A New Dawn Over Devon (51 page)

 90 
Another Private Talk

Amanda did not have long to wait for an answer to Stirling's curious behavior.

Four hours later, as the warmth of late afternoon gradually began to cool, he appeared again, this time in a two-seater buggy.

Hearing the clattering sounds of the approach, Amanda came to the door just as he pulled up in front of the cottage.

“Stirling!” she laughed. “What are you doing? Where did that fancy buggy come from?”

“I borrowed it from Geoffrey,” Stirling replied.

“I knew I recognized it, but what—”

“Would you come for a ride with me, Amanda?” As he spoke, he seemed distracted and nervous.

“But . . . what—now? Like this? You're all dressed up, like you're going to church or a party or something.”

“Never mind about that. Just come with me for a ride—yes, as you are.”

Amanda leaned the broom in her hand against the wall, then called inside the open door, “Mother, I'm leaving for a while with Stirling.”

She walked to the buggy, climbed up, and sat down on the other side of the padded bench seat. Stirling flicked the reins, pulled the horse around, and cantered off back the way he had come. But instead of continuing on toward the Hall, about halfway Stirling turned
onto another dirt carriage track leading toward the hills northwest of the village.

He did not utter a peep. He was obviously growing more and more restless by the minute. Amanda began to think something was seriously wrong. There must be some dreadful news he had been waiting to break to her after returning to Milverscombe.

“Stirling,” she finally said, “please . . . what is going on? If something is wrong, you can—”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said abruptly.

“But you are so quiet and serious. I've never seen you like this.”

Stirling did not reply.

Suddenly Amanda realized what it must be.

“Oh no . . . Stirling—you're going to move! You're leaving Milverscombe. Have you told Geoffrey yet?”

“No . . . I'm not leaving,” he said. “Actually . . . Dr. Armbruster has offered me a post as his assistant for as long as I want it.”

“That's wonderful. But—”

Amanda paused.

“Is it . . . it's Geoffrey, then, isn't it,” she said, “—something's wrong with Geoffrey?”

Again Stirling shook his head.

It fell quiet for another minute as they bounced slowly along.

“Then what is it?” implored Amanda at last. “You're making me worry!”

Finally Stirling slowed the buggy, then eased it to a stop. While the horse stood calmly snorting and shuffling its hooves, Stirling tried to collect himself. He made several attempts to speak, drawing in long breaths and exhaling slowly. Amanda continued to sit, not exactly patiently but quietly waiting. At last Stirling turned toward Amanda.

“You know, Amanda,” he began, “I'm not what you'd call a romantic. I've read the romantics of literature, and I always considered all that a bit soupy for my tastes. But you're my friend, actually probably the best friend I've ever had along with Geoffrey. I like being with you, as a friend . . . but also as a woman.”

Amanda felt her face suddenly getting very hot and knew it was turning red.

“These years away,” Stirling continued, “made me think about a lot of things. I know you've had a lot of difficulties to face . . . and I know you said you'd never marry again . . .”

At the word “marry,” Amanda's heart began to pound.

“. . . and I can respect that if it's the way God is leading you. I would be the last person on earth to try to talk you into doing anything other than what you think God wants for you, even for my own sake.”

Stirling exhaled deeply and squirmed a little where he sat. He then stared straight out over the peaceful Devonshire countryside.

“But at the same time,” he went on, unable to look at her now, “I've been finding myself realizing that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, because . . . it's just that . . . well, that I love you as more than just as a friend.”

Amanda's brain was spinning. Was Stirling saying what he seemed to be saying . . . that he
loved
her!

“And so what I'm saying,” said Stirling, taking a deep breath and then letting it out, “if you don't think it's too presumptuous for a commoner like me to approach a lady like you, if you should ever change your mind about your future . . . you know, what you think you're supposed to do—about marrying, I mean . . . if such a time should ever come, I would . . . what I'm trying to say is that I would like to ask you to be my wife.”

Amanda's eyes flooded with tears.

A commoner! Stirling Blakeley was no commoner! He was the finest young man she had ever known!

Who cared about station nowadays? Was she not her father's daughter after all, and had he not liberated her from thinking about class and station long ago?

