Heathersleigh Homecoming (18 page)

 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.”

Both Amanda and Sister Luane gasped in shock. Neither had expected the sudden tragedy, and Hope uttered the startling words so abruptly and in such a matter-of-fact tone.

“Killed?”
repeated Luane. “You . . . you must have been—what about you . . . were you not there at the time?”

“No, I was there. He hid me in a cellar just moments before the attack came.”

She went on to tell of the ordeal in more detail.

“And your . . .” Amanda said.

“Yes, and I lost my baby.”

Sister Hope smiled. “She would have been just about your age, Amanda,” she added softly.

“I am so sorry,” said Amanda, recovering from the sudden and unexpected change in the story. She reached out and placed a hand on Hope's arm.

It was a simple gesture, but of great significance in that realm where eternal battles are won and lost in the tiny exchanges which pass during the course of a day mostly unnoticed. The tender heart of a compassionate woman was slowly coming alive within Amanda's soul. She had
reached out
to comfort another living being in her sorrow, the very woman who had given refuge and comfort to her own aloneness. In so doing had she set a new course for her own future.

“What happened then?” Amanda asked.

“Eventually I returned to London,” answered Hope.

“But how did you escape from the Maoris?” asked Luane.

“I was in the cellar for two days,” Hope replied, “terrified and alone. Finally I summoned the courage to break my way out. Since Klaus had not returned, I feared the worst. I heard him putting a chest or something over the trapdoor after he made me go inside. It
took all my strength, standing on the ladder, to dislodge it. I think it was the struggle to do so that sent me into premature labor.”

“And when you . . .”

“What met my eyes when I climbed out was so ghastly, I shall never forget it.”

————

As the young pregnant missionary woman finally managed to push up the trapdoor, what remained of the chest above it crashed over.

Slowly she lifted the door and climbed up into the light of day. But she did not find herself in her former home as she expected, but in the smoldering ruins of a dream now gone up in smoke.

Mercifully, she did not immediately see her husband's body, dead now two days.

How she managed to survive those next horrifying hours she hardly knew. The natives were already feeling pangs of remorse for what they had done, and for a time their wrath was spent.

There was still food and water in the cellar, by which Hope kept alive. Some of the native women had been watching to see if she might make an appearance. When they saw her, they approached and took her weeping in their arms. They knew well enough that she was in a woman's way, and even the witch doctor was not prepared to murder a white woman in her condition.

The village women assisted her as she gave birth to her child. But the little girl did not survive the night.

The women of the tribe kept her safe until the British troops arrived, who had been called in to put down the uprising—which by then had spread throughout the region—and could take her back to Europe.

In England once again, Hope had to rethink everything about her faith, her whole basis for conversion, and whether she really believed God was good at all. This was no everyday trial of minor discouragement. This was heartbreak and tragedy the likes of which altogether broke the faith of many.

How
could
she believe in God's goodness after what had happened?

Over and over, she asked herself what kind of God had she given her life to.

Why should she continue to serve him? How could she tell people
of God's love? Why should she tell people to dedicate themselves to him when he had taken from her everything she held dear? How could she be a missionary ever again?

Such questions began a serious period of reevaluation. If her own faith was wavering, what basis could she possibly have to think of continuing with the mission? By now the great Charles Spurgeon had gone on to be with the Lord he had served. Hope had no one to whom she felt she could go to help her resolve what was becoming a crisis of faith.

Thus she had to go to her heavenly Father himself and wrestle through her future at his throne, and there alone, in her own private closet of prayer.

Eventually the questions went even deeper than her own missionary future. How could she even continue to consider herself a Christian at all after this? Did she even want to be?

————

“It is impossible to describe,” Hope went on, “what it was like for me to sink to such a state. In one way, perhaps, it was even a blacker time of despair than my time at the orphanage. Because now the very thing I thought had delivered me from that earlier hopelessness was destroyed. Inside I felt something slowly ebbing from me, as if the water of life was trickling away and would eventually be gone, and that I would just shrivel up and wither into a pile of dust. For so long I had clung to the hope that someday life would get better. And then I
thought
that hope had been answered in my faith and my marriage.

“Now it was all dashed away. I felt the hope that had sustained me all my life dying in my heart. As it did I almost felt like I was dying along with it. Finally I had to admit defeat, admit that I could hold out no longer, admit that life was cruel and unjust. I came to a point as his friends counseled Job to do, where the only course left was to curse God and die. There was no such thing as hope. Life is cruel . . . and then you die. My name was meaningless . . . it had always been meaningless.”