Trouble
When Lorraine looked back upon those few warm days in July, she decided
that they had contained more concentrated adventure than had been
provided in the whole course of her life. Events seemed to follow
quickly one upon another.
On the day after her exciting experience at St. Cyr she went to school
as usual. It was an effort to do so, for she was tired, but she had a
record for punctual attendance, and did not wish to break it unless
under special compulsion. To her surprise, Claudia was absent. She
missed her chum, and kept looking anxiously towards the door, expecting
the golden head to pop in at the eleventh hour. But nine o'clock and the
roll-call came, and no sign of Claudia. Miss Turner marked her absent,
and put back the book inside the desk. The girls took out their copies
of Molière, in preparation for the French lesson. Miss Turner collected
some papers from her desk, and walked away to instruct the Third Form on
the subject of Roman history. The Sixth sat with their books before them
and waited. Under ordinary circumstances Madame Bertier was punctuality
personified. She was generally in the schoolroom before Miss Turner made
her exit. What had happened to her to-day? At twenty minutes past nine
Miss Janet entered, looking flurried.
"I fear Madame must be unwell, as she has not come or sent a note," she
explained briefly. "You had better go on with your preparation and write
your exercises. I suppose you know what to do next? Then get to work,
and of course I put you on your honour as seniors to keep the silence
rule."
Lorraine, sitting scribbling away at her desk, felt in no mood to break
the rule by entering into conversation with either Dorothy or Audrey,
who sat respectively to right and left of her. Her thoughts were far
away from the pen which was automatically writing her exercise. What had
become of Madame Bertier? Was her absence in any way connected with the
events of yesterday? That was the question which kept forcing itself
upon her brain. She wondered whether Miss Janet had ever harboured
suspicions of the attractive Russian. She had never fallen under her
sway so completely as her sister had done. Something in Miss Janet's
worried expression made Lorraine think her surmise a correct one.
Lorraine's French grammar went to the winds that morning, and she wrote
down mistakes, which, in calmer moments, would have caused her to
shudder.
At the eleven o'clock interval, Claudia walked into the cloak-room.
Lorraine, who had come for her packet of lunch, greeted her with
surprised enthusiasm.
"Here you are at last! Why are you so late? I've simply loads to tell
you! Do you know that Madame Bertier's never turned up to-day?"
"Hasn't she?" said Claudia abstractedly. "I've loads to tell you too,
Lorraine. Come into the garden; I don't want anyone to overhear."
When they were out of reach of the ears of prying juniors, Claudia
continued:
"I'm in dreadful trouble; that's why I'm so late. Everything's gone
wrong. Yesterday afternoon I had a telegram from Morland: 'Take parcel
immediately to the George'."
"That case that the officer lost? I always thought Morland ought to have
given it back to him at once. Well! Did you go to the cave and fetch
it?"
"I went," said Claudia slowly, "but, when I looked in the little
cupboard, it wasn't there."
"Not there!" Lorraine's tone was horror-stricken.
"No. I hunted all round the cave, but it had gone, absolutely."
"Great Scott! What are we to do?"
"I don't know. I telegraphed to Morland that it was lost. I hope he
won't get into trouble about it."
"I hope not." Lorraine's face was very grave.
"And to make things worse, Landry is ill in bed to-day. He's in one of
his most fractious moods, and won't have anybody near him but me. I only
ran down to school for a few minutes to tell you that the dispatch case
is lost, then I must go back to him. I've explained to Miss Janet that
he's ill, and I have to nurse him. There's the bell, and you must go in.
What a nuisance! Come and see me after four, if you can."
"I'll try. Good-bye till then."
Claudia and Lorraine hurried in opposite directions, the one home and
the other into school. Lorraine was in a ferment of emotion. Who could
possibly have taken the pocket case? Some intruder must have discovered
their cave and have stolen it from the cupboard. Was it some chance
tourist who had climbed up the rocks, or was it--could it be--Madame
Bertier?
Lorraine had always suspected that Morland had told her the secret of
the grotto. What if she had gone there, found the officer's private
papers, and made treasonable use of them? There were so many doubtful
episodes in connection with her--the cut telephone wire; her meeting on
the shore with the man arrested only yesterday as a spy, who had claimed
her portrait at the Academy as that of his wife.
