The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  ‘Margaret, dare I love you?’ he faltered.

  She looked at him with wide-open eyes.

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Margaret, and her eyes did not move from his. A slight rose-flush bloomed out on her motionless face.

  She looked at him with parted lips.

  ‘Do you remember this?’ she said, taking from her pocket a little book, and from the book a withered flower.

  Hugh saw that it was like a primrose, and hoped against hope that it was the one which he had given to her, on the spring morning in the fir-wood.

  ‘Why did you keep that?’ he said.

  ‘Because I loved you.’

  ‘Loved me?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Why did you say, then, that you didn’t care if—if—?’

  ‘Because love is enough, Hugh.—That was why.’”

  Tears flooded Florilyn’s eyes. The deepest love had not come as Hugh had expected it. He thought he had loved Euphra. But his heart had belonged to Margaret all along. In the same way, Percy thought he was in love with her.

  But from the beginning … since his first days in Wales … had his heart always belonged—?

  Florilyn burst into sobs. She could not complete the thought. She closed the book, rose, and went to her window. She stood for several minutes but could not stop the flow of tears.

  At length she left her room and walked down the corridor away from the main staircase, seeking the back stairs and door to the outside that Percy had himself used many times. The cool air felt good on her hot face. But it could not still the turmoil in her heart.

  With the weather turning increasingly cold and damp, for the next several weeks Florilyn made the approaching winter her companion in melancholy. For hours she walked along the Mochras promontory staring down at the gray sea below or along the chilly misty beach beneath the headland or in the gardens of the manor or woods nearer home. Daily she visited little Nugget, who recognized her voice and came scampering at her call.

  Not having been a great reader, Florilyn had never before experienced the power of a book to move the human heart so deeply. But this story, and the interwoven lives of its two young women loving the same young man, along with the fictional fir wood, which in her mind had become the fields and hills of North Wales, pressed heavily upon her heart.

  At length she knew what she had to do.

  She must let Percy discover his own fir wood … and who was the angel awaiting him there.

  18

  Wales Again

  As Percy and his mother and father sat clattering south in the train from Glasgow, Percy could not escape the feeling that something beyond a festive Christmas celebration awaited him in Wales. It would be going too far to call it a sense of impending doom. Yet perhaps something a little like it.

  “You’re uncommonly quiet, Percy,” said his mother on the afternoon of their first day of the journey.

  “Sorry, Mother,” smiled Percy. “A lot on my mind I suppose.”

  “School?”

  “No, not really. It’s going well, though I am anticipating graduating in May with more than a little eagerness.”

  “You still haven’t said what you will do after you and Florilyn are married—go to work for Mr. Snyder or begin law school.”

  “That’s because I haven’t decided myself. Actually, I may do neither. There’s something … I have to take care of—a personal matter. I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “What is it?” asked Mrs. Drummond.

  “I can’t say, Mother,” answered Percy. He glanced toward his father. “I told Dad about it last summer and said the same thing—that I couldn’t tell him the specifics. It’s something I promised Uncle Roderick I would look into before he died. I have no idea what will be involved or how long it will take. Beyond that, I can say nothing. I promised it would remain between him and me.”

  It was quiet a few minutes. Percy stared out the window at the passing countryside and at last let out a long sigh. “But it’s more than that,” he said, turning again toward his mother. “Something seems to have changed with Florilyn in recent weeks.”

  “How do you mean, Percy?” asked Mary.

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to put my finger on. Her letters have just been … different—distant, detached, almost formal in a way. We were writing back and forth regularly, sharing about everything—it was like talking with each other in person. We’ve both been reading the same MacDonald novel—I told you about that—and discussing it in our letters. All of a sudden last month I didn’t hear from her for two weeks. When at last another letter came, like I said, it was different. It’s been that way ever since. She’s not mentioned the book again. She says almost nothing personal. It’s altogether strange.”

  “She is probably just nervous about getting married.”

  “Why would she be, Mother? I thought all young women longed to be married.”

  Mary laughed. “You are probably right. I was just trying to find a logical explanation.”

  “I know it’s pointless to worry about it,” said Percy. “I’m sure it will all come clear soon enough. She says she has something important to talk to me about. Whatever it is, I know she will tell me in her own way. But the change in her letters has been disconcerting.”

  The three Christmas travelers in the southbound coach bounded to a stop in front of Mistress Chattan’s inn on the following day. The main street through Llanfryniog lay in mud from one side to the other. A chill wind swept up from the sea, bending the smoke from every chimney in the village horizontal toward the inland mountains, by now all covered with snow.

  Percy’s previous visits to Snowdonia had come in summer, when the land and air were rich and full of warmth and growth and life. As he stepped out of the coach onto the muddy street and glanced about, a drearier prospect could hardly be imagined. As a Scot, he knew well enough what winter could be like. He had left Aberdeen four days earlier with snowdrifts piled three feet high along the sides of the streets. He had somehow hoped, this far south, that it might be warmer. One look up and down the familiar street, however, told him instantly how wrong he had been. Even snowdrifts would be preferable to mud.

