ACROSS THE CHANNEL
At General Gordon’s that evening there was so much to be talked over
that the general sent word to Badheim hospital that he would keep Bob
and Lucy overnight. Larry and Major Harding were there, sharing the late
supper that Lucy and Elizabeth prepared. Elizabeth was hard at work as
ever, with only her pale face and anxious eyes to betray that she was
other than her quiet, steady self. When her pleading, troubled glance
encountered that of the Americans her eyelids dropped hurriedly, as
though dreading the hard words and reproaches so far delayed.
But not even General Gordon himself spoke to her in another tone or
treated her otherwise than before the afternoon’s adventure, and, little
by little, her hands ceased to tremble, her glance to avoid other eyes,
and, as she worked on in humble sadness, she drew a low grateful sigh.
Not one of those present but by their kind, natural behavior tried to
show her that she was not held responsible for the conspiracy into which
her misguided, affectionate heart had so nearly led her. Bob and Lucy
spoke to her with all their old friendliness, ignoring in her presence
what occupied all their thoughts, and unhappy Elizabeth warmed from her
frightened aloofness, and found fresh hope and courage in their
generosity.
When she had left them, and General Gordon, Lucy, Bob, Larry and Major
Harding were gathered around a blazing fire, Major Harding tried to
answer the questions that Lucy, most eager of the four, began to press
upon him.
“There’s a lot that I don’t understand,” she said. “I know that Herr
Johann, I mean von Eckhardt, plotted with Franz to smuggle ammunition to
the rebels. But could those few boat-loads do much harm?”
“Franz’ little share in it, don’t you see, Lucy, is only a tiny part of
von Eckhardt’s organization.” Major Harding stared into the fire as he
spoke, his voice still ringing with earnestness. “Von Eckhardt is a good
organizer, and he knew that not much is needed to turn the tide in
Germany to-day. But he made the mistake—like a true German—of thinking
too poorly of his opponents. Because he is clever he took us for fools.”
“How much did you know, Dick, when Bob wrote you?” asked General Gordon.
“I blame myself, Bob, for not listening to you sooner, but I had such
endless work on hand.”
“We were suspicious, but no more,” said Major Harding. “We wondered
where the Spartacans got their stuff. The Berlin riots were spreading to
other places. The leaflet Bob sent me was a big help.”
“The one Lucy found in the forest,” put in Bob.
“That told us where to look,” Major Harding continued. “If you remember,
it ran something like this:
Farmer So-and-so of such a place ... 26.
“There was a whole list of them. We discovered, by bribing or
threatening some of the fellows named in the list, that the numbers
stood for cart or boat loads of arms or munitions shipped within the
month. By those numbers it was plain that the plot had already grown
rather sizable.”
“The lodge in the forest was where he met his agents and gave his
orders,” said Bob. “Who is von Eckhardt, anyway?”
“He is the real leader of the movement, though not the only one. He
stayed around here to engineer the most dangerous part of the program.
In spite of the American occupation he had to work where the stuff was
hidden.”
“And he might very well have pulled it off, if we hadn’t had so much
spare time to watch him,” remarked Bob.
“And if you hadn’t had your theories,” said Larry.
“Von Eckhardt was a colonel of artillery during the war,” went on Major
Harding. “He has a record for harsh pride, but also for courage. He saw
his hopes crushed with the Kaiser’s fall, and welcomed a rebellion that
would open the way for a counter-revolution. He was too absorbed in that
idea to foresee the appalling results of turning Bolshevism loose in
Germany.”
“I wonder why he picked out such a stupid dolt as Franz. It was he who
gave away the show,” said Larry.
“Because Franz had been his servant and he knew he would obey,” said
Lucy. “Franz had to leave Alsace and was so poor he had no choice.”
“That’s it,” Bob nodded. “Trudchen told me the same thing. Franz isn’t
bold. He would never have chosen to enter on such a risky business.”
“I’m so sorry for the children,” said Lucy sadly. “What can Trudchen do
now? I don’t think they got much money from Herr Johann. They seem
awfully poor.”
“No, I dare say it was mostly promises,” said Bob. “He had to give Karl
money, though, to keep him faithful. He made a pilot of him and used him
to keep track of things along the Rhine. Karl told me something of it
when I talked with him an hour ago.”
“And poor Elizabeth was to be his excuse for coming here,” said Lucy.
“Yes, Elizabeth could always explain that he had come here to see her,
and they knew that Father and I would believe her.”