"It looks bad!" thought Lorraine. "Oh, why didn't we persuade Morland to
give that wretched case back at once to his captain? What will he do
when he gets Claudia's telegram?"
The answer to this question came later on in the day. She was walking
back to school at a quarter past two that afternoon, when just by the
windmill she met Morland himself on a motor bicycle. He dismounted at
once.
"Lorraine! The very person in all the world I want to see. I say, I'm
going to ask to leave the bike at the windmill here, then will you walk
up the hill with me?"
"It's nearly school time!" demurred Lorraine.
"Hang school for once! I tell you I _must_ talk to you. I'm in the most
awful mess I've ever got into in my life. Is it true what Claudia
telegraphed? Is that pocket book really gone from the grotto?"
He spoke rapidly, catching his breath. Lorraine felt that, as in the
case of yesterday, school must yield to weightier matters. She could not
desert Morland now for the sake of a botany class. His business was
urgent.
"Leave your bike then, and I'll come," she consented.
So they walked up the hill together towards Windy Howe, and he poured
out his story.
"It seems there were most important papers in that pocket case," he
confided. "The captain's kicked up an awful shindy at losing them. He's
inquired and advertised, and put it into the hands of the police. At
first I was like Brer Rabbit, I just 'lay low and said nuffin', and
chuckled to think I was leading him such a dance. Then one of the chaps
told me he'd heard that a coast-guard at Porthkeverne had seen a Tommy
picking something up on the road. I can tell you that made me sit up.
I'd forgotten we were close to that wretched coast-guard station. I
twigged in a flash that I was in the greatest danger of discovery. Blake
would remember passing me on the moor. I stood aside and saluted. There
was no other Tommy near. Lorraine, if they fix this on to me I shall be
court-martialled! I tell you I simply can't face it!"
It seemed indeed the most desperate problem with which they had ever
dealt. Unless the case were found, ruin stared Morland in the face.
Captain Blake, strictest of martinets, would not be likely to overlook
so grave an offence.
"How did you manage to come over here to-day?" asked Lorraine.
"Pitched it strong about urgent business and got a few extra hours off,
borrowed a motor-bike and pelted here for all I was worth. I felt I
didn't care whether I broke my neck or not."
"Oh, Morland!"
"Well, I tell you I didn't! I rode part of the way at sixty miles an
hour, and I whizzed down that long hill to St. Cyr simply like a
hurricane. Look here, I don't want to show up at home for fear Dad or
Violet ask questions. What's to be done?"
"Wait at the bottom of the orchard and I'll run up to the house and
fetch Claudia. She's at home to-day nursing Landry, who's in bed."
"You mascot! The very thing!"
Leaving Morland sitting under the elder bushes by the orchard gate,
Lorraine made her way into the garden, and, finding one of the numerous
little Castletons playing about, despatched her with a message to
Claudia. The latter came out at once, Lorraine explained hurriedly, and
the two girls, with some difficulty evading the curiosity of Beata,
Romola and Madox, whisked down a side path into the orchard, and joined
Morland. They held a very agitated council of three under the elder
bushes.
"Are you _certain_ the case isn't there?" urged Morland.
"Absolutely. I hunted for half an hour round the cave," declared
Claudia.
"Then who's taken it? If it's some chance tourist who's got it, it may
be returned."
Lorraine shook her head.
"I'm terribly afraid it's Madame Bertier. I believe she's mixed up in a
very queer piece of business here. I want to tell you what happened
yesterday."
As Lorraine recounted her adventures at St. Cyr, and the connection of
the foreigner, whom she had helped to identify, with the fascinating
Russian, Morland's face darkened.
"Great Heavens! Was the woman a spy after all?" he groaned. "It's the
limit! What an infernal ass I've been! If she's caught with those papers
on her, and they're traced to me, I'm done for--once and for all! Look
here, I'm going out to the cave to have one last hunt for the case. It
might have slipped behind something. Will you girls come with me?"
