Meanwhile, knowing nothing of the events about to sweep him into the middle of their vortex, his son was changing in ways the father had no idea of.
One day when noon came, rather than lunch with his father or colleagues of the bank, Geoffrey decided to go to the park. Strange things had begun to gnaw at him, beckonings from a world whose language he did not at first recognize.
Why him? the reader asks.
Why Geoffrey Rutherford, seemingly the last young man on the face of the earth who would be inclined to heed the silent call of that deeper world?
Yet the question might also be asked, why not Geoffrey Rutherford? What makes some men and women gradually attentive to the world’s whys? What causes some to begin looking upward and inward for answers, while the great majority of the masses remain oblivious to the very currents of life they were put on this earth to discover?
Who can identify that invisible germ of distinction between the askers and ponderers, and the contented unthinking blind? Such will forever remain an eternal question of great mystery.
Whatever the reason, whatever spark prompts the opening of a heart’s door in one but not another, as unlikely as it might seem, Geoffrey was now showing signs of being one of those who had begun to cast his gaze inward.
What had triggered this season of introspective melancholy, even he could not have said.
Was it the feel of mortality, the gradually receding hairline even at twenty-five, the lack of energy he had felt for some time? He had consulted a doctor without telling his father. The man had pronounced him fit, but Geoffrey harbored doubts. He still didn’t feel quite himself. What was it? Were the changes physical . . . or was something else going on within him?
The previous winter had been difficult. There had been a few nights, after days upon days of ceaseless coughing, that he had lain awake fearing he had somehow contracted something. Yet the condition had eventually left him, and he had been fine all summer. But now, with the cold rainy season approaching, he could not help but be anxious. He was not looking forward to another London winter.
But chiefly his unease originated in his soul. He wasn’t happy at the bank, and he knew it.
He left the office, took a cab to Hyde Park, and walked slowly around for three-quarters of an hour carrying the apple and sandwich his mother had packed for him that morning, yet scarcely thinking of them. He wasn’t hungry.
As he walked, Geoffrey saw things he had never noticed before, ducks scurrying and quacking and swimming about everywhere, what remained of the autumn flowers, children at play, a gentle breeze on his face, the clouds suspended in the blue above.
It really was a beautiful world, he thought, even in the city. Why had he never paused before to drink it in? But did the beauty all around him mean anything? Was there more to life than money and investments and compound interest?
He smiled thinly. Even without his father’s money, he was well on his way to becoming a rich man in his own right. But what did it matter? It had certainly not made him happy.
He was almost tempted to quit the bank and move to the country. His father would hit the roof. But did he want to spend the rest of his life pursuing only profit? What had it accomplished for his father? He was a selfish, lonely, greedy man, Geoffrey thought. He had no friends, no interests besides money. Geoffrey had never seen him read a book for pleasure. Did he want to end up the same way himself?
If nothing changed . . . toward just such a future he was probably heading.
A little boy ran by chasing a tiny flock of walking ducks. Geoffrey glanced up, glad for the interruption to his broodings, and watched the boy’s energetic antics for a few moments. He was followed a minute later by his mother.
“Mummy . . . Mummy, may I please have a coin to throw into the fountain!” cried the lad as he reached the bridge over the little pond.
“I’m sorry, Fraser,” she replied, “but I have none.”
Geoffrey watched the two another moment, then rose and walked toward them, hand fishing into his trousers.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to the lady, “I couldn’t help overhearing. I have a coin or two to spare in my pocket. I would like to give them to the boy, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh . . . thank you, that is very generous of you, sir,” she replied.
Geoffrey walked toward the lad, holding out his hand.
“Here, son,” he said, “throw these into the water and make a wish.”
The boy glanced up into Geoffrey’s face, then down at the five large copper pennies in his hand. The next instant he scooped them into his chubby fist and began tossing them into the pond toward the spraying fountain in the center.
Geoffrey turned, smiled at the lady as he tipped his hat, and continued on his way.
“Mummy, Mummy,” he heard behind him, “the man gave me five coppers!”
Geoffrey smiled to himself. That was nice, he thought.
In fact, as he went, he realized that the tiny act of generosity had made him feel better than the thousand-pound profit he had added to his account last month from one of his many investments.
Geoffrey chuckled to himself as he walked, then began laughing outright. Maybe giving away money was the secret to happiness rather than accumulating it.
The simplicity of the revelation jolted him.
He shook his head as he continued to revolve it in his brain, still chuckling as he walked . . . giving not getting.
Incredible!
Ha, ha, ha! he laughed inwardly. What would dear old Dad think of that?
66
New Resident in Milverscombe
When Terrill Langham appeared at the door of Heathersleigh Hall after Timothy had been in residence about a week, Catharine was the first to arrive to open it. He held an umbrella in his left hand and clutched a cane in his right.
“Hello, Miss Catharine,” said the lieutenant.
“Terrill!” she exclaimed.
“I hope you do not mind an unannounced visit.”
“Of course not.—But what happened to your leg!”
“A bit of an accident,” he replied, attempting to shrug it off.
