Several days later the two men were speaking in confidential tones in a London hotel room. After the alarming communiqué, Churchill did not even want to trust this conversation to his office. News of an active spy network had everyone in the government on edge.
“Do you actually think all this is connected to that business with Hartwell Barclay?” Charles asked.
“We have no way of knowing for certain,” replied Churchill. “But after his disappearance, the secret service uncovered several disturbing connections about his background that were completely unknown. You haven’t heard any more from them?”
“No, although attacks are now being leveled at me.”
Churchill nodded. “I saw that piece in the Sun—totally spurious. I am sorry it has come to this, Sir Charles—one of the hazards of being in the public eye, I suppose. You’re not worried about it?”
“Not for my own sake. I ceased being concerned for my reputation long ago. If they want to discredit me in the public eye because I would not go along with their scheme, whatever it is, I will lose no sleep over it. The only thing I worry about is my family, and how the controversy will affect them. My greatest fear is that they will try to use one of my family to get at me.”
“Do you consider that possible?”
“I have a daughter who is not with us, and . . . well, let me just say it is a troublesome situation.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Churchill sincerely. “But you don’t think she has some connection with this fellow Barclay and his clique?”
“None that I’m aware of. But she is on the Continent, and that fact alone concerns me. But she had been living with Halifax’s widow, and she was present at that one Fountain meeting I attended.”
“Hmm . . . yes, I see,” nodded Churchill.
A lengthy and thoughtful silence followed.
“The situation is not looking good, Sir Charles,” said Churchill at length. “Once again events in Greece and elsewhere in the Balkans are growing hot. No sooner has the dust settled on the Second Balkan War but that a third appears imminent. Thus far, Germany has remained quiet . . . but for how long?”
Charles nodded, taking in Churchill’s words seriously, knowing full well what they meant.
“If worse comes to worst, Sir Charles,” the First Lord of the Admiralty went on, “it might be that I shall call on you.”
“I am available anytime.”
“I mean in an active role, Sir Charles.”
“You don’t actually mean—”
Churchill nodded.
“I may ask you to take up your commission again,” he said. “I will need men of your caliber and leadership commanding my fleet—men I can trust.”
Charles returned Churchill’s penetrating gaze in disbelief. It was clear the words he had just heard were deadly serious.
“By the way,” Churchill added, “have you heard from Chalmondley Beauchamp lately?”
“No, why?”
“It seems he has disappeared as well. There are some strange rumors circulating that he may be part of this thing.”
89
The City of Mozart
Amanda awoke, sun streaming through the window of her room, and tried to remember where she was.
She had not lain down at night in the same place more than two or three nights in a row for the last month. Most of those nights had been spent on board the Ianthina. The cruise had been relaxing, but tedious after a while. She read quite a bit, and some of the sights were fascinating, though after a while they all looked the same. A mysterious Greek man had shown more than a passing interest in her, which had added intrigue to the final stages of the voyage.
A week earlier they had finally arrived in Athens. After a tour of the ancient land so recently besieged by the conflict of the Balkan wars, she and Mrs. Thorndike had taken the southern Orient line north through Belgrade and Budapest, arriving in Vienna the day before. Amanda was glad to get out of the wartorn Balkans. Everyone there was unfriendly and suspicious and seemed angry. She was afraid fighting might break out again anytime. At least now they were in a city of culture and refinement.
Her money was dwindling faster than she liked. But they were now safe in Austria with friends, and on their way back west.
Amanda rose and dressed, then knocked on Mrs. Thorndike’s door. She took a more careful look at their surroundings as they went down the stairs to breakfast a few minutes later. This was an odd place, she had to admit. From everything Mrs. Halifax had said, she expected to be staying with a family, but this was more like a boardinghouse. They had been let in by a side entrance last evening by the most peculiar woman who made not the slightest effort to make them feel welcome. She showed them their rooms without fanfare and, with scarce more than a half dozen words, told them when and where they could find breakfast, then immediately returned to her chair looking out on an uninteresting side street. Whether she knew who they were or had been expecting them was not discernible from her countenance.
After breakfast she and Mrs. Thorndike went out, this time through the front door, for their first look at Vienna. Amanda was too tired to do much sightseeing, but they would walk to the Ring and back, and maybe stop at one of the famous coffeehouses.
As they began walking down the sidewalk, Amanda glanced back. She wanted to be certain of the address and street to make sure she didn’t get lost. The number was displayed on the side of the stone building, in small letters. It read Number 42. The street they were on was called Ebendorfer.
“I have always wanted to visit Vienna!” said Mrs. Thorndike with bubbly enthusiasm, thumbing through her guidebook as they walked. Her handbag was stuffed with city maps and various paraphernalia. “I am going to see if I can get tickets for us to the Mozart concert later in the week.”
