Heathersleigh Homecoming (11 page)

 17 
Vienna Storm Clouds

Since his return to Vienna six days ago, the life of Ramsay Halifax had been as unpleasant as any week in his life.

His mother treated him with lofty silence and mostly avoided him. Mr. Barclay continued sarcastic and peevish, losing no opportunity to dish out deriding remarks, just as he had the moment Ramsay set foot back in the house after his unsuccessful sojourn into Italy.

“How could you let her get away!” Barclay exploded before Ramsay had spoken a word.

“Look, Barclay,” Ramsay shot back, “I've been nearly to France looking for her. I'm tired and hungry. Can't you give me a chance to sit down before starting in on me?”

“I have bigger concerns than your comfort,” rejoined Barclay cynically.

“Why didn't you go yourself if you think I'm such an incompetent?”

“I should have! Then she'd be back in our grasp by now.”

“Don't be so sure of yourself, Barclay!” rejoined Ramsay testily. In truth, he was angry with himself too. He had been so close several times. He still couldn't believe she had slipped through his fingers. It only heightened his fury toward Amanda. If he ever did get his hands on her, she would regret what she had done.

“What about Carneades?”

“He's less than useless,” replied Ramsay. “I have the feeling Amanda walked out of the Trieste station right under his nose.—Where's Adriane?” he asked, turning toward his mother.

“She's gone—on her way back to Paris.”

An oath exploded from Ramsay's mouth. He turned, left the room irritably, and went upstairs.

Hartwell Barclay wasted no time in returning to the subject of Amanda at the earliest possible opportunity, which turned out to be that same evening at dinner.

“Look, Ramsay,” he said, “you and I may occasionally have our differences. But we mustn't lose sight of the fact that on the loose as she is, that English wife of yours poses a grave threat to our success. We have to get our hands on her.”

By now both Barclay and Ramsay had cooled sufficiently to discuss the situation practically. Ramsay had had a nap and a bath and was, if not exactly in better spirits, at least feeling more comfortable and glad to be back in Vienna.

“I cannot imagine she is dangerous to anyone,” he replied, taking a sip of a decent German red wine. “You're exaggerating the problem.”

“She was here too long,” Barclay went on. “I have an uneasy feeling she may know more than you think.”

“She knows nothing. She was a feeble-witted simpleton.”

“We can't take any chances. I suspect she may have stolen some documents relating to our operation.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“We must continue the search.”

“I tell you, she vanished in Italy without a trace,” said Ramsay. “She is probably back in England by now.”

“Nevertheless, we must cover every possibility. We have people in our network throughout the region. Italy will soon be joining the war effort. I want to go over your movements in detail and set a probe in motion. If she purchased a ticket anywhere, or crossed one of the borders, there will be records. Something will lead us to her.”

“If I couldn't find her,” said Ramsay, “—and I know Amanda—no one else is going to pick up her steps after all this time. Certainly not Carneades. Especially if she managed to get into France.”

“We have people in France as well,” replied Barclay. “We will check the border records. I am hopeful she may still be in Italy. A young single woman traveling alone leaves footprints. I will contact our man Matteos.”

“I hope he is not the fool Carneades turned out to be.”

“He will not disappoint us. We
will
find her.”

 18 
A Walk to Grindelwald

Would you like to go with me over the hills today, Amanda?” asked Sister Hope at breakfast. “I must see a man in Grindelwald about the possible purchase of a plot of land bordering the chalet property. The day appears perfectly suited for just such a walk.”

“Oh do, Amanda,” chimed in Sisters Anika and Regina at once.

“It is a spectacular climb,” added Sister Agatha.

“Climb!” laughed Amanda. “I'm not so sure I like the sound of that!”

“I should have said a spectacular
walk
!”

“How far is it?” asked Amanda.

“Four or five miles over, and the same back,” replied Hope. “I will be gone most of the day.”

“It sounds like an adventure. I would love it.”

“It will be a
long
day.”

“My arms are aching so badly from yesterday's churning, I don't think I could do a thing with them—”

Everyone laughed.

“—so maybe today I ought to use only my legs.”

“You'll use them all right!” said Gretchen. “By this evening they will be in the same condition as your arms.”

“You will not deter me!” said Amanda. “However exhausting, I think it sounds like fun. Tonight I will relax in front of the blazing fire and listen while Sister Anika reads.”

