60 
Stormy Night
Later that same evening, the mood in the chalet continued tearful and quiet. It was reading night. They gathered around the fire, though no one was talkative.
“I don’t think I could bear to read Robinson Crusoe tonight,” said Sister Marjolaine. “It would remind me of Amanda and I would start to cry all over again. I am so afraid for her, that she may be embarking on her own season of shipwreck.”
“Just the thought of her out on a night like tonight,” added Sister Luane, “on the train or in a lonely station somewhere, or in some lonelier hotel in Basel . . . I can hardly bear it.”
“Especially when she could be here with us,” added Sister Agatha.
“We mustn’t lose heart,” said Sister Hope. “Or stop praying. Though she is obviously still trying to run away from her problems, it may be that she is more homeward bound than she realizes. At least such is my prayer. She is on her way toward England, and I pray the Lord will use that fact for good.”
Sister Hope’s words seemed at last to buoy their spirits and enable the sisters to see how good might yet come of Amanda’s leaving.
“So . . . what shall we read?” Hope asked, herself in more hopeful spirits than she had felt all day.
Just then a fierce gust of wind blasted against the windowpanes, nearly setting the whole house to shaking.
“Something stormy,” suggested Galiana.
“Yes, yes—read us one of your stormy stories, Sister Marjolaine,” said Gretchen. “It will take our minds off Amanda and help us enjoy the tempest.”
“What do you suggest, Sister Anika?” Marjolaine asked. “If I know you, you probably have another of the Scotsman’s on the tip of your tongue to fit the occasion that you could probably quote from memory.”
“Not exactly,” laughed Anika. “But I do remember the openings . . . let me think . . .”
Already they were feeling much better. Twenty minutes later, with fresh tea before them, and two new logs crackling in the fire, they again found seats. In the meantime, Anika had made her selection.
“So here is another of the Scotsman’s stories,” she said. “Perhaps we shall not finish it all, but we shall at least enjoy it this evening.” She opened the book and began.
On the night when my story opens, the twilight had long fallen and settled down into the dark. Presently there came a great and sudden blast of wind, which rushed down the chimney and drove smoke into the middle of the room. The howling wind could not shake the cottage, for it lay too low, neither could it rattle its windows—they were not made to open. But it could bellow over it like a wave over a rock, and as if in contempt, blow its smoke back into its throat.
It was a wild and evil night. The wind was rushing from the north, full of sharp stinging particles, something between snowflakes and hailstones. Down it came, into the face of the solitary walker who was still out on the darkness of the moor in a chaos of wind and snow. The young man fighting against the elements did not despair. Rather his spirit rejoiced. Invisible though the wild waste was to him through the snow, it was nevertheless a presence, and his young heart rushed to the contest.
As Anika read, the wind continued to beat upon the chalet, if anything with increasing force. It seemed as if the very words of the book were whipping up their own wind to correspond with the sister storm of the story.
“I hope no one is out like that in our village tonight,” remarked Regina.
“No one will be,” Agatha replied. “No one who lives in these mountains would venture out at this time of year at night with a storm blowing in.”
Sister Anika went on.
The walker fought his way along across the open moor, the greater part of which was still heather and swamp. Peat bog and ploughed land was all one waste of snow. Creation seemed nothing but the snow that had fallen, the snow that was falling, and the snow that had yet to fall.
Back at the cottage, the snow was fast gathering in heaps on the windowsills, on the frames, and every smallest ledge where it could lie. In the midst of the blackness and the roaring wind, the tiny house was being covered with spots of silent whiteness, resting on every projection, every rough edge of wall and roof. All around the wind and snow raved. The clouds that garnered the snow were shaken by mad winds, whirled and tossed and buffeted to make them yield their treasures—
Suddenly a knock sounded. Half of the listeners nearly jumped out of their seats.
“What was that!” exclaimed Gretchen.
“One of your cows again?” said Agatha, turning toward Galiana.
Again came the sharp rapping.
“Someone is at the door,” now said Luane.
They all glanced around. Several shivered. The chalet seemed all at once to have grown very cold. For a moment it was deathly still.
“Who could it be at this hour, and on such a night?” Gretchen wondered.
Again silence fell.
At last Hope rose and walked slowly to the front door. The eyes of the others followed her. Something about the strange knock on such a stormy night had filled them all with a sense of trepidation.
Sister Hope opened the door. She saw two unlikely strangers standing before her in the darkness. The reflection of the light from inside revealed a few snow flurries beginning behind them. From where Gretchen sat in the big room, she could see one of the faces plainly. Her eyes opened wide in recognition.
It was the man she had noticed in the train station in Milan!
Instantly she realized the presence of these men meant danger. She knew just as surely that her friend was likely to reveal too much, and perhaps even invite the men in out of the storm. She was on her feet the next second and moving toward the door. Out of the corner of her eye, Sister Hope saw her approaching and turned.
“Sister Gretchen,” she said, “these, uh . . . gentlemen are asking about you . . . and Amanda.”
“I see,” said Gretchen, coming forward. “What can I do for you? I am Gretchen Reinhardt.”
“The priest from down in the valley sent us,” began the shorter of the two.
“Yes, yes . . . of course—Father Stein. He assured us that you might be able to help us.”
He smiled a toothy, insincere smile. Gretchen knew he was lying.
“We understand you were traveling with a young woman called Amanda,” now said Ramsay, squeezing forward, “and that she might still be with you.”
As he spoke he peered behind her and into the chalet.
“I am sorry, gentlemen,” Gretchen answered, realizing it would probably be useless to deny it. “I did meet a girl by the name of Amanda when I was in Italy and brought her home with me for a while. But she left us some time ago.”
“Where was she going?”
“I don’t know exactly—France, I believe.”
Ramsay eyed her menacingly. Sister Gretchen returned his gaze.
“You had better be telling the truth,” said Ramsay. “The woman is a spy, and it will not go well for you if I find out you are lying.”
“She is not here, I can promise you that,” said Gretchen. “You are welcome to come in and search if you think I would lie to you.”
“That will not be necessary,” now said Scarlino. “Come, Halifax—she is not here.”
They turned and departed. Quickly, before they could change their minds and before Sister Hope could offer them refuge from the cold, Gretchen shut the door behind them.
As she turned back inside, a look of question on Hope’s face greeted her.
“They are bad men,” said Gretchen. “They were lying about Father Stein. I only pray they did not harm him. One of them I have seen before. I believe he is the one who is after Amanda.”
“But, Sister Gretchen,” said Hope, “you did not tell them the truth.”
“I did not exactly lie,” she returned. “I said she had been gone for some time, which is true. Twelve hours is some time, is it not? And none of us knows exactly where she is going either, and she is going to France.”
They walked back into the room, where the eyes of all the other sisters were wide. They had heard every word of the dangerous exchange.
“It appears that it is more important than ever that we keep Amanda in our prayers,” said Gretchen. “That man has been following her since before she came to us. I doubt very much if he will give up now.”
“We must bolt every door and window securely tonight,” added Hope.