“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.
103
Muhamed Mehmedbasic
In fear and uncertainty, Amanda said little for the next two days. She hardly ate.
In the early-morning hours three nights later she was awakened by sounds from below. Someone had just entered by the side-street door and an argument was in progress in the small parlor adjacent to the entry.
Amanda rose, threw a robe around her, stole from her room, and crept silently along the corridor toward the stairway, up which she heard the voices clearly enough. She knew them immediately. It was Hartwell Barclay and Gavrilo Princip’s friend, the Herzegovinian Muslim Muhamed Mehmedbasic.
“Mehmedbasic, are you crazy, coming here like this!” Barclay had just said. He was trying to keep his voice low, but he was clearly angry. “You cannot stay here. We can offer you no refuge. Every Austrian policeman in the country is looking for you. If they find you, we will all be shot.”
“Relax, they’re not going to find me. They think I am still in Montenegro.”
“News of your escape reached us. How did you manage it?”
“The guards allowed me to escape,” laughed the Muslim. “They did not want to extradite me to Vienna.”
“Yes, you fool, and you are
in Vienna now!”
“Precisely where they will never think of looking for me—under the very noses of the Austrian dogs.”
“Watch your tongue, Mehmedbasic. What do you want? You cannot stay here.”
“I only need a place to stay for two or three days. All the others are in jail.”
“You cannot remain here,” insisted Barclay.
“I want passage to England.”
“Do others know of us?” said Barclay, ignoring his statement. “Have you been so free with your tongue about us as I hear you were about the conspiracy?”
“Only those who are friends.”
“You fool—you have placed us all in danger.”
“You were well known to be in support of Mlada Bosna.”
“You are an imbecile—we supported no assassination!”
“You try to play both sides, Barclay—you and your kind. You hoped to precipitate an event so that Austria would go to war without dirtying your own hands. I know your game.”
“That’s nonsense, Mehmedbasic. We never had anything to do with madmen like you.”
“Nevertheless, I want passage to England. I can disappear there.”
“That’s insane. How do you expect me to arrange something like that? Haven’t you heard—your little affair in Sarajevo started a war.”
“You can arrange it, Barclay.”
“I have no contacts left. I burned my bridges. They know about me.”
“Yes, and I know about your Lighthouse.”
“What lighthouse?” Barclay shot back.
“Don’t play games with me, Barclay. I know about the whole scheme, about your network to move people in and out of England. They’re closing the net on us all. I’m the only one left. I’ll blow your secret little operation wide open if you don’t get me on one of your tubs.”
“All right, all right, you win. I’ll see what I can do.”
The voices went silent. A minute later Amanda heard their steps coming her way below the landing. Quickly she retreated toward her room.
“Stay in your room,” Barclay was saying. “You must not be seen. Everything you need will be brought to you. I will see what might be arranged.”
104
Coming of Life
Charles sat at the bedside of his lifelong friend and neighbor and spiritual mentor, dozing intermittently in the chair he and others of the vigil had shared at Bobby’s side every minute of the past two or three days.
Catharine, Jocelyn, and Maggie were in the other room. Catharine had arrived a few minutes before to take her morning shift with Maggie so that Jocelyn, who had been at the cottage most of the night, could return to the Hall for a few hours sleep.
A sound came. Charles started slightly and opened his eyes.
“Ay, ’tis a bright light cummin,’” whispered a feeble voice beside him.
“Do you need some water?” Charles asked, sitting up and turning toward the bed.
Bobby appeared not to hear him. Charles rose and immediately went for Maggie.
Maggie knew from the look on Charles’ face that the moment had come. Her hand went to the trembling lip of her mouth as she rushed to Bobby’s side.
“Catharine,” said Jocelyn, “go for George. Tell him to ride for the doctor, then both of you hurry back here.”
Already Catharine was out the door.
Charles put his arm around Jocelyn and they waited a few moments, then slowly followed Maggie into the bedroom. She was leaning toward the bed with her face close to Bobby’s. They heard faint words coming from the bed, though there was no other sign of life.
“ . . . don’t ye fret fer me, Maggie me doo. I’m ay a happy man, an’ I’ve had a happy life shared with ye. Ye’re all a man could hope fer.”
The voice was barely audible, what remained of the strength of its owner nearly spent with the simple expression of love. Maggie wept freely.
“Bobby . . . Bobby, you can’t leave me yet. You will—”
“Lass, ’tis time the Master is wantin’ me,” whispered Bobby. “He’s calling me t’ his home now. Ye mustn’t be anxious. ’Tis time I was leavin’ yers, an’ becummin’ one o’ the blossoms in his garden.”
He closed his eyes and appeared to sleep for a while.
Catharine returned in twenty-five minutes. George arrived in forty. Jocelyn dozed in a chair in the sitting room. Charles read his Bible.
Presently Maggie entered. Her face was pale.
“Master Charles,” she said. “Bobby wants you . . . he wants you all.”
Instantly the four Rutherfords were on their feet and followed her.
As they walked in, Bobby’s eyes were open, bright, and alive. He appeared more full of life than he had for months, as he truly was, for Life was rapidly approaching.
