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Title: The Amazing Interlude

Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart

Release Date: January, 1999 [EBook #1590]
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THE AMAZING INTERLUDE

by Mary Roberts Rinehart




I


The stage on which we play our little dramas of life and love has for
most of us but one setting.  It is furnished out with approximately the
same things.  Characters come, move about and make their final exits
through long-familiar doors.  And the back drop remains approximately
the same from beginning to end.  Palace or hovel, forest or sea, it is
the background for the moving figures of the play.

So Sara Lee Kennedy had a back drop that had every appearance of
permanency.  The great Scene Painter apparently intended that there
should be no change of set for her.  Sara Lee herself certainly expected
none.

But now and then amazing things are done on this great stage of ours:
lights go down; the back drop, which had given the illusion of solidity,
reveals itself transparent.  A sort of fairyland transformation takes
place.  Beyond the once solid wall strange figures move on--a new mise
en scene, with the old blotted out in darkness.  The lady, whom we left
knitting by the fire, becomes a fairy--Sara Lee became a fairy, of a
sort--and meets the prince.  Adventure, too; and love, of course.  And
then the lights go out, and it is the same old back drop again, and the
lady is back by the fire--but with a memory.

This is the story of Sara Lee Kennedy's memory--and of something more.

The early days of the great war saw Sara Lee playing her part in the
setting of a city in Pennsylvania.  An ugly city, but a wealthy one.  It
is only fair to Sara Lee to say that she shared in neither quality.  She
was far from ugly, and very, very far from rich.  She had started her
part with a full stage, to carry on the figure, but one by one they had
gone away into the wings and had not come back.  At nineteen she was
alone knitting by the fire, with no idea whatever that the back drop was
of painted net, and that beyond it, waiting for its moment, was the
forest of adventure.  A strange forest, too--one that Sara Lee would
not have recognised as a forest.  And a prince of course--but a prince
as strange and mysterious as the forest.

The end of December, 1914, found Sara Lee quite contented.  If it was
resignation rather than content, no one but Sara Lee knew the difference.
Knitting, too; but not for soldiers.  She was, to be candid, knitting an
afghan against an interesting event which involved a friend of hers.

Sara Lee rather deplored the event--in her own mind, of course, for in
her small circle young unmarried women accepted the major events of life
without question, and certainly without conversation.  She never, for
instance, allowed her Uncle James, with whom she lived, to see her
working at the afghan; and even her Aunt Harriet had supposed it to be a
sweater until it assumed uncompromising proportions.

Sara Lee's days, up to the twentieth of December, 1914, had been much
alike.  In the mornings she straightened up her room, which she had
copied from one in a woman's magazine, with the result that it gave
somehow the impression of a baby's bassinet, being largely dotted Swiss
and ribbon.  Yet in a way it was a perfect setting for Sara Lee herself.
It was fresh and virginal, and very, very neat and white.  A resigned
little room, like Sara Lee, resigned to being tucked away in a corner
and to having no particular outlook.  Peaceful, too.

Sometimes in the morning between straightening her room and going to the
market for Aunt Harriet, Sara Lee looked at a newspaper.  So she knew
there was a war.  She read the headings, and when the matter came up for
mention at the little afternoon bridge club, as it did now and then after
the prizes were distributed, she always said "Isn't it horrible!" and
changed the subject.

On the night of the nineteenth of December Sara Lee had read her chapter
in the Bible--she read it through once each year--and had braided down
her hair, which was as smooth and shining and lovely as Sara Lee herself,
and had raised her window for the night when Aunt Harriet came in.  Sara
Lee did not know, at first, that she had a visitor.  She stood looking
out toward the east, until Aunt Harriet touched her on the arm.

"What in the world!" said Aunt Harriet.  "A body would suppose it was
August."

"I was just thinking," said Sara Lee.

"You'd better do your thinking in bed.  Jump in and I'll put out your
light."

So Sara Lee got into her white bed with the dotted Swiss valance, and
drew the covers to her chin, and looked a scant sixteen.  Aunt Harriet,
who was an unsentimental woman, childless and diffident, found her
suddenly very appealing there in her smooth bed, and did an unexpected
thing.  She kissed her.  Then feeling extremely uncomfortable she put
out the light and went to the door.  There she paused.

"Thinking!" she said.  "What about, Sara Lee?"

Perhaps it was because the light was out that Sara Lee became articulate.
Perhaps it was because things that had been forming in her young mind for
weeks had at last crystallized into words.  Perhaps it was because of a
picture she had happened on that day, of a boy lying wounded somewhere
on a battlefield and calling "Mother!"

"About--over there," she said rather hesitatingly.  "And about Anna."

"Over there?"

"The war," said Sara Lee.  "I was just thinking about all those women
over there--like Anna, you know.  They--they had babies, and got
everything ready for them.  And then the babies grew up, and they're all
getting killed."

"It's horrible," said Aunt Harriet.  "Do you want another blanket?  It's
cold to-night."

Sara Lee did not wish another blanket.

"I'm a little worried about your Uncle James," said Aunt Harriet, at the
door.  "He's got indigestion.  I think I'll make him a mustard plaster."

She prepared to go out then, but Sara Lee spoke from her white bed.

"Aunt Harriet," she said, "I don't think I'll ever get married."

"I said that too, once," said Aunt Harriet complacently.  "What's got
into your head now?"

"I don't know," Sara Lee replied vaguely.  "I just--What's the use?"

Aunt Harriet was conscious of a hazy impression of indelicacy.  Coming
from Sara Lee it was startling and revolutionary.  In Aunt Harriet's
world young women did not question their duty, which was to marry,
preferably some one in the neighborhood, and bear children, who would be
wheeled about that same neighborhood in perambulators and who would
ultimately grow up and look after themselves.

"The use?" she asked tartly.

"Of having babies, and getting to care about them, and then--There will
always be wars, won't there?"

"You turn over and go to sleep," counseled Aunt Harriet.  "And stop
looking twenty years or more ahead."  She hesitated.  "You haven't
quarreled with Harvey, have you?"

Sara Lee turned over obediently.

"No. It's not that," she said.  And the door closed.

Perhaps, had she ever had time during the crowded months that followed,
Sara Lee would have dated certain things from that cold frosty night in
December when she began to question things.  For after all that was what
it came to.  She did not revolt.  She questioned.

She lay in her white bed and looked at things for the first time.  The
sky had seemed low that night.  Things were nearer.  The horizon was
close.  And beyond that peaceful horizon, to the east, something was
going on that could not be ignored.  Men were dying.  Killing and dying.
Men who had been waited for as Anna watched for her child.

Downstairs she could hear Aunt Harriet moving about.  The street was
quiet, until a crowd of young people--she knew them by their voices--
went by, laughing.

