Wayward Winds (51 page)

 100 
Haze

The months between June and August passed almost like a blur for Amanda. She and Mrs. Halifax and Mr. Barclay had traveled throughout Austria, though it was mostly uninteresting. They always had people to see, to whom they spoke in hushed tones.

Once she had written the leaflet, Mr. Barclay seemed to take less interest in her, though encouraged her with more of the same. She never heard what became of what she had written, and didn't ask. A discomfort over what she had said about her father began to set in. The best medicine for her uneasiness at present was not to think about it.

All the people she met now, and those who came and went through the house at Nr. 42 Ebendorfer Strasse, were connected in some way with the Fountain of Light and engaged in its activities, most of which Amanda knew very little about.

Mrs. Halifax spoke to Amanda as if she were an intrinsic aspect of the organization and their future plans, even as if Amanda would one day be one of its leaders. Amanda took everything in with a certain hazy interest, though she did not thoroughly understand much of what was said. Nor did she have the faintest grasp during those summer months where events were leading. She saw no English newspaper all summer, and had no idea that war loomed on the world's horizon and very, very close to where she happened to be.

Her brain lay in a fog. Slowly memories of her past grew fuzzy and indistinct. Sometimes she could hardly remember her previous life at Heathersleigh at all. Especially when Mr. Barclay looked into her eyes, she occasionally found herself unable clearly even to visualize her mother's face. The past faded into a blur. A trance of mental numbness came over her. She could do nothing but what he told her to do.

Yet it was a mental apathy Amanda had herself allowed, by her acceptance of influences contrary to the truth. Likewise, the fog that comes upon many is self-induced, and can lift at any moment a man or woman chooses to bring out the sun and blow it away. Mental vigor is a chosen possession available to any, no matter what his or her innate level of what is commonly called intelligence. Raw intellect itself is a vastly overrated commodity in its power over human character development. Such mental vitality is responsible for more growth a million times over than is intelligence, for it is the root of decision and will.

Amanda was presently asleep because she had let herself heed influences intended to stop her from thinking for herself.

But her waking was not far off. Deception is sure to overplay its hand in the end.

 101 
Courage to Look It in the Face

When Charles returned from London, his heart heavy knowing that now all Europe was at war, and well knowing what that fact could mean to George, his firstborn, his first business even before returning to the Hall was to stop at the McFee cottage.

Bobby had remained in bed since the accident. Though the bones in his leg gradually healed themselves, his body's zip did not return. His strength seemed rather slowly to be ebbing away. The doctor pronounced him as fit as one of his age could be, perplexed that he was not back up on his feet.

It was clear Maggie was afraid the lonely trial of the aging wife was about to visit her.

The moment Charles walked in he knew from Maggie's face that Bobby had taken a turn for the worse.

“Oh, Master Charles,” she said, tears falling down her wrinkled cheek, “I don't know what to do for my poor Bobby!”

Already Charles was striding toward the sickroom.

Bobby lay there, a frail form under the single sheet, for the afternoon was warm, looking as though he were wasting away, and would soon become part of the bed itself. A thin white arm lay outside it yet was nearly indistinguishable for whiteness from the sheet itself. His face
was more drawn and thin, it seemed, than even since Charles had last seen him three days before.

The thin slits of his eyes opened a crack.

“Ay, 'tis Master Charles, my old friend,” croaked a thin wisp of a voice.

“Yes, it's me, Bobby,” replied Charles cheerfully, sitting down beside him and taking the limp hand at the end of the white arm. “How are you?”

“Weary, Master Charles . . . weary indeed. I don't doubt the time's about cum fer this old pilgrim t' lay aside his travelin' shoes.”

“Nonsense, Bobby. You'll be up and out of here in no time.”

“Master Charles . . . I would have ay thought that ye'd be above all that. We know some's got t' pretend t' themselves that there's no such thing as death, with their talk o' gettin' better. An' we can ay forgive them fer it, fer they don't have the strength t' look the thing in the face, or else their hearts'd fail them fer pure sorrow. But such men like me an' yerself, Master Charles, the Master's given us the courage t' look fear in the face an' say, ‘Do yer worst, ye shallna conquer me.' Am I not right, Master Charles?”

What a joyous sorrow is the contented approach toward death of a childlike man with the clear conscience which comes of a life well lived in service to his Master and his fellows.

Tears rose in Charles' eyes from the dear man's honest speech. It was all he could do to get the words out past the lump in his throat.

“You're right, Bobby,” he whispered. “Forgive me my foolishness.”

“Forgive ye—now ye're talkin' foolish. I love ye, Master Charles. I love ye like a son—perhaps better'n a son. I can't say, fer I never had one. But ye been like a son t' me, God bless ye, an' I'm more proud o' ye than I can tell ye. I'm sore gonna miss ye.”

At last the tears overflowed and streamed down Charles' face.

“But ye can't say a word o' this t' me dear Maggie, bless the dear lass,” Bobby went on. “Let her talk t' me about when I'm back and up and takin' Flora back t' pasture, though she knows as well as I that Flora's seen the last o' me back. But the lass loves me so much, she can't bring herself t' look at the truth of it.”