“But I wonder how Franz went about it. He can’t act a part, and
Elizabeth is sharp enough,” reflected Larry.
“Von Eckhardt put him up to it, of course. And I suppose Elizabeth was
so pleased at the idea of seeing Karl and making up the quarrel that she
was blind to the rest.”
Lucy’s eyes flashed with indignation. “And he pretended to be friendly.
Oh, now I hope she sees what he’s worth!”
“Throw some wood on the fire, Bob,” said General Gordon, relighting his
pipe. “How long are you going to be with us, Dick?”
“Not long, sir. I must get away as soon as I can.”
“I know someone else who ought to get away from here,” remarked the
general, glancing at his daughter, who sat with hands clasped behind her
head, her cheeks still pink from the day’s excitement, her fair hair
ruffled where the firelight shone upon it.
“I, Father? What do you mean?” Lucy asked surprised.
“I mean that I want you to spend at least a few weeks this spring with
the Leslies in England. Bob ought to go, too. You both need a change,
and in Surrey you’ll find the quiet that seems to elude you this side of
the Channel. Your mother will soon be here to look after me. I’m going
to get you both off.”
“Hooray!” exclaimed Larry, instantly warming to the idea. “You’re right,
General, the sooner they get off, the better. Do them lots of good. I go
to England myself next month.”
“Disinterested advice, Eaton,” said Major Harding, laughing.
“Well, it would be no end of fun being there together,” declared Larry
undisturbed. “And Alan Leslie invited me to his house—nice chap, Alan.”
“If I could persuade Michelle to go, too,” murmured Lucy thoughtfully.
“Go to bed, daughter,” said General Gordon, seeing Lucy’s eyelids droop
before the dancing flames. “And dream of a trip to England, not of
Bolshies and German sly-boots.”
“It’s Franz’ children I’ve got to worry about now,” said Lucy, getting
up. “Major Dick, it’s nice to see you,” she added, shaking hands with
her old friend. “I didn’t have time to tell you so this afternoon.”
“I’m glad to hear it now,” said Major Harding, smiling. When Lucy had
gone out he added thoughtfully, “General, do you know, they don’t make
many like that girl of yours?”
“Not two in the world,” said Larry to the fire.
* * * * *
Franz was held in Coblenz for trial, along with Karl and von Eckhardt,
and Lucy took her first chance, after returning to the hospital, to
visit the cottage in the clearing. Michelle went with her, and there was
so much to talk about that they were half an hour sauntering through the
forest before they reached the spring.
Michelle listened to Lucy in silence, her eyes shining, her cheeks
flushing red. “_Oh, le vilain Boche!_” she cried at last, and her voice
shook with the ardor of her feelings as she pressed her hands together,
vainly trying to control her excitement. “It seems not true, Lucy, that
Herr Johann, von Eckhardt—whatever he is called—should have sought to
destroy his own country!”
“He didn’t think of it that way,” said Lucy, meditatively. “He was so
crazy to restore the old government that a Bolshevik revolution seemed
to him as good a way as any. That is what Bob and Major Harding told me.
When the Bolsheviki began to be dangerous von Eckhardt and his friends
planned to tell everyone that to save the country they must call back
von Hindenberg, Ludendorf and the rest. It might have worked.”
“Yes, it might. We might have had more war.” Michelle was still hot and
trembling. Once more Lucy realized what the past four years had meant to
her, and how horrible beyond words was the thought that the war might be
prolonged.
“Don’t think about it, Michelle—there’s no danger now,” she said with
happy confidence.
Lucy herself, now the plot was unearthed and brought to nothing, felt no
more than a moderate resentment against von Eckhardt and his associates.
They were crushed and the danger past. Like Alan, she did not want even
to think of Germans or Bolsheviki. In her overwhelming relief a great
peace entered her soul, and for the first time she yielded to all the
quiet charm of the forest, ready, as Larry was, to take exile cheerfully
and look ahead to better things.
“Let’s not bother about it, Michelle, now it’s over,” she urged, putting
one arm about her friend’s shoulders and giving her a quick hug. “It’s
only Trudchen and the children we have to think of.”
“I know, of course,” agreed Michelle, but her vivid imagination still
held the frightened shadows in her eyes. “It is that I saw it again,
Lucy, the war once more begun! Armand in the worst danger—_Maman_ and I
driven from home—the Germans coming on and on and France nearly beaten.
Oh, Lucy, those are things that even with many years I never can
forget!”
