Wayward Winds (46 page)

 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.

“Bobby . . . Bobby!” cried Maggie, “—where are you, my man . . . Bobby?”

Already Flora felt the tug at her neck indicating that the serendipitous dessert was over. As quickly as she was able, Maggie urged the animal's huge phlegmatic bulk into motion and led her to the barn, calling and looking out frantically as she went.

The moment Flora was safe in her stall—it was obvious from a quick shout and glance about that Bobby was nowhere to be seen—Maggie flew to the house.

“Bobby, Bobby,” she cried, “please be here . . . where are you, Bobby!”

But the house was as empty as the barn and the yard.

She hurried back outside as fast as she was able. But Maggie herself was seventy-six, and though in perfect health was already tiring from the exertion and mounting anxiety.

Now she made for the little pasture between the cottage and the village where on most days of the spring and summer Flora could be found grazing on Devonshire grass rather than nasturtiums.

The way was not hard to find. A well-worn dirt path led from the back of the barn, through a light wooded region for about half a mile, emerging into an open series of pastures and fields, at the edge of one of which sat Bobby's two fenced acres.

Nor did she have to seek long for her husband. Reaching a narrow wood footbridge, without railings over the small stream which also provided Flora's pasture its water, she heard a dull moan from somewhere below.

“Bobby . . . Bobby, is that you!” she cried, stopping midway across it.

Again the moan sounded, this time a little louder.

Maggie glanced frantically about, then down below where she stood on the bridge. There was Bobby lying half in the middle of the stream!

She ran back off the bridge, then scrambled down the embankment, which thankfully was not particularly steep or rugged, to Bobby's prostrate form.

“Bobby, my dear man,” she cried, kneeling beside him and smothering his face in kisses,—”what ails you?”

“'Tis aye good t' see ye, lass,” he breathed, closing his eyes in relief at sight of another human face.

“But, Bobby, how on earth did you wind up down here!”

“Flora gave me a wee bump as I was leadin' her across, an' the next thing I knew I was tumblin' down an' couldn't stop meself.” His voice was weak and came in short puffs.

“Well, you dear man—let me help you to your feet,” said Maggie, placing an arm under one of his shoulders and trying to lift his frail form.

“Nay, nay, lass,” he said, “'tis no use. If the leg isn't broke, 'tis jist as useless t' me now as if it were.”

For the first time Maggie noticed how pale his face was. His skin was cold and clammy.

“Oh, Bobby, Bobby . . . what can we do!”

“Go fer Master Charles an' Lady Jocelyn. They'll know what t' do.”

“But I can't leave you.”

“Ye got no choice, lass. At least the leg's in the cool o' the stream. Now go, lass. But give me one last kiss t' sustain me.”

Maggie's only disobedience was in that she gave ten instead of one, then turned and scrambled up the bank and ran for the Hall as fast as her old heart and tired legs would take her.