Amanda and Sister Hope set off about an hour later, making their way first along a well-worn path that led up steep slopes and through wooded terrain. After a walk of about ninety minutes and breathing heavily from the climb, they came out upon the plateau of Itramenberg. There they paused to catch their breath.

It was a different vista than Amanda had yet seen, offering a whole new panorama of the region. She stood turning her head slowly
about and gazing with wonder in every direction. They were so high up it almost seemed she might float off the top of the mountain. The sensation made her feel carefree and happy, like a child again. Amanda did not know it, but they had ascended to heights where lessening oxygen began to affect the lungs. For the rest of the day she found herself breathing more rapidly than usual.

As she stood beholding the sight, to the south the ridge of Alps, of which the Jungfrau was a part, was visible almost in its entirety, with more peaks rising behind it in the distance. A vast, high, sloping plateau stretched from where they stood toward the cliffy feet of the peaks some two or three miles distant, then sloped down in the direction their walk would take them. The plateau was green with mountain grasses even at this time of year.

Amanda skipped about, looking for a flower to pick. As she did, the distant memory of walking with her mother came back to mind, when she and George had raced to pluck the first daisy of spring. The memory calmed her spirit. She walked slowly back to where Sister Hope stood waiting for her.

“The air is so still and clean,” she said softly. “It is just
so
beautiful. I feel like I'm on top of the world.”

“Our chalet is down there,” said Hope, pointing in the direction of Wengen.

“Now I know how it looks to a bird,” said Amanda. “We are so high above it!”

“Further over the ridge beyond Wengen,” she went on, with her back to the wide, high plateau, “you can see the valley of Lauterbrunnen. And away off there to the right you can just make out Interlaken and the edge of Thunersee.”

Amanda followed her pointing hand and eventually took in an entire 360-degree circle with her gaze.

They turned away from the steep ledge and set off in the opposite direction on the trail that led down the gradually sloping plateau toward Grindelwald, an easier walk now. As they went they began to talk casually. It had become obvious to Amanda long before now, both from Hope's accent and much that she said, as well as from occasional references to London, that like her, Sister Hope was English.

“You are from England, aren't you?” asked Amanda at length.

Sister Hope nodded and smiled.

“How did you ever wind up here?”

The question prompted the older woman to grow reflective. A faraway look came into her eye as they walked. She could almost hear again, across the miles, the sound of the famous preacher who had so moved her youthful heart in the big tent. That was the night when she answered the call. It was a moment that changed the direction of her life forever.

“It all began for me,” she answered slowly after several long seconds, “with a preacher by the name of Charles Spurgeon. Have you heard of him?”

“I think so,” replied Amanda.

“I was a city girl, you see,” Hope continued, “raised in London and Birmingham. When I was nineteen I attended a special youth meeting the tabernacle was holding near where I lived.”

“The tabernacle?”

“Mr. Spurgeon's church in London—the Metropolitan Baptist Tabernacle. Mr. Spurgeon himself came from the city to preach at the Birmingham meetings. He is dead now, which makes the memory all the more dear. I was eager and enthusiastic. I went forward, dedicated my life to the Lord, and immediately wanted to become a missionary and go to the mission field.”

“Did you?” asked Amanda.

Another smile came in reply.

“Eventually,” replied Sister Hope. “But not for several years after my conversion.”

————

Come, you who are homeless and burdened with the cares of the world, you who have no place to call home. He will be for you what you have always longed for—a place of refuge, a haven of rest, a home for your soul. . . .”

The preacher's words went straight to the girl's heart.

“Did he not say,” the man went on,
“‘Come unto me
all you that labor and are heavy-laden, and I
will give you rest'?
Take him at his word, then. He knows the ache of loneliness in your heart. Take him at his word, for he can heal it, for he said,
‘In me you will find rest for
your soul.'”

Was ever one more truly in need of just such a home, a refuge, as she herself? thought the young woman as she sat listening.

She looked up into the aging bearded face, searching even from her seat so far back among the sea of people. He must be looking
straight toward her! He must have chosen those words because he knew.

Home . . . a home for her
soul!

The words were too wonderful to believe. Could it possibly be true? Could such actually exist . . . for her?

Again Rev. Spurgeon was speaking.