Bobby paused. For several long minutes the room was deathly silent. Charles thought he had fallen asleep, but then the ancient voice sounded again.

“Take care of her, Master Charles,” he whispered.

“I will . . . I will, Bobby,” nodded Charles.

“I'm sore gonna miss me Maggie doo. I love her, Master Charles. She's a good an' fine woman, the best friend I ever had, a woman after God's heart, that's me Maggie.”

Tiptoes sped across the sitting-room floor, through the kitchen, and outside the cottage, where at last Maggie broke into great heaving sobs. Standing at the bedroom door, she had heard every word.

When Charles returned home, he knew he had no choice but to show Jocelyn the leaflet purported to be written by their daughter.

“Oh, Charles,” she said as she began to weep, “when she came home for those few days, I thought there was hope. And now this! It is such a devastating turn. Here the country is at war and we don't even know where our daughter is. I am so afraid for her!”

“The Lord is with her, even if we are not.”

“But what if something happens to her, Charles? What if—”

“We're not going to think about that,” interrupted Charles. “This is the hardest thing we have ever faced. But we gave our family to the Lord long ago, and if we haven't forgotten, surely he hasn't.”

“I know you're right,” sniffed Jocelyn. “But it is so hard! She's my daughter.”

Charles took her in his arms, and they stood another minute in silence as Jocelyn's tears spent themselves.

 102 
Trapped

On the morning of August 19, as Amanda lay drowsily in bed, strange sounds came in through her open window from somewhere in the distance outside—rumbling machinery and marching troops.

She rose and looked out. Toward the Old City, marching through the Ring, she beheld endless lines of soldiers and military vehicles. The sight struck awe, but also fear, into her heart.

All at once she felt very close to danger. Was Vienna about to be invaded!

She dressed and hurried downstairs.

Mr. Barclay sat with a cup of tea in the breakfast room, calmly glancing through a newspaper as though nothing whatever were out of the ordinary.

“What is all that commotion outside?” asked Amanda.

“What commotion?” he asked.

“The army, the troops—guns and cannons and trucks in the Ring?”

“We're at war, Amanda—surely you knew that?”

“Who's at war?”

“Everyone—every country in Europe!”

“England?”

“Of course. England declared war on Austria a few days ago.”

“But . . . but is the fighting coming
here
?”

“It may, Amanda. Russia is already invading to the east. Serbia is invading Bosnia. Austria has invaded Poland.”

“But . . . but are we safe?”

“I think so. I doubt Vienna is in danger.”

“What about England? What is happening in England?”

“English troops have landed on the Continent and are fighting the Germans in Belgium.”

For the moment Amanda asked no more questions. With wide eyes, stunned by what she had heard, in a daze she slowly returned to her room. The news had not altogether awakened her from mental languor, but had certainly jolted her senses. She stood at her window again, staring at the long columns of troops, then sat down on the edge of her bed and tried to think. But she was out of practice and the exercise proved difficult. She had too easily drifted into the habit of letting others do her thinking for her.

At breakfast with Mrs. Halifax thirty minutes later, Amanda again brought up the war and the potential danger.

“Shouldn't we return to England?” she said.

“Why, dear?” asked Mrs. Halifax.

“Well . . . because, I don't know—because if there is a war, we ought to be at home.”

“This is my home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am Hungarian, dear,” replied Mrs. Halifax. “My homeland is at war with England. I cannot go back now.”

“But England is
my
home.”

“Where
is
your home, Amanda dear? I thought all that was decided. Your home is with me now.”

“But this house is not—”

“This house is mine, Amanda dear.
This
is my home.”

“But what about your home in London?”

“I was merely visiting, dear. This is my home. Now it is your home.”

“Oh, I am so confused,” said Amanda, starting to cry. “I don't know what to think anymore.”

She paused, blinking back the tears. Footsteps approached in the hallway outside.

“All I know,” Amanda added, “is that I want to go back to England.”

“I am afraid that will be impossible,” sounded a voice behind them.

Amanda turned. Hartwell Barclay had just entered the room. She tried to return his statement with another question but found
herself silenced by his eyes. Suddenly his tone, which always before now seemed calm, frightened her.

“But . . . I don't want to be here during a war,” she whimpered.

“You are here, Amanda—that cannot be helped,” he said in a voice of command. “Your life in England is past now. You are one of us. You cannot go back. You would only be shot as a spy.”

“A spy! Why . . . why me?”

“Because of the anti-English pamphlet you wrote.”

“You told me to write it.”

“I told you to speak the truth. I wanted to insure your loyalty to our cause by making sure you could not go back.”

“But . . . but Austria is at war with England, and I am English. I cannot stay here.”

“You will be safe . . . as long as you remain loyal to us.”

Amanda shuddered again at the threat. Barclay's eyes silenced her, and she said no more. For the first time in her life, suddenly she was really scared.