"What's the use? I know we shan't find it," said Claudia. "Besides, I
can't leave Landry. He's in bed, and very troublesome. He talks rubbish
the whole time, mostly about you, Morland! He keeps suddenly laughing
and saying he's stopped your going to the war, and isn't it clever of
him, but he gets angry if I ask how, and shouts out that it's his secret
and he won't tell me. Violet's fed up with him. I left her in his room,
but if I'm not quick back, she'll be sending one of the children to hunt
for me."
Morland rose hurriedly.
"I'd best scoot before the kids find me out. Lorraine, will you come?"
It seemed cruel to desert the poor boy at such a pinch, so Lorraine
consented, but by the time they had walked down the steep lane to
Pettington Church she changed her mind. At the lychgate she stopped.
"I'm so tired to-day, Morland! I don't think I _can_ trudge all that way
to Tangy Point! Time's important, and you'll walk so much faster without
me. You hurry on, and I'll wait for you here."
"Right oh! I'm a selfish beast to ask you to go. Good-bye, old girl! If
I don't find that case, perhaps you'll never see me again!"
"Morland! Morland!" called Lorraine.
But his khaki-clad figure was already tearing along the steep track up
the cliff, and he did not look round. In another moment he had vanished
behind a turn of the rocks.
Lorraine sank down on the seat inside the lychgate. She felt mean at
not walking with him, but the afternoon was sultry and hot, and she was
very tired after her yesterday's adventures. She knew that he had gone
on a fruitless errand, and that, though it might satisfy him to look on
his own account, he would certainly not find the missing pocket-case
inside the cave.
"Oh! why didn't I make a stand at the time, and insist on his giving it
back to Captain Blake at once!" she fretted. "I wish I'd more strength
of mind! I was a weak jelly-fish. He'd have done it if I'd held out
more. What's going to happen now, goodness only knows! When he sees that
the case really isn't there, I'm afraid he'll do something really
desperate, run away, or jump into the sea, or anything. It's the worst
fix I've ever been in, in all my life. Could I take the blame on myself?
It was as much my fault as his. I'm certainly what would be called an
accomplice. I wish I could ask Detective Scott about it, but I daren't.
Morland might be arrested, like that spy. Oh! it's too horrible to think
he may be court-martialled! Will they put him in prison? Shoot him,
even?"
Lorraine's notions of military discipline were hazy, but she knew that
the keeping back of important papers was an offence of the utmost
seriousness, and that if they had fallen into the hands of a spy it
might mean a charge of treason. Wild visions of saving Morland at any
cost floated through her mind. She felt almost prepared to give herself
up to the police and make a confession. Yet how could she do so without
involving her friends? She would certainly be asked if she had picked up
the case herself, and why she had not returned it immediately to its
owner. What would she answer?
"They'd have it all out of me in five minutes when they began
cross-questioning, and I should only land Morland in a worse mess than
ever," she decided gloomily. "Could Uncle Barton help, I wonder? No, as
a special constable he'd be bound to give information. He's no more use
than Detective Scott!"
Lorraine sighed, and moved farther along the seat into the shade. It was
a broiling afternoon. The sun was pouring down on the grey tower of the
little church, and on the mildewed grave stones and the bushes of
rosemary and lavender, and the box edging that led to the Norman
doorway. A rambler rose rioted over the railings of a monument; its
crimson trusses of blossom veiled the broken urn inside. Over the wall
the green cliff-side stood out against the gleaming sea. Bees were
humming under the archway of the roof. Some swallows scintillated by
with gleaming wings. Not a soul was near. She was alone with the
sunshine and the birds and the flowers. There flashed across her a
strong memory of the day when she and Claudia and Morland had taken
their first walk to the cave, and had stopped to look at the church--the
Forsaken Merman Church, as Claudia always called it. How happy they had
been then, with no terrible shadow hanging over them! She could almost
hear Claudia's voice quoting the poem:--
"From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs."
It was just the opposite now, for she sat without in the heat, and
there was nobody inside saying prayers. The door stood open--not shut.
Something urged her to enter--some impulse so strong and so overpowering
that instinctively she rose and walked up the little path between the
lines of box edging. It was almost as if an invisible hand led her on,
under the groined porch and through the carved Norman doorway. How cool
and peaceful it was inside, in the soft, diffused golden light falling
on the sandstone pillars through the saint-filled windows.