But though her brain was exploding, Amanda could find no words to reply. Her heart was too full. It had been slowly dawning on her for some time that the bond she felt with Stirling was growing into something more than friendship alone. When she was with him she felt things she had never felt with anyone. They could talk about anything. She was relaxed and comfortable, yet somehow more aware of life than at other times. She felt more whole, more complete . . . more herself. And when she had seen him at the station, she'd realized her feelings about him were changing.

But despite the vague growth of such sensations in her own heart, it had not occurred to her to imagine—she would not even have dared dream!—that similar feelings had taken root within Stirling. He was
good, wholesome, kind, intelligent, gentle, virtuous . . . how could
he
ever love one like
her
, knowing what she had been and done?

Amanda's head swam at the very thought! How could she find words to tell him all that was in her heart and mind to say?

Slowly she moved closer to Stirling on the seat of the buggy, slipped her hand through his arm, and gently laid her head against his shoulder.

For now it was enough that they loved one another . . . and that at last both knew it. When her swirling head calmed down a little, she would try to find words to tell him what she felt.

 91 
Storm Clouds

The summer passed like a dream for Amanda. She had not imagined that she would ever be completely happy again. Now suddenly from out of nowhere, great joy had exploded into her life. Every day she awoke having to remind herself again that it was not a dream, but that a wonderful man of God loved her . . . loved
her
—and that they were planning a life together such as she had given up imagining she would ever know.

“Mother,” she said almost every day, “I cannot believe it . . . I simply cannot believe it!”

“God is good,” returned Jocelyn with a quiet smile. “He loves you and wants nothing but the best for you. When that best is something that makes you happy, he delights to see you so.”

Amanda and Stirling and Geoffrey were together nearly every day as before, but now, as things stood between her and Stirling, it could not but be changed. Geoffrey understood and was delighted for them. He had never been in love with Amanda, and knew it. Nothing could have made him happier than for his two best friends to fall slowly and quietly in love with each other, as it was now obvious they had been doing for some time. In his quieter moments, with a knowing smile on his lips, Geoffrey, like Jocelyn, said to himself that he should have seen it all along. Once it had happened, it almost seemed as if there could be no other way for Stirling and Amanda's friendship to flower than this.

The winter of 1922 to 1923 came early and was especially severe in Devon. Geoffrey seemed tired, and his cough grew incessant.

Many outbreaks of cold, fever, flu, and various minor infections kept Dr. Cecil Armbruster and his new young assistant busy. Dr. Armbruster was now in his midsixties, and with the community growing as it was, he could hardly keep up with all its needs. Until Stirling made other plans or had a better offer, the older doctor was more than glad to share both his caseload and income with his young protégé.

As the cold grew more severe, Geoffrey was seen walking about town less and less. Stirling went into the bank to say hello on most days. To his eyes, Geoffrey seemed to be wasting away. Yet there was no fever or other troublesome outward signs, only the cough and loss of weight.

In the second week of February 1923, a thaw came, then a sudden warm, dry spell. All Devon, indeed all of England, breathed a sigh of relief to see and feel the sun again. Coats and hats and umbrellas were discarded, and some of the more intrepid gardeners wondered if an early spring had come.

On Tuesday of the following week, the sun rose again in spectacular glory for the eighth successive day.

Geoffrey Rutherford came down to the breakfast room in fine spirits.

“Good morning, Wenda,” he said to Mrs. Polkinghorne. “A splendid day, what?”

“Indeed, it is, sir.”

“If this warmth keeps up, my lungs will clear and I will finally get rid of this cough.”

“I am glad you are feeling better, sir. What would you like for breakfast—eggs and bacon?”

“My appetite is still a bit off . . . just tea and toast, thank you.”

Geoffrey wandered to the window.

“Yes . . . a fine day,” he repeated. “And I have not been getting enough exercise lately. That's what these tired lungs of mine need—fresh air and exercise. I think I shall walk to town today.”

“But, sir, don't you think—”

“It is a beautiful warm day, Wenda. I am convinced the walk will do me good.”

As the day progressed Geoffrey's spirits remained buoyant. The oasis in midwinter had turned everyone's thoughts toward postponed projects and activities, and the bank was unusually busy. He did not get out all day; nor was he aware that as the afternoon advanced, an ominous blackness had appeared on the horizon. The storm approached rapidly, sending gusts of wind and a chill ahead of it to announce the end of the warm, dry week.

