Heathersleigh Homecoming (14 page)

 22 
Telegram

The communiqué which arrived at Nr. 42 Ebendorfer Strasse in Vienna contained unexpected news.

“I was certain Matteos would find out something,” said Hartwell Barclay enthusiastically, handing the telegram around the table. Ramsay scanned it quickly.

REPORT FROM SWISS BORDER INDICATES CROSSING OF TWO WOMEN, ONE ANSWERING DESCRIPTION SUPPLIED, AT COMO. PASSPORTS IN NAMES GERTRUT OSWALD, AUSTRIAN, AND GRETCHEN REINHARDT, SWISS. DESTINATION UNKNOWN.

“Switzerland!” exclaimed Ramsay. “What possible reason would she have to cross the Swiss border?”

“Obviously because Switzerland is neutral,” replied Mrs. Halifax. “It is, however, a curious change in the direction of her travels,” she added, her brow wrinkling in thought.

“No matter,” said Barclay. “This means she is not yet back to England.”

“
If
she is still in Switzerland,” said Ramsay.

“I have a feeling she is,” rejoined Barclay. “This companion of hers was carrying a Swiss passport. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Ramsay shook his head. “As far as I know, Amanda has never been to Switzerland before. Why do you say
companion
? Perhaps they just crossed the border at the same time.”

“Matteos seems to indicate there is more to it than mere coincidence.”

“Nevertheless, the other name means nothing to me.”

“As long as she does not reach France,” Barclay went on, “I think our chances of nabbing her remain excellent. I shall notify Matteos
to follow up on this lead immediately. Interrogations at the border and with railway personnel at the Milan station ought to reveal the destination.”

“I was just in Milan.”

“Yes, and it appears you shall have to return.”

“But I did not find a trace of her,” insisted Ramsay.

“It would appear she was closer than you realized.”

“We don't know that,” argued Ramsay, not appreciating the implication.

“If they crossed the border in Como, they had to have taken the train north from Milan. If we can learn their destination, Matteos will see to the rest.”

 23 
New Story and Discussion

Later that week the sisters and their guest gathered for another evening of reading at the Chalet of Hope.

During the intervening days there had been a great deal of discussion, and most favored the continuation of the story recently completed.

“All right, so is it decided that we will continue on with the sequel?” said Marjolaine.

“Yes . . . yes,” chimed in several voices at once.

“I thought so,” she laughed. “I must admit, I am in agreement. We did have it in our library, I am happy to say. In fact, I have it right here.”

Sister Marjolaine pulled out the volume and opened it to the first page. She began reading immediately:

It was one of those exquisite days that come in every winter, in which it seems no longer the dead body, but the lovely ghost of summer. Such a day bears to its sister of the happier time something of the relation the marble statue bears to the living form; the sense it awakes of beauty is more abstract, more ethereal; it lifts the soul into a higher region than will summer day of lordliest splendour. It is like the love that loss has purified.

Such, however, were not the thoughts that at the moment occupied the mind of Malcolm Colonsay. Indeed, the loveliness of the morning was but partially visible from the spot where he stood—the stable-yard of Lossie House, ancient and roughly paved . . .

“Have you ever noticed how many of the Scotsman's books open with some discussion of the weather?” interrupted Sister Anika.

“I have noticed that, now that you mention it,” rejoined Sister Hope.

“I have wondered if it was a means he found comfortable of getting into the mood of his setting, as an author himself, I mean, before actually beginning with his story.”

“A plausible theory.”

“My favorite is the curate's beginning,” Anika went on.
“A swift gray November wind
had taken every chimney of the house for an organ-
pipe, and was roaring in them all at once, quelling the more distant and varied noises of the woods, which moaned and surged like the sea.”

“I must say, I am impressed,” said Marjolaine. “Do you have the whole book memorized!”

Anika laughed. “No, only the first little bit. I am fond of openings and first lines.”

“That is a good one,” said Regina. “It sets a mood instantly.”

“And Annie's is a great one too,” continued Anika.
“—
The farmyard was full of the light of a summer noontide. Nothing can be so desolately dreary as full strong
sunlight can be. Not a living creature was to be
seen in all the square enclosure.”

“We won't have to read ever again,” laughed Sister Gretchen. “Sister Anika can quote our books from memory!”

As Amanda listened, not only to the book itself, but to the tangential and spontaneous discussions that arose, she was reminded how similar the whole mental environment here was to Heathersleigh. Her father and mother discussed everything too, and could never read a story for long without pausing for comment.

