The barn fell silent.
Amanda opened her eyes, wiped away her tears, smiled, then stepped forward to embrace Stirling’s father. He took her in his dirty arms and held her close for a second or two. When they stepped back, tears glistened on both their cheeks.
“Thank you . . . Rune,” said Amanda. “I will never forget this day, and how honest you have been with me.”
Silently the two began walking slowly out of the barn. As they emerged into the sunlight, they saw Stirling coming from the house toward them.
“Amanda!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” As he glanced back and forth between the two, he saw the unmistakable signs of an emotional exchange. What it was about, he couldn’t guess, but thought it best not to ask.
“Your father and I were having a talk,” replied Amanda with a smile and wiping her eyes again. “And you? The last time I saw you, you were chopping down a tree.”
“I broke the ax and had to come for a new one,” said Stirling. “Are you going home now?”
Amanda nodded.
“I won’t be a minute . . . if you want to wait, I’ll walk back with you.”
Stirling ran past them into the barn and came out a minute later holding the new ax.
“See you this evening, Father!” he said as he and Amanda walked away.
Rune stood watching as they went. Amanda glanced back again. Stirling’s father gave one last nod and smile. Amanda knew they were meant for her.
83
Impromptu Delivery
Stoddard Roper ran frantically into Dr. Armbruster’s office in midmorning on the sixth of October.
He glanced hurriedly around. He saw no one in sight but Stirling Blakeley behind the counter perusing a book lying open on the doctor’s desk.
“Where’s Cecil?” cried Roper.
“He had to ride out to the McDermit place this morning,” answered Stirling, rising and walking toward the counter.
“That’s eight miles! When’s he coming back!”
“Probably not for another hour or two, Mr. Roper. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Not unless you can deliver a baby! My Cordelia’s in a bad way—it came all of a sudden.”
“Has her water broken?” asked Stirling.
“I don’t know about that, but she made a mess in the kitchen and yelled at me to fetch Dr. Cecil.”
“That’s her water . . . all right . . . relax, Mr. Roper,” said Stirling, “everything’s going to be fine.”
He paused a second or two, thinking.
“You ever been out to the McFee place?”
“Not since Bobby was alive.”
“That’s fine, just so long as you know where it is. Ride over there as fast as you can and get Lady Jocelyn and Amanda. Lady Jocelyn knows what to do.”
Roper turned for the door. “What about my wife?” he said. “Will she—”
“She’ll be fine, Mr. Roper,” said Stirling, grabbing his coat. “I’ll run over to your place right now and stay with her till you and Lady Jocelyn get back.”
Already Roper was out the door and climbing onto the back of his horse. Stirling hurried across the floor after him, then stopped abruptly. He turned and ran back to the desk. Hastily he scribbled a note, just in case Dr. Armbruster returned and set it in plain view. Then he picked up one of the books he had been glancing through earlier as well as the emergency bag Dr. Armbruster had left behind, and ran from the office, turned up the street, and hurried as fast as he could toward the east side of the village.
Eight minutes later Stirling ran into the Roper house without benefit of a knock.
“Mrs. Roper . . . Mrs. Roper,” he called, glancing quickly around, “—it’s Stirling Blakeley, where are you?”
He heard a faint moan from one of the rooms. He threw down the book in his hand and dashed toward the sound. The woman lay on her bed in obvious pain. Stirling knew instantly that the labor was well advanced.
“Where . . . where is—” she tried to say.
“Dr. Armbruster is away,” interrupted Stirling, trying to sound calm. “I was at the office. I sent your husband for Lady Jocelyn. They will be back soon. But for now, you and I will manage together just fine, Mrs. Roper. I know what to do, and everything will be fine. How do you feel?”
“It hurts . . . the baby’s coming . . . I can feel it!”
“All right, Mrs. Roper, that’s fine . . . do you mind if I have a look to see whether the baby is showing?”
She looked at him with wide eyes but nodded her head.
Gently Stirling took one of her hands as he drew back the blanket. A cry of pain suddenly filled the room.
“Relax, Mrs. Roper,” he said. “I know it is difficult, but try to exhale in little puffs as long as the pain lasts . . . that’s good. I am going out for a minute to wash my hands, and then we shall see what we need to do.”
Stirling left the room. As soon as he was out of sight he grabbed the book he had laid down a minute earlier and bolted outside for the water pump, frantically fumbling through the pages of the book as he went. Let’s see, he said to himself, where is it, ah, here . . . contractions . . . two minutes . . . one minute . . . when contractions begin to come less than one minute apart . . .
He had to hurry!
This baby was on its way, and one look told him that there wasn’t a chance in the world it intended to wait either for Dr. Armbruster, Jocelyn, or its own father!
Two minutes later Stirling reentered the bedroom drying his hands, trying to calm himself again, and setting the book on the edge of the bed, open to “Birthing Procedures” just in case he should need it again. There was no time for boiling hot water and sterile cloths . . . or even sterilizing his own hands in hot water.
There wasn’t time for anything!
“How are you doing, Mrs. Roper?” he asked gently, again taking her hand and taking his watch out of his pocket. “I’m just going to time your contractions—tell me when you begin to feel pain again.”