  A two-seat carriage from the manor sat just up the street waiting for them. Inside, bundled in coats and hats and scarves and blankets, sat Katherine and Florilyn.

  As Edward climbed down from one side of the coach, and Percy emerged out the door of the other, Steven Muir ran along the walkway beside the inn to meet them.

  “Stevie!” exclaimed Percy as the two shook hands.

  “Welcome back to Wales, Percy,” said Steven. “And to you, Mr. Drummond,” he added to Edward.

  “It is good to see you once again, Steven,” said Edward. “I understand congratulations are in order for your new position at the manor.”

  “Thank you,” replied Steven. “Your sister has been very kind to me. Hello, Mrs. Drummond,” he added as Edward helped Percy’s mother to the ground. “Lady Katherine and Lady Florilyn are there in the carriage,” he said, pointing ahead. “I told them to stay bundled up. You may go get settled with them if you like. We brought extra blankets. I will see to your bags.”

  The three made their way along the walkway to the waiting carriage. As they approached, the two women set aside the blankets that had been spread over their knees and stepped to the ground.

  “Mary … Edward!” said Katherine, approaching with open arms. “I’m sorry we aren’t able to welcome you with a more pleasant day.”

  “Winter in Britain is a universal trial to us all!” laughed Edward. “We Scots are used to it, you know as well as I do. We both grew up in worse than this.”

  Behind her mother, Florilyn shook hands with her aunt and uncle then glanced toward Percy where he waited at their side.

  “Florilyn!” he said, bounding forward and wrapping her in his arms.

  She said nothing, slowly stretching her arms around his back, though without corresponding pressure t
o answer his embrace. They stepped back. Florilyn smiled, though somewhat awkwardly, then turned toward the carriage. The others followed. Whether it was by design or accident, Florilyn scrambled onto the rear bench between her mother and aunt, seemingly by intent to avoid finding herself at Percy’s side, while father and son took their places in front.

  A moment later Steven jumped up to join them, sat down between the two men, grabbed the reins, and they were off. The ride of a mile and a half passed quickly. Before they knew it, the gray stones of Westbrooke Manor were looming through the bare trees before them.

  19

  A Conversation in the Library

  The three Drummonds had arrived at Westbrooke Manor on the morning before Christmas Eve. Percy returned to town with Steven to retrieve their bags. By the time they returned and were safely back inside, it had begun to rain and the temperature had dropped several degrees. There was no talk of walks or rides outside for the rest of the day.

  The company remained indoors and mostly together after lunch and for most of the afternoon. Courtenay, however, did not grace their Scottish guests with the honor of his presence.

  Even though they were together nearly the entire rest of the day, Percy and Florilyn were never alone, and their conversation remained light. Florilyn was friendly though subdued. By day’s end, Percy was more convinced than ever that something was amiss.

  Florilyn made no appearance on Christmas Eve morning in the breakfast room. She had never been an early riser. Nevertheless, Percy was surprised. As much as they had anticipated seeing one another, it was almost—though how could that be—as if she were avoiding him. Her exuberance after his arrival on his previous two visits was nowhere in evidence.

  Early in the afternoon, Percy wandered to the library. The familiar sights and smells greeted him with a wave of pleasant nostalgia. He smiled as he breathed in deeply then began absently wandering through the rows of tall shelves, glancing up and down and sideways at the spines of the old volumes. He was in no frame of mind at the moment to sit down and read, though he recalled fondly his first excursion into this bookish wonderland more than five years before when his aunt had first introduced him to author George MacDonald.

  He turned a corner at the end of the row of shelves and saw a figure in an alcove with her back turned. She stood staring out the tall bay window. This time it was not his aunt but the young woman whose quiet behavior had been occupying his thoughts. Slowly he approached from behind. “A penny for your thoughts,” said Percy softly.

  Florilyn heard his step and was not startled by his voice. She remained still as a statue.

  Percy came to her side and stood looking out upon the wet, dreary winter’s day. It was an altogether depressing outlook. It was nothing, however, compared to the desolation at that moment in Florilyn Westbrooke’s heart.

  They stood for a long while in silence.

  Finally Percy turned toward her. His movement at last broke the pent-up dam in Florilyn’s heart. She turned to face him with the most forlorn expression he had ever seen on her face. The look in her eyes was pleading … fearful for what she knew she must do.

  “Oh, Percy!” she said as she broke into tears.

  Still with no idea what was the cause of her dismay, Percy said nothing. He merely opened his arms and received her into his embrace. Florilyn laid her head on his chest and softly wept.

  They stood thus for several minutes until the initial storm passed. After some time Percy led her to a small couch in one of the library’s several reading nooks. They sat down together. He waited.

  “There is something I must talk to you about,” said Florilyn at length. Her voice was shaky and halting.

  “I know,” said Percy, smiling.

  “You know?”

  “I knew something was on your mind. Your letters changed. I knew you would tell me when you were ready.”

  “Oh Percy, I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to wait until I saw you. But once I did see you yesterday I was filled with so many doubts and fears and I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said. “Surely you know that.”