The great Ring was only two or three long blocks away and within ten or twelve minutes they approached it. Completed in 1865, the sixty-yard wide, two-and-a-half-mile diameter street encircled the Old City of Vienna, the imperial center of the ancient Habsburg dynasty. Around its circumference a magnificent display of new buildings had been under construction for the previous fifty years, from the State Opera House to several modern art academies to the parliament and other city government buildings—all of which made Vienna, the fourth largest city of Europe, also one of its most beautiful and stunning.
For all her enthusiasm, Mrs. Thorndike soon tired of the walk. They caught a cab into the center of the Old City, where they got out at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. After an hour inside its majestic nave, both women needed a rest. Vienna would take weeks to see!
As they gradually recovered from the rigors of their month of travel, Mrs. Thorndike arranged for them to attend a performance of the Vienna Boys’ Choir, as well as performances of Mozart, Beethoven, and Strauss. There was, of course, a tour of the Imperial Palace, called the Hofburg, and shopping at the Graben.
And music was everywhere. In nothing was Vienna so famous as for its music. Gradually the charms of the city of Mozart began to infect Amanda. All the sights so ancient and romantic that the boredom she had begun to feel on the voyage for a time disappeared. She found herself thinking again more fondly of home, remembering both her parents’ passion for Mozart. After a few days she was enthusiastically helping Mrs. Thorndike plan what they would do and see, and what day excursions they would take.
In the midst of the history and culture and music and beautiful architecture, however, Amanda could not but be aware of an underlying militaristic atmosphere pervading the city. Not only were soldiers everywhere—she had almost grown accustomed to that after traveling through Greece and Serbia—they seemed on edge, wary, watchful, suspicious of everyone who passed. Sometimes she even thought they were looking at her.
Nor could she keep from being suspicious herself. Once leaving the Ianthina, the entire atmosphere changed. The very air was charged with tension.
And in the peculiar house on Ebendorfer Strasse where they were staying, with its unu
sual mix of ages and nationalities, she could never tell what anyone was thinking.
90
Subtle Shift in Loyalty
Amanda and Mrs. Thorndike had now been in Vienna a week and a half.
For her part, Amanda considered it more fascinating—though sightseeing with Mrs. Thorndike was tiring!—than sailing about through Greek islands with little do to but sit and watch the water go by. They had visited so many buildings and museums and parks and churches and art galleries in the past ten days that they were all beginning to run together in her brain.
Still the peculiarity of this house struck her, with its strange comings and goings—often in the middle of the night—and the strange assortment of individuals who somehow seemed associated with the place.
A tall, thin, white-haired gentleman seemed to be loosely in charge, and had gradually become more and more friendly toward them. He was apparently an Englishman living in Vienna. By now he was the closest they had to what might be called a host, sharing most of their meals, inquiring as to their needs, and in every way deporting himself with friendly and gentlemanly manner. Mrs. Thorndike, Amanda thought to herself, was in danger of becoming smitten with him.
One morning, wondering what prospects the day would hold, Amanda sat at breakfast with several student types, one young man with dark skin and a fanatical look in his eyes whom she had not seen before. The look in his eyes reminded her of Emily Davison. Mrs. Thorndike had not yet made her appearance.
“Are you connected with the university?” she asked the white-haired Englishman.
“Many of us are. But it is much wider than that.”
“What is?”
“Our organization.”
“What organization?” asked Amanda.
“That to which we in this house are connected.”
“I assumed it was associated with the university,” she said casually, sipping her tea.
“Our affiliations extend throughout Europe, even to England,” said the white-haired gentleman.
“But what kind of group is it?”
“We are trying to help people understand that war and conflict is not the way to truth, and to see that there must be brotherhood between all,” he replied, his voice growing soft and hypnotic. As he spoke his eyes penetrated deeply into hers across the table.
“I certainly believe that,” said Amanda, fidgeting slightly and trying to look away. The lure of his eyes, however, was too much to resist.
“I am sure you would find yourself in agreement with most of our ideas,” he said. “But, sad to say, many in England are closed to our purposes.”
“Why?”
“They do not see the light,” he replied. “They think themselves enlightened, but actually are in the darkness about the new order that is to come.”
“Is that why you left England?” asked Amanda, her interest in his strange words curiously aroused.
“One of the reasons. I felt my services were needed to bring light to those who would listen.”
“Why don’t you tell them back home?”
“We have tried. But they do not listen. They consider voices such as ours a foreign influence. They even call us dangerous.”
“Surely they would not say that about an Englishman like you.”
The man nodded with sad expression. “Because some of my views are out of the ordinary, I am considered an extremist and eccentric. There are those who would warn people against affiliating with me.”
“But that is absurd,” said Amanda, some of her old zealot’s blood beginning to run at the thought of anyone criticizing this man. “You are a perfectly nice and normal man, and are only speaking what should be obvious to everyone. I see nothing the least bit dangerous about you.”
“Perhaps you could tell them,” he suggested in a soft and innocently beguiling voice.
“Why me?”