"It's horrible," said Sara Lee to herself.  There was a change in her,
but she was still inarticulate.  Somewhere in her mind, but not
formulated, was the feeling that she was too comfortable.  Her peace was
a cheap peace, bought at no price.  Her last waking determination was to
finish the afghan quickly and to knit for the men at the war.

Uncle James was ill the next morning.  Sara Lee went for the doctor, but
Anna's hour had come and he was with her.  Late in the afternoon he came,
however looking a bit gray round the mouth with fatigue, but triumphant.
He had on these occasions always a sense of victory; even, in a way, a
feeling of being part of a great purpose.  He talked at such times of the
race, as one may who is doing his best by it.

"Well," he said when Sara Lee opened the door, "it's a boy.  Eight
pounds.  Going to be red-headed, too." He chuckled.

"A boy!" said Sara Lee.  "I--don't you bring any girl babies any more?"

The doctor put down his hat and glanced at her.

"Wanted a girl, to be named for you?"

"No.  It's not that.  It's only--"  She checked herself.  He wouldn't
understand. The race required girl babies.  "I've put a blue bow on my
afghan.  Pink is for boys," she said, and led the way upstairs.

Very simple and orderly was the small house, as simple and orderly as
Sara Lee's days in it.  Time was to come when Sara Lee, having left it,
ached for it with every fiber of her body and her soul--for its bright
curtains and fresh paint, its regularity, its shining brasses and growing
plants, its very kitchen pans and green-and-white oilcloth.  She was to
ache, too, for her friends--their small engrossing cares, their kindly
interest, their familiar faces.

Time was to come, too, when she came back, not to the little house, it
is true, but to her friends, to Anna and the others.  But they had not
grown and Sara Lee had.  And that is the story.

Uncle James died the next day.  One moment he was there, an uneasy
figure, under the tulip quilt, and the next he had gone away entirely,
leaving a terrible quiet behind him.  He had been the center of the
little house, a big and cheery and not over-orderly center.  Followed
his going not only quiet, but a wretched tidiness.  There was nothing
for Sara Lee to do but to think.

And, in the way of mourning women, things that Uncle James had said
which had passed unheeded came back to her.  One of them was when he
had proposed to adopt a Belgian child, and Aunt Harriet had offered
horrified protest.

"All right," he had said.  "Of course, if you feel that way about
it--!  But I feel kind of mean, sometimes, sitting here doing nothing
when there's such a lot to be done."

Then he had gone for a walk and had come back cheerful enough but rather
quiet.

There was that other time, too, when the German Army was hurling itself,
wave after wave, across the Yser--only of course Sara Lee knew nothing
of the Yser then--and when it seemed as though the attenuated Allied
line must surely crack and give.  He had said then that if he were only
twenty years younger he would go across and help.

"And what about me?" Aunt Harriet had asked.  "But I suppose I wouldn't
matter."

"You could go to Jennie's, couldn't you?"

There had followed one of those absurd wrangles as to whether or not Aunt
Harriet would go to Jennie's in the rather remote contingency of Uncle
James' becoming twenty years younger and going away.

And now Uncle James had taken on the wings of the morning and was indeed
gone away.  And again it became a question of Jennie's.  Aunt Harriet,
rather dazed at first, took to arguing it pro and con.

"Of course she has room for me," she would say in her thin voice.
"There's that little room that was Edgar's.  There's nobody in it now.
But there's only room for a single bed, Sara Lee."

Sara Lee was knitting socks now, all a trifle tight as to heel.  "I
know," she would say.  "I'll get along.  Don't you worry about me."

Always these talks ended on a note of exasperation for Aunt Harriet.  For
Sara Lee's statement that she could manage would draw forth a plaintive
burst from the older woman.

"If only you'd marry Harvey," she would say.  "I don't know what's come
over you.  You used to like him well enough."

"I still like him."

"I've seen you jump when the telephone bell rang.  Your Uncle James often
spoke about it.  He noticed more than most people thought."  She followed
Sara Lee's eyes down the street to where Anna was wheeling her baby
slowly up and down.  Even from that distance Sara Lee could see the bit
of pink which was the bow on her afghan.  "I believe you're afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Of having children," accused Aunt Harriet fretfully.

Sara Lee colored.

"Perhaps I am," she said; "but not the sort of thing you think.  I just
don't see the use of it, that's all.  Aunt Harriet, how long does it
take to become a hospital nurse?"

"Mabel Andrews was three years. It spoiled her looks too.  She used to
be a right pretty girl."

"Three years," Sara Lee reflected.  "By that time--"

The house was very quiet and still those days.  There was an interlude
of emptiness and order, of long days during which Aunt Harriet
alternately grieved and planned, and Sara Lee thought of many things.
At the Red Cross meetings all sorts of stories were circulated; the
Belgian atrocity tales had just reached the country, and were spreading
like wildfire.  There were arguments and disagreements.  A girl named
Schmidt was militant against them and soon found herself a small island
of defiance entirely surrounded by disapproval.  Mabel Andrews came once
to a meeting and in businesslike fashion explained the Red Cross
dressings and gave a lesson in bandaging.  Forerunner of the many
first-aid classes to come was that hour of Mabel's, and made memorable
by one thing she said.

"You might as well all get busy and learn to do such things," she stated
in her brisk voice.  "One of our internes is over there, and he says
we'll be in it before spring."

After the meeting Sara Lee went up to Mabel and put a hand on her arm.

"Are you going?" she asked.

"Leaving day after to-morrow.  Why?"

"I--couldn't I be useful over there?"

Mabel smiled rather grimly.  "What can you do?"

"I can cook."

"Only men cooks, my dear.  What else?"

"I could clean up, couldn't I?  There must be something.  I'd do
anything I could.  Don't they have people to wash dishes and--all that?"

Mabel was on doubtful ground there.  She knew of a woman who had been
permitted to take over her own automobile, paying all her expenses and
buying her own tires and gasoline.

"She carries supplies to small hospitals in out-of-the-way places," she
said.  "But I don't suppose you can do that, Sara Lee, can you?"

However, she gave Sara Lee a New York address, and Sara Lee wrote and
offered herself.  She said nothing to Aunt Harriet, who had by that time
elected to take Edgar's room at Cousin Jennie's and was putting Uncle
James' clothes in tearful order to send to Belgium.  After a time she
received a reply.

"We have put your name on our list of volunteers," said the letter,
"but of course you understand that only trained workers are needed now.
France and England are full of untrained women who are eager to help."

It was that night that Sara Lee became engaged to Harvey.

Sara Lee's attitude toward Harvey was one that she never tried to analyze.
When he was not with her she thought of him tenderly, romantically.  This
was perhaps due to the photograph of him on her mantel.  There was a dash
about the picture rather lacking in the original, for it was a profile,
and in it the young man's longish hair, worn pompadour, the slight thrust
forward of the head, the arch of the nostrils,--gave him a sort of tense
eagerness, a look of running against the wind.  From the photograph
Harvey might have been a gladiator; as a matter of fact he was a bond
salesman.