  “I know, Percy,” rejoined Florilyn. “You are so good to me. You were always better to me than I deserved.”

  “Now don’t let’s get started on that again!” said Percy with a light laugh. “We’ve been over all that before.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m just grateful, that’s all.”

  “So what is it you have to tell me? Let’s get it out. It’s Christmas Eve, you know. Big dinner planned tonight. We don’t want to cast a pall over the festivities.”

  “It’s not so easy,” said Florilyn with a sad smile. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Oh, Percy … I love you so much. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” replied Percy. “The feeling is mutual.”

  “That’s what makes it so hard. Percy … How much of the MacDonald novel have you read? You haven’t finished it, have you?”

  “I’m afraid not. I bogged down probably about halfway. There’s always a big push with papers and assignments before the Christmas break. Why? What does the book have to do with it?”

  “Everything. Didn’t you see the similarities in it … you know, with us … between you and Hugh and everything?”

  “Hmm … actually, no,” said Percy thoughtfully. “You think I am like Hugh?”

  “You aren’t like him—but the circumstances … his going to university in Aberdeen just like you … his meeting Margaret.”

  “I, uh … I didn’t think about that. And you see a parallel between you and Margaret?”

  “Not me … Gwyneth.”

  He stared back at her, confused at the point she was trying to make. “In the story, Hugh …” Percy began. “Hugh is in love with Euphra,” he said. “What does Margaret have to do with it?”

  “He thinks he is in love with Euphra,” rejoined Florilyn. “Oh Percy, this would be so much simpler if you had read the ending. It’s all in the book.”

  “All what?”

  “Oh, Percy!” Florilyn blurted out. “I think we may have made a mistake!”

  Percy looked at her in disbelief.

  Again Florilyn began to cry.

  “You … don’t think we should marry?”

  “That’s not it! I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than being your wife. Who wouldn’t want to be your wife? But I think maybe we rushed into it too quickly. Perhaps we are meant to be husband and wife. But I think we decided too fast. I suppose that … Well, I’m not completely sure I’m in love with you, Percy. I mean … I do love you, but … I think I may have been, I don’t know, so flattered that you asked me to marry you, that maybe I was too caught up with the idea of being in love that I never stopped to ask myself if I was actually in love with you. I thought I was, all those years after your first visit. But once we were engaged, and after finishing the book … I just wasn’t sure anymore. I’m so sorry. And then … I also cannot help asking … whether you are truly in love with me.” She paused.

  Percy waited, still reeling from what he had heard.

  “Do you remember telling me about you and your father talking about how God uses circumstances to lead us in making decisions?”

  Percy nodded. “Of course,” he replied softly.

  “What I have been sensing,” Florilyn went on, “is that perhaps we rushed too quickly into it last July. Perhaps we misinterpreted what the changing circumstances were supposed to mean.”

  “What changing circumstances?” asked Percy.

  “Gwyneth’s leaving,” answered Florilyn. “You told me then that you had to wrestle through what it meant.”

  “I remember. And I did wrestle through it,” said Percy. “What does Gwyneth have to do with it now?”

  “Percy!” said Florilyn almost in frustration. “She has everything to do with it. She is the reason we have to wa
it. I should say she is the reason you have to wait. I have to wait to be sure of my own heart. We both have to wait for different reasons. Don’t you see? You think you wrestled it through, but it was only a week. Then the decision was made. I’m not sure that was enough time for either of us to fully know our hearts.”

  Percy exhaled a long sigh. “I think I see what you mean … in principle at least. The idea is going to take some getting used to. I still don’t see what you mean about Gwyneth and the MacDonald book.”

  “Gwyneth is Margaret in the book, Percy! Hugh thought he was in love with Euphra … but all along he was meant to discover his love for Margaret. Don’t you see? In the same way, what if part of your heart still belongs to Gwyneth? You have to find out. You have to discover what is deep in your heart, just as I have to discover what is in mine.”

  Percy sat staring back at Florilyn dumbfounded. Slowly he began shaking his head. “I—I don’t know what to say,” he said softly.

  “Finish reading the book, Percy,” said Florilyn. “Then you will understand.”

  “What do you want to do then?”

  “I think you should talk it over with your father,” replied Florilyn. “Then I think we should simply call off the engagement … for now at least. Please understand, this doesn’t mean that my feelings for you have changed. But I have to be sure about those feelings. I have to be certain I am in love with you. And I want you to discover your own fir wood.”

  “My … fir wood?”

  “Finish the book, Percy. You have to find out who is the angel waiting for you in the fir wood.”

  “I will talk to my father,” he said, nodding. “He will probably want to talk to us both. I’m sure he will want to hear what you are thinking from your own lips.” Percy rose and walked again to the window. “It looks like the rain may be letting up,” he said. “Perhaps we shall get a ride in eventually.”

  “It’s still chilly out,” rejoined Florilyn. “It was so cold yesterday I was surprised to wake up this morning and not see snow on the ground. I was certain snow was in the air.”