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 pause
d 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.”
92
Decline
For the rest of the month never had a sick man two such devoted friends to nurse him as Amanda and Stirling. Everyone warned them to be careful, for the disease was well known to be highly contagious.
“I have spent my whole life thinking of nothing but myself,” was Amanda’s reply. “It is time I thought about someone else.”
And for Stirling’s part, if medicine was the profession he loved and had chosen to follow, how could he run from the first difficult case to present itself?
For the first week after the diagnosis, Jocelyn and Amanda took turns spending the night at the Hall to be near in case Geoffrey’s condition worsened noticeably.
As the bank’s business had grown, Geoffrey had hired two new employees, including an assistant, Welford Miles, who had almost as many years experience as he himself. Therefore, Geoffrey’s absence caused no disruption to business and was not even reported to London. Stirling met with Miles to apprise him of Geoffrey’s condition, passing along the message that when he was up to it, he would send for him and they would confer about whatever needed to be discussed.
Within a week Geoffrey was back on his feet, though did not plan to resume his duties at the bank until cleared by Dr. Armbruster. Either Amanda, Jocelyn, or Stirling continued to call on him and sit with him every day. But though he could move slowly about inside with relative ease, Geoffrey’s strength did not improve as they had all hoped, and his cough remained extremely troublesome.
It continued to rain, lightly but incessantly. The wind that had heralded the storm soon dropped to a light breeze, but the thick grey mass of cloud water settled over England like an unmoving heavy blanket and continued to pour down, not buckets, but cupfuls of water, day after day, night after night, without a letup. Again rivers and streams filled, and the ground became soggy and waterlogged like an overfull sponge.
All at once for no visible reason, Geoffrey took a sudden turn for the worse. The day had begun well. He ate a tolerably adequate breakfast, dressed and read most of the morning, enjoyed the Times crossword puzzle with a laugh or two, even conferred with Miles, who had been coming to the hall with a report every several days about noon.
In midafternoon, however, a wave of light-headedness and nausea came over him.
“I am feeling tired, Wenda,” he said as she brought him afternoon tea. “I think I shall go to my room for a rest.”
“Shall I send for Dr. Armbruster?” she asked.
“No . . . I am fine. I just need a little nap.”
Jocelyn called later in the afternoon. But when Mrs. Polkinghorne informed her that Geoffrey was sleeping, she left without disturbing him.
No one saw him again that afternoon.
The rain continued to pour down. In the middle of the night, suddenly Geoffrey awoke from the sound of a great breaking crash somewhere above him.
Trying to gather his wits, he coughed and hacked painfully, groped for the light beside his bed, then rose, tried to clear his head, and pulled on his robe.
He went to the window. Apparently the rain had finally stopped. He turned back into the room and, between violent coughing fits, tried to listen.
Upstairs, he was sure of it, there was water dripping somewhere inside the house.
On uneasy legs, he made his way out of the room into the corridor, turned on a light, and followed the sound up to the second floor. He was far too weak for such activity, but curiosity over the persistent mystery of the strange dripping sounds gradually gave him energy to continue the search.
Struggling to the top of the stairs, he made his way along the north wing. Ahead in the dimly lit corridor he saw what seemed to be the glittering of falling water droplets. Was his mind playing a trick on him? It looked like it was raining inside the house!
He shuffled forward weakly until he came to the source of the sound that had awakened him. Wherever the rain had been leaking into the house from above, it had apparently worsened suddenly, then accumulated throughout this storm to the point where the ceiling above, roughly between the library and the armory, could no longer contain the weight. On the floor in the middle of the corridor was splattered a water-soaked pile of lathe and plaster that had crashed down from above.
Geoffrey looked up to see a hole in the ceiling a foot or more wide. From it water continued to trickle onto the floor in front of him.
The loose tile on the roof must have finally given way. But, he thought, if the roof had been slowly leaking all this time, why had they seen no water in the garret directly above where he now stood? How could the water get from the roof through to this corridor . . . without first making a mess in the garret?
He couldn’t worry about that now. If something wasn’t done within another hour, the water in this pile of plaster would leak down onto the first floor and create a dreadful mess on carpet and furniture and ceiling. He had to try to find a way to clean it up. He could go rouse Wenda. But she was working hard enough already and would only scold him for being out of bed. He would do it himself.
Geoffrey glanced around. He would try the guest room across the hall. Soon he had gathered every available towel and sheet and brought them to the scene of the minor disaster. Within thirty minutes he had the mess tolerably cleaned up, though the carpet would need to be cleaned or replaced. Thankfully by now the dripping from above had stopped. If it began to rain again, he would have to put containers down to catch it.
He carried the wet towels and sheets and cleaning bowl in which he had placed the broken bits of wood and plaster to the empty guest room. He put the bowl on the floor and dumped the wet things on the bed to be seen to in the morning. It wasn’t the best solution, he thought as he walked out of the room, breathing heavily and surveying the scene again, but it should keep the damage from spreading.
Feeling energized from the work, and hardly realizing his dange
r, Geoffrey continued to puzzle over the dry garret. He looked up into the wet hole in the ceiling. Why had they seen no evidence of this leak all this time?
Perhaps it had not developed to that extent when they were last in the garret. He would check it again.
He turned, walked to the library, through the panel in the wall, struggling finally as he climbed up into the secret garret room Amanda had shown them.
Glancing about, he saw that it was still dry. How could it be? They had heard dripping behind the wall. The leak must be directly below him.
He left the garret room, retracing their steps from that previous occasion, to the tower and finally, as Geoffrey thought, to the opposite side of the wall he had just left.
But here too everything appeared completely dry.
He stood looking about in mounting bewilderment. Had he not just cleaned up a great mess directly underneath this very spot? The leak had to be coming through the garret from the roof down to the corridor below . . . but where!
Still puzzling over the strange incongruity, Geoffrey returned to the corridor below and stared up yet again into the black vault where the ceiling had broken through. There was only one way to find the source of the leak. He had to get up into that hole. He would get a ladder and have a look for himself.
The next moment he was on his way back to the library, returning two minutes later dragging the five-foot stepladder used to reach the highest of the library’s bookshelves. Struggling with it as quietly as possible, and at last beginning to realize that he had taxed his body far too greatly, he managed to stand it up under the hole. All that remained now was something to see with once he got up there.
He hurried back down to his bedroom, stopping several times to lean against the wall for a brief rest, returning a few minutes later with a kerosene lantern. Grasping it carefully with one hand, he made his way cautiously up the ladder, then held the lantern aloft over his head, stuck it up into the round black void and chipped away a few wet, loose pieces of plaster so he could get his head up through the hole as well.
A New Dawn Over Devon Page 40