From Across the Ancient Waters (53 page)

“Yes, yes, of course. Everything’s fine.”

She knew from his tone that he was lying. But she did not press it.

Her father closed his eyes and pretended to doze. Suddenly there was little time to put right what he had neglected for too many years. He had tried to make some amends a few months ago. Now suddenly the past returned upon him with renewed pangs of guilt.

But what could he do? How could it be managed? Whom could he trust?

He had tried to keep from hurting Katherine. Now he wondered if he had done the right thing. So long lethargic and drowsy, his conscience was coming awake. And it stung him.

Mr. Murray arrived the following afternoon. He presented himself and asked to see viscount Lord Snowdon.

Broakes vaguely recognized the man but asked whom should he say was calling.

“Lord Snowdon’s solicitor, Hamilton Murray,” the man replied.

It did not take long thereafter for word to circulate through the house, supplied with minor emendations by Broakes, that the viscount was closeted with his solicitor for the purpose of changing his will.

When the rumor reached Lady Katherine’s ears not many minutes later, she put an immediate stop to it. “Don’t be absurd, Mrs. Drynwydd,” she said, walking into the kitchen and overhearing what had not been intended for her ears. “The disposition of the estate and Westbrooke Manor is decreed by the terms of the original grant of land centuries ago. The title goes with the manor to the eldest child. My husband could not change those terms if he wanted to. I can tell you of a certainty that he is not writing a new will.”

Despite her strong words, Katherine left the kitchen shaken. She paused in the corridor, light-headed, and took two or three deep breaths to steady herself. She then hurried directly to the sick chamber. She found her husband and Mr. Murray alone.

“Ah, Katherine,” said the viscount weakly, “you remember Mr. Murray?”

“Yes … of course.”

“Hello again, Lady Snowdon,” said the solicitor, extending his hand.

Katherine shook it but went straight to the bedside. “What is this all about, Roderick?” she asked.

“A mere formality, my dear,” he answered. “It is only a precaution. I am having Mr. Murray draw up a document—just in case—naming you trustee of the estate until Courtenay is twenty-five. You remember the terms—he will not inherit until his twenty-fifth birthday. But should I … that is, in the unlikely event … that is, should something happen before that time … it is one of the ambiguities of the terms of the inheritance. I never bothered with it before now. But I want you protected … just in case.”

“I see. Of course. That makes perfect sense. Well then,” she said, turning to go, “I will … uh, leave the two of you—”

“No, please stay, Katherine,” said the viscount. “This concerns you as well as me. I simply did not want to upset you. As long as you are here … please stay.”

Eternal Uncertainties

T
emporarily 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.

High Questions

A
h, 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.”