So during the daytime Sara Lee looked--at intervals--at the photograph,
and got that feel of drive and force.  And in the evenings Harvey came,
and she lost it.  For, outside of a frame, he became a rather sturdy
figure, of no romance, but of a comforting solidity.  A kindly young man,
with a rather wide face and hands disfigured as to fingers by much early
baseball.  He had heavy shoulders, the sort a girl might rely on to
carry many burdens.  A younger and tidier Uncle James, indeed--the same
cheery manner, the same robust integrity, and the same small ambition.

To earn enough to keep those dependent on him, and to do it fairly; to
tell the truth and wear clean linen and not run into debt; and to marry
Sara Lee and love and cherish her all his life--this was Harvey.  A
plain and likable man, a lover and husband to be sure of.  But--

He came that night to see Sara Lee.  There was nothing unusual about
that.  He came every night.  But he came that night full of determination.
That was not unusual, either, but it had not carried him far.  He had no
idea that his picture was romantic.  He would have demanded it back had
he so much as suspected it.  He wore his hair in a pompadour because
of the prosaic fact that he had a cow-lick.  He was very humble about
himself, and Sara Lee was to him as wonderful as his picture was to her.

Sara Lee was in the parlor, waiting for him.  The one electric lamp was
lighted, so that the phonograph in one corner became only a bit of
reflected light.  There was a gas fire going, and in front of it was a
white fur rug.  In Aunt Harriet's circle there were few orientals.  The
Encyclopaedia Britannica, not yet entirely paid for, stood against the
wall, and a leather chair, hollowed by Uncle James' solid body, was by
the fire.  It was just such a tidy, rather vulgar and homelike room as
no doubt Harvey would picture for his own home.  He had of course never
seen the white simplicity of Sara Lee's bedroom.

Sara Lee, in a black dress, admitted him.  When he had taken off his
ulster and his overshoes--he had been raised by women--and came in,
she was standing by the fire.

"Raining," he said.  "It's getting colder.  May be snow before morning."

Then he stopped.  Sometimes the wonder of Sara Lee got him in the throat.
She had so much the look of being poised for flight.  Even in her
quietest moments there was that about her--a sort of repressed
eagerness, a look of seeing things far away.  Aunt Harriet said that
there were times when she had a "flighty" look.

And that night it was that impression of elusiveness that stopped
Harvey's amiable prattle about the weather and took him to her with his
arms out.

"Sara Lee!" he said.  "Don't look like that!"

"Like what?" said Sara Lee prosaically.

"I don't know," he muttered.  "You--sometimes you look as though--"
Then he put his arms round her.  "I love you," he said.  "I'll be good
to you, Sara Lee, if you'll have me."  He bent down and put his cheek
against hers.  "If you'll only marry me, dear."

A woman has a way of thinking most clearly and lucidly when the man has
stopped thinking.  With his arms about her Harvey could only feel.  He
was trembling.  As for Sara Lee, instantly two pictures flashed through
her mind, each distinct, each clear, almost photographic.  One was of
Anna, in her tiny house down the street, dragged with a nursing baby.
The other was that one from a magazine of a boy dying on a battlefield
and crying "Mother!"

Two sorts of maternity--one quiet, peaceful, not always beautiful,
but the thing by which and to which she had been reared; the other
vicarious, of all the world.

"Don't you love me--that way?" he said, his cheek still against hers.

"I don't know."

"You don't know!"

It was then that he straightened away from her and looked without seeing
at the blur of light which was the phonograph.  Sara Lee, glancing up,
saw him then as he was in the photograph, face set and head thrust
forward, and that clean-cut drive of jaw and backward flow of heavy hair
that marked him all man, and virile man.

She slipped her hand into his.

"I do love you, Harvey," she said, and went into his arms with the
complete surrender of a child.

He was outrageously happy.  He sat on the arm of Uncle James' chair where
she was almost swallowed up, and with his face against hers he made his
simple plans.  Now and then he kissed the little hollow under her ear,
and because he knew nothing of the abandon of a woman in a great passion
he missed nothing in her attitude.  Into her silence and passivity he
read the reflection of his own adoring love and thought it hers.

To be fair to Sara Lee, she imagined that her content in Harvey's
devotion was something mote, as much more as was necessary.  For in Sara
Lee's experience marriage was a thing compounded of affection, habit,
small differences and a home.  Of passion, that passion which later she
was to meet and suffer from, the terrible love that hurts and agonizes,
she had never even dreamed.

Great days were before Sara Lee.  She sat by the fire and knitted, and
behind the back drop on the great stage of the world was preparing,
unsuspected, the mise en scene.



                    II


About the middle of January Mabel Andrews wrote to Sara Lee from
France, where she was already installed in a hospital at Calais.

The evening before the letter came Harvey had brought round the
engagement ring.  He had made a little money in war stocks, and into
the ring he had put every dollar of his profits--and a great love, and
gentleness, and hopes which he did not formulate even to himself.

It was a solitaire diamond, conventionally set, and larger, far larger,
than the modest little stone on which Harvey had been casting anxious
glances for months.

"Do you like it, honey?" he asked anxiously.

Sara Lee looked at it on her finger.

"It is lovely! It--it's terrible!" said poor Sara Lee, and cried on his
shoulder.

Harvey was not subtle.  He had never even heard of Mabel Andrews, and
he had a tendency to restrict his war reading to the quarter column in
the morning paper entitled "Salient Points of the Day's War News."

What could he know, for instance, of wounded men who were hungry?  Which
is what Mabel wrote about.

"You said you could cook," she had written.  "Well, we need cooks, and
something to cook.  Sometime they'll have it all fixed, no doubt, but
just now it's awful, Sara Lee.  The British have money and food, plenty
of it.  But here--yesterday I cut the clothes off a wounded Belgian boy.
He had been forty-eight hours on a railway siding, without even soup or
coffee."

It was early in the war then, and between Ypres and the sea stretched a
long thin line of Belgian trenches.  A frantic Belgian Government, thrust
out of its own land, was facing the problem, with scant funds and with no
materiel of any sort, for feeding that desolate little army.  France had
her own problems--her army, non-productive industrially, and the great
and constantly growing British forces quartered there, paying for what
they got, but requiring much.  The world knows now of the starvation of
German-occupied Belgium.  What it does not know and may never know is of
the struggle during those early days to feed the heroic Belgian Army in
their wet and almost untenable trenches.

Hospital trains they could improvise out of what rolling stock remained
to them.  Money could be borrowed, and was.  But food?  Clothing?
Ammunition?  In his little villa on the seacoast the Belgian King knew
that his soldiers were hungry, and paced the floor of his tiny
living-room; and over in an American city whose skyline was as pointed
with furnace turrets as Constantinople's is with mosques, over there
Sara Lee heard that call of hunger, and--put on her engagement ring.

