Before the Season Ends (48 page)

“You must tell me everything about your experience with Christ! I am waiting to hear this. How did He reach your heart? I must know.” Her eagerness made him smile.

“I’m not certain I know the full explanation,” he began. “I may not answer to your satisfaction, but I can tell you the day I knew within myself that something had changed in me. Something that made me far more aware of God. I began to understand what I never had understood before, that one can speak to Him, and be in His very presence.” He looked sharply at her. “Have you felt that way?”

“Oh, yes. Many times!”

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I never did, before. I thought I understood from childhood, about Christ dying for me, but you knew, my little love, didn’t you, that I was deceived?”

She gave a weak smile, and he continued. “I spent some late nights with Mr. Timmons in his study and began to discover there was much I had never understood at all.”

“You stayed at Mr. Timmons’s house, then? Not just with my family?”

He smiled at the memory. “He greatly desired me to. And, when I found he was not averse to an occasional glass of claret, only one in an evening, mind you, I decided he had something to recommend him and I went.”

“Do not say you stayed at his house because he offered you claret!”

He laughed. “No. I like the man. He is an excellent fencer, by the way. The claret was merely an unexpected treat.”

“You
fenced
with him? Goodness! But tell me what I asked. How did God make Himself known to you?”

Mr. Mornay’s head went back to rest upon the cushion, but he took one of her hands in his own, and held it while he spoke. He did, in fact, recall well the very day that his beliefs had broadened…

“Mr. Mornay, I heard you mention once that you enjoy fencing, did I not?”

Mr. Mornay was in the cleric’s library reading a recommended volume of sermons by the Methodist Mr. Wesley, but he set down the book and looked up.

“You did.”

Mr. Timmons, the youthful new rector of the Church of the Village Square, was scrutinizing him in his typically thoughtful manner. In his late twenties, he was surprisingly intent in his conversation, quickwitted, and not above playful bantering. He was also impressively knowledgeable in history, music, art, and a host of other subjects so that Mr. Mornay regarded him with respect—not the easiest of feelings to procure from the Paragon.

“I have épées; will you do me the honour of sparring?”

“With pleasure; I need the exercise, I daresay.”

“Excellent! This way, sir.”

Mr. Mornay hoped Mr. Timmons was able to hold his own. It was a dead bore to spar with a partner not up to snuff.

When, a few minutes later, they were facing each other on the lawn, they raised their weapons and saluted. Each was clad only in pantaloons, boots, and a shirt, for they had removed their waistcoats and cravats. At first Mr. Timmons eyed the other man like a cat sizing
up a lion. Mornay was taller and stockier than he, but neither characteristic was necessarily an asset at the sport. They agreed on points and boundaries.

As they got closer, Timmons spoke.

“For God.”

“For God?” Hadn’t he meant to say, “En Garde?”

“All is for God, Mr. Mornay.”

Then, in a blink, Mr. Timmons lunged at him and caught him instantly on the cuff of a sleeve.

M
r. Mornay was delighted. Here was a worthy foe; a man quick on his feet. “That wasn’t a point, you know.”

“Of course I know.” They exchanged smiles.

This time Mornay lunged first and was able to keep Mr. Timmons on the defense for a few good parries, scoring a cool point on the man’s shoulder. The next action began with a bold thrust by Mr. Timmons, but the other man managed to quickly defer it and their blades met at the hilts. They came apart.

“No touch.”

The next three actions ended similarly. Neither man seemed able to get in a good riposte.

Then, after forcing his opponent back a foot, Mr. Timmons, with a lightning-quick move of the arm, opened a path to find Mornay’s chest: “a palpable touch.” The score was even.

The next few actions proved that both men were capable on their feet, though Mr. Mornay more often had close calls in which he had to move speedily to deflect a point. Two actions more resulted in no gain for either gentleman. The men moved in one direction, one lunging, the other defending, then, the other direction, the defender now on the offense, and so it went for a time. If one retreated, he then gained back his ground; it appeared to be an even match.

“This is more than a form of exercise to you!” Timmons pronounced, taking a lunge at his opponent.

“I might say the same for you,” replied Mornay, who deftly blocked the thrust. As their swords locked yet again and they came apart, they nevertheless maintained eye contact, making it a match of wits as well as agility.

“I confess; I was a fencing master.” Had Mr. Timmons admitted this to intimidate his foe?

“How on earth did you end up in the pulpit?” was the Paragon’s response.

The conversation ceased as Mr. Timmons leapt forward and gave a quick thrust to what he hoped was Mornay’s neck, but the man was too quick and their blades met again.

“I felt God’s call on my life.” Then, looking shrewdly into his opponent’s eyes, added, “We’ve been discussing God quite often of late, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes.” Mornay waited. Where was he leading?

“So, what about you? Have you felt His call?”

Mr. Mornay’s face went bland. “To enter the church?”

Timmons laughed. “God help us, no! I meant, have you felt His call on your heart? Have you decided to pray as I suggested? The sinner’s prayer?”

Again they fell silent as Mr. Mornay saw an opportunity and made a firm thrust at his foe, in a region which would have put an abrupt end to his life if they hadn’t been playing points. But now Mr. Timmons was too fast. He swept his arm up in a sudden riposte that ended with a veritable point, landing firmly on Mr. Mornay’s well-shaven jaw.

“I’ll make you a wager!” the churchman said. “The next point wins it.”

