“If the sun is shining,” said Father Halliday, “we will be sure to find Father O’Leary in his garden … and indeed, there he is. Father Bernard!” he said approaching with outstretched hand. “I have a young man here who would like to meet you.”
An aging man, still wearing the black robe of his profession, turned from the rosebush that had been commanding his attention, clippers in hand, to meet them.
“This is Percival Drummond, Father Bernard,” said the priest. “He has come from Wales searching for a long-lost relation.”
“Not exactly a relation of mine—not directly at least,” said Percy, shaking the older man’s hand. “I am looking for a daughter of my uncle. I am his nephew by his second marriage. My uncle died last year. He lost track of his daughter shortly after her birth. I promised him I would try to find her.”
The old priest appeared confused as Percy related his brief story. “I see. How may I help you then?” said Father O’Leary.
“We managed to locate the marriage and the girl’s birth in the parish books,” said Father Halliday. “The girl was born Morvern Westbrooke in 1834. It is likely, however, that she was raised by her maternal grandmother, Mrs. O’Sullivan.”
“O’Sullivan … O’Sullivan … yes, I remember—the mother died in childbirth. Not altogether uncommon, yet a tragedy nevertheless.”
“Do you remember what happened to the family … especially to the baby?” asked Percy.
“O’Sullivan you say the name was?”
Percy nodded.
“I cannot say. I lost track of them, I think. I believe they left some time later. Times became hard when the blight hit. It was impossible to remember them all.”
“What about the relatives? Avonmara had a sister?”
“Avonmara … Who is Avonmara?”
“Avonmara O’Sullivan … my uncle’s wife, the mother of the child.”
“A sister, you say? What was her name?”
“Vanora. Her married name was Maloney, I believe.”
“I really could not say. Hmm, Maloney … Maloney … It does seem that I remember … but no, it’s gone now. Everyone was leaving, you see. They had to follow the work as best they could. Not that there was much work to be found. Some went to Arklow, as I recall.”
“Is that where they went, do you think?”
“I am sorry, young man—I really cannot say. My memory, you see … it is not what it once was.”
47
A Promise Kept and a Promise Scorned
During Percy’s absence, Colville Burrenchobay was busy. For the next few weeks of the summer, he and Florilyn were nearly inseparable.
Katherine was beside herself over where it might lead. She saw the look in Colville’s eye. It was not an expression she liked.
Suddenly Florilyn was reverting to her old ways. But what could a mother do? Daily she prayed for Percy’s return. He had always had a good influence on Florilyn.
Meanwhile, Colville had so skillfully worked his magic that Florilyn was completely seduced by his charms. They rode together nearly every day—at the shore, in the mountains, to the nearby towns and villages for lunch or tea. Florilyn spent as much time at Burrenchobay Hall as at the manor. Sir Armond and Lady Burrenchobay had gone so far as to make up a special room for her use to stay over when she and Colville were together late in the evenings.
The changes in Florilyn had not gone unnoticed by Steven Muir. He saw his mistress’s concern and shared it.
Hoping to revive something of the former friendship that had blossomed between them, one day he seized the opportunity he had been waiting for. Seeing Florilyn walking toward the stables, he hurried after her. “Good morning, Florilyn,” he said.
She glanced toward him, seemingly affronted now by the familiar address that had once passed between them as easily as if they were brother and sister. She kept on without a reply.
“Little Nugget misses you,” said Steven. “You spend little time with him now, unlike you did after he was born. I have been thinking of training him with the saddle. Would you like to help? You might like to ride him and teach him to know your seat and the commands of your voice.”
“I don’t think so, Steven,” replied Florilyn. “Colville says I need a powerful mount beneath me.”
“I do not like to see you spending so much time with him, Florilyn.”
She spun around and shot him a piercing look.
“You may address me as Lady Florilyn, if you please!” she said.
“Forgive me, Lady Florilyn,” said Steven calmly. “I still do not like to see you so much with Colville Burrenchobay.”
“And why not, pray tell?” she shot back haughtily.
“Because he is not worthy of you. I have known him all my life.”
“So have I.”
“I do not trust him.”
“He has changed.”
“I doubt that, my lady. The expression in his eye when he looks at you is one of opportunism, not love.”
“You presume to know the difference?” said Florilyn with disdain.
“I believe I do.”
“And what gives you the right to interfere in my affairs?” she retorted angrily.
“The right of one who cares about you, my lady, who wants only the best for you, and who promised to protect you from harm.”
“Promised … What makes you think I need your protection? Whom did you promise?”
“In a manner of speaking, your father.”
“My father is dead. I do not recall his placing me in your charge.” “I promised one to whom he did entrust your well-being.” “Ah, my mother you mean. And you somehow assume that being her factor gives you the right—”
“I meant Percy, Lady Florilyn,” said Steven.
“Percy! What does he have to do with me now?” “I promised him that I would look after you, for his sake as well as my own.”
“Percy can keep his nose out of my business! If he doesn’t want to marry me, then he has nothing to say about it. He never liked Colville. He is just jealous.”
“Percy knows nothing about Colville. I am merely telling you what I think he would say if he were here, that Colville Burrenchobay is not worthy of you.”