Later on that evening, with Harvey's wide cheerful face turned adoringly
to her,  Sara Lee formulated a question:

"Don't you sometimes feel as though you'd like to go to France and fight?"

"What for?"

"Well, they need men, don't they?"

"I guess they don't need me, honey.  I'd be the dickens of a lot of use!
Never fired a gun in my life."

"You could learn.  It isn't hard."

Harvey sat upright and stared at her.

"Oh, if you want me to go--" he said, and waited.

Sara Lee twisted her ring on her finger.

"Nobody wants anybody to go," she said not very elegantly.  "I'd just
--I'd rather like to think you wanted to go."

That was almost too subtle for Harvey.  Something about him was rather
reminiscent of Uncle James on mornings when he was determined not to
go to church.

"It's not our fight," he said.  "And as far as that goes, I'm not so
sure there isn't right on both sides.  Or wrong.  Most likely wrong.
I'd look fine going over there to help the Allies, and then making up my
mind it was the British who'd spilled the beans.  Now let's talk about
something interesting--for instance, how much we love each other."

It was always "we" with Harvey.  In his simple creed if a girl accepted
a man and let him kiss her and wore his ring it was a reciprocal love
affair.  It never occurred to him that sometimes as the evening dragged
toward a close Sara Lee was just a bit weary of his arms, and that she
sought, after he had gone, the haven of her little white room, and closed
the door, and had to look rather a long time at his photograph before
she was in a properly loving mood again.

But that night after his prolonged leave-taking Sara Lee went upstairs
to her room and faced the situation.

She was going to marry Harvey.  She was committed to that.  And she loved
him; not as he cared, perhaps, but he was a very definite part of her
life.  Once or twice when he had been detained by business she had missed
him, had put in a lonely and most unhappy evening.

Sara Lee had known comparatively few men.  In that small and simple
circle of hers, with its tennis court in a vacant lot, its one or two
inexpensive cars, its picnics and porch parties, there was none of the
usual give and take of more sophisticated circles.  Boys and girls paired
off rather early, and remained paired by tacit agreement; there was
comparatively little shifting.  There were few free lances among the men,
and none among the girls.  When she was seventeen Harvey had made it
known unmistakably that Sara Lee was his, and no trespassing.  And for
two years he had without intentional selfishness kept Sara Lee for
himself.

That was how matters stood that January night when Sara Lee went
upstairs after Harvey had gone and read Mabel's letter, with Harvey's
photograph turned to the wall.  Under her calm exterior a little flame
of rebellion was burning in her.  Harvey's perpetual "we," his attitude
toward the war, and Mabel's letter, with what it opened before her, had
set the match to something in Sara Lee she did not recognize--a strain
of the adventurer, a throw-back to some wandering ancestor perhaps.  But
more than anything it had set fire to the something maternal that is in
all good women.

Yet, had Aunt Harriet not come in just then, the flame might have died.
And had it died a certain small page of the history of this war would
never have been written.

Aunt Harriet came in hesitatingly. She wore a black wrapper, and her
face, with her hair drawn back for the night, looked tight and old.

"Harvey gone?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I thought I'd better come in.  There's something--I can tell you in
the morning if you're tired."

"I'm not tired," said Sara Lee.

Aunt Harriet sat down miserably on a chair.

"I've had a letter from Jennie," she stated.  "The girl's gone, and the
children have whooping cough.  She'd like me to come right away."

"To do the maid's work!" said Sara Lee indignantly.  "You mustn't do it,
that's all!  She can get somebody."

But Aunt Harriet was firm.  She was not a fair-weather friend, and since
Jennie was good enough to offer her a home she felt she ought to go at
once.

"You'll have to get married right away," she finished.  "Goodness knows
it's time enough!  For two years Harvey has been barking like a watchdog
in front of the house and keeping every other young man away."

Sara Lee smiled.

"He's only been lying on the doormat, Aunt Harriet," she observed.  "I
don't believe he knows how to bark."

"Oh, he's mild enough.  He may change after marriage.  Some do.  But,"
she added hastily, "he'll be a good husband.  He's that sort."

Suddenly something that had been taking shape in Sara Lee's small head,
quite unknown to her, developed identity and speech.

"But I'm not going to marry him just yet," she said.

Aunt Harriet's eyes fell on the photograph with its face to the wall,
and she started.

"You haven't quarreled with him, have you?"

"No, of course not!  I have something else I want to do first.  That's
all.  Aunt Harriet, I want to go to France."

Aunt Harriet began to tremble, and Sara Lee went over and put her young
arms about her.

"Don't look like that," she said.  "It's only for a little while.  I've
got to go.  I just have to, that's all!"

"Go how?" demanded Aunt Harriet.

"I don't know.  I'll find some way.  I've had a letter from Mabel.
Things are awful over there."

"And how will you help them?" Her face worked nervously.  "Is it going
to help for you to be shot?  Or carried off by the Germans?"  The
atrocity stories were all that Aunt Harriet knew of the war, and all
she could think of now.  "You'll come back with your hands cut off."

Sara Lee straightened and looked out where between the white curtains
the spire of the Methodist Church marked the east.

"I'm going," she said. And she stood there, already poised for flight.

There was no sleep in the little house that night.  Sara Lee could hear
the older woman moving about in her lonely bed, where the spring still
sagged from Uncle James' heavy form, and at last she went in and crept
in beside her.  Toward morning Aunt Harriet slept, with the girl's arm
across her; and then Sara Lee went back to her room and tried to plan.

She had a little money, and she had heard that living was cheap abroad.
She could get across then, and perhaps keep herself.  But she must do
more than that, to justify her going.  She must get money, and then
decide how the money was to be spent.  If she could only talk it over
with Uncle James!  Or, with Harvey. Harvey knew about business and money.

But she dared not go to Harvey.  She was terribly frightened when she
even thought of him.  There was no hope of making him understand; and
no chance of reasoning with him, because, to be frank, she had no
reasons.  She had only instinct--instinct and a great tenderness toward
suffering.  No, obviously Harvey must not know until everything was
arranged.

That morning the Methodist Church packed a barrel for the Belgians.
There was a real rite of placing in it Mrs. Augustus Gregory's old
sealskin coat, now a light brown and badly worn, but for years the only
one in the neighborhood.  Various familiar articles appeared, to be
thrust into darkness, only to emerge in surroundings never dreamed of
in their better days--the little Howard boy's first trouser suit; the
clothing of a baby that had never lived; big Joe Hemmingway's dress suit,
the one he was married in and now too small for him.  And here and there
things that could ill be spared, brought in and offered with resolute
cheerfulness.

Sara Lee brought some of Uncle James' things, and was at once set to
work.  The women there called Sara Lee capable, but it was to take other
surroundings to bring out her real efficiency.

And it was when bending over a barrel, while round her went on that
pitying talk of women about a great calamity, that Sara Lee got her
great idea; and later on she made the only speech of her life.

