A New Dawn Over Devon (53 page)

And why not? The fellow Kyrkwode had been a master of such ingenious devices. The place was full of them!

Staring at the lock, Geoffrey coughed again. But where was the key?

The only keys he knew were on the key ring in the tower. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was too fatigued to investigate further.

He would try them later. He had to get back to bed. He had made a remarkable discovery; that was enough for now. He would investigate the lock in the morning.

Exhausted and hacking, he slid the floorboard back in place, then made his way down the corkscrew staircase out of the garret room, back through the labyrinth to the library. As he went he was thinking of the consequences of what he had just found. No one must know of it yet, especially his father. He must cover up the evidence of the discovery while determining what to do about it.

With great effort he managed to clean up the additional mess he had made, then dragged a piece of rug from the guest room over the stain in the hall carpet.

But what about the hole in the ceiling?

He had to cover it up with something. A blanket, he thought.

But how to tack it to the ceiling?

A hammer and some small nails would do it. The next moment he was on his way creeping down to the storeroom next to the kitchen to fetch them.

Within five minutes he was again on the ladder carrying out the final part of his clean-up operation.

But tacking the blanket to the ceiling robbed him of his last ounces of strength. He nearly collapsed as he feebly climbed down, replaced the ladder, and staggered back to his room. He was exhausted and growing faint. But he knew well enough that if something happened to him, his father would be here the next day to take possession of the Hall. And he mustn't let his father come here and find this.

But
someone
had to know what he had found, thought Geoffrey. And that could only be one person.

That person was not his father . . . but his cousin. He must tell Amanda!

He struggled into his room, coughing constantly by now, but trying his best to mute the sound with his handkerchief for fear of waking Mrs. Polkinghorne. He sat down at his writing desk and took out a piece of paper. With quivering hand he made a crude drawing, then followed it with a brief letter.

A terrible paroxysm of coughing finally shook Geoffrey's entire body and forced him to stop. His lungs felt like they were exploding. He groaned in exhaustion, rose, wobbled a few steps, and fell onto his bed. As he removed the handkerchief down from his mouth, the red-stained mucus all over it told him what he knew Dr. Armbruster had long feared.

Gradually he fell into a fitful sleep.

 93 
Farewell

The next morning Geoffrey did not appear for breakfast.

Mrs. Polkinghorne waited as long as her patience could endure, then began to climb the stairs with trembling foot and a premonition of dread clutching her chest. Just as she reached the first-floor landing, she heard the bell ring for her. In a delirium of relief, she quickened her step toward her master's bedroom.

“Yes, Mr. Rutherford,” she said cheerfully as she entered. “How are you this morning?”

Her voice caught as the “morning” left her lips. One look at his wasted form, deathly white skin, and gaunt red eyes told her everything. A terrible smell of sickness pervaded the room.

“Wenda,” he said nearly inaudibly, then paused as another fit seized his lungs. “Please,” he struggled to go on, “please . . . send for Stirling Blakeley . . . only Stirling . . . no one else.”

————

When Stirling entered the sick room fifty minutes later, his heart nearly failed him. Mrs. Polkinghorne's warnings had not been sufficient to convey to his imagination the drastic change that had come over his friend in the thirty-six hours since he had last seen him.

Geoffrey smiled thinly and extended a weak hand.

Fighting tears, Stirling rushed to the bedside.

“Stirling, my dear friend,” he said wearily, “I can see in your face that you already know what I brought you here to say—”

“You have merely had a temporary relapse,” said Stirling. “The winter is nearly over and—”

Geoffrey's thin white hand waved weakly up from the bed to interrupt him.

“I am dying, Stirling,” he said. “Let us not lie to ourselves. I have been coughing up blood. . . .”

Stirling glanced away momentarily, blinking hard, then turned his face back to the bed.

“I want to talk to you about Amanda,” Geoffrey went on. “I know you and she love one another. I am so glad of it. But I have no sister, and now Amanda has no brother. I am the closest she has to one. I was a fool for many years . . . I hope I am now learning some of life's lessons. I love her . . . with the love of a brother.”

Stirling nodded.

“Take care of her, Stirling,” said Geoffrey.

“I will.”

“Be good to her.”

“I promise . . . I will.”

“And when I am gone, give her this,” said Geoffrey. “But not a word of it before then. Keep it safe . . . guard with your life. I found something . . . last night . . . too much to try to tell you . . . this will explain.”

