A New Dawn Over Devon

by Michael Phillips

  He was dangerously high on the ladder. He knew he was weak, that his legs were wobbly, and that what he was doing was risky. But he had to find out what was up there!

  Grasping the wet edge of the ceiling hole with his free hand for balance, although the plaster and lathe would never support him if he fell, he cautiously now extended his right foot to the top of the ladder, then slowly followed with his left. Carefully he stood and tried to extend shoulders and chest through the small opening, which he had now managed to enlarge to some fourteen inches in diameter. When his head was through the ceiling, he glanced about in the eerie flickering light of his lantern.

  He had not broken through to the garret at all, or at least not to any part of it he had ever seen. He was looking up into a narrow chamber no more than three feet in width, stretching above him to the uppermost outside roof of the Hall, from which an occasional drip continued to fall on his head. This was the garret all right, but somehow a portion of it walled off from all the rest.

  And as he glanced about, what he saw next took his breath away.

  He had finally begun to hallucinate from his weakened condition, or else he had discovered a mystery connected to this place that no one else in all the world could possibly know about.

  A hidden storage vault!

  Eyes still wide and brain reeling from the discovery, he climbed down a few minutes later and hurried again to the secret room of the garret. There he knocked and pounded against the only wall that could possibly connect with the tiny chamber he had found. Yes, he could hear behind it now what sounded like hollowness.

  It was a false wall!

  No wonder they had never seen the leak from the garret room. This wall and that of the tower corridor were not the same at all as they had always assumed! The two walls had been separated by a three-foot wide space, creating the vault he had just left. Had this been the intent of the mysterious construction Amanda had told them about which had been carried out by Mrs. McFee’s great-grandfather, a construction designed to hide this small three-foot storage chamber so that its cache would never be discovered?

  And it might never have been, thought Geoffrey, had not a rainstorm brought a leak to this exact spot and had not a loose tile of the roof finally given way, sending the storm tumbling straight down into the second-floor corridor.

  But how to get into the hidden vault from here? This garret room must have been intended as the entry. There had to be access to it of some kind.

  Excitedly Geoffrey probed the floor at the base of the false wall with his fingers, knocking, pushing, and feeling about. His excitement seemed to give him a new injection of energy.

  There . . . he felt a tiny bit of wet along the base of floor and wall. Frantically he now pounded and pushed and scraped. All at once he felt one of the floorboards give way a little at the corner. He pressed down. Three feet away the other end popped up an inch. As it did, the corner end sunk below the level of the floor.

  Geoffrey tried to lift the board, but it was still connected somewhere.

  He continued to push and pull at the curious floorboard. Now he felt it slide a quarter of an inch as the corner end slipped beneath the wallplate.

  Pushing now with more force against the raised end, the board slid farther along some hidden track. But it had grown difficult from lack of use and did not slide smoothly. Geoffrey pushed with all the limited strength he possessed until he had slid it some twelve inches. The effort taxed him. He paused to grab his handkerchief, coughed terribly three or four times, then bent down to examine the opening under the board.

  Hidden in the floor beneath it had been constructed a small, concealed brass lock.

  This was obviously the means of entering the invisible vault behind the wall. How, he couldn’t immediately see—probably by some unseen panel in the wall that the lock released.

  And why not? The fellow Kyrkwode had been a master of such ingenious devices. The place was full of them!

  Staring at the lock, Geoffrey coughed again. But where was the key?

  The only keys he knew were on the key ring in the tower. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was too fatigued to investigate further.

  He would try them later. He had to get back to bed. He had made a remarkable discovery; that was enough for now. He would investigate the lock in the morning.

  Exhausted and hacking, he slid the floorboard back in place, then made his way down the corkscrew staircase out of the garret room, back through the labyrinth to the library. As he went he was thinking of the consequences of what he had just found. No one must know of it yet, especially his father. He must cover up the evidence of the discovery while determining what to do about it.

  With great effort he managed to clean up the additional mess he had made, then dragged a piece of rug from the guest room over the stain in the hall carpet.

  But what about the hole in the ceiling?

  He had to cover it up with something. A blanket, he thought.

  But how to tack it to the ceiling?

  A hammer and some small nails would do it. The next moment he was on his way creeping down to the storeroom next to the kitchen to fetch them.

  Within five minutes he was again on the ladder carrying out the final part of his clean-up operation.

  But tacking the blanket to the ceiling robbed him of his last ounces of strength. He nearly collapsed as he feebly climbed down, replaced the ladder, and staggered back to his room. He was exhausted and growing faint. But he knew well enough that if something happened to him, his father would be here the next day to take possession of the Hall. And he mustn’t let his father come here and find this.

  But someone had to know what he had found, thought Geoffrey. And that could only be one person.

  That person was not his father . . . but his cousin. He must tell Amanda!

  He struggled into his room, coughing constantly by now, but trying his best to mute the sound with his handkerchief for fear of waking Mrs. Polkinghorne. He sat down at his writing desk and took out a piece of paper. With quivering hand he made a crude drawing, then followed it with a brief letter.