“You’re a gamester? A churchman by God’s call, and yet you will lay a wager?”

“I am all things to all men,” he said, with a dashing smile. “Are you afraid of my terms?” That was a jibe meant to hit its target and it did.

“Don’t be absurd. Name them.”

“If I gain the next touch, you agree to pray the sinner’s prayer with me.”

“Is that all?” He was scowling. “You call that a wager?”

“That’s all. Are we agreed?”

Mr. Mornay was silent a moment. “There is no prize in it.”

“You should be happy, then, for there is none to lose.”

“I expect you should be happier over that than I. However; if I win?”

Mr. Timmons lowered his blade, pulled out his shirt, and began wiping his weapon with an intent expression.

“If you win—then I will agree to pray with
you.
”

“Big of you,” came the dry response. “
For
me would suit me, perhaps.”

“It’s with you, or nothing.”

“You are determined upon it, eh? Do you imagine it will accomplish some great thing?”

At this, Mr. Timmons’s face grew sober. His eyes were compassionate as he looked earnestly at Mr. Mornay.

“I don’t imagine it. I know it.” His hair blew lightly across his face with a breeze, and he shook it away. “When we pray, we are talking to God. Going before God, I warrant you, is a great thing in itself. Going before Him for forgiveness and redemption—well, there is nothing greater. It was for just such a prayer that Christ suffered the cross.” He took his épée and pointed it gently, first at Mornay’s hands, then his feet. “It was a torturous, horrifying death.” He met his eyes again. “We haven’t discussed crucifixion yet, have we?”

Mr. Mornay took a step back. “Oh, I can hardly wait.”

Mr. Timmons lifted his sword in front of his face, and Mornay did likewise. They saluted. They started out similarly, eyeing each other. Mr. Timmons went forward first. He was quick on his feet, even faster with his arm, and determined to remain on the offensive. Their hilts soon clashed and they came apart.

“Either way, you know, it will be God’s victory,” the cleric said.

“I have no objection to that. But I would be pleased if it wasn’t also your victory.”

With a smile that belied his determination to have it otherwise, Mr. Timmons began a series of quick parries, bullying his foe, keeping him on the defense. Mornay dug in his heels and would retreat no further, and for a minute there was no sound but of wiry steel against wiry steel, weapon hitting weapon, and then they were at crossed blades yet again.

“Are you not weary, yet?” Mr. Timmons chided.

“No more than you,” Mornay replied, but his breath was coming a little faster than the other man’s. He was a few years older than Timmons, for one thing, and, even when younger had never possessed such energy as this fellow.

They were at it again, Mornay at first moving his foe backward, but soon Mr. Timmons rallied and suddenly made rapid thrusts in a fury of quick movements—right, left, right again—and Mr. Mornay had to back away. From a distance, an onlooker would have been impressed with the elegance of their movements, the dexterity of their wrists and arms and feet.

“I hate to do this, old fellow,” said Mr. Timmons, “but I am growing weary, even if you are not.”

“Do your worst.” Mornay wasn’t cowed. In fact, he gave a magnificent lunge and thrust, and by rights should have caught Timmons’s bicep, but the younger man was too skilled. With surprising quickness, he gave a sudden upward thrust, flinging Mornay’s arm, still holding the weapon, up and away with such force that the épée went flying from his hand. Mr. Timmons instantly brought his blade to bear around the area of his opponent’s heart.
Touch.
He held it for a good second, then pulled away, and fell away himself, bending over to take in a few good breaths. Mornay caught his own breath. He was tired, and had lost the contest, but he had enjoyed himself immensely. He had to eye his new friend with admiration, even while he went and retrieved his sword.

He joined Timmons again to walk back to the house but the man was eyeing him expectantly.

“Well?” Mornay asked.

“Do you not pay your debts? We pray now.” Mr. Timmons gave a wry smile. “I daresay you’ve had to pay worse in the past.”

“No doubt.” Mornay crossed his arms.

“No, that won’t do, sir!” His friend was smiling, but in earnest. “We do not approach God our Maker with crossed arms. That is no more efficient than being at crossed swords with one another. Little can be accomplished.”

“You are the rector.” He dropped his arms.

Watching his companion, Timmons fell to his knees on the grass, and waited there, expectantly.

Mr. Mornay looked around. “What, here?”

“Here, come on, man! A little grass won’t hurt you, you know.”

Mornay reluctantly fell to his knees, keeping his eyes keenly on the other man. He didn’t want to admit it, but he sensed something very strange afoot. It felt suddenly as if an unseen hand, or pairs of hands, were upon him, a weight on his entire being, compelling him down, saying, yes, do this. Pray. You must. You must!

Mr. Timmons drew himself closer to where Mornay had dropped. They were still looking into each other’s eyes, Mr. Timmons with an otherworldly sort of compassion, and Mr. Mornay with caution. Mr. Timmons was the most surprising person he had encountered since meeting the little blonde minx.

“Close your eyes,” the rector said.

“Is that entirely necessary?”

“It is, sir.” A wan smile.

“After you, then.”

This brought a laugh.

“So be it!” Mr. Timmons closed his eyes, and then peeked. “You’re still looking!”

“And you’re not?”

“It is a debt of honour, recall.” This was no less than brilliant. Debts of honour, as all gaming debts were considered, had to be paid as soon as possible and in full. A man could owe his tailor money for a year, his
shoemaker and silversmith, even longer; but a debt of honour required immediate payment.