She nodded. They did not have to wait long. Suddenly she cried out again, her face grimacing in pain.
“Blow, Mrs. Roper . . . gentle puffs . . . blow, blow, blow. That’s good.”
After thirty or forty seconds, the pain subsided and she lay back down in exhaustion, face perspiring freely.
“Was that the first since I left to wash my hands?”
She shook her head.
“You had a contraction while I was out?”
She shook her head, trying to hold up two fingers.
“Two!” he exclaimed.
She nodded again.
There was no time to lose. Stirling drew in a breath and tried to collect his wits, when suddenly the mother-to-be lurched up again and cried out. Stirling felt his hand nearly crushed by her grip.
He drew back the blankets again. “All right, you’re just doing fine,” he said. “Your baby is starting to come . . . I see a foot and there is its little bottom trying to squeeze—”
“No . . . no . . . can’t,” interrupted the woman frantically, struggling to make herself heard in the middle of the pain, “head . . . head has to come first.”
“Right . . . of course—what am I thinking!” said Stirling. Don’t be an idiot! he added to himself. You need to calm down . . . get hold of yourself. What are you thinking! “Yes, it’s breech, Mrs. Roper,” he said aloud, “but we will take care of that.”
Gradually the contraction subsided.
Stirling stood and hurried around the bed to where the book lay, scanning through the pages quickly. He bent down and hastily read the instructions for breech births, then walked back to Mrs. Roper’s side.
“We shall just turn your little one around,” he said. “I will have to put my hand inside you, Mrs. Roper, and turn him around. . . . It may be a little uncomfortable, but I will be as gentle as I can. . . .”
She nodded up and down vigorously. She knew it was necessary.
Eleven minutes later Stirling heard footsteps
and voices outside. The next instant the outside door of the house crashed open.
“I’ll get water boiling, Mother!” he heard Amanda’s voice say. Almost immediately Jocelyn ran through the bedroom door. She stopped in the middle of the room and stood looking at the scene before her with eyes wide in astonishment.
“I am afraid you are too late, Jocelyn,” said Stirling with a smile. “Mrs. Roper and her daughter are already asleep.”
Jocelyn came slowly forward, her bewilderment now changing to a smile. Gently she lifted back the blanket to take a quick peek at the infant at its mother’s breast, then turned back to Stirling and began to laugh with delight.
“Stirling . . . but how—”
Amanda, who had heard Stirling’s voice, now entered the room.
“It would seem that you are already a doctor, Stirling,” she said as she quickly surmised the state of affairs.
They were interrupted by the sounds of more footsteps coming through the door outside.
“I think you should be the one to tell him, Stirling,” said Jocelyn. “Amanda and I will begin cleaning up and see to your two patients.”
Stirling nodded and walked out of the bedroom.
“Congratulations, Mr. Roper!” he said, reaching out his hand as he met the anxious father. “You have a new baby daughter!”
84
The Banker and the Client
Stirling Blakeley awoke earlier than usual. He had spent a fitful night thinking about Amanda and what she had said to him several weeks earlier. And now the incident with the Roper baby confirmed it all the more—medicine was indeed something he wanted to pursue. He knew he was too old to think realistically about going back to school for another three or four years. As it was, he had been several years older than most of his fellow students at Oxford. But if it was a dream worth pursuing, why should he not do as Amanda suggested?
Stirling got out of bed, dressed quietly, and stole from the house. A few minutes later he was out walking through the village. It was dark out, with the first hints of light only just now creeping up the horizon in the east. Slowly he made his way toward the center of town, thinking of the people who lived in the homes along these streets and throughout the community, thinking what it would be like to be entrusted with their lives, to deliver their babies, to help them in sickness, to ease their elderly gently into the life to come.
What a high and sacred calling. Was it really what he wanted . . . more importantly, was it what God wanted for him?
As he continued to walk, images of Amanda filled his mind again. What a lady she had turned out to be, gracious, warm, giving, soft-spoken. He would never guess, to look at her now, that she had ever been otherwise. There was no one—except perhaps Timothy Diggorsfeld—he enjoyed talking to quite like Amanda. She was . . . an interesting person. In the two years since their impromptu meeting outside Timothy’s flat, she had become a true friend.
Fifteen minutes later Stirling found himself standing in front of Dr. Armbruster’s small surgery. He stood for several minutes quietly contemplating the possibility that someday he might occupy just such an office, in some small town like this, with his name on the sign above the door.
“Lord,” Stirling prayed softly, “if this is your will, you must open the door and make a way. It seems too distant and out of reach. If you truly are speaking to me through Amanda’s encouragement, make a way for it to happen.”
Even as he prayed, the conviction came over him all the more that he should follow Amanda’s suggestion and see what came of it.
Six hours after his early morning walk, it felt to Stirling Blakeley as if every eye in the village was upon him as he walked into the new Bank of Milverscombe dressed up in his best shirt and trousers, tie and coat, and with his hair combed down flat and wet on his head. He could not help being nervous.
Geoffrey saw Stirling enter, smiled and waved him over to his desk, then greeted him with a shake of the hand, and offered him a chair.
