Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  Word of her hasty marriage had been like the blow of a thousand freight trains crashing into him, crushing what remained of his hope, grinding the dreams of his father’s heart to powder beneath their cruel, thundering wheels. He had continued to pray but felt so like the man who cried unto the Lord, “I believe . . . help my unbelief.”

  Suddenly on this morning, however, as he and George departed Scapa Flow, he felt a new vibrancy of hope coming to life within him.

  Hope!

  How long since he had felt anything like true hope on Amanda’s behalf? Whatever may have been happening within Amanda—and he didn’t even know where she was or what impact the war was having on her—all at once God seemed to be answering his “help-my-unbelief” prayer.

  “Oh, God . . . God,” he sighed, “what can I pray that I have not prayed a hundred times before . . . ?”

  As was so often the case, his prayers gave over to deep sighs of fatherly affection and entreaty to Amanda herself, which constantly intermingled with his anguished cries to their mutual Father.

  “Amanda . . . Amanda,” said Charles, “my dear Amanda . . . what will make you awake at last to the love in my heart for you . . . ?

  “Wake her, Lord . . . wake her, I beseech you. Bring her home . . . at last bring her home.”

  He fell silent for a time, continuing to stare into the chilly morning with the breeze of the ship’s motion on his face, encouraged to pray again with boldness. He recalled to mind Jesus’ words to his disciples, “You have not, because you ask not.”

  “Continue, Lord,” Charles began to whisper again, “to send arrows of clarity into Amanda’s heart and brain, flashes of insight and memory. Help her remember that life was good at Heathersleigh, that we loved her and that there was a time when she loved us. Help her remember the past as it really was, not as she has been told by those who would remold her memories and contort them into a fiction. Give her insight to recognize the wedge they have driven between her and us to lure her loyalty to them and thus satisfy their own pride.

  “Restore her memory accurately, Lord. Rescue her from this deception. Turn her heart toward home. Give her the courage to turn from the falsehood she has embraced. Open her mind with clarity to see that she has only been a pawn in the Fountain’s hand.”

  As Charles prayed, his hope grew. With hope came a commitment to redouble his prayers and not to allow his newfound hope to fade.

  “God,” he said, praying now for himself, “give me courage to pray believing that answers are already on the way to my daughter even before the words are out of my mouth.

  “Oh, Lord, I ask that you answer our prayers for Amanda, not on the basis of my own faith, which is so small even now, but on the basis of your faithfulness. I am so weak. Forgive me, Lord, for my unbelief—for my doubting and untrusting heart. But I know you are sovereign, and that your love for your wayward children—myself as well as Amanda—and your determination to bring them all home to your heart do not depend on my tiny faith, but are rooted in your faithfulness in the midst of our weakness.”

  He drew in a deep breath of the tangy salt air.

  “I thank you, Father, for this mounting sense of hope you have given me. I thank you for the conviction that Amanda is already in the process of turning toward home. May it be swift, Lord. Send people to help her in her homeward journey. Send those who would be true friends to her prodigal heart and who would urge her homegoing. Fill her path with your people, Lord.

  “Oh, God, cover my weakness with your perfect Fatherhood. May Amanda’s recollection of my imperfect carrying out of my fatherly charge be no longer a source of resentment within her. May it turn her the more deeply to you, as all imperfect earthly fatherhood is intended to do.

  “And may Amanda not only seek home, but may her heart turn toward you, dear Lord. Above all things, may she seek you as her Father. Teach her to trust you and love you far beyond what she ever will me. My fatherhood was strewn with mistakes, for I am but a weak man like all men, and an imperfect father like all earthly fathers. But you are the perfect Father.

  “And I ask you to be the perfect Father to my dear Amanda.”

  Almost the same instant that his heart filled with peace and his lips became silent, Charles heard footsteps approaching behind him. He recognized their sound.

  The form of a young midshipman strode up and stood beside him. The two stood gazing forward for a few moments of quiet contemplation.

  “I went to your cabin,” said George at length. “When you were not there, I knew where I would find you.”

  “You do know me well, my boy,” smiled Charles affectionately.

  “We have twenty minutes before drills begin. I hadn’t seen you since we departed. I thought I would see how you are doing.”

  “Never better, George,” replied Charles. “Nothing like the excitement of setting to sea!”

  “What have you been thinking about up here?”

  “The adventure you and I are embarking on,” answered Charles. “And your mother, of course . . . and then I began praying for Amanda. How about you, George? What are you thinking about.”

  “Lieutenant Forbes keeps us too busy to think!” George laughed.

  “I told you he was a good man!” rejoined his father.

  “I suppose I am excited too,” said George. “I cannot know what the future holds. But sailing at dawn stirs one’s blood for adventure.”

  “Spoken like a true twenty-six-year-old!” laughed Charles. “Alas, we are not bound in search of gold on the Spanish main but to fight the Germans. Not so romantic in this modern day, I suppose, but necessary.”

