EIGHTY
Eternal Uncertainties
Temporarily at his ease for having legalized Katherine’s trusteeship over the estate, the viscount rested comfortably for the remainder of the day. He even seemed slightly improved.
The next morning, during Courtenay’s brief daily visit to the sick chamber, his father motioned for him to sit down beside him. “So, Courtenay, lad,” said the viscount, “you ought to, uh … know the state of affairs. They don’t give me much hope, you see … “
Courtenay listened in silence. He was uncomfortable.
“It will soon be in your hands, you know,” his father went on. “You know, I believe, how things stand … you will inherit when you are twenty-five. That time will be here before you know it. Only don’t make the same mistakes I did, you know … foolishness of youth and all that. Keep a good head on your shoulders … take care of your mother and sister … “
Courtenay nodded and mumbled a few words of consent. But tenderness had never been a virtue that had existed between them. Neither father nor son knew how to call upon it when it was needed the most.
They spoke stiffly and haltingly for two or three minutes more. At length the viscount confessed himself fatigued and needing a rest, at which time Courtenay left him.
The interview with the solicitor Murray had at last awakened Katherine to the dire nature of her husband’s condition. Though he tried to put an optimistic face on it for her sake, she knew that he considered the affidavit more than a precautionary measure. He thought he was dying and was certain that the trusteeship would be enforced … and soon.
Now the stark reality of the thing began to overwhelm her. Her father was a free thinker and had taught her and her brother Edward to trust more in God than in the doctrines of men. Nevertheless, Katherine could not prevent the natural anxiety of the pervasive judgmental mind-set so prevalent in the mildewed air of the church from filling her with a vague sense of dread.
Regular church attendance notwithstanding, Roderick had never been a spiritual man. She now began to fear for his soul. Despite her upbringing, despite her brother’s influence, and despite the gentle whisperings of an eternally loving fatherhood from the pen of the prophet MacDonald, the terrible burden of the wrath of God began to fill her with horrifying images of flames and her poor Roderick in the midst of them.
When Reverend Ramsey came to call, in response to her expressed concern conveyed by the confidential note she had asked Percy to deliver, the viscount more than half suspected who had put him up to it. He grumbled a good deal about having to entertain a parson at a time like this. But he consented to the interview.
It was a formal, strained, almost businesslike affair. Though Fatherhood was the only side of God’s nature capable of offering a hopeful glimpse of eternity, in truth Reverend Ramsey knew as little about the fatherhood of God as did Roderick Westbrooke. Ramsey exited the room after thirty minutes with the viscount’s soul unchanged. He offered Katherine a few platitudes then left the manor with a sigh of relief. Consoling the dying and grieving was the part of his job he hated most.
Meanwhile, in the sick chamber, the clerical visit had at least served the purpose of turning Roderick Westbrooke’s eyes inward, where all have to look eventually. The fact that the fellow Ramsey had had no more spiritual food to offer him at the deathbed than he did from the pulpit only made the viscount hunger the more for one who might possibly be able to tell him where he stood with God. Not that it would do him much good, he thought, but he would like to have some idea what to expect when he went to sleep for the last time and woke up somewhere else.
He had always looked down on the fellow, but he would give a thousand pounds right now for twenty minutes with Katherine’s brother, Edward Drummond, or her father for that matter. There were two men who seemed to know something about God that had escaped the rest of the cloth. What did they teach ministers in their seminaries anyway? The fool Ramsey was useless.
Unfortunately, he did not have a thousand pounds. And Edward was hundreds of miles away!
I wonder how much the son has gleaned from the father, he thought to himself.
When Katherine again appeared after seeing Reverend Ramsey to the door, her husband asked her to send Percy to see him.
EIGHTY-ONE
High Questions
Ah, Percy, my boy!” said the viscount when his nephew entered. “Come in, sit down, and offer some comfort to your uncle.” His voice was weak and resigned, though surprisingly cheerful.
Percy had been in and out of the sickroom almost constantly since the accident. But he immediately sensed a change. He knew of neither the solicitor’s visit nor the minister’s. But he could tell something was different. He sat down beside the bedside.
“They tell me I am dying, Percy,” said the viscount.
The bluntness of the statement stung Percy afresh. He was still a young man, not so well acquainted as his father with the cruel vicissitudes of life. “I am sorry, Uncle Roderick,” he said.
“Ah, well, part of life they say, what?”
“I, uh … How long does the doctor think it will be?” asked Percy tentatively.
“Bah, who knows. You know what bunglers doctors are—can’t save a man but won’t give him a straight answer.”
“And … there’s nothing they can do?”
“The man wants to whack off my leg. Then he tells me my other is paralyzed, so what’s the use? I’ll never walk again with or without legs. Then he has the infernal cheek to tell me the problem is my head … something about the spine, whatever that’s got to do with it. Can’t make up his mind. No wonder he’s got no cure for what ails a man. Tell me, Percy, my boy, do you believe in heaven?”
The abruptness of the question took Percy off guard. “Uh, yes … yes, I do, Uncle Roderick,” he said.