Though no service was in progress, she had a sense that the prayers of
many generations lingered in the place, and made it holy. The haloed
saints in the east window smiled down at her with calm eyes. Had they
ever been in trouble as she was to-day? In their white robes and with
palms in their hands, they looked so infinitely removed from the
twentieth century. Yet their own times must have seemed absolutely
modern to them. There was nothing in their lives which could not be also
in ours. The same All-Father who gave them that perfect peace could give
it surely to us.
In the dim shadow of the chancel she dropped on her knees and
prayed--not a stilted, formal prayer, but a sort of intense, white-hot,
wordless passion of entreaty for that bright-haired boy whose life was
going so wrong.
As she rose to her feet again her eyes fell on the carved oak
balustrade of the gallery at the west end. It was the place where Landry
had been wont to sit and listen when Morland played the organ. She could
almost see him now, with his parted lips and far-away blue eyes, and the
sunlight from the window behind making a halo of his hair. She wondered
how the church looked from his vantage point. She had never been into
the gallery. She walked slowly down the nave and up the dusty,
worm-eaten flight of stairs into the cobwebby regions above. There was a
low bench facing the balustrade. She moved along it, and sat down in
Landry's seat. There was no dreamy, haunting music to-day from the
organ, filling the church like the murmur of the sea. Morland had
sterner work to do in the world now than to improvise nocturnes. How
rapt his face had been as the grand harmonies came thrilling from his
fingers! Was this the exact angle from which Landry had viewed him? She
moved slightly farther along, and in doing so kicked some object with
her foot. She stooped to pick it up. It was something quite small, and
covered with dust. She held it up to look at it by the light from the
window. Then, with a little gasping sob, she fell back on to the seat.
It was nothing more nor less than the lost pocket-case.
Landry! They had never thought of Landry! He had been with them in the
cave when they hid it inside the cupboard. Lorraine remembered now how
he had made confused reference to papers and Morland going to the war,
and how Claudia had soothed him, and told him to pick shells on the
beach. Without doubt he must have taken the case with some dazed belief
that by so doing he was hindering the authorities from sending his
brother to the front. Perhaps that was the mysterious secret he was
babbling about in bed to-day. The case might have lain for months in the
dust, if Lorraine had not chanced to come into the gallery this
afternoon. Chanced! There was no such thing as chance! Surely it was the
answer to that intense, voiceless thought-wave of prayer, in which her
groping spirit had for a moment soared into a higher plane and touched
the fringes of the eternal world.
Morland was saved--saved from the shadow of a terrible disgrace. She
must let him know at once, for by this time he must have reached the
cave and ransacked it in vain. Suppose in his despair he were to carry
out his threat and never return! The horror of the thought sent Lorraine
tearing down the gallery steps and out into the sunshine. She must
follow Morland and find him and tell him. She was rested now, and the
walk would seem nothing. Besides, it was cooler, and a breeze had sprung
up from the sea. When the heart is light our feet seem literally to
dance along. The distance to Tangy Point to-day seemed halved. She
climbed down the steep little track from the cairn on to the shore.
Seated on a rock below the cave was a depressed-looking figure in khaki.
Morland did not stir till she came near, then he rose with a haggard
face and wild eyes.
"Lorraine, it's all U P with me!" he said breathlessly.
But for answer she waved the pocket-case.
They decided on the way home that the safest and wisest plan was to make
it into a parcel, address it to Captain Blake at the Camp, and post it
to him from Porthkeverne. He would receive it the next morning, and
would probably be satisfied and make no more enquiries as to who had
found it and forwarded it.
"So it wasn't Madame Bertier who took it after all!" commented Lorraine.
"No," said Morland thoughtfully. "But I believe she would have done it
if she'd had the chance. I've had my eyes opened to-day. I've been a
fool, Lorraine. I'm going to start a fresh page, and try to be worthy of
my best friends. I simply can't express what I owe you. You're the sort
of girl that keeps a fellow straight--some women send them on the rocks.
When I think of you, I think of everything that is true and good."
"I'm not much to boast of, I'm afraid," said Lorraine humbly, "but I'm
trying--trying hard, like many other people who are a great deal better,
and nicer, and sweeter tempered than I am."