  A terrible paroxysm of coughing finally shook Geoffrey’s entire body and forced him to stop. His lungs felt like they were exploding. He groaned in exhaustion, rose, wobbled a few steps, and fell onto his bed. As he removed the handkerchief down from his mouth, the red-stained mucus all over it told him what he knew Dr. Armbruster had long feared.

  Gradually he fell into a fitful sleep.

  93

  Farewell

  The next morning Geoffrey did not appear for breakfast.

  Mrs. Polkinghorne waited as long as her patience could endure, then began to climb the stairs with trembling foot and a premonition of dread clutching her chest. Just as she reached the first-floor landing, she heard the bell ring for her. In a delirium of relief, she quickened her step toward her master’s bedroom.

  “Yes, Mr. Rutherford,” she said cheerfully as she entered. “How are you this morning?”

  Her voice caught as the “morning” left her lips. One look at his wasted form, deathly white skin, and gaunt red eyes told her everything. A terrible smell of sickness pervaded the room.

  “Wenda,” he said nearly inaudibly, then paused as another fit seized his lungs. “Please,” he struggled to go on, “please . . . send for Stirling Blakeley . . . only Stirling . . . no one else.”

  ————

  When Stirling entered the sick room fifty minutes later, his heart nearly failed him. Mrs. Polkinghorne’s warnings had not been sufficient to convey to his imagination the drastic change that had come over his friend in the thirty-six hours since he had last seen him.

  Geoffrey smiled thinly and extended a weak hand.

  Fighting tears, Stirling rushed to the bedside.

  “Stirling, my dear friend,” he said wearily, “I can see in your face that you already know what I brought you here to say—”

  “You have merely had a temporary relapse,” said Stir
ling. “The winter is nearly over and—”

  Geoffrey’s thin white hand waved weakly up from the bed to interrupt him.

  “I am dying, Stirling,” he said. “Let us not lie to ourselves. I have been coughing up blood. . . .”

  Stirling glanced away momentarily, blinking hard, then turned his face back to the bed.

  “I want to talk to you about Amanda,” Geoffrey went on. “I know you and she love one another. I am so glad of it. But I have no sister, and now Amanda has no brother. I am the closest she has to one. I was a fool for many years . . . I hope I am now learning some of life’s lessons. I love her . . . with the love of a brother.”

  Stirling nodded.

  “Take care of her, Stirling,” said Geoffrey.

  “I will.”

  “Be good to her.”

  “I promise . . . I will.”

  “And when I am gone, give her this,” said Geoffrey. “But not a word of it before then. Keep it safe . . . guard with your life. I found something . . . last night . . . too much to try to tell you . . . this will explain.”

  Geoffrey gave him two folded pieces of paper.

  “Do you understand, Stirling?” persisted Geoffrey, “—important . . . see that Amanda gets this. She has to get it!”

  Stirling nodded and took the papers, folded them again, and shoved them into his pocket. Then he stooped down and embraced his friend.

  “I love you, dear friend.”

  “And I you, Stirling,” said Geoffrey in barely more than a whisper. “You have been the best friend I could imagine. It has been an honor to know you. And . . . and we shall see one another again . . . very soon.”

  Stirling was weeping freely and could hardly hold Geoffrey’s gaze.

  “Do you want me to bring Amanda?” he asked through his tears.

  Geoffrey shook his head.

  “Time is short . . . first I must see Rev. Diggorsfeld . . . something I must do. Please . . . go for him . . . go for him now.”

  Stirling nodded again, tried to smile as he gazed lovingly one last time into Geoffrey’s sunken eyes, then turned and left the room.

  He thought no more of the incident with the papers for the rest of the day.

  94

  Geoffrey and Timothy

  Stirling left Heathersleigh Hall in tears, ran across the entry to his horse, and galloped into Milverscombe. He hardly needed to say a word when Timothy answered his knock. The moment the minister saw his face, he was grabbing up coat and hat and the next instant was out the door.

  “Hello, Geoffrey,” said Timothy as he came forward toward the bed less than ten minutes later. “I hope you are comfortable.”

  Geoffrey smiled up from the pillow. “All that matters to me now is that my mind is comfortable. That is why I sent for you. Everyone wants to play silly games . . . pretending I am going to be better soon. I don’t think you will do that . . . will you, Timothy? You are not afraid of death . . . are you?”

  Timothy shook his head. “And you, Geoffrey?” he said, sitting down in the chair beside the bed.

  “No,” replied Geoffrey. “Now that it is staring me in the face . . . I find the thought of it almost comforting.”

  “As it should be. I believe God intended it so.”

  “Of course, I wish I had been better all my life.”

  “We all do,” smiled Timothy.

  “Perhaps, but it took me far too long to begin seeing things, as I hope I have begun to do, in something like their proper light.”

  “Such is the case with us all.”

  “But I was so self-absorbed—”

  “We will all say the same thing when our time comes. I will say it too. We are all self-absorbed. It is one of the misfortunes of our earthly condition that death is meant to cure. But God will make all things that were wrong down here right in the end. And you can take comfort from the fact that you accomplished a great deal of good in this community.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come, come, Geoffrey,” smiled Timothy, “do you think I do not know the source of the mysterious grants to improve people’s homes? I have been watching you, the personal interest you have taken in the work, walking about checking on everything, supervising the work, suggesting various improvements . . . no mere administrator of someone else’s money would conduct himself in such a manner. I have also taken note of the plaque on the wall behind your desk at the bank. You have done God’s work in this community, and I know great blessing awaits you.”