That evening Harvey went home in a quiet glow of happiness.  He had had
a good day.  And he had heard of a little house that would exactly suit
Sara Lee and him.  He did not notice his sister's silence when he spoke
about it.  He was absorbed, manlike, in his plans.

"The Leete house," he said in answer to her perfunctory question.  "Will
Leete has lost his mind and volunteered for the ambulance service in
France. Mrs. Leete is going to her mother's."

"Maybe he feels it's his duty.  He can drive a car, and they have no
children."

"Duty nothing!"  He seemed almost unduly irritated.  "He's tired of the
commission business, that's all.  Y'ought to have heard the fellows in
the office.  Anyhow, they want to sub-let the house, and I'm going to
take Sara Lee there to-night."

His sister looked at him, and there was in her face something of the
expression of the women that day as they packed the barrel.  But she
said nothing until he was leaving the house that night.  Then she put
a hand on his arm.  She was a weary little woman, older than Harvey,
and tired with many children.  She had been gathering up small overshoes
in the hall and he had stopped to help her.

"You know, Harvey, Sara Lee's not--I always think she's different,
somehow."

"Well, I guess yes!  There's nobody like her."

"You can't bully her, you know."

Harvey stared at her with honestly perplexed eyes.

"Bully!" he said.  "What on earth makes you say that?"

Then he laughed.

"Don't you worry, Belle," he said.  "I know I'm a fierce and domineering
person, but if there's any bullying I know who'll do it."

"She's not like the other girls you know," she reiterated rather
helplessly.

"Sure she's not!  But she's enough like them to need a house to live in.
And if she isn't crazy about the Leete place I'll eat it."

He banged out cheerfully, whistling as he went down the street.  He
stopped whistling, however, at Sara Lee's door.  The neighborhood
preserved certain traditions as to a house of mourning.  It lowered
its voice in passing and made its calls of condolence in dark clothes
and a general air of gloom.  Pianos near by were played only with the
windows closed, and even the milkman leaving his bottles walked on
tiptoe and presented his monthly bill solemnly.

So Harvey stopped whistling, rang the bell apologetically, and--faced a
new and vivid Sara Lee, flushed and with shining eyes, but woefully
frightened.

She told him almost at once.  He had only reached the dining room of
the Leete house, which he was explaining had a white wainscoting when
she interrupted him.  The ladies of the Methodist Church were going to
collect a certain amount each month to support a soup kitchen as near
the Front as possible.

"Good work!" said Harvey heartily.  "I suppose they do get hungry, poor
devils.  Now about the dining room--"

"Harvey dear," Sara Lee broke in, "I've not finished.  I--I'm going
over to run it."

"You are not!"

"But I am!  It's all arranged.  It's my plan.  They've all wanted to do
something besides giving clothes.  They send barrels, and they never
hear from them again, and it's hard to keep interested.  But with me
there, writing home and telling them, 'To-day we served soup to this
man, and that man, perhaps wounded.'  And--and that sort of thing--
don't you see how interested every one will be?  Mrs. Gregory has
promised twenty-five dollars a month, and--"

"You're not going," said Harvey in a flat tone.  "That's all.  Don't
talk to me about it."

Sara Lee flushed deeper and started again, but rather hopelessly.
There was no converting a man who would not argue or reason, who based
everything on flat refusal.

"But somebody must go," she said with a tightening of her voice.
"Here's Mabel Andrews' letter. Read it and you will understand."

"I don't want to read it."

Nevertheless he took it and read it.  He read slowly.  He did nothing
quickly except assert his masculine domination.  He had all the faults
of his virtues; he was as slow as he was sure, as unimaginative as he
was faithful.

He read it and gave it back to her.

"I don't think you mean it," he said.  "I give you credit for too much
sense.  Maybe some one is needed over there.  I guess things are pretty
bad.  But why should you make it your affair?  There are about a million
women in this country that haven't got anything else to do.  Let them go."

"Some of them will. But they're afraid, mostly."

"Afraid!  My God, I should think they would be afraid!  And you're asking
me to let you go into danger, to put off our wedding while you wander
about over there with a million men and no women and--"

"You're wrong, Harvey dear," said Sara Lee in a low voice.  "I am not
asking you at all.  I am telling you that I am going."

Sara Lee's leaving made an enormous stir in her small community.  Opinion
was divided.  She was right according to some; she was mad according to
others.  The women of the Methodist Church, finding a real field of
activity, stood behind her solidly.  Guaranties of funds came in in a
steady flow, though the amounts were small; and, on the word going about
that she was to start a soup kitchen for the wounded, housewives sent
in directions for making their most cherished soups.

Sara Lee, going to a land where the meat was mostly horse and where
vegetables were scarce and limited to potatoes, Brussels sprouts and
cabbage, found herself the possessor of recipes for making such sick-room
dainties as mushroom soup, cream of asparagus, clam broth with whipped
cream, and from Mrs. Gregory, the wealthy woman of the church--green
turtle and consomme.

She was very busy and rather sad.  She was helping Aunt Harriet to close
the house and getting her small wardrobe in order.  And once a day she
went to a school of languages and painfully learned from a fierce and
kindly old Frenchman a list of French nouns and prefixes like this: Le
livre, le crayon, la plume, la fenetre, and so on.  By the end of ten
days she could say: "La rose sent-elle bon?"

Considering that Harvey came every night and ran the gamut of the
emotions, from pleading and expostulation at eight o'clock to black
fury at ten, when he banged out of the house, Sara Lee was amazingly
calm.  If she had moments of weakness, when the call from overseas was
less insistent than the call for peace and protection--if the nightly
drawn picture of the Leete house, with tile mantels and a white bathroom,
sometimes obtruded itself as against her approaching homelessness, Sara
Lee made no sign.

She had her photograph taken for her passport, and when Harvey refused
one she sent it to him by mail, with the word "Please" in the corner.
Harvey groaned over it, and got it out at night and scolded it wildly;
and then slept with it under his pillows, when he slept at all.

Not Sara Lee, and certainly not Harvey, knew what was calling her.  And
even later, when waves of homesickness racked her with wild remorse, she
knew that she had had to go and that she could not return until she had
done the thing for which she had been sent, whatever that might be.



                    III


The first thing that struck Sara Lee was the way she was saying her
nightly prayers in all sorts of odd places.  In trains and in hotels and,
after sufficient interval, in the steamer.  She prayed under these novel
circumstances to be made a better girl, and to do a lot of good over
there, and to be forgiven for hurting Harvey.  She did this every night,
and then got into her narrow bed and studied French nouns--because she
had decided that there was no time for verbs--and numbers, which put
her to sleep.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq," Sara Lee would begin, and go on, rocking
gently in her berth as the steamer rolled, "Vingt, vingt-et-un,
vingt-deux, trente, trente--et--un--"  Her voice would die away.  The
book on the floor and Harvey's picture on the tiny table, Sara Lee would
sleep.  And as the ship trembled the light over her head would shine on
Harvey's ring, and it glistened like a tear.