“I recall our first dinner together, when my daughter was baiting you. You were uncertain.”
“I’ve grown stronger in my beliefs these last five years.”
“Ah, well … good for you. Back then we were discussing the eternal destination of the old salt found on the beach. Now it’s my turn, eh? So what do you think, now that you are five years older, Percy—will I go to heaven?”
“I don’t know, Uncle Roderick. You really, uh … ought to be talking to my dad.”
“Your father’s not here.”
“Isn’t there someone … your minister in town that you would rather—”
“Bah, what he knows about God wouldn’t fit through the eye of a needle, as the old saying goes. You’ve shown yourself a young man whom I respect, Percy, my boy. I want to know what you think. It wouldn’t surprise me if you told me just what your father would anyway. So I ask you again, do you think I will go to heaven?”
“All right then, I would still say I don’t know. I don’t really know how you and God stand with one another.”
“I’ve been a faithful churchman all my life. Does that count for anything?”
“No, I don’t think it does.”
“What does, then?”
“How you and God stand with one another. Whether you have made yourself His child.”
“What do you mean by that? He’s God the Father, isn’t He? That includes everyone.”
“Indeed. But have you made Him your Father?”
“You’re talking in circles, Percy, my boy.”
“I would never do that with you, Uncle Roderick.”
“Then what in blazes do you mean?”
“That even though God is our Father, we must become His children. That is not something that happens in church.”
“An incredible statement coming from a vicar’s son.”
“I learned it from my father. I do know that to be something he would say to you.”
“What? Your father preaches that people don’t have to go to church?”
“I didn’t say that, Uncle Roderick. Of course my father wants people to go to church. But when they do, he tells them that it is not
in church that they become God’s children.”
“Where is it then?”
“In their hearts.”
“Ah, yes … well, there is that of course.”
“It is a truth not widely preached. Again, those are my father’s very words.”
“So, Percy, my boy, do you think I will wake up in hell, then, when all this is over?”
“I could not say, Uncle Roderick. I would not presume to speak for God.”
“Then I repeat … I merely ask your opinion.”
“Then I would say the same thing I did before—that I am not personally aware how things stand between you and God.”
“That’s everything to you, then, is it—how a man stands with God?”
“Yes, that is everything.”
“Even I don’t know how I stand with Him. There are things in my past that hang heavy upon me, Percy, my boy. How am I to know what God thinks of it all?”
“I am certain of one thing—that He is a good Father,” rejoined Percy, “and that He will forgive anything He is able to forgive. I know I am young, and I have little right to speak of such high truths. But there are things in my past that weigh upon my conscience, too.”
“What regrets could a young fellow like you possibly have?” asked the viscount, not pausing to consider that the actions harrying his memory at present had been committed when he was younger than Percy.
“The regret of foolishness and youthful hubris, Uncle Roderick,” replied Percy. “For years I did not recognize my father’s wisdom. I treated him contemptibly. I will feel the pangs of that stupidity all my life.”
“All young people are immature. Can’t be too hard on yourself, Percy, my boy.”
“The young may be immature. I’m sure I still am in many ways. But that is no excuse for willful blindness. Young people choose their rebellious attitudes just as I chose mine. They are not a mere part of youth that cannot be avoided. Therefore, I am responsible for my rebellious attitudes. But though my father has forgiven me, the most difficult part is forgiving myself. When I asked my father to forgive me, he said, ‘You have always been forgiven. The forgiveness has existed within my heart all along.’ That wonderful expression of love has been with me ever since. The forgiveness of my father’s heart strengthens me to believe in God’s forgiveness. I know God is saying the same to you at this moment. I truly believe those are God’s words to you … right now.”
“That would be a remarkable thing … if you are right.”
“I believe it with all my heart. I believe that God is more forgiving toward us than most of us are toward ourselves. Then my father added these words, which maybe God says to us as well. He said, ‘To complete the transaction, it was necessary for you to ask, that I might give it to you.’ “
The viscount was silent for several long minutes. “What should I do, then,” he said at length, “now that I am lying on my deathbed? What should I do now that it is nearly too late?”
“It is never too late.”
“It is jolly well close to it if one is dying. So what is a man to do?”
“The same thing that God wants us to do every day of our lives. Facing death changes nothing. It is no different for you at this moment than it is for me.”
“What should I do, then?” repeated the viscount.
“Repent of your sins, and be His child.”
The words seemed to jolt him, as if Percy had dashed him in the face with a cup of cold water. They bit deep into the long-repressed guilt that had been gnawing away at his conscience.
“Child … child, you say. Repent of my sins,” he added softly. “If you only knew … not so easy as you think when there are others involved. I tried to find her, but she was gone, I tell you. Makes repentance dashed difficult, I dare say.”
“Repentance is always possible.”
“But what of the child …? It’s too late for all that. So tell me, Percy,” said his uncle, coming suddenly out of his mental wanderings, “what do you think of my daughter? She is my child, too, you know.”
“I love her, Uncle Roderick.”
“I am glad to hear it. I know you will take good care of her.”