  Geoffrey smiled at Timothy’s assessment. “You haven’t . . . no one else—”

  “Rest easy,” rejoined Timothy. “I could see what was in your heart to do. I have spoken to no one. I doubt anyone else suspects.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.”

  “You can take great satisfaction in what you have done, Geoffrey. You may, as you say, have begun a little late. But once begun, you gave God’s water to drink to those around you, and did so faithfully and diligently. I am confident you are well prepared to meet your heavenly Father.”

  “I hope I am. Remnants of fear cannot help occasionally cross my mind . . . as if he could not wait to punish me . . . for every little thing I did wrong. But listening to Vicar Coleridge . . . knowing you these three years . . . have nearly purged my brain of such notions. I know . . . he is a good Father who will . . . welcome me home in spite of all that.”

  “I am so glad to hear it, Geoffrey,” smiled Timothy. “If only more men and women reached the end of their earthly sojourns with that same peace.”

  Geoffrey tried to draw in a breath. It caused a series of coughs. Timothy waited for the fit to subside.

  “Timothy,” said Geoffrey at length, “I do not have a will . . . not time to send for a solicitor. I would like you to take this down . . . if you would. When I am through . . . you and Stirling witness it . . . will be legal.”

  “Of course, Geoffrey.”

  “You will find paper . . . pen and ink there on the writing table.”

  Timothy rose, went to the desk, and sat down. Slowly, interrupted by many coughing spells, Geoffrey dictated his final wishes, which Timothy took down verbatim.

  95

  End of the Fight

  Word of Stirling’s madcap dash into town, followed by Timothy Diggorsfeld’s buggy tearing off toward Heathersleigh Hall but a few minutes later, was enough to set the town abuzz with speculation.

  Amanda, who had come to the bakery for fresh bread and rolls, caught wind of it and rushed home. She and her mother hurried toward the Hall only moments later, and were running through the door of their former home as Timothy slowly and almost reverently descended the stairs with papers in hand, eyes wet with tears, after his poignant interview with the invalid. They saw the expression on his face, sadness mingled with a strange light, and surmised the truth in an instant.

  “Timothy!” exclaimed Jocelyn, running to him. “Is he—”

  Timothy shook his head.

  “He is still hanging on,” he said. “But he is failing.”

  Stirling, who had been waiting for Timothy in the drawing room and now hearing their voices, rose quickly and came out. Amanda went to him weeping. He took her in his arms.

  “Is there . . . any hope?” said Jocelyn, glancing back and forth between Stirling and Timothy.

  Timothy glanced toward Stirling.

  Slowly Stirling shook his head. “I am afraid not,” he said. “Even if we could get him to a sanitarium now, I fear it is too late.”

  A cry burst from Jocelyn’s mouth. “I must call Martha, then,” she said, “no matter what Geoffrey says.”

  She turned and ran up the stairs toward her husband’s former office.

  “I need to go to Dr. Armbruster,” said Stirling. “I will be back as soon as I can.” He turned to go.

  “Geoffrey would like to see you for a moment,” interposed Timothy, handing Stirling the papers in his hand.

  Stirling nodded.

  “Is it all right for me
to see him?” asked Amanda as she and Stirling began to climb the stairs together.

  “Of course,” replied Stirling, who, now that the full truth was apparent, was beginning to be concerned for the health of his wife-to-be. “Only please, for my sake,” he added, “do not sit too close . . . and wash well after you leave the room.—Just give me a minute alone with him,” he said, “then you can talk to him while I go to Dr. Armbruster.”

  In tears Amanda nodded, hating the thought of having to protect herself from one she had come to care for so dearly.

  Timothy, meanwhile, went to find Mrs. Polkinghorne, to tell her, as gently as he could, that her master was dying.

  ————

  Knowing that their son had been having a bad winter, but without any idea how serious the condition was, Gifford and Martha Rutherford arrived in Milverscombe on the late-afternoon train that same day. Jocelyn was standing on the platform waiting to greet them. At sight of her, Martha burst into tears and ran into her arms. Gifford approached stoic and expressionless.

  They had arrived in time but only by a few hours. Jocelyn rushed them to the Hall, where by now a small crowd had gathered. After contacting Martha, Jocelyn had also telephoned Catharine in Plymouth. She and Terrill were expected within the hour.

  With Stirling leading her up the stairs, Martha rushed up to the room. Stirling closed the door behind her and waited outside. Mother and son exchanged a few last poignant expressions of love. The father, however, trudging up the stairs slowly after them, then opening the door and walking in without so much as a nod to Stirling, had little to say. Geoffrey tried to speak but could barely croak out the words.

  “Father . . . Father,” he tried to begin.

  “Don’t try to speak, boy,” said Gifford. “You just get your rest. We will talk later.”

  “I . . . I want you to know—” struggled Geoffrey.