  Father and son fell silent. Charles stretched his arm around George’s powerfully built but slender frame, then gave his back two affectionate pats.

  They stood another moment or two, then George spoke again.

  “I suppose I ought to be getting back,” he said.

  “I’ll see you this evening, George, my boy. Thanks for coming to find me—I appreciate it.”

  George turned and strode away, leaving Charles alone again at the bow. He glanced about to the right and left and drew in another deep breath. Nothing in all the world felt like sea air in the nostrils and lungs!

  The lighthouse on shore had by now faded from his view.

  28

  Milan Again

  Ramsay Halifax scanned the menu of the Sans Souci Restaurant at the Eliseo Hotel in Milan. A few moments later he had ordered an expensive bottle of white wine to accompany abbacchio alla cacciatora.

  He resented this whole business. He didn’t know whom to be angrier at—Barclay or Amanda. But here he was at the mercy of both. It could not be helped. So he might as well enjoy himself to what extent was possible so far from anywhere. At least there were not yet too many reminders of the war here in Italy. He had telegrammed Adriane to see if she might join him. Her presence would certainly make the trip worthwhile. But he had heard nothing back.

  Forty minutes later, as he was finishing his meal, he glanced up to see a man approaching the table.

  “Are you Halifax?” the stranger asked in perfect English.

  “I am. You must be Matteos.”

  “That’s right.”

  He sat down opposite Ramsay and pulled out several papers.

  “I have been working on, shall we call it, your difficulty,” he said. “I have many contacts, in the governments of all the countries which may concern us, including Switzerland and France. Since notifying you of the crossing by train at the border north of Como, the party you are looking for has not appeared again.”

  “She is no party, you idiot, she is my wife.”

  “Barclay did not tell me you had a rude tongue,” replied Matteos calmly, lifting one eyebrow toward Ramsay in annoyance. “No matter—my best information still places her in Switzerland.”

  “Where in Switzerland?”

  “That you will have to find out on your own, Mr. Halifax. As you will see,” he went on, unfolding a map of
the region and spreading it out on the table across from Ramsay, “I have noted the likely train routes. From Como north, as you can see, the probable destination is Luzern. At that point they could either have gone north to Zurich or Basel, or south to Bern. I have circled the likely location as things stand at present.”

  Ramsay scanned the map briefly but was unimpressed.

  “What good does a circle covering hundreds of square miles do me?” he exclaimed. “This map is useless.”

  “All investigations must start somewhere, Mr. Halifax. Yours began with nothing, as I understand it. Now there is this circle on this map. You must narrow it down.”

  “How?”

  “By tracing the Reinhardt woman apparently traveling with your, er . . . party?”

  He glanced toward Ramsay with another slow upturn of his eyebrow as he emphasized the word. Ramsay let it pass.

  “If she is Swiss, in time she will be found,” he added.

  “Found . . . how?”

  “I will arrange a meeting for you in Luzern with a resourceful fellow by the name of Fabrini Scarlino. He is half-Swiss, half-Italian, speaks both languages and every local dialect fluently, and is probably by this time in the employ of both the Entente and the Alliance to spy on one another. He is, shall we say, a very unusual man. He has far more contacts in Switzerland than I. Given enough time, he can find out almost anything. He has already been apprised of the situation, and should be at work on it even as we speak. I have done what I can. Now it will be up to the two of you.”

  “Is he a member of the Fountain?” asked Ramsay.

  “He is a member of nothing,” replied Matteos. “His only loyalty is to himself.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Of course I don’t trust him. He would slit my throat as soon as do me a favor. But as I say, he is extremely resourceful in such matters. For a price he can find anyone, or do anything. You will not be disappointed. You have money, I take it?”

  “That will not be a problem.”

  “And a weapon?”

  Now it was Ramsay’s turn to eye the man carefully.

  “I have a short-barrel nine-millimeter Luger,” he answered after a moment.

  Matteos took in the fact, nodded significantly, then looked Ramsay in the eye seriously.

  “Make no mistake, Mr. Halifax,” he said. “The man is dangerous. Watch yourself every moment. Do nothing to anger him. A Luger in your vest pocket must not lull you into a false sense of security.”

  “I’ve been around that type plenty of times before,” replied Ramsay.

  “I warn you—guard your tongue. A careless word to him, such as you have spoken to me this evening, and you will find yourself buried in next year’s glacial pack in the Swiss Alps.”

  “Don’t worry,” insisted Ramsay, still too casually to suit his companion.

  “Mr. Halifax . . . believe me, there is no one like Scarlino. I urge you, do not take my warnings lightly.”

  29

  Dream Turned Nightmare

  A week passed at the Chalet of Hope. The snow gradually melted but was longer doing so than before.

  The Alpine air filled with fragrant reminders that winter was nearly at hand and the next snows to fall would probably lie on the ground until April or May. Final prewinter chores of preparation were set about with increased diligence. The last of the feed and supplies for the animals was brought in and stored away, as well as provision for the human element of the chalet. Everyone worked hard, and most days ended in contented exhaustion. Sister Gretchen chopped several cords of firewood, reactivating several persistent blisters on both hands, but declared she never felt better than when her hands were stiff and her muscles ached from hard physical work.