“Well, you can tell Percy, when you happen to see him again, that I care not a straw for what he may think, and that if Colville proposes to me, I intend to accept him.”
She turned and walked away, leaving Steven staring after her, heartbroken at how quickly her former teenage conceit had returned in the form of aristocratic womanly hauteur.
48
A Delicate Communiqué
By early August, Percy realized there was nothing left for him to do in Ireland.
He had confirmed his uncle’s marriage to Avonmara O’Sullivan and the birth of their daughter, Morvern, and that the O’Sullivans were gone by the time of the viscount’s return to Wales. Beyond those sketchy facts, he had come to a dead end. What point was there in trying to continue? He hadn’t learned anything that his uncle didn’t know. He shrank from returning to Westbrooke Manor just now, with nothing definite to tell anyone, nothing to account for his absence, no resolution to his future with Florilyn. Knowing nothing of the danger in which Florilyn stood, nor did he feel any urgency to do so. It would be best now to begin thinking through his own prospects in Glasgow.
Leaving the address of his parents with Father Halliday, he returned to Dublin, from where he set sail for Glasgow. Perhaps it was time to make plans for law school.
When he arrived home, Percy had a long talk with his mother and father. Then followed prayer between the three about Percy’s future and especially about Florilyn.
“As you are weighing your options,” said Edward as the evening drew to a close, “I have something I think you might like to read. Whether it will help focus your thoughts and prayers, I cannot say. But it is truly one of the most remarkable expositions of Scripture I have ever read. It has had a profound impact on me.”
“Don�
��t tell me,” laughed Percy, “a new book by George MacDonald.”
Edward joined him in laughter. “A good guess. But I’m afraid not. My friends at Henry King publishers, however, tell me that one of his best novels yet is in the works but won’t be out for a couple of years.”
“What’s it about?”
“A fisherman,” they say. “It’s set in a fishing village up in your neck of the woods northwest of Aberdeen.” “Where’s that?” asked Percy.
“Cullen.”
“I’ve heard of it. One of my classmates was from there. As I recall also, some of the students went up there on holiday. So MacDonald’s next novel takes place there?”
“The next one they will be publishing. MacDonald was there a year ago researching for it. But then a lecture tour in America set the schedule back. Apparently the MacDonalds are planning another visit to Cullen next month. In any event, it sounds like something to look forward to.”
“But that’s not what you were telling me about?”
“No. Actually I was referring to the manuscript young cousin Henry gave me to look at when he and his father came to Aberdeen for your graduation. I know he’s a young man, but it is truly remarkable. I believe our cousin may have quite a future ahead of him. He may become the most famous Drummond of all.”
“Then I would definitely like to read it,” said Percy. “Have you spoken with him about it? Didn’t he ask for your thoughts?”
“I wrote him a letter of lavish praise for his insights,” replied Edward. “I told him it was the greatest thing in the world I have ever read on First Corinthians 13. I said he ought to publish it.”
“What did Henry say?”
“He was flattered and appreciative. He said his father had also encouraged him to have it published but that he was not completely satisfied with it yet. He liked my phrase though. He said, if I had no objection, he might use that for the title.”
“What phrase?”
“The greatest thing in the world. It is an exposition of love, as set forth by Paul in First Corinthians 13. What could be a greater thing in the world than love?”
“I will definitely look forward to reading it. Have you heard more about his hope to be involved with the Moody mission?”
“As far as I know he is still planning to join as a student volunteer.”
“Now that I am more or less at loose ends,” mused Percy, “perhaps I should join him after all.”
Later in his room, it was not his cousin Henry Drummond’s treatise on 1 Corinthians 13 that first drew Percy’s attention, however, but rather the beginning of a long overdue letter to his aunt. Somehow he had to try to explain himself and, to the degree he was able, put the matter to rest in both his mind and hers. He would have to walk a tightrope to do so. Now that he had told his father a little more, he would let him read his words first, to avoid saying either too much or too little.
He set aside the manuscript of his cousin’s that his father had given him and took out a fresh sheet of writing paper and pen.
Dear Aunt Katherine, he began.
My greetings both to you and Florilyn and everyone at Westbrooke Manor. I am back in Glasgow with my parents. I felt I needed to see them and talk some things over with my father. I have just arrived.
I know I left Wales hastily, and I apologize for that, also for not being able to explain more about my sudden departure and subsequent silence. I hope that you will understand my reasons for leaving abruptly when I tell you that the request Uncle Roderick made of me involved more than merely sorting through the papers and files in his study. There were certain delicate matters on his mind that he had too long neglected and which he felt might be of consequence to Courtenay, and indeed his entire family, concerning his legacy and the inheritance of his title and the estate should they come out.
I don’t know how much of his life before your marriage you are familiar with, no doubt far more than me. You surely know that he spent time in Ireland during the latter years of his youth. He told me few details other than that while there he had been consumed by the lust for gold in that region of Ireland, which had experienced a gold rush in the early years of the century. During that time, he said, there were several associations with certain individuals he had not seen since and with whom he had lost touch. He asked me to see if I could locate among his papers any connections to those persons by which—
Percy paused, struggling desperately to find the right words. His position would be much easier had he never said a word to his aunt about his promise to his uncle. But it had come out, and now he must make the best of it.