“You are one of them. You are English yourself. Did I not hear that your father was once an M.P.?”
Amanda nodded, not realizing at the moment that she had not uttered a word concerning her father to anyone here.
“You see,” he went on, “yours is a voice that would be listened to and would carry far the purpose of light and truth.”
“You are English and they did not listen.”
“But yours would be a more sympathetic voice because you are the daughter of a respected man.”
“I see what you mean,” replied Amanda, her voice now growing soft under the spell of the eyes which bored into her. The next words out of her mouth were ones she hardly realized she was speaking. An unseen impulse, as it were, compelled her to speak them. “What should I do?” she said.
They were exactly the words the man with white hair had wanted to hear.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “you could write something denouncing the present English course against Germany and Austria.”
“Denounce . . . but why?” asked Amanda. Her voice was softer yet, and the question lacked emotion.
“The English government is preparing for war.”
“Oh, of course . . . I see.”
“Only by denouncing its ways can you then use your influence to tell the people of England of light, and of the new order which is to come.”
Amanda nodded, beginning now to feel drowsy. Why did this man have such an effect on her? She felt mesmerized by his voice.
“I am sorry to have to tell you,” he now went on, “but actually your own father is one who has spoken against our cause.”
“My father?”
“Yes—it is sad but true. He is one of those many in England who is deceived.” Barclay went on. “He has in fact spoken damaging words about some of our very people and our organization.”
He showed her the interview in which her father had spoken out, then looked away to remove the spell of his eyes from hers. Something in Amanda immediately awoke. Unfortunately, it was a rekindling of the anger against her father. He saw the blood rise in her cheeks. This had been easier than he had anticipated. She was indeed a confused young lady, with severely vacillating and unsteady loyalties. She was already nearly theirs.
“I am sorry to say it,” he went on, now pressing his advantage to the objective toward which he had been aiming all along, “but your father does not love truth. That much is clear from what he says here. He professes, I believe, to be a religious man. Is that correct?”
“Professes is all it is!” replied Amanda angrily.
“There are many like him, whose religion is so self-motivated it takes them away from truth. Would you say your father is such a man?”
“He is exactly such a man.”
“I see . . . that must have been very hard for you,” he added sympathetically.
Amanda nodded but did not reply further in that direction.
“You have talked about your organization several times,” she said after a moment. “Does it have a name?”
A brief silence followed.
“It is called the Fountain of Light,” he replied. “We desire that people see the truth. That is why we call ourselves the Fountain of Light.”
“Is this its headquarters?”
“We have people everywhere.”
“In England?”
“Yes, in England as well.”
Amanda glanced up at that moment to see Ramsay’s mother walking into the room.
“Mrs. Halifax!” she exclaimed.
“Hello, Amanda dear.”
“When did you get here?”
“I arrived late last night.”
“Is Ramsay with you?”
“No, dear—I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she answered, sitting down at the table. “I could not help overhearing part of your conversation as I came down the stairs,” she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “My friend Mr. Barclay is absolutely correct in everything he has told you.”
“Do you belong to their organization?” asked Amanda.
“I do. We are all devoted to the proclamation
of truth and bringing light to the world. That is why I think your speaking out could do the world much good in these perilous times.”
The conversation gradually drifted into other channels. Soon Mrs. Thorndike joined them and began to talk about plans for the day.
Now that Mrs. Halifax had arrived, she and Mr. Barclay often accompanied Amanda and Mrs. Thorndike. Another week or two passed, at a more leisurely pace, with more and more attention given to discussion. Mrs. Thorndike grew bored with the long talks about change and new orders, and often retired to her room. Her fascination with Mr. Barclay waned.
Amanda, however, was intrigued. It felt good to think and discuss again—an activity she had missed, though without realizing it, since leaving home. More and more she came to adopt the views of the older man and woman.
Gradually they became her mentors in the principles of the Fountain.
91
A Fall
Maggie McFee, husbandwoman of God’s blooms, wife, and woman of God, first became aware she was not alone in her garden by forceful puffs of a great moist breathiness sounding close to her ear.
She had been weeding, cultivating, and plucking on her hands and knees for an hour in absolute solitude. She had fallen into a prayerful reverie without thought of another living soul. Startled nearly out of her wits, she rose off her hands and spun around just in time to see the black-and-white face of their aging, faithful cow take a huge mouthful of tasty yellow-and-orange nasturtiums.
“Flora!” she exclaimed. “What on earth . . . I heard nothing of your footsteps.”
Momentarily confused, thinking perhaps she had lost track of time, Maggie glanced up at the sun. “But it’s not time for you to be coming back—”
Suddenly she saw the tether hanging loose from the great neck onto the ground.
Anxiety at once replaced her confusion.
“Flora,” she said, rising and quickly glancing all around the garden and house toward the barn, “where’s my Bobby?”
Having discovered a treat more flavorful than her oats, and busily engaged in gulping down as much of the patch as she could, Flora did not answer.
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