65 
Revelation in Hyde Park

Autumn progressed.

Gifford Rutherford’s investigation continued as he schemed and connived how best to win a suit against Jocelyn in court. All the while he was unaware that his efforts had been rendered moot by that which his cousin’s wife had already set in motion.

Meanwhile, knowing nothing of the events about to sweep him into the middle of their vortex, his son was changing in ways the father had no idea of.

One day when noon came, rather than lunch with his father or colleagues of the bank, Geoffrey decided to go to the park. Strange things had begun to gnaw at him, beckonings from a world whose language he did not at first recognize.

Why him? the reader asks.

Why Geoffrey Rutherford, seemingly the last young man on the face of the earth who would be inclined to heed the silent call of that deeper world?

Yet the question might also be asked, why not Geoffrey Rutherford? What makes some men and women gradually attentive to the world’s whys? What causes some to begin looking upward and inward for answers, while the great majority of the masses remain oblivious to the very currents of life they were put on this earth to discover?

Who can identify that invisible germ of distinction between the askers and ponderers, and the contented unthinking blind? Such will forever remain an eternal question of great mystery.

Whatever the reason, whatever spark prompts the opening of a heart’s door in one but not another, as unlikely as it might seem, Geoffrey was now showing signs of being one of those who had begun to cast his gaze inward.

What had triggered this season of introspective melancholy, even he could not have said.

Was it the feel of mortality, the gradually receding hairline even at twenty-five, the lack of energy he had felt for some time? He had consulted a doctor without telling his father. The man had pronounced him fit, but Geoffrey harbored doubts. He still didn’t feel quite himself. What was it? Were the changes physical . . . or was something else going on within him?

The previous winter had been difficult. There had been a few nights, after days upon days of ceaseless coughing, that he had lain awake fearing he had somehow contracted something. Yet the condition had eventually left him, and he had been fine all summer. But now, with the cold rainy season approaching, he could not help but be anxious. He was not looking forward to another London winter.

But chiefly his unease originated in his soul. He wasn’t happy at the bank, and he knew it.

He left the office, took a cab to Hyde Park, and walked slowly around for three-quarters of an hour carrying the apple and sandwich his mother had packed for him that morning, yet scarcely thinking of them. He wasn’t hungry.

As he walked, Geoffrey saw things he had never noticed before, ducks scurrying and quacking and swimming about everywhere, what remained of the autumn flowers, children at play, a gentle breeze on his face, the clouds suspended in the blue above.

It really was a beautiful world, he thought, even in the city. Why had he never paused before to drink it in? But did the beauty all around him mean anything? Was there more to life than money and investments and compound interest?

He smiled thinly. Even without his father’s money, he was well on his way to becoming a rich man in his own right. But what did it matter? It had certainly not made him happy.

He was almost tempted to quit the bank and move to the country. His father would hit the roof. But did he want to spend the rest of his life pursuing only profit? What had it accomplished for his father? He was a selfish, lonely, greedy man, Geoffrey thought. He had no friends, no interests besides money. Geoffrey had never seen him read a book for pleasure. Did he want to end up the same way himself?

If nothing changed . . . toward just such a future he was probably heading.

A little boy ran by chasing a tiny flock of walking ducks. Geoffrey glanced up, glad for the interruption to his broodings, and watched the boy’s energetic antics for a few moments. He was followed a minute later by his mother.

“Mummy . . . Mummy, may I please have a coin to throw into the fountain!” cried the lad as he reached the bridge over the little pond.

“I’m sorry, Fraser,” she replied, “but I have none.”

Geoffrey watched the two another moment, then rose and walked toward them, hand fishing into his trousers.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to the lady, “I couldn’t help overhearing. I have a coin or two to spare in my pocket. I would like to give them to the boy, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh . . . thank you, that is very generous of you, sir,” she replied.

Geoffrey walked toward the lad, holding out his hand.

“Here, son,” he said, “throw these into the water and make a wish.”

The boy glanced up into Geoffrey’s face, then down at the five large copper pennies in his hand. The next instant he scooped them into his chubby fist and began tossing them into the pond toward the spraying fountain in the center.

Geoffrey turned, smiled at the lady as he tipped his hat, and continued on his way.

“Mummy, Mummy,” he heard behind him, “the man gave me five coppers!”

Geoffrey smiled to himself. That was nice, he thought.

In fact, as he went, he realized that the tiny act of generosity had made him feel better than the thousand-pound profit he had added to his account last month from one of his many investments.

Geoffrey chuckled to himself as he walked, then began laughing outright. Maybe giving away money was the secret to happiness rather than accumulating it.

The simplicity of the revelation jolted him.

He shook his head as he continued to revolve it in his brain, still chuckling as he walked . . . giving not getting.

Incredible!

Ha, ha, ha! he laughed inwardly. What would dear old Dad think of that?