One thing surprised her as she gradually met some of her fellow
passengers.  She was not alone on her errand.  Others there were on
board, young and old women, and men, too, who had felt the call of mercy
and were going, as ignorant as she, to help.  As ignorant, but not so
friendless.  Most of them were accredited somewhere.  They had definite
objectives. But what was more alarming--they talked in big figures.
Great organizations were behind them.  She heard of the rehabilitation
of Belgium, and portable hospitals, and millions of dollars, and Red
Cross trains.

Not once did Sara Lee hear of anything so humble as a soup kitchen.  The
war was a vast thing, they would observe.  It could only be touched by
great organizations.  Individual effort was negligible.

Once she took her courage in her hands.

"But I should think," she said, "that even great organizations depend on
the--on individual efforts."

The portable hospital woman turned to her patronizingly.

"Certainly, my dear," she said.  "But coordinated--coordinated."

It is hard to say just when the lights went down on Sara Lee's quiet
stage and the interlude began.  Not on the steamer, for after three days
of discouragement and good weather they struck a storm; and Sara Lee's
fine frenzy died for a time, of nausea.  She did not appear again until
the boat entered the Mersey, a pale and shaken angel of mercy, not at
all sure of her wings, and most terribly homesick.

That night Sara Lee made a friend, one that Harvey would have approved
of, an elderly Englishman named Travers.  He was standing by the rail
in the rain looking out at the blinking signal lights on both sides of
the river.  The ship for the first time had abandoned its policy of
darkness and the decks were bathed in light.

Overhead the yardarm blinkers were signaling, and directly over Sara
Lee's head a great white searchlight swept the water ahead.  The wind
was blowing a gale, and the red and green lights of the pilot boat swung
in great arcs that seemed to touch the waves on either side.

Sara Lee stood beside Mr. Travers, for companionship only.  He had
preserved a typically British aloofness during the voyage, and he had
never spoken to her.  But there was something forlorn in Sara Lee that
night as she clutched her hat with both hands and stared out at the
shore lights.  And if he had been silent during the voyage he had not
been deaf.  So he knew why almost every woman on the ship was making
the voyage; but he knew nothing about Sara Lee.

"Bad night," said Mr. Travers.

"I was wondering what they are trying to do with that little boat."

Mr. Travers concealed the surprise of a man who was making his
seventy-second voyage.

"That's the pilot boat," he explained.  "We are picking up a pilot."

"But," marveled Sara Lee rather breathlessly, "have we come all the way
without any pilot?"

He explained that to her, and showed her a few moments later how the
pilot came with incredible rapidity up the swaying rope ladder and over
the side.

To be honest, he had been watching for the pilot boat, not to see what
to Sara Lee was the thrilling progress of the pilot up the ladder, but
to get the newspapers he would bring on with him.  It is perhaps
explanatory of the way things went for Sara Lee from that time on that
he quite forgot his newspapers.

The chairs were gone from the decks, preparatory to the morning landing,
so they walked about and Sara Lee at last told him her story--the
ladies of the Methodist Church, and the one hundred dollars a month she
was to have, outside of her traveling expenses, to found and keep going
a soup kitchen behind the lines.

"A hundred dollars a month," he said.  "That's twenty pounds.  Humph!
Good God!"

But this last was under his breath.

Then she told him of Mabel Andrews' letter, and at last read it to him.
He listened attentively.  "Of course," she said when she had put the
letter back into her bag, "I can't feed a lot, even with soup.  But if I
only help a few, it's worth doing, isn't it?"

"Very much worth doing," he said gravely.  "I suppose you are not, by
any chance, going to write a weekly article for one of your newspapers
about what you are doing?"

"I hadn't thought of it.  Do you think I should?"

Quite unexpectedly Mr. Travers patted her shoulder.

"My dear child," he said, "now and then I find somebody who helps to
revive my faith in human nature.  Thank you."

Sara Lee did not understand.  The touch on the shoulder had made her
think suddenly of Uncle James, and her chin quivered.

"I'm just a little frightened," she said in a small voice.

"Twenty pounds!" repeated Mr. Travers to himself.  "Twenty pounds!"
And aloud: "Of course you speak French?"

"Very little.  I've had six lessons, and I can count--some."

The sense of unreality which the twenty pounds had roused in Mr. Travers'
cautious British mind grew.  No money, no French, no objective, just a
great human desire to be useful in her own small way--this was a new type
to him.  What a sporting chance this frail bit of a girl was taking!  And
he noticed now something that had escaped him before--a dauntlessness,
a courage of the spirit rather than of the body, that was in the very
poise of her head.

"I'm not afraid about the language," she was saying.  "I have a phrase
book.  And a hungry man, maybe sick or wounded, can understand a bowl of
soup in any language, I should think.  And I can cook!"

It was a perplexed and thoughtful Mr. Travers who sipped his
Scotch-and-soda in the smoking room before retiring, he took the problem
to bed with him and woke up in the night saying: "Twenty pounds!
Good God!"

In the morning they left the ship.  He found Sara Lee among the K's,
waiting to have her passport examined, and asked her where she was
stopping in London.  She had read somewhere of Claridge's--in a novel
probably.

"I shouldn't advise Claridge's," he said, reflecting rather grimly on
the charges of that very exclusive hotel.  "Suppose you let me make a
suggestion."

So he wrote out the name of a fine old English house on Trafalgar
Square, where she could stay until she went to France.  There would be
the matter of a passport to cross the Channel.  It might take a day or
two.  Perhaps he could help her.  He would give himself the pleasure of
calling on her very soon.

Sara Lee got on the train and rode up to London.  She said to herself
over and over: "This is England.  I am really in England."  But it did
not remove the sense of unreality.  Even the English grass, bright green
in midwinter, only added to the sense of unreality.

She tried, sitting in the strange train with its small compartments, to
think of Harvey.  She looked at her ring and tried to recall some of
the tender things he had said to her.  But Harvey eluded her.  She could
not hear his voice.  And when she tried to see him it was Harvey of the
wide face and the angry eyes of the last days that she saw.

Morley's comforted her.  The man at the door had been there for forty
years, and was beyond surprise.  He had her story in twenty-four hours,
and in forty-eight he was her slave.  The elderly chambermaid mothered
her, and failed to report that Sara Lee was doing a small washing in
her room and had pasted handkerchiefs over the ancient walnut of her
wardrobe.

"Going over, are you?" she said.  "Dear me, what courage you've got,
miss!  They tell me things is horrible over there."

"That's why I'm going," replied Sara Lee, and insisted on helping to
make up the bed.

"It's easier when two do it," she said casually.

Mr. Travers put in a fretful twenty-four hours before he came to see her.
He lunched at Brooks', and astounded an elderly member of the House by
putting her problem to him.

