From Across the Ancient Waters (54 page)

“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.”

Percy’s Commission

L
ess 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 thirty 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.

Farewell Prayer

T
he 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.

Late in the afternoon of the fifth day since they had been closeted together for purposes of the affidavit, an urgent knock came to Percy’s door. He rose to answer it.

There stood Mrs. Drynwydd. “You’re wanted, Mr. Percy,” she said. “Quickly, sir. It’s the viscount.”

Percy ran along the corridor, flew down the staircase, resumed a walk, and tried to calm himself as he walked into the sickroom. There sat Katherine and Florilyn on either side of the bed. The viscount’s two hands rested between each of theirs.

Percy approached. His uncle’s skin seemed to have been stretched over the bones, his eyes sunken and dark, his flesh a ghastly gray. Seeing Percy approach, the viscount’s eyes drifted toward him. His lips quivered as if trying to smile.

Katherine glanced toward Percy with a smile. “His breathing was labored,” said Percy’s aunt. “His eyes were closed. I was afraid … but he seems comfortable again.”

Percy nodded and took the chair from the writing table, carried it to the bedside, then sat down beside her.

There was nothing to do but wait. The afternoon waned. The viscount dozed, woke, glanced about, tried to speak though could only mumble incoherently, and then dozed again.

That evening smells from the kitchen drifted in and revived him. He had not eaten in days, but the mere aroma of food was strengthening. Florilyn managed to get several spoonfuls of water into his mouth, moistening his tongue sufficiently that he was able to summon a few final fragments of halting speech.

“Percy … my boy,” he said wearily, “and there’s my Katy … and Flory. Where’s Courtenay?”

“Steven has ridden to Sir Armond’s for him,” said Katherine. “He will be home soon. The rest of us are here, Roderick.”

“Ah …,” sighed the viscount. He closed his eyes briefly then drew in a breath. “You’re all … you’ve been so—good to me—I need to—I’m going … I’ve got to—got to make … an apology to—forgive me, Katy—I never meant—you were a good wife—better than I deserved—”

He sighed weakly. “I’m ready,” he said after another minute. “I don’t know—if God … that is … one never knows, but—if He will have me … I’m ready—see what He can make of me now … if He—” He did not have the strength to continue.

“Would you like me to pray, Uncle Roderick?” said Percy.

An imperceptible nod of the head was the viscount’s only response.

The room fell silent. Percy thought a moment then drew in a breath. “Oh heavenly Father,” he began, “we know so little of this strange thing we call death, which You invested with the power to give us life. Now, our Father, breathe more life into the soul of Your dying son to give him the courage and power to face the dawn of his new life. Heal our loved one at this time of his great need—heal him with the strength to die.”

The faintest “Amen” came from the bed.

Katherine and Florilyn were weeping. What a mighty prayer had come spontaneously from the mouth of the vicar’s son!

“You sent dear Roderick Westbrooke,” Percy continued, “our husband and father and uncle—You sent him into the world as a tiny babe, just as You did Your own dear Son. Now help him out of it as Your child again and birth him into the new life that comes of being in Your presence. We dying men are Your children, and You take us back again into Yourself, into the eternal home of Your heart, to be with You and to be with Jesus, our elder brother, who conquered death on our behalf. Give Your dying child peace to yield himself into Your arms. Amen.”

“Amen,” the viscount whispered again.

“Be good to her … Percy … my boy….”

“I will.”

“And find—”

“Have no worries about anything,” said Percy.

He clutched for Katherine’s hand, which still held his. “Katy!” he murmured then glanced toward Florilyn with a smile. “Flory, my dear. I’m going—Percy, be good to—Katy—”

The sentence remained unfinished. The light went out of his eyes as his lids slowly closed. His head sank back into the pillow as a faint breath of air expired from his lungs.

He was dead.

Florilyn cried out and broke into heaving sobs as she turned faint. Katherine wept quietly. Percy saw Florilyn’s eyes going back into her head. He jumped up and ran around the bed in time to catch her as she collapsed. He carried her limp in his arms toward the door.

As he walked from the room, he turned to see Katherine lay her head on her husband’s chest. He hurried out with Florilyn, leaving his aunt to whisper in private her final good-byes to the man she had loved.

End or Beginning?

E
dward and Mary Drummond had been receiving regular updates on their brother-in-law’s condition. Plans were already in place to leave Glasgow for Wales the moment a telegram arrived announcing his passing. When it came, Katherine asked her brother to conduct the service. Percy’s parents planned to stay as long as needed for Edward’s sister’s sake.

The whole village turned out for the funeral. Dignitaries from throughout Wales were present.

Llanfryniog’s three ministers had the sadly unusual experience of being under the same roof at the same time, sharing the benches and stalls of the largest of their churches with parishioners from their three congregations. One could only conjecture whether they were too deeply entrenched in the learned doctrines of their denominations to receive Vicar Edward Drummond’s triumphant assertion of the fatherhood of God as manna for their religiously trained intellects.

Percy’s father took as text his favorite passage of Scripture save one, the parable of the prodigal son, emphasizing on the occasion of his brother-in-law’s passing the father’s implied words, “Welcome home, son!”

Time would tell whether the ministries of his three colleagues would change as a result of this new word spoken about the loving Father whom Jesus called Abba. One thing was certain—such words had never been proclaimed prior to this day from any of Llanfryniog’s pulpits.

Whether the clergymen would be or not, there was one seated among them who
would
forever be changed by what he heard. He had decided to attend the funeral at the last minute. He walked into the building he had so long despised with no little trepidation at what his fellow villagers were thinking to see him present. As he listened beside wife and great hulking son, Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd sat as one stunned. He walked out of the church fifty minutes later in a stupor. He had never heard the like before.

If God was like
this
man represented him, an actual Father … a good and loving
Father …
that changed everything!

Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd saw nothing in religion he liked or wanted. He never had. He hated the religious spirit with a passion. But one thing he knew as much about as he did the smithy’s art was fatherhood. He was himself a father. He knew what love beat in his heart for Chandos. He would do
anything
for his son. He would give his very life for him.

If God was like
that
, then it meant the Creator was like
him …
just a Father! Could it be … was it possible that it was true after all?