“And now, youths and maidens, one word to which I hope you will pay special heed. Perhaps you think that religion is not for you. How long, young man, will you say it? Till you are twenty-one? Are you sure that you will live till then? Let me tell you one thing. Men do not get better if left alone. It is with them as with a garden. If you let it alone and permit weeds to grow, you will not expect to find it better in six months—but worse. Men talk as if they could repent when they like. Some say, ‘I shall turn to God later.' But such thoughts are a folly. Now—the present moment—is all the time we have, all the time any man or woman ever has. . . .”
2
*

Before many more minutes were past, Hope was on her feet walking down the aisle to answer the minister's invitation.

The next days were a blur of happiness. For the first time in her life she truly felt that she had a family who loved her and cared for her. All the people from the meeting showed such kindness.

And never would she forget the stirring message of the final evening under the tent.

“It is not enough, dear brothers and sisters,” Rev. Spurgeon said, “that we commit our own hearts to the Lord Jesus. Once we do, a yet greater call rests upon us. Our Master commands us to take the gospel of his redeeming love unto all the earth. He calls us one and all as preachers and missionaries to the lost souls of the world.”

As nineteen-year-old Hope sat listening, peculiar sensations began to pulse within her, stirrings she could not explain. Again it seemed the preacher was speaking to no one but her.

“And upon some,” he went on, “that call is greater yet. To these few he calls to leave all, to leave even the comfort of homeland, to serve him in the faraway fields of mission, so ripe with the harvest. If you are such a one, brother, sister—listen to his voice at this hour. If the call to foreign missions is upon you, then I urge you to come again and make
public that commitment.”

By now Hope was trembling, her heart beating within her. Never had such feelings come over her. She knew his words were meant for her.

“Let not your exertions end in tears,” Spurgeon continued. “Mere weeping will do nothing without action. Get you on your feet, you that have voices and might, go forth and preach the gospel, preach it in every street and land of this city. You that have wealth, go forth and spend it for the poor and sick and needy and dying. You that have time, go forth and spend it in deeds and goodness. You that have power in prayer, go forth and pray. You that can handle the pen, go forth and write—every one to his post in this day of battle. Let us go forth unto all the world, each to his own place where God . . .”
3
*

Again she found herself on her feet, heedless of the turning of heads around her.

She had heard the call, and she would answer!

Even as she made her way down to the pulpit where Rev. Spurgeon stood, visions rose within her mind's eye of serving her new Lord in distant foreign lands. She could imagine no higher ambition.

After the service, she sought the minister. He was clustered about with people, but she waited patiently until at last she stood facing him.

“What do I do?” she asked a little nervously. “I am ready. How do I go to the mission field?”

“The Lord will indeed honor your commitment, dear sister,” Spurgeon replied. “I will give you the address of our mission board in London. Write to them, and they will help determine your qualifications and what missionary service you will be suited for.”

He handed her a card with the address.

She took it, a little crestfallen it is true. She was ready to leave for distant lands
now
, this very night! There was nothing to keep her here. The idea of writing a letter did not satisfy the yearning she felt as she had listened to his preaching.

Writing a letter would take so long. But if she demonstrated her willingness and enthusiasm by going to the mission ready for anything, they would see that she was in earnest. Surely they would
send her out immediately.

As much as thought of returning to the city made her shudder, she gathered together all the money she had and what few worldly possessions she owned, then set out on the train from Birmingham to London within a few days.

She arrived in London and walked straight from the station to the address on the card, a considerable distance and taking her more than an hour, carrying a heavy suitcase in each hand.

At last she stood in front of the Baptist Missionary Society. She walked in, face flushed from the walk and full of eager hope.

“I am here to be a missionary,” said Hope to the lady at the desk inside.

The receptionist looked up with something of a blank stare, though a kindly one. “You say you've come to be a missionary?” she said.

“Yes, the preacher at the meeting in Birmingham gave me your card when I answered the call. His name was Mr. Spurgeon. He said you would tell me what I am qualified for and send me to the mission field.”

“And what training have you had?”

“I haven't had any training. That's why I am here.”

“Hmm, yes . . . I see,” said the lady. “Unfortunately Rev. Spurgeon did not have time to explain everything to you.”

“Everything . . . like what?”

“My dear, being a missionary requires training . . . and support.”

“Support—I don't understand. What kind of support?”