"A young girl!" exclaimed the M. P.  "Why, deuce take it, it's no place
for a young girl."

"An American," explained Mr. Travers uncomfortably.  "She's perfectly
able to look after herself."

"Probably a correspondent in disguise.  They'll go to any lengths."

"She's not a correspondent."

"Let her stay in Boulogne.  There's work there in the hospitals."

"She's not a nurse.  She's a--well, she's a cook.  Or so she says."

The M. P. stared at Mr. Travers, and Mr. Travers stared back defiantly.

"What in the name of God is she going to cook?"

"Soup," said Mr. Travers in a voice of suppressed irritation.  "She's
got a little money, and she wants to establish a soup kitchen behind
the Belgian trenches on a line of communication.  I suppose," he
continued angrily, "even you will admit that the Belgian Army needs all
the soup it can get."

"I don't approve of women near the lines."

"Neither do I.  But I'm exceedingly glad that a few of them have the
courage to go there."

"What's she going to make soup out of?"

"I'm not a cooking expert.  But I know her and I fancy she'll manage."

It ended by the M. P. agreeing to use his influence with the War Office
to get Sara Lee to France.  He was very unwilling.  The spy question was
looming large those days.  Even the Red Cross had unwittingly spread its
protection over more than one German agent.  The lines were being
drawn in.

"I may possibly get her to France.  I don't know, of course," he said in
that ungracious tone in which an Englishman often grants a favor which
he will go to any amount of trouble to do.  "After that it's up to her."

Mr. Travers reflected rather grimly that after that it was apparently up
to him.

Sara Lee sat in her room at Morley's Hotel and looked out at the life of
London--policemen with chin straps; schoolboys in high silk hats and
Eton suits, the hats generally in disreputable condition; clerks dressed
as men at home dressed for Easter Sunday church; and men in uniforms.
Only a fair sprinkling of these last, in those early days.  On the first
afternoon there was a military funeral.  A regiment of Scots, in kilts,
came swinging down from the church of St. Martin in the Fields, tall and
wonderful men, grave and very sad.  Behind them, on a gun carriage, was
the body of their officer, with the British flag over the casket and his
sword and cap on the top.

Sara Lee cried bitterly.  It was not until they had gone that she
remembered that Harvey had always called the Scots men in women's
petticoats.  She felt a thrill of shame for him, and no amount of
looking at his picture seemed to help.

Mr. Travers called the second afternoon and was received by August at
the door as an old friend.

"She's waiting in there," he said.  "Very nice young lady, sir.  Very
kind to everybody."

Mr. Travers found her by a window looking out.  There was a recruiting
meeting going on in Trafalgar Square, the speakers standing on the
monument.  Now and then there was a cheer, and some young fellow
sheepishly offered himself.  Sara Lee was having a mad desire to go
over and offer herself too.  Because, she reflected, she had been in
London almost two days, and she was as far from France as ever.  Not
knowing, of course, that three months was a fair time for the slow
methods then in vogue.

There was a young man in the room, but Sara Lee had not noticed him.
He was a tall, very blond young man, in a dark-blue Belgian uniform with
a quaint cap which allowed a gilt tassel to drop over his forehead.  He
sat on a sofa, curling up the ends of a very small mustache, his legs,
in cavalry boots, crossed and extending a surprising distance beyond
the sofa.

The lights were up now, beyond the back drop, the stage darkened.  A
new scene with a vengeance, a scene laid in strange surroundings, with
men, whole men and wounded men and spying men--and Sara Lee and this
young Belgian, whose name was Henri and whose other name, because of
what he suffered and what he did, we may not know.



                    IV


Henri sat on his sofa and watched Sara Lee.  Also he shamelessly listened
to the conversation, not because he meant to be an eavesdropper but
because he liked Sara Lee's voice.  He had expected a highly inflected
British voice, and instead here was something entirely different--that
is, Sara Lee's endeavor to reconcile the English "a" with her normal
western Pennsylvania pronunciation.  She did it quite unintentionally,
but she had a good ear and it was difficult, for instance, to say
"rather" when Mr. Travers said "rawther."

Henri had a good ear too. And the man he was waiting for did not come.
Also he had been to school in England and spoke English rather better
than most British.  So he heard a conversation like this, the gaps being
what he lost:

MR. TRAVERS: ---- to France, anyhow. After that ----

SARA LEE:  Awfully sorry to be ---- But what shall I do if I do get over?
The chambermaid up-stairs ---- very difficult.

MR. TRAVERS: The proper and sensible thing is ---- home.

SARA LEE: To America? But I haven't done anything yet.

Henri knew that she was an American.  He also realized that she was on
the verge of tears.  He glared at poor Mr. Travers, who was doing his
best, and lighted a French cigarette.

"There must be some way," said Sara Lee.  "If they need help--and I
have read you Mabel Andrews' letter--then I should think they'd be
glad to send me."

"They would be, of course," he said.  "But the fact is--there's been
some trouble about spies, and--"

Henri's eyes narrowed.

"Spies! And they think I'm a spy?"

"My dear child," remonstrated Mr. Travers, slightly exasperated,
"they're not thinking about you at all.  The War Office has never heard
of you.  It's a general rule."

Sara Lee was not placated.

"Let them cable home and find out about me.  I can give them references.
Why, all sorts of prominent people are sending me money.  They must
trust me, or they wouldn't."

There were no gaps for Henri now.  Sara Lee did not care who heard her,
and even Mr. Travers had slightly raised his voice.  Henri was divided
between a conviction that he ought to go away and a mad desire to join
in the conversation, greatly augmented when Sara Lee went to the window
and wiped her eyes.

"If you only spoke French--" began Mr. Travers.

Sara Lee looked over her shoulder.  "But of course I do!" she said.
"And German and--and Yiddish, and all sorts of languages.  Every spy
does."

Henri smiled appreciatively.

It might all have ended there very easily.  Sara Lee might have fought
the War Office single-handed and won out, but it is extremely unlikely.
The chances at that moment were that she would spend endless days and
hours in anterooms, and tell her story and make her plea a hundred times.
And then--go back home to Harvey and the Leete house, and after a time,
like Mrs. Gregory, speak rather too often of "the time I went abroad."

But Sara Lee was to go to France, and even further, to the fragment of
unconquered Belgium that remained.  And never so long as she lived, would
she be able to forget those days or to speak of them easily. So she
stood by the window trying not to cry, and a little donkey drawing a
coster's cart moved out in front of the traffic and was caught by a motor
bus.  There was only time for the picture--the tiny beast lying there
and her owner wringing his hands.  Such of the traffic as could get by
swerved and went on.  London must move, though a thousand willing little
beasts lay dying.

And Sara moved too.  One moment she was there by the window.  And the
next she had given a stifled cry and ran out.

"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Travers, and got up slowly.