“Come in.—Mother . . . Amanda!”
Lieutenant Langham lowered his umbrella, set it in the stand next to the door, and hobbled in after her. As they entered, Timothy was just coming downstairs with a book under his arm.
“Oh, Timothy,” said Catharine as she saw him, “meet Terrill Langham . . . Lieutenant Terrill Langham, I mean.”
“We know each other, Catharine,” said Timothy, approaching with a smile. “—How are you, Lieutenant?” Catharine looked on in surprise as they greeted one another.
“Fine, Rev. Diggorsfeld,” replied Langham as the two men shook hands, “except for the leg, that is. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Actually, I am living here at present.”
“What about your church?”
“I am afraid I am no longer in the pastorate,” replied Timothy. “In fact, I was just on my way out to the village to scout about for more permanent lodgings.”
“Will I see you later?” asked Langham.
“I should be back in time for tea.”
“I would take your umbrella if I were you,” said Langham as Timothy walked toward the door. “It was raining just now as I drove up.”
“I appreciate the warning.”
Timothy left the house with happy sounds of welcome and greeting behind him as Jocelyn and Amanda now arrived from upstairs and the kitchen.
The brief rain had let up as Timothy walked away from the door and down the drive. The damp smell of autumn was in the air, and he breathed in deeply of its fragrance. He would take the long way to the village.
He reached the main road and turned left along the river. Tucking the crook of his umbrella over his forearm, he now opened the book he had brought along—as so befitting the occasion, one of his favorites, the Scotsman’s Annals—and began to read the thoughts that so mirrored his own at this moment of life. Th
ough he was not coming to a new parish as a minister as in the story, he was coming to a new home, and could not help wondering what the Lord might have in store for him here.
Timothy entered Milverscombe forty minutes later. His mind was still occupied with the fictional old Rogers and the carpenter shop of the tale. Would this village provide him such treasures?
He prayed as he walked that the Lord would direct his steps, and that if his future was indeed in this place, a home would be provided where he would be able to do whatever God had for him to do.
Here and there as he went, he poked his head into several of the homes and shops, greeting many of the friends he had made through the years during his many visits, finally approaching the large stone church, where he turned aside to spend a few minutes visiting his friend Vicar Stuart Coleridge.
67
News and No News
Adriane Grünsfeld suspected the worst.
Something must have happened to Ramsay. He should have been back weeks ago. She had no way to know for certain except by visiting his mother, and that she was not about to do. She never wanted to see that place in Vienna again. She could probably write the woman, but that was nearly as distasteful a thought as going to her in person.
She would continue to wait. If something had happened, no one would think to contact his mistress.
What else could she do? If Ramsay made an unexpected appearance, her fears would be put to rest. If he didn’t . . . well, then she would know that he had either gone back to the English girl . . . or else was dead.
————
The telegram that arrived at Nr. 42 Ebensdorfer Strasse in Vienna was not entirely unexpected. Hildegard Bronislawgh Halifax knew things were getting dangerous and that the war was not going well.
She took the envelope from the messenger and went into the darkened sitting room before opening it. She did not exactly feel a sense of apprehension. In truth, it would have been difficult to tell what the woman felt. She had hurt so many lives for so long, and had ceased caring about the feelings of others so long ago, that now when she needed to feel something for herself, she scarcely was able to do so.
Baroness Bronislawgh, as she now called herself, sat down and opened the yellow envelope.
She read the brief message.
No tears came.
Ramsay’s mother had steeled herself against the natural emotions of her womanhood for so many years that she had lost the capacity to feel at all. She had grown cold and hard, and now must pay the price by her inability even to weep for the loss of her son.
68
Impromptu Meeting
Winter came early to Devon. Even in this southernmost part of England, by late November two storms had produced several inches of snow. The second had fallen just two days before, leaving Milverscombe, for the present, as picturesque as a Christmas card.
Lieutenant Langham, with his wounded leg, made several more visits to Heathersleigh, each a little longer than the previous. Jocelyn invited him, as his duties allowed, to use one of their many guest rooms and come for two or three days at a time.
Letters from Hope and Betsy began to arrive. Both seemed very happy with the new arrangement. According to Hope, Betsy’s presence had injected the chalet with new energy and life. She and Sister Galiana were already the best of friends. Several letters came from Hope, forwarded from New Hope Chapel, addressed to Timothy. His lengthy replies took up a good deal of Timothy’s time.
With Timothy’s help, Amanda filed papers for her annulment application according to British law. The procedure was somewhat dubious, since the so-called wedding had occurred on foreign soil. The outcome was thus uncertain. The process made Amanda thoughtful and a little sad. She spent much time during these weeks alone.
Timothy occasionally took supply positions throughout Devon as word of his presence and availability spread. He had never been happier, and had already begun, as time between letters to Hope and his former parishioners permitted, to write some memoirs. After five weeks at the Hall, what he declared to be the most perfect accommodation imaginable became available in the village.