Stirling sat down. The two chatted informally for a few minutes.
“I, uh . . . I don’t know how to say this,” began Stirling, “but I want to talk to you about money . . . about maybe a loan . . .”
“Of course, Stirling,” replied Geoffrey. “For what purpose?”
“Actually, I . . . I would like to return to university, medical school actually . . . I would like to study to be a doctor.”
“Right . . . I see—yes, the whole town is abuzz about your delivery of the Roper girl. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” smiled Stirling. “It was an unexpected adventure.”
“Medical school would be an expensive proposition,” said Geoffrey. “There could be collateral difficulties as well. I doubt such a loan would be approved by London without sufficient collateral.”
“Collateral?”
“Tangible assets,” replied Geoffrey, “to set against the note in case of default.”
“You don’t think I wouldn’t pay it back?”
“No, of course not, Stirling. I know you, and know you to be a man of your word. But banks must be very cautious and skeptical when loaning money. The way London would look at it would be to ask what would happen if you died, for example, or if you got halfway through the medical program and then for some reason were unable to continue. Their money would be gone, and you would not be in a position to repay. That’s why they always look for something, as I say, to set against the loan to insure that they will not lose out in the end. The loan committee would be very doubtful of loaning that much money, as they would see it, on speculation of future earnings.”
“Oh . . . right, I see,” nodded Stirling, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“And too . . . have you considered,” Geoffrey went on, trying to sound warm and sympathetic, though he realized he was probably dashing Stirling’s hopes with every word he spoke, “the future burden such an indebtedness would place on you after your education was completed?”
“But the opportunity to be a doctor would make it worth it,” said Stirling.
“Perhaps,” rejoined Geoffrey. “But country physicians don’t earn a great deal. It would take years to repay.”
Stirling nodded, then shuffled in the chair and began to rise.
“I am sorry not to be more encouraging,” said Geoffrey, rising with him.
“Don’t mention it, Geoffrey, you’re just doing your job—I know that. I didn’t think it would hurt to ask.”
“No . . . it never hurts to ask. I will look into the matter further, and shall certainly see what I can do.”
They shook hands. Stirling left the bank, feeling far more awkward than when he had walked in. He turned along the street, praying that Amanda didn’t happen to be in town. He didn’t think he could face her right now.
As he limped quickly along, he thought to himself that the only thing he wanted to do was get home and get out of these fancy clothes!
85
The Banker and His Thoughts
Darkness had fallen over Milverscombe. Its residents were long since in their homes and all its shop doors closed.
A lone desk lamp, however, still burned in the newest of Milverscombe’s buildings. The doors were locked, and the only two employees of the bank other than its manager had gone home for the night.
Geoffrey Rutherford sat at his desk looking over the papers in front of him. There wasn’t a chance Stirling Blakeley’s hope to further his education would be approved. There wasn’t even any use sending it in. Every loan application in the last three months had been turned down. His father sat on the loan committee, and for the life of him, Geoffrey could not understand it.
The requested funds for Stoddard Roper’s new barn . . . for Mary and Sutton Thurmond’s house . . . for the new store building that had Hiram Spenser’s hopes so high . . . these and three or four other small applications had all come back denied.
London wasn’t interested in small high-risk loans like these. They made their profits off busine
ss loans in the city. Their objective in opening a country bank like this was in securing deposits, not making loans. He had been naive to think he could do the people here any good. The rejected applications were piling up, and eventually he was going to have to summon the courage to tell these poor people that the money they were planning on was not going to come through.
Just today he had had two new requests, including Stirling’s. How could he face these people if all he ever had for them was bad news? Where would the bank be a year from now if not a single loan were approved for the people of the village? Most would eventually go back to keeping their money in their beds or in the floors of their cottages.
He had wanted so badly to help this community. But all his high hopes were gradually giving way to the reality that the loan committee did not intend to back up his optimism with actual cash.
Geoffrey rocked back in his chair and let out a long sigh as he glanced over the papers again. Slowly he rose, put on his coat, then gathered up a few of the files to take home with him for further review. As he turned from his desk, his eyes fell on the plaque hanging behind his desk that Catharine had lettered and nicely framed for him. He read over the words again: Melt your mammon down, coin him up, make God’s money of him, and send him out to do God’s work. Make of him cups to carry the gift of God, the water of life, through the world.
Geoffrey smiled thinly. A fine sentiment, he thought. But how could he implement it without the backing of London?
He moved to the door, turned off the light, and walked outside. He glanced about. The evening was already chilly. He was glad he’d brought the car. The cold sent a shiver through his frame. He coughed a time or two as he walked to the side of the building. It was starting already, he thought rubbing at neck and chest, the winter hacking in his lungs . . . and it was still only November. He’d go see Dr. Armbruster tomorrow and get a new supply of lozenges.
Slowly he drove through the deserted streets of Milverscombe, out of town, and finally up the long, winding drive to Heathersleigh Hall, cheered to find that his new housekeeper Wenda Polkinghorne, Sarah Minsterley’s sister-in-law, recently widowed from Exeter, had a bright fire, hot pot of water, and inviting tea all waiting for him.
A New Dawn Over Devon Page 37