Henri was already up and at the window.  What he saw was Sara Lee making
her way through the stream of vehicles, taking a dozen chances for her
life.  Henri waited until he saw her crouched by the donkey, its head
on her knee.  Then he, too, ran out.

That is how Henri, of no other name that may be given, met Sara Lee
Kennedy, of Pennsylvania--under a London motor bus.  And that, I think,
will be the picture he carries of her until he dies, her soft eyes full
of pity, utterly regardless of the dirt and the crowd and an
expostulating bobby, with that grotesque and agonized head on her knees.

Henri crawled under the bus, though the policeman was extremely anxious
to keep him out.  And he ran a practiced eye over the injured donkey.

"It's dying," said Sara Lee with white lips.

"It will die," replied Henri, "but how soon?  They are very strong,
these little beasts."

The conductor of the bus made a suggestion then, one that froze the
blood round Sara Lee's heart: "If you'll move away and let us run over
it proper it'll be out of its trouble, miss."

Sara Lee raised haggard eyes to Henri.

"Did you hear that?" she said.  "They'd do it too!"

The total result of a conference between four policemen, the costermonger,
and, by that time, Mr. Travers--was to draw the animal off the street
and into the square.  Sara Lee stuck close by.  So, naturally, did
Henri.  And when the hopeless condition of Nellie, as they learned she
was named, became increasingly evident, Henri behaved like a man and a
soldier.

He got out his revolver and shot her in the brain.

"A kindness," he explained, as Sara Lee would have caught his hand.
"The only way, mademoiselle."

Mr. Travers had the usual British hatred of a crowd and publicity,
coupled with a deadly fear of getting into the papers, except through
an occasional letter to the Times.  He vanished just before the shot,
and might have been seen moving rapidly through the square, turning
over in his mind the difficulty of trying to treat young American girls
like rational human beings.

But Henri understood.  He had had a French mother, and there is a leaven
of French blood in the American temperament, old Huguenot, some of it.
So Americans love beauty and obey their impulses and find life good to
do things rather than to be something or other more or less important.
And so Henri could quite understand how Sara Lee had forgotten herself
when Mr. Travers could not.  And he understood, also, when Sara Lee,
having composed the little donkey's quiet figure, straightened up with
tears in her eyes.

"It was very dear of you to come out," she said.  "And--of course it was
the best thing."

She held out her hand.  The crowd had gone.  Traffic was moving again,
racing to make up for five lost precious moments.  The square was dark,
that first darkness of London, when air raids were threatened but had
not yet taken place.  From the top of the Admiralty, near by, a
flashlight shot up into the air and began its nightly process of brushing
the sky. Henri took her hand and bent over it.

"You are very brave, mademoiselle," he said, and touched her hand with
his lips.

The amazing interlude had commenced.



                    V


Yet for a day or two nothing much was changed.  Mr. Travers sent Sara
Lee a note that he was taking up her problem with the Foreign Office;
and he did indeed make an attempt.  He also requested his wife to ask
Sara Lee to tea.

Sara Lee was extremely nervous on the day she went.  She wore a black
jacket suit with a white collar, and she carried Aunt Harriet's mink
furs, Aunt Harriet mourning thoroughly and completely in black astrachan.
She had the faculty of the young American girl of looking smart without
much expense, and she appeared absurdly young.

She followed the neat maid up a wide staircase to a door with a screen
just inside, and heard her name announced for the first time in her life.
Sara Lee took a long breath and went inside, to a most discouraging half
hour.

Mr. Travers was on the hearth rug.  Mrs. Travers was in a chair, a portly
woman with a not unkindly face, but the brusque manner many Englishwomen
acquire after forty.  She held Sara Lee's hand and gave her a complete
if smiling inspection.

"And it is you who are moving heaven and earth to get to the Front!
You--child!"

Sara Lee's heart fell, but she smiled also.

"But I am older than I look," she said.  "And I am very strong."

Mrs. Travers looked helplessly at her husband, while she rang the bell
for tea.  That was another thing Sara Lee had read about but never
seen--that ringing for tea.  At home no one served afternoon tea; but
at a party, when refreshments were coming, the hostess slipped out to
the kitchen and gave a whispered order or two.

"I shall be frank with you," said Mrs. Travers.  "I think it quite
impossible.  It is not getting you over.  That might be done.  And of
course there are women over there--young ones too.  But the army
objects very seriously to their being in danger.  And of course one
never knows--"  Her voice trailed off vaguely.  She implied, however,
that what one never knows was best unknown.

"I have a niece over there," she said as the tea tray came in.  "Her
mother was fool enough to let her go.  Now they can't get her back."

"Oh, dear!" said Sara Lee.  "Can't they find her?"

"She won't come.  Little idiot!  She's in Paris, however.  I daresay
she is safe enough."

Mrs. Travers made the tea thoughtfully.  So far Mr. Travers had hardly
spoken, but he cheered in true British fashion at the sight of the tea.
Sara Lee, exceedingly curious as to the purpose of a very small stand
somewhat resembling a piano stool, which the maid had placed at her knee,
learned that it was to hold her muffin plate.

"And now," said Mr. Travers, "suppose we come to the point.  There
doesn't seem to be a chance to get you over, my child.  Same answer
everywhere.  Place is full of untrained women.  Spies have been using
Red Cross passes.  Result is that all the lines are drawn as tight as
possible."

Sara Lee stared at him with wide eyes.

"But I can't go back," she said.  "I--well, I just can't.  They're
raising the money for me, and all sorts of people are giving things.
A--a friend of mine is baking cakes and sending on the money.  She
has three children, and--"

She gulped.

"I thought everybody wanted to get help to the Belgians," she said.

A slightly grim smile showed itself on Mrs. Travers' face.

"I'm afraid you don't understand.  It is you we want to help.  Neither
Mr. Travers nor I feel that a girl so young as you, and alone, has any
place near the firing line.  And that, I fancy, is where you wish to go.
As to helping the Belgians, we have four in the house now.  They do not
belong to the same social circles, so they prefer tea in their own rooms.
You are quite right about their needing help too.  They cannot even make
up their own beds."

"They are not all like that," broke in Mr. Travers hastily.

"Of course not.  But I merely think that Miss--er--Kennedy should know
both sides of the picture."

Somewhat later Sara Lee was ushered downstairs by the neat maid, who
stood on the steps and blew a whistle for a taxi--Sara Lee had come in
a bus.  She carried in her hand the address of a Belgian commission of
relief at the Savoy Hotel, and in her heart, for the first time, a doubt
of her errand.  She gave the Savoy address mechanically and, huddled in
a corner, gave way to wild and fearful misgivings.

Coming up she had sat on top of the bus and watched with wide curious,
eyes the strange traffic of London.  The park had fascinated her--the
little groups of drilling men in khaki, the mellow tones of a bugle, and
here and there on the bridle paths well-groomed men and women on
horseback, as clean-cut as the horses they rode, and on the surface as