Lucy was silent, but as she watched Michelle’s flaming cheeks and
darkened eyes she thought, “I’ll write Cousin Janet to-day. Michelle
must go with me to England.” At last she said, “Suppose you go back to
the hospital now, Michelle, and let me talk to Franz’ wife. Why should
you see another Boche if you can help it?”
Michelle had conquered her feelings with her usual self-control, and now
she smiled at Lucy’s proposal.
“I do not mind going with you, Lucy,” she protested. “I do not hate
Adelheid and the little ones. It would be a hard heart that could blame
them.”
“But I thought perhaps you’d rather not see them.”
“Not at all. I am sorry for them and the poor Trudchen. They are
_pauvres malheureux_.”
“All right then, here we are,” said Lucy as they came out into the
clearing. “Bob sent Trudchen word about Franz. I’m glad we shan’t have
to tell her that.”
As they crossed the snowy clearing Adelheid appeared at the cottage door
and ran to meet them. She had not even stopped to put on a shawl and her
thin little body shivered as she came up, crying:
“_Ach, Fräulein_, and you, French young lady, we are very sad here! I am
glad to see you! Come and talk to the _Mamachen_—she only cries and
cries.”
“Hurry, Adelheid, we’ll run,” said Lucy, catching the child’s hand.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I forgot the cold,” said Adelheid, with a serious, preoccupied air that
was strange enough for seven years old. “I was so afraid you would not
come!” Her flaxen hair was loosed from its braids and tossed about in
the cold wind. Her cheeks were pale and her frightened blue eyes wet
with tears. “We don’t know what will happen to Papachen,” she sobbed,
clinging to Lucy’s hand.
Lucy lifted the pathetic little figure in her arms. “Don’t think of it,
he’ll be all right. He will come back to you,” she promised, and,
uncertain as she was of Franz’ punishment, she spoke with confidence
enough to make the little girl look up at her with new hope, a smile
dawning on her lips.
Inside the cottage Trudchen was shuffling about on listless household
errands, her eyes swollen from crying, her face white with fear. The two
little boys crouched together in a corner, trying to play, but stopping
every moment to stare at their mother with unhappy, wondering eyes.
At sight of Lucy, Trudchen gave a cry of welcome. In her miserable
loneliness even the glimpse of a friendly face meant help and comfort.
But she came forward timidly, wiping her hands on her faded apron, her
lips hesitating over the words she longed to speak, and tears again
overflowing her eyes.
“Franz—dear Fräulein—where is he?” she faltered. She drew Lucy near the
fire and made her sit down on a stool by the hearth. Mechanically she
curtseyed to Michelle, pulled another stool forward, then stood eagerly
awaiting Lucy’s reply, the old apron twisted between her restless hands.
Lucy cast about for an answer, the two little boys crowding against her,
looking up into her face as though in search of some cheerfulness after
the gloom of the cottage. Michelle had drawn Adelheid to her and was
braiding the child’s tangled hair and warming her in the blaze of the
pine logs.
“Franz is in Coblenz, Trudchen,” Lucy said slowly. “He will have to stay
a prisoner for a while. But they will let him come back to you. And
we’ll help you. The children shan’t want for anything.”
“Then they know all, Fräulein? It was your brother found it out! Oh,
believe me, I did all a woman could to keep Franz from taking this
cottage and consenting to guard its wicked secret! I don’t understand it
all, for Franz would never explain, but I know that, while the war
lasted, Herr von Eckhardt threatened Franz with death if he did not
remain here——”
“Was he here all during the war?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, no, Fräulein. But last summer, when we Germans saw the war was
lost, Herr von Eckhardt sent Franz from the army to keep guard over this
place. And with the armistice he promised comfort and riches for us all
if Franz was faithful. I always hated him! But Franz would not listen——”
Trudchen buried her face in her hands and wept. Adelheid sprang from
Michelle and ran to her. Watching the child cling in silent misery to
her mother’s skirts, Lucy repeated unhesitatingly:
“Don’t worry, Trudchen. We are going to help you.”
And such was her confidence that a ray of hope lighted the German
woman’s anxious face. “If you would, kind Fräulein—we have nothing——”
she stammered.
But once in the clearing again, on the way home, Michelle, practical in
all her kindness, exclaimed dubiously, “How could you promise help so
easily, Lucy? Money is what she needs, and can we give it to her? Once I
could have done so, but now, _Maman_ and I are almost as poor as she.”
Lucy was silent a moment. “I know. It’s going to be hard,” she admitted.