“Back to the book,” laughed Marjolaine. She began again.

The yard was a long and wide space, with two-storied buildings on all sides of it. In the centre of one of them rose the clock, and the morning sun shone red on its tarnished gold. It was an ancient clock, but still capable of keeping good time—good enough, at least, for all the requirements of the house, even when the family was at home, seeing it never stopped, and the church clock was always ordered by it.

It not only set the time, but seemed also to set the fashion of the place, for the whole aspect of it was one of wholesome, weather-beaten, time-worn existence . . .

As she read, Amanda took in Sister Marjolaine's features. She was the smallest of the sisters, about three inches less than five feet in height, and of slightly built frame, with high-pitched voice to
match. A stranger, first hearing her speak or seeing her from some distance, might almost take her for a child. Yet already Amanda had come to recognize her as one of the most level-headed and mature women at the chalet. In fact, she was thirty-nine years of age and had been here longer than all but two or three others. Her wavy hair of light brown was parted in the middle and combed down on each side, bordering a face of creamy white complexion, out of which shone two expressive eyes of dark brown. Her mannerisms, like her stature, were dainty. Her mind, however, was just the opposite, expansive and always reaching higher. How well-suited indeed she was for this place she had made her home. In her presence one always had the sense of walking through high mountainous mental vistas, from which she was ever peering to see farther and farther. Her mind never dwelt in valleys but made its home in the high places of thought and imagination.

Again Amanda's attention came back to the book and Sister Marjolaine's voice.

. . . One of the good things that accompany good blood is that its possessor does not much mind a shabby coat. Tarnish and lichens and water-wearing, a wavy house-ridge, and a few families of worms in the wainscot do not annoy the marquis as they do the city man who has just bought a little place in the country. An old tree is venerable, and an old picture precious to the soul, but an old house, on which has been laid none but loving and respectful hands, is dear to the very heart. Even an old barn door, with the carved initials of hinds and maidens of vanished centuries, has a place of honour in the cabinet of the poet's brain. It was centuries since Lossie House had begun to grow shabby—and beautiful; and he to whom it now belonged was not one to discard the reverend for the neat, or let the vanity of possession interfere with the grandeur of inheritance.

Sister Marjolaine paused. Now it was her turn—always the prerogative of the reader—to reflect upon what she had just read.

The discussions which accompanied the reading of most books under the chalet's roof doubled or tripled the time it took to get through them, and doubled or tripled the enjoyment of the literary experience.

“Don't you appreciate the authors who aren't in such a hurry to get on with the story?” she said after a moment. “It is as Sister Anika
pointed out—beginning with the weather and setting the mood. I love a nice slow opening. Some might complain, I suppose, at the leisurely pace. But don't you enjoy this diversion he makes, discussing the beauty and value of old things?”

Sister Marjolaine read again the description about old things.

“But it might have to do with the story, you know,” said Agatha. “You know how clues planted early aren't recognized for clues until later.”

“True enough,” rejoined Marjolaine. “Yet at the same time, the men and women who wrote in the last century didn't mind pausing in mid-narrative simply to reflect on something they were interested in, just like we do when we stop to talk about what we read. To my mind it makes their books so much richer and more varied.”

“But the Scotsman is a masterful planter of clues.”

“Then we shall just have to keep our eyes on these and see if he does anything with them later on,” said Sister Marjolaine. Again she continued on, this time reading uninterrupted for an hour.

When at last she closed the volume with a bookmark in place and set it on her lap, the story was well begun. A few contented sighs sounded. Sister Hope rose.

“More tea anyone?” she asked. “I think I shall brew another pot.”

“How did these readings and discussions come about among you?” asked Amanda. “My parents used to read aloud in my family too. But then I suppose I sort of outgrew it.”

“Outgrew reading?” Marjolaine exclaimed in her high soprano. “Impossible. Some people lose interest, but you can never
outgrow
a good book.”

“That wasn't exactly what I meant,” Amanda replied. “I think I began to find my father's intrusions irritating.”

“Do you mean he interrupted stories to talk about them—like we do?”

Amanda nodded.

“And you didn't like it?” Marjolaine asked. “Why ever not?”

Amanda shrugged.

“It is the discussions that make it so enjoyable,” said Anika.

“But, Sister Marjolaine, what about Amanda's question about how we began our reading nights?” Hope called out from the kitchen. “I would like to hear how you would answer it.”