Geoffrey gave him two folded pieces of paper.

“Do you understand, Stirling?” persisted Geoffrey, “—important . . . see that Amanda gets this. She has to get it!”

Stirling nodded and took the papers, folded them again, and shoved them into his pocket. Then he stooped down and embraced his friend.

“I love you, dear friend.”

“And I you, Stirling,” said Geoffrey in barely more than a whisper. “You have been the best friend I could imagine. It has been an honor to know you. And . . . and we shall see one another again . . . very soon.”

Stirling was weeping freely and could hardly hold Geoffrey's gaze.

“Do you want me to bring Amanda?” he asked through his tears.

Geoffrey shook his head.

“Time is short . . . first I must see Rev. Diggorsfeld . . . something I must do. Please . . . go for him . . . go for him now.”

Stirling nodded again, tried to smile as he gazed lovingly one last time into Geoffrey's sunken eyes, then turned and left the room.

He thought no more of the incident with the papers for the rest of the day.

 94 
Geoffrey and Timothy

Stirling left Heathersleigh Hall in tears, ran across the entry to his horse, and galloped into Milverscombe. He hardly needed to say a word when Timothy answered his knock. The moment the minister saw his face, he was grabbing up coat and hat and the next instant was out the door.

“Hello, Geoffrey,” said Timothy as he came forward toward the bed less than ten minutes later. “I hope you are comfortable.”

Geoffrey smiled up from the pillow. “All that matters to me now is that my mind is comfortable. That is why I sent for you. Everyone wants to play silly games . . . pretending I am going to be better soon. I don't think you will do that . . . will you, Timothy? You are not afraid of death . . . are you?”

Timothy shook his head. “And you, Geoffrey?” he said, sitting down in the chair beside the bed.

“No,” replied Geoffrey. “Now that it is staring me in the face . . . I find the thought of it almost comforting.”

“As it should be. I believe God intended it so.”

“Of course, I wish I had been better all my life.”

“We all do,” smiled Timothy.

“Perhaps, but it took me far too long to begin seeing things, as I hope I have begun to do, in something like their proper light.”

“Such is the case with us all.”

“But I was so self-absorbed—”

“We will all say the same thing when our time comes. I will say it too. We are
all
self-absorbed. It is one of the misfortunes of our earthly condition that death is meant to cure. But God will make all things that were wrong down here right in the end. And you can take comfort from the fact that you accomplished a great deal of good in this community.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come, come, Geoffrey,” smiled Timothy, “do you think I do not know the source of the mysterious grants to improve people's homes? I have been watching you, the personal interest you have taken in the work, walking about checking on everything, supervising the work, suggesting various improvements . . . no mere administrator of someone else's money would conduct himself in such a manner. I have also taken note of the plaque on the wall behind your desk at the bank. You have done God's work in this community, and I know great blessing awaits you.”

Geoffrey smiled at Timothy's assessment. “You haven't . . . no one else—”

“Rest easy,” rejoined Timothy. “I could see what was in your heart to do. I have spoken to no one. I doubt anyone else suspects.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

“You can take great satisfaction in what you have done, Geoffrey. You may, as you say, have begun a little late. But once begun, you gave God's water to drink to those around you, and did so faithfully and diligently. I am confident you are well prepared to meet your heavenly Father.”

“I hope I am. Remnants of fear cannot help occasionally cross my mind . . . as if he could not wait to punish me . . . for every little thing I did wrong. But listening to Vicar Coleridge . . . knowing you these three years . . . have nearly purged my brain of such notions. I know . . . he is a good Father who will . . . welcome me home in spite of all that.”

“I am so glad to hear it, Geoffrey,” smiled Timothy. “If only more men and women reached the end of their earthly sojourns with that same peace.”

Geoffrey tried to draw in a breath. It caused a series of coughs. Timothy waited for the fit to subside.

“Timothy,” said Geoffrey at length, “I do not have a will . . . not time to send for a solicitor. I would like you to take this down . . . if
you would. When I am through . . . you and Stirling witness it . . . will be legal.”

“Of course, Geoffrey.”

“You will find paper . . . pen and ink there on the writing table.”

Timothy rose, went to the desk, and sat down. Slowly, interrupted by many coughing spells, Geoffrey dictated his final wishes, which Timothy took down verbatim.