  But with the first major snowfall, which could now arrive anytime, all but the most essential outside activities—the most needful of which would be to keep walkways shoveled between house and barn and other outbuildings—would be curtailed. Then would arrive the season for dressing warm and catching up on reading, sewing, knitting, embroidery, and numerous inside projects. A large workroom they called the dairy, which sat next to the kitchen and opened to the outside in the direction of the barn, would continue to see some activity, namely cheese and butter production for another month.

  Amanda contributed to these preparations for the winter months with energy and enthusiasm. Never had she worked so hard or enjoyed it so much. Several of the sisters noted that her strength was improved, and the robust color of health shone on her cheeks. How good it felt, Amanda thought, to sweat from honest activity, to push and strain and lift and carry to the limit of strength, then to bathe when the day’s work was done and dress in a clean warm housedress, glowing with hard-earned fatigue. It was a new experience. She found herself relishing it.

  One evening after supper, the ten sat before the fireplace, a few reading quietly, several others engaged in various needlework projects. Sister Luane, the only other temporary resident at the chalet, though she had now been in Wengen nearly a year, spoke up.

  “Sister Hope,” she said, “I have been curious ever since you told us last week about the orphanage and your going to work for the mission board . . . how you ended up here at the chalet.”

  Two or three of the other sisters looked up from their books and laps and glanced at one another. They knew it to be a painful story.

  “It has been a long day,” said Sister Gretchen. “Perhaps we might read from a devotional tonight and save that for another time.” As she spoke, Gretchen looked over just in time to see Hope glance briefly toward Amanda, who was sitting beside her on the couch. Gretchen half suspected what her friend was thinking.

  “No, Sister Gretchen,” replied Hope. “Thank you . . . I know you are being considerate of me. But I think I would like to explain to Sister Luane how the Lord led me here.”

  Those who had them slowly set down their books, though several pairs of knitting needles continued busy in their owners’ hands. After a minute or two of thoughtful silence, Sister Hope began.

  ————

  The day Klaus Guinarde walked into the office to receive his final missionary training before being sent out into the field was one which would change Hope’s life forever.

  By then she had been working in the London office of the Baptist Missionary Society for several years and was still living in the extra room in Mrs. Weldon’s house. She had learned to find satisfaction in her duties and to be thankful for them. But the foreign mission field remained her dream.

  From the border region of southeastern France below Geneva near the Swiss border, Guinarde spoke fluent French and German, with English colorfully tinged with flavors of both. It was not long before the handsome young Frenchman with the blond hair and accented tongue and the orphaned English secretary were in love.

  Klaus would happily have delayed his departure in order to court Hope. But as she had no home nor family, neither of them saw reason to delay their marriage. The ceremony took place three months later, with all the mission board and two or three of Hope’s orphanage acquaintances in attendance.

  At last her dream seemed about to be fulfilled. Hope was a missionary wife and ready to begin her own training. She and Klaus would be sent to the mission field together, as a husband-and-wife team.

  It was one of the happiest days in all her twenty-five years, after their joint missionary training was completed, when Klaus announced:

  “Hope darling, they have given us our assignment! We are being sent to New Zealand to establish a mission in the Wanganui jungle among the Maori natives.”

  “Oh, that is so exciting!” replied Hope, “—to think that we will be establishing a brand-new work!”

  “After living accommodations, our first job will be to construct a small chapel.”

  “How will we do it?”

  “With the help of the Maoris. We must earn their confidence and trust.”

  Klaus paused.

  “But there will be dangers, Hope,�
�� he added after a moment or two. “It will not be an easy life.”

  “I know, Klaus,” replied Hope. “But it is what I have wanted for so long.”

  ————

  Sister Hope’s voice fell silent. Sitting beside her, Amanda waited.

  “As you may have guessed,” Hope went on after a moment, and her tone was noticeably subdued, “the danger was far greater than my youthful idealism imagined. I was, you must remember, still a relatively new believer, and subject to that normal tendency of young people in general, and of young Christians, to see things in their most utopian manner.”

  “What happened?” asked Amanda.

  “It was a wonderful first couple of years,” replied Hope. “The work went well. The chapel was built. The native people seemed to be responding to us. I developed several treasured friendships with the Maori women. It was a marvelous time. I could not have been happier. And to tell people who live in huts and have no conception whatsoever of the modern world—to tell them of God the Father’s love, about the cross and the shed blood of Jesus our Savior . . . then to lead them to salvation in Christ . . . to hear them pray in their native tongue—it is like no thrill in the world. And to increase my happiness all the more, I became pregnant. It was truly everything I had ever wanted.”

  Again Sister Hope paused.

  “But then disaster suddenly struck. The witch doctor of the village turned against us. They burned the church and the rest of our buildings. My husband was killed.”