“Master Charles,” he said as he saw Charles, stretching out a thin hand. Charles took it. “He wants me t’ tell ye that ye’re well on yer way t’ the sonship of yer callin.’ Ye faced the deepest agony a man can face—the rejection of his love by one of his own. But ye must ne’er forget why he gives some t’ walk that painful road—’tis so ye can know his own father’s heart a wee deeper than most. ’Cause havena we all done the same t’ his own Father’s love? So take comfort that ye have a deeper share in the divine grief o’ creation. Don’t lose heart, Master Charles . . . ye’re his man, an’ ye must be strong an’ o’ good courage, ’cause he’ll overcome the world in the end.”
Charles nodded and squeezed the white palm gently. He could not speak, however, for the fullness of his heart. Tears streamed down his face.
“Lady Jocelyn,” whispered Bobby, now taking her hand as he had Charles, “‘ye mustn’t give up hope fer yer wayward lass. She’s his as much now as the day she was born an’ ye held her wee form in yer arms. He knows yer pain. He’s kept every one o’ yer mother’s tears in his heart. An’ with them he’s waterin’ the seed in Amanda’s own soul, so that one day ’twill bear the good fruit that the ill one tries to make ye give up on. So keep prayin,’ Lady Jocelyn, an’ keep weepin’ when ye need to, ’cause none of it’s wasted. But weep with thanksgiving, fer yer prayers are the sun, an’ yer tears are the rain, an’ the Master won’t forget a single one o’ them. He’ll cause them t’ do their work on that wee seed that ye an’ Master Charles planted long ago an’ is still growin’ in the lass’s heart.”
Jocelyn wept freely as he spoke.
“Ye don’t know where she is,” Bobby added. “But he knows, an’ he’s aye keepin’ watch so that when the time comes, an’ she’s ready, he’ll lead her back t’ ye.”
“Thank you . . . thank you, Bobby,” wept Jocelyn. “I will treasure every word you have said.”
“Miss Catharine,” continued Bobby, “ye’re a joy t’ the Master’s heart fer ye have a pure an’ trustin’ spirit. But ye’re young, lass. Winds an’ storms’ll aye cum t’ shake an’ test that purity an’ that trust, as they do t’ all. Be strong when they do, lass. Don’t listen t’ the lies o’ the ill one. The pure always have their reward, though the world’ll tell them they’re fools. Their reward is t’ see God—there can be no greater thing than that. So be strong, lass, as ye grow. Be God’s daughter all yer days, just like me own Maggie.”
He released Catharine’s hand. With it she wiped both eyes several times as she stepped back from the bed.
“Master George,” now said Bobby, reaching for George’s hand in its turn, “ye’re a fine young man t’ do yer parents an’ yer God proud. But like I said t’ the lass, temptations are sure t’ visit ye, fer they visit us all as we grow. Don’t satisfy yerself, Master George, with a middlin’ kind o’ belief, but stand tall with a man’s faith. An’ when the temptations cum, send them back where they cum from, an’ say, ‘I’m God’s man, an’ I’ll listen t’ none o’ yer lies!’ Be strong o’ faith, Master George, an’ o’ stout heart like yer father.”
George stepped back.
Bobby’s face had grown pale. The exertions of the four speeches had c
learly taxed him. He laid his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out. All five watched silently . . . and waited.
At length Bobby’s eyes again opened a crack. Though his head could scarcely move, he appeared to glance about. When his eyes located Maggie, a thin smile came to his lips.
“Maggie, me doo . . .” he began. His voice was noticeably weaker than before.
Charles nodded to the others. They quietly left the room.
Five minutes later they heard a burst of sobs. Charles and Jocelyn sprang from their chairs and together reentered the bedroom. Maggie knelt beside the bed. Bobby’s eyes were closed, but his mouth yet remained open a crack in the midst of whatever word had been on his tongue. Lingering traces of a final smile remained on his lips, nor had the glow yet altogether faded from his face.
They knew he was gone.
They waited another moment or two, then approached, took Maggie’s two hands in theirs, and gently lifted her to her feet.
Each of the three then said a final good-bye to the man they loved with a kiss on the warm face, Jocelyn on the top of Bobby’s bare shiny head, Charles on his wasted, whiskered cheek, and Maggie on the half-parted but now unresponsive lips.
Two minutes later the doctor arrived. It was another calling than his, however, that was needed now.
Maggie spent the next three nights at the Hall.
Timothy Diggorsfeld was sent for that same day to perform the farewell celebration.
For three days all Milverscombe mourned.
On the fourth day arrived occasion to rejoice—not in death, but for life.
By the appearance of the funeral, a stranger to the region would have concluded that nothing less than a duke had passed on. Never even had a full royal funeral been filled with such an outpouring of feeling for a man. It is not many communities who honor the simplest and best of their folk in such a manner, but this one did. The loss of the humble man of the cottage was felt by every man, woman, and child of the region, and those who had been there long enough to remember the rumors which had circulated about him years before could no more even remember the slightest cause for them.
Wayward Winds Page 40