Maggie continued to recover from her fall, yet did not seem altogether herself. Jocelyn could not help but be concerned that she now spent more time indoors sitting in her chair without the energy to prepare her garden for the winter. She appeared tired.
————
A knock came to the door of the three-room flat above Mrs. Feldstone’s shop after Timothy Diggorsfeld had occupied it a week and a half. The former minister rose to answer it.
“Come in . . . come in, my friend!” he said enthusiastically to the visitor standing before him.
A tall young man in his late twenties, well shaped, lean but with muscular definition to shoulders, arms, and chest, entered carrying a book in his hand, limping slightly. “How do you like your new lodgings?” he asked.
“Wonderfully well,” replied Timothy. “I am already feeling very much at home. Now that I have my books reshelved, I am no longer alone. Indeed, I always feel in the midst of a great silent company of wise mentors, as the Scotsman said of the authors of his books, whose friendship I can call upon anytime I choose, but who will make no intrusion upon me when I wish to be alone.”
The visitor laughed. “A wonderful way of putting it.”
“Sit down. I will put on water for tea,” said Timothy. “—Tell me, what did you think of the third volume of the sermons?”
“Invigorating and challenging,” replied his visitor, “although in places too deep for my feeble brain.”
“Your feeble brain, indeed!” rejoined Timothy. “You are about to graduate, as I hear it, with honors.”
“We shall see.”
“Well, the sermons always require two or three readings for me as well,” laughed Timothy.
“The one entitled ‘Justice’ was worth its weight in gold.”
“My favorite! It is one of the few spots I have discovered in the mines of his writings where the Scotsman seems willing to speak boldly and openly about the controversy.”
“How I wish some of my friends at the university could be introduced to his writings. Atheism is so prevalent in the Oxford environment.”
“Perhaps a few of your scholar friends will meet the Scotsman. One never knows where a book will find its way into a person’s life.”
They continued to chat freely, and gradually the discussion moved in many directions.
After an hour Timothy’s visitor rose to leave, another two borrowed books in his hands. “I will get these back to you soon,” he said. “I will have to read them before next session.”
“No hurry,” said Timothy. “A book being read is infinitely better than a book sitting closed on a shelf.”
The young man descended the stairs and turned absently into the sidewalk from the narrow stairway. Suddenly a young woman coming toward him from around the corner crashed straight into him.
“Oh, excuse me,” began Amanda, startled as she recovered herself. “I didn’t—”
“Hello, Amanda,” said a deep voice.
Amanda glanced up into the face that went with the chest she had just ploughed into. She flushed, then hesitated momentarily.
The young man smiled. The expression was enough to take any girl’s breath away.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he said.
“I, uh . . . it’s just that you caught me off guard,” she flustered.
“It’s Stirling . . . Stirling Blakely.”
“Oh . . . Stirling—of course!” exclaimed Amanda, laughing. “I don’t know what I was thinking. My mind was occupied and—”
She smiled as her eyes flitted about his face.
“—To be honest,” she said, “you’re right, I guess I didn’t recognize you . . . it must be the moustache.”
“An easy mistake!” laughed Stirling. “My mother says it makes me look atrocious.”
“No, it’s very becoming,” rejoined Amanda. “I will jus
t have to get used to it, that’s all.”
“Well, you may be excused on account of not seeing me for some time.”
“That’s right—I heard you were away tutoring someplace in the north between terms at the university.”
“I only just got back a few days ago. To tell you the truth, though I needed what the job paid me, I am relieved that the assignment is over. I don’t think I am cut out for teaching—at least not the sort of youngsters I had,” he added laughing.
“But what are you doing here?” asked Amanda.
“Chatting with Rev. Diggorsfeld.”
“I was just on my way to visit him myself.—But do you know Timothy?”
“Oh yes, we are good friends. He supplies me with books.”
“Are you finished at the university, then?”
“Nearly. I have one more term. I will return to Oxford after the first of the year. I am greatly in your family’s debt. I will never forget it.”
“What do you mean?”
“For my education,” replied Stirling.
“I still do not understand you.”
“Your father . . . he paid for my entire schooling at Oxford. I assumed you knew.”
Amanda smiled and shook her head slowly as the revelation dawned on her. “No,” she said, “there are a great many things about my father I am only now finding out.”
“Well, I must be going,” said Stirling. “It was nice to see you again, Amanda.”
“And you, Stirling. Come and visit us at the Hall when you can.”
“Thank you . . . I will!”
69
Christmas 1916
Christmas of the year 1916 was a time of happy contentment.
Timothy, Hugh and Edlyn, Lieutenant Langham—who had been down for several weekend stays and was now walking without his cane—Stirling and Agatha and Rune Blakely, as well as Maggie, though looking frail, Sarah Minsterly and her widowed sister from London, Stuart Coleridge, and Hector Farnham all gathered with the Rutherford women on Christmas afternoon at Heathersleigh Hall for a joyous dinner and final celebration of this phase in Heathersleigh’s history. Not everyone present, however, knew of the changes about to take place that would stun the entire community.
A New Dawn Over Devon Page 30