He read over what he had just written then continued.
He asked me to see if I could locate among his papers any connections to those persons by which … they could be located, or that would give me reason to believe that they might one day jeopardize his or Courtenay’s position as viscount, or make demands upon Courtenay that he would be unable to accede to.
I realize my words are dreadfully vague. I am sorry again. It was vague to me also when Uncle Roderick spoke to me of these things. He asked me specifically not to burden you with it if nothing came of it. Simply know that all his thoughts as he spoke to me were of you and the family he loved so dearly. He wanted no hurt or anxiety to come to any of you. He asked me to take care of this last request specifically for that reason, so that you would not be unnecessarily burdened with it.
Having found among his papers what I thought might lead me to the individuals involved, I went to Ireland to attempt to carry out this final request. However, all my attempts were unsuccessful. I discovered nothing untoward. Actually, I discovered nothing at all. There is no record that I was able to find of anyone who knew Uncle Roderick when he was there. I believe I can safely say that no associations or obligations from the past need be of concern to yourself or to Courtenay.
If there is anything that I can do for you, I hope you will not hesitate to call on me.
Percy paused, then added:
Please give my loving best to Florilyn. Tell her I will write soon. All the best, and with deep affection,
Percy
He set down the pen and exhaled deeply, then undressed, blew out his candle, and fell sleepily onto his bed.
The following morning Percy found his father in his office preparing to leave for his office at the church. “Dad,” said Percy, “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything, Percy.”
“I wrote a letter to Aunt Katherine last night after I talked with you and Mom. Would you read it and tell me what you think?”
“Sure … absolutely.”
“I need to know if you think I have said too much or too little, or have been too ambiguous or not ambiguous enough. I know you don’t know what Uncle Roderick asked me to do any more than Aunt Katherine does. But I need to know what you think she will think. She is your sister. No one would know better than you.” He handed his father the paper.
Edward read it slowly then set the letter aside.
“Knowing Roderick as I did,” he began after a moment, “I would conclude from this that he was involved in something perhaps not altogether aboveboard—a scheme perhaps, probably with wealth at the bottom of it, that did not turn out as he had hoped. What that would possibly have to do with Courtenay’s inheritance, I have no idea. Perhaps Roderick still had debts from years before, and he was afraid of it coming back to haunt Courtenay. Perhaps he pledged Westbrooke Manor against the scheme. He was always a schemer. This rings true to what I knew of him. I could see any of a number of options. He might have bought into an old gold mine, for all I know. When he and Katherine first became involved, he was veiled about his past. We knew he had been in Ireland, but nothing more. Financial trouble would certainly explain it.”
Percy nodded as he listened. He was both satisfied and dissatisfied with his father’s answer. How could he know if he was doing the right thing, leading his aunt to believe, as his father had, something that wasn’t true? It was eithe
r that or say nothing at all. He must somehow account for his actions. If only he had said nothing about his pledge to his uncle.
49
Subtle Innuendos
That same afternoon Percy sat down to write an equally difficult letter to his cousin.
Dear Florilyn, he began.
As I am sure your mother has told you, I am back in Glasgow with my parents after a generally uneventful time in Ireland.
I realize that the future is unsettled for us both. If my handling of my own uncertainties has contributed to your anxieties, I sincerely apologize. My focus was so entirely occupied last term with completion of my studies. Then our plans were turned upside down by the MacDonald novel we read and what you felt we were to do in consequence. As time went on, my promise to your father weighed more and more heavily upon me.
With all that at last behind me, I feel as if I am breathing a great sigh of relief!
He set aside the pen for a moment and drew in a breath. Ever since his father’s mention the previous evening of his cousin Henry, an idea had been floating about in his subconscious. As he wrote, it began to take more definite form.
Naturally, Percy resumed, my thoughts turn often to you and to the predicament, it might be called, of our situation. We were both agreed, as I am certain we still are, that what we want above all is God’s will. We want to do what He wants us to do. I continue to ask Him to reveal that will. I know you are praying that prayer with me. It is hard at times, as I know it must be for you, that our plans remain nebulous. But I am confident that God will show us what we are to do in His time. We will both be stronger for it. As I think I once told you, my father says that God is never in a hurry. That is a difficult lesson for we who are young, but I realize the wisdom of such a truth.
As we continue waiting for Him to reveal His will, and as I contemplate my own future and the possibility of law school, an exciting idea has come to me. I am certain you have heard of the American evangelist D. L. Moody. The newspapers are full of him and news of so many giving their lives to the Lord as a result of his powerful preaching. He is scheduling his first mission to Scotland in a few months. As one of Glasgow’s leading ministers, my father will be involved to the extent he is able. In all his missions, Rev. Moody calls upon local Christian volunteers, many of them students, to help in his missions—with crowd control, organization, ushering, counseling, and distribution of literature and material, follow-up, and so on. If I decide to apply to law school, it will be a year or more before I would begin.
The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales Page 23