire how you have been able to befriend Betsy,” Catharine went on. “I cannot help but think it must be because you have suffered too. I haven’t had that experience. I haven’t got that kind of story to tell.”

“How fortunate you are that you don’t,” rejoined Amanda sadly. “I’m sure it must please the Lord that you grew in obedience and godliness all your life. You have something I will never have.”

“What is that?” asked Catharine.

“Purity,” answered Amanda sadly. “I often think these days of that short phrase describing Jesus’ childhood, that he grew in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man. How sad it makes me now to realize I did not use the opportunity God gave me to do the same when I was young.”

Her words took Catharine by surprise and she did not reply. They rode along some moments in silence.

“I learned at the chalet,” Amanda continued at length, “that everyone has a story God can use somehow. The sisters were so different, yet each of their lives and all those differences helped me in some unique way. So I suppose what you say is true. But in another way, it is a terrible price to pay in one’s own life just to be able to have an experience to share with others. Once you give your purity away, it’s not something you can ever get back.”

Now it was Catharine’s turn to lapse into an uncharacteristic moment of melancholy. Suddenly their roles from only a moment ago were reversed.

“What is it, Catharine?” asked Amanda.

“I’m not sure I do have a story to tell,” replied Catharine. “It seems that all the sisters you’ve told us about had stories involving some kind of hardship or suffering. I’ve not suffered in the same way you have, except losing Father and George recently, of course, and I cried and cried afterward. But I mean with the burden of guilt you feel. I know it’s painful for you, what you’ve been through. But you have something truly valuable to give to others.”

“But you are living the best story of all,” replied Amanda.

“What story?” asked Catharine.

“A life lived without rebellion. I wish I could say that. You are a shining example of a life lived pleasing to God.”

Catharine nodded, trying to take in the new thought that her ordinary and normal life might actually be a testimony of God’s goodness more than she had realized.

“Yes, maybe God will use my waywardness,” Amanda went on, “but how much more can he use a life that has honored him without turning its back on his voice. I am so lucky to have you for my sister.”

Another silence followed. Both young women had a great deal to think about.

“Will you pray for me, Catharine?” Amanda asked at length.

“I always do,” smiled Catharine. “I have been for years.”

“You have?”

“Of course. George and I used to pray for you together after you left—sometimes in the secret room.”

The words were too poignantly painful for Amanda. Quietly she began to cry. Catharine reached out a tender arm of comfort. The two sisters drew close to one another, holding each other for several long minutes, then quietly began to pray.

“Lord,” said Catharine, “I do thank you for Amanda, and for what you are teaching her even through the pain of what she must endure. I ask you to use her life for you, and to help others. Use Amanda’s life, Lord, to turn other young people toward their mothers and fathers, and toward you. Continue to mature her and deepen obedience and wisdom within her. And help us both to move on with thankful hearts, even though we cannot help the grief of losing Papa and George. And we pray for Mother, too, and thank you so much for her.”

Amanda gave Catharine a squeeze of affection, sniffed through her tears a time or two, then began herself to pray.

“Help me learn to be a good daughter, heavenly Father,” she said. “Thank you so much for giving me a sister like Catharine, and for such a loving mother as we have. I am sorry again for not paying attention to so many things soon enough. But help me learn now. Show me what to do about Ramsay. And if you do want to use my experiences in some way, like Catharine says, show me what you want me to do. I would rather just forget what I used to be like. But if you have another plan for me, I am willing to do whatever you want, especially if I can help prevent other parents from having to experience what I put Mother and Father through.”

She stopped, and gradually they sat back in their seats. Amanda began quietly crying again. Catharine took her hand and held it in hers as they rode along for the next hour in relative silence.

They arrived in London and immediately took a taxi to New Hope Chapel. Timothy was expecting them.

“Hello, Catharine, Amanda,” he greeted them, “—come in!”

He led them inside the parsonage. “Let us have some tea and a talk,” he said. “I’ve asked Mrs. Alvington to prepare us a light tea. I thought you might want something after your train trip.”

After they had visited briefly, Catharine turned as if to leave.

“Where are you going?” asked Amanda in surprise.

“Into the city,” replied Catharine. “I asked the taxi driver to wait.”

“Why, aren’t you staying?”

“I thought it would be best.”

“But why?”

“You need to talk to Timothy alone. You will be able to share more freely without me.”

“But you can’t go into the city yourself.”

“Of course I can,” laughed Catharine. “I’m a big girl now too, Amanda. I’ll be fine.”

“But what will you do?”

“Mother gave me a message to take to Mr. Churchill. Afterward, I thought I would go to Hyde Park, or maybe the museum.”

“All right, but—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine, I promise . . . I’ll see you at the hotel later.”