1855–1856
Bishop Arthur Crompton’s health continued to decline as his age advanced. And still further did his spirit awaken. He retired from his official position, took up permanent residence in his wooded cottage in Devon, which had from the moment of dubious transfer belonged to him rather than the Church.
About a year later his health took a sudden serious turn. He knew immediately that he was dying.
As eternity beckoned, his conscience—which was in reality his Creator-Father’s voice speaking into his innermost regions—became all the more imperative. More importantly, he finally began to heed its whispers.
He saw all too clearly that he had not lived a life worthy of his calling. He could not undo what he had done, but he could at least acknowledge his childness toward his heavenly Father, and live out his final days in His care. And what did lie in his power to do by way of Zacchaeus’ restitution, that much at least he would undertake to do.
To that end, before his strength failed him altogether, he paid a visit to his former church in the village. Knowing well enough where the records were kept, and knowing that the case was never locked, he added a new entry to that he had made twenty-six years earlier. To have simply altered the entry would have been easier, though it would surely have aroused suspicion. And he must uphold the sanctity of the records, even if he knew their falsehood. He would leave his clue in this manner and hope its truth would be uncovered one day.
To further this end, he also arranged for a visit to the Exeter solicitors’ firm of Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz. When his business was concluded, two documents were left behind with his signature, where they would remain in the possession of his longtime friend Lethbridge Crumholtz and his firm for as long as circumstances demanded.
The first was a newly executed will, the chief provision of which would, upon his death, transfer the deed to Heathersleigh Cottage that he had purchased from Henry Rutherford—and which document he gave to the firm for safekeeping—to Orelia (Kyrkwode) Moylan. Upon the deed was added the somewhat unusual provision that the property should pass to Orelia Moylan’s heirs until or unless it came into the possession of a final heir with no clear descendant, after whom it would pass to the Church of England.
The second document was a letter, written in his own hand the night prior to his journey to Exeter, in which he detailed exactly what had taken place on that winter’s night in February of 1829, how he and the midwife had been drawn into Henry Rutherford’s lie, as well as what he had done in 1849 to originally purchase the cottage, concluding with his motives now for its final disposition. Truth, he realized, demanded that a full disclosure be made. He was concerned no longer for his own reputation. But lest any repercussions of a damaging nature should accrue to Orelia Moylan or her heirs, his final instructions indicated that this letter of disclosure should not be made public until the same condition was fulfilled as specified on the deed—the decease of her last remaining heir. At that time, and only then, should the principals of Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz open it and divulge its contents. The terms of his will by then would have long since already been carried out.
With these burdens at last lifted from his conscience, his final months were the happiest of his life. They were marked by his discovery of the joy of that greatest of all secrets that so few in the human race ever find, the mysterious wonder that he was a child who was cared for in every way by a good and loving Father. That the discovery came late in his life may have been unfortunate, but it was not too late to make a man of him in the end.
When Bishop Arthur Crompton died early in the year 1856, all those for miles around Milverscombe were baffled by the irregularity of an unmarried man who had risen so high in ecclesiastical circles leaving his home to an aging local peasant woman whom not a single individual could recall once seeing him with.
They would not have considered it strange had they heard the words feebly whispered from his dying lips that January night: “My Father, it has been a life too much wasted loving myself, too little given to listening to you and doing what you told me. I cannot help it, for this life is done. I shall serve you more diligently in the next. Forgive my foolishness. You have been a good Father to me, though I have been a childish son. Perhaps now you will be able to make a true man of me. In the meantime, do your best with this place. Make good come of it, though I obtained it by deceit. Bless the woman and those who follow. Give life to all who enter this door. May they know you sooner than I.”
He paused, closed his eyes in near exhaustion, then added inaudibly—
And now . . . I am ready . . . take me home.
None heard the words, save him to whom they had been spoken.
Arthur Crompton was discovered dead in his bed the following morning, a smile on his lips, according to the lady from the village who came in to cook for him, and who entered that day when he did not answer her knock.
Most vexed of all by the curious turn was Henry Rutherford himself, the aging Lord of the Manor of Heathersleigh Hall, who, now that his fortunes had again reversed, would have done anything to resecure the property and oust the old woman. But he had no legal recourse. The will, brought forth by Lethbridge Crumholtz of Exeter, was legally irrefutable.
There were now only two alive who knew the connection existing between man of the cloth and the woman of swaddling clothes—Orelia Moylan herself, and the lord of the manor whose secret both had sworn to protect. It was a secret she never revealed, as originally planned. She could not but conclude in the end that perhaps, as in the verses she had noted in both Bibles, the blessing had indeed been passed on as God intended.
Bishop and peasant each carried the knowledge of their unknown alliance to their respective graves.
Everyone said the woman’s former profession must have made her privy to some fact which resulted in the strange bequest of the former bishop’s country home. No living soul ever discovered what that secret was.