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.