“I will.”
“You will not let … that is to say, whatever happens … if she should … of course, her mother’s money would still go to her, along with Courtenay, of course … but you would protect her? You would keep her from being hurt?”
“Of course. I will take care of her, Uncle Roderick. You may be assured of that.”
The viscount paused. He thought for a long time. “There is another matter … of some delicacy, Percy, my boy,” he resumed after a long silence. “I need to tell someone. You’re right. It is not too late. Too late for me, I dare say, but perhaps not for you. You are a solicitor now, I understand.”
“No, Uncle Roderick. I am merely studying toward that end.”
“Perhaps it will be good enough. If I were to tell you something, would you be bound by confidentiality, a bit like the confessional, I dare say?”
“If you imposed it upon me, yes, I would honor your request.”
“Well, it may be a little of the solicitor and priest together,” said the viscount. “A confession and a legal document all rolled into one, eh? And here you are, a vicar’s son and a future solicitor—I say you will do nicely, Percy, my boy. The perfect lawyer-priest. Go fetch paper and whatever else you need. I want you to take down a statement. Say nothing to anyone. Breathe not a word of it. Now go—get back here as soon as you can.”
EIGHTY-TWO
Percy’s Commission
Less than five minutes had elapsed when Percy reentered the sick chamber. During that time, the viscount continued to relive much that had remained buried for decades. Percy’s words had stung him with the necessity to set right what had remained unresolved from long before.
“Ah, good … back so soon?” he said. “You can use that writing desk over there. Is the door closed? You told no one what I asked you to do?”
“I hurried to my room and back without encountering a soul, Uncle Roderick.”
“Then sit down. I will dictate. This will be a legal affidavit, will it not?”
“If you sign it, I would assume so,” replied Percy. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your own solicitor—”
“I want you, Percy. I know I can trust you. This matter may have widespread consequences after I am gone. There is something I need you to do for me. Everything hinges on whether you are successful or not … someone I need you to find. But if you cannot find her, this need never come out. I am loath to hurt Katherine. But even if it comes late, one must do one’s duty. That’s part of repentance, is it not?”
“So I would assume, Uncle Roderick. But,” Percy added, “if the estate is concerned, would you not rather speak to Courtenay? He is your heir, after all, and—”
“Bah—I could never trust him with this,” said the viscount. “He would be consumed with self-interest. It is a terrible thing to have to say about one’s own son, but in all candor, Percy, my boy, I don’t trust the scoundrel. I half suspect him to be the father of the Lorimer girl’s whelp, but he’s not man enough to own up to it. No, I could not trust him to do the right thing.”
Percy sat down across the room at a small table with paper, pen, and ink.
“You may disown me by the time I am through, Percy, my boy,” said the viscount. “The story I have to tell is one I have never divulged to another soul. God forgive me, not even Katherine knows of it, though I kept it from her for her own sake. But I pray you will not take out your anger toward me on Florilyn.”
“You need have no worry about that, Uncle Roderick. Nothing you could possibly say will change my affection for you.”
“You are a good boy, Percy. After this, Florilyn may need you more than ever. So will Katherine. Be good to them, Percy.”
“I will.”
“You see, Percy, my boy …” his uncle began.
For the next thi
rty minutes, he told Percy of his early life, his travels, confessing alternate bouts of waywardness and repentance, of decisions made and decisions regretted. Soon he was rambling such that Percy could follow but portions of the disjointed narrative. He was not at all clear at every point who he was talking about.
“Promise me you will try to find her, Percy, my boy,” he said several times.
“I will do all that is in my power.”
“Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t come back … didn’t try harder. But she had disappeared, you see … had no idea … where she had gone. After a while … so long ago … couldn’t go back … by then … your aunt, you see. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
After some time, the viscount was breathing heavily. He seemed spent. But he gathered himself once again, told Percy to start writing, and then began to dictate. He became lucid again. As the story unfolded, at last much of what he had said previously began to fit together.
The affidavit took an hour to compose. When it was completed, Percy took it to him to sign. It was with some difficulty that he was able to hold the pen to do so. By then he was exhausted.
“Keep it in a safe place, Percy, my boy,” said the viscount. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “No one must see it unless your search is successful. Otherwise, Katherine need never know.”
“I understand.”
Within minutes his uncle was asleep, and Percy left him.
EIGHTY-THREE
Farewell Prayer
The visits with his solicitor, minister, and nephew had taxed what remained of the viscount’s strength to its limit.
Having conducted with the former and latter what remained of the final business burdening his heart, almost from the moment Percy left him he began to fade. He had remained strong long enough to do what needed to be done. There was no more need for strength. He had put his affairs in order. His spirit now seemed to relax and give in to the inevitable.
The next days passed drearily. Dr. Rotherham came and went but had nothing to report. He knew the end was not far off. The efforts of the ministering staff of family and servants were now for the sole purpose of making the viscount comfortable. He said less and less, stopped eating, and eventually was able to drink only what was poured into his mouth a few drops at a time by spoon.
From Across the Ancient Waters Page 41