When Geoffrey closed the bank door at 6:10 and walked out into the evening darkness, a fierce rain had already begun to pour down. He now realized his foolishness in not bringing the car that morning.

He went back into the bank to fetch an umbrella, then returned again to the street.

There was nothing for it, he said to himself as he gathered his coat tightly about him and raised his umbrella, but to launch out into it and get home as quickly as possible.

By the time he reached the Hall he was chilled and nearly soaked to the bone, for the wind had blown about him on the road with such intensity, with the rain pelting him from all directions, that the umbrella did little but keep the rain from getting into his face.

Mrs. Polkinghorne had a fire and hot pot of tea waiting for him.

Shivering uncontrollably, Geoffrey fumbled into dry clothes and tried to warm himself. Despite his efforts, soon he had no choice but to go straight to bed.

By the next morning it was obvious that he had caught a severe infection. He tried to get up but could not. He rang for his housekeeper to get a message to Mr. Miles at the bank that he would not be in. He lay almost motionless for three days. Mrs. Polkinghorne kept the fire in his room burning, and soup and tea warm and ready in the kitchen. But it was all she could do to get him to sip at it. She did not like the sound of the coughing she heard day and night coming from his room.

On the fourth morning she came to his room. No sounds came from within.

“Mr. Rutherford,” she said. “Mr. Rutherford . . .”

At last she heard a croak from behind the door.

She opened the door and timidly crept in. The fire had gone out. The room was freezing. Geoffrey lay in his bed staring out with red gaunt eyes, his face a ghastly pale.

“Wenda,” he whispered hoarsely, “please go for Jocelyn at the cottage.”

Terrified, the poor woman hurried from the room and sped across the field and through the woods in the rain without so much as remembering to put on her boots.

In less than an hour Jocelyn and Amanda, Stirling and Dr. Armbruster all stood at Geoffrey's bedside. Dr. Armbruster had just finished listening to his lungs with his stethoscope. Now Stirling was bent down listening as well while Amanda and Jocelyn stood waiting anxiously.

At last Stirling stood. Dr. Armbruster nodded to him, and they both began moving toward the door.

“Wait, Doctor,” Geoffrey called after them weakly from the bed. “You don't need to go outside to confer. I want to hear what you're thinking.”

Both men paused and turned back.

“It is just that we can never be one hundred percent certain,” Dr. Armbruster began.

“You will have to tell me eventually,” insisted Geoffrey.

“But sometimes these things—”

“Doctor,” interrupted Geoffrey, “what do you think it is? I can see from your expression that you consider it serious. If you do not tell me, I will insist Stirling does. He is my dear friend and will not be able to refuse.”

Dr. Armbruster nodded, glanced at Stirling, and sighed. “Right . . . well,” he began, “—but as I said, I cannot be completely certain . . . I didn't want to let myself admit it at first . . . but from the look and sound of it, I would say there is a chance . . . that you may have tuberculosis.”

At the dreaded word, a cry escaped Amanda's lips.

Geoffrey took in the news calmly. “I thought as much,” he said. “I did not want to let myself admit it either.”

“But you've got to keep hope, Geoffrey,” now said Stirling. “There are new advances being made all the time. There is a good chance you can beat it.”

Geoffrey nodded. In front of Amanda and Jocelyn he would maintain an optimistic front. But he knew the odds as well as Stirling did.

“What . . . what can be done?” said Jocelyn.

“Keep him warm, well fed, plenty of fluids, keep a good fire in his room,” replied Dr. Armbruster, “and pray for warm weather to clear out his lungs. We will pray that rest will enable his body to turn the corner. Otherwise, of course . . . as you know, ultimately when one is unable to take care of oneself—”

“We will not talk of sanitariums now, Doctor,” said Jocelyn. “We will all help Geoffrey to rest and make a full recovery.—I will call your mother right away, Geoffrey.”

“No . . . no, please, Jocelyn. She would be on the first train down. Her fussing would be worse than this cough. I do not want to worry her. I love my mother, but . . .”

“I understand. But don't you want her to know?”

“She would fret herself into a dither,” replied Geoffrey. “Perhaps if there is a change.”