“But since I’ve promised”—her voice grew confident again—“I’m going to
keep my promise. I’ll get the money somehow, Michelle. Father can’t give
very much, but he’ll give some. Trudchen doesn’t need such a great deal
to live, when dollars can be turned into marks.”
And Lucy kept her word. She begged a “starter” from General Gordon, and
did not find it hard to get contributions from Larry, Major Harding,
Bob, Armand, and not a few of the hospital staff and convalescents who
knew Friedrich, Wilhelm and Adelheid. In three days she had the
satisfaction of carrying the little sum to Trudchen and of knowing that
she and the children would not lack food or clothing during Franz’
imprisonment.
“Lucy, I thought you would never succeed. I thought you were making
foolish promises,” Michelle told her, the day they took Trudchen the
money. She looked at her friend with real admiration. “You are
wonderful—you Americans. It seems almost as though you can do whatever
you wish!”
Lucy laughed, but she exclaimed, seizing the opportunity Michelle’s
words offered, “Then let me do something now that I’ve been wishing for
the last six weeks! Let me persuade you to come with me to England.”
“Oh, Lucy, if I could!” Michelle’s voice, filled with regret, yet held a
quick warmth as though her young heart thrilled only at thought of
finding again the careless pleasure lost to her so many years.
“If you could? Why can’t you? My Cousin Janet wants you to come. She is
going to write your mother. And Janet and Alan have written begging me
to urge you. It will do you more good than you can guess. And I want you
so much. Oh, Michelle, don’t refuse!”
“But to leave _Maman_ and Armand? To spend so great a sum of our little
money?”
“It’s not so much—just across the Channel. And your mother wants you to
go. I’ve talked with her. She has your brother now, so she’s not alone.
It was he who said that you must go and that he would gladly take your
place with her a little while.”
“When shall you sail? If I _could go_!” This time, in spite of her
doubtful words, Michelle’s voice was eager with something like joyful
anticipation.
Lucy looked at her in delighted surprise. At that moment Michelle’s
spirit thrust aside the spectre of the long years of suffering and
captivity. Her deep blue eyes shone with unclouded brightness and her
lips parted in a radiant happy smile. With a look borrowed from the
untroubled childhood out of which she had been so harshly roused she
cried, clasping her hands together:
“Then I can go! You think I may, Lucy? Oh, how I should love it! To
forget the war, to go far away from it!” Suddenly her face clouded and,
as quickly as it had brightened, became serious, calm and thoughtful as
every day. “But I must not think about it until I know that it is true.
Perhaps I must not take the money.”
“Think about it all you like,” said Lucy, slipping her arm through
Michelle’s with quick sympathy. “I tell you, you’re going.”
Armand was as anxious that his sister should have the change for which
she silently longed, and, to Lucy’s delight, he let no obstacle stand in
the way. Larry had left for England a few days after Franz’ and Herr
Johann’s arrest, and his letters to Bob and Lucy were filled with
inducements to his friends to hasten their trip to England.
“It’s not a bit cold here now,” he wrote early in April. “It’s simply
perfect. Warm enough for Bob, even. Don’t you know what some fellow
wrote about 'Oh, to be in England, now that April’s there’? Do hurry.”
Mrs. Gordon arrived in Coblenz the third week in April. Ten days later,
Bob, Lucy and Michelle, together with one of Mrs. Gordon’s
fellow-workers, sailed from Calais on a fine spring morning.
Michelle had a hard struggle with her feelings at the moment of parting.
She had no fear for her mother in Armand’s care, but the thought of
leaving France, with promise of peace behind her and of pleasure ahead,
seemed so much happiness that it was more like grief in its intensity.
Somehow she felt, as the boat left the French coast and steamed over the
sunlit ocean, that never until that moment had she realized that the
war’s dreadful ordeal was endured and ended, and that a new life—all her
life—lay ahead.
She did not need to explain this to Lucy, who understood her silence
well enough, filled with thoughts of her own not in reality so very
different. With France and Germany left behind, she seemed also to have
cast off a part of her—a thoughtful, prudent, anxious part—painfully
acquired since 1917, and to become again light-hearted.
Yet after half an hour’s silent reflection she found no other way to
express herself, as she turned to Bob with a deep light in her hazel
eyes, than to say, “Bob—the war is over!”
Bob looked at her, smiling, something happy about his face, too, as he
answered idly, “Really? Full of news, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Bob, don’t laugh,” Lucy said, watching the shining sea, and the
white clouds softly piled above the horizon. “I don’t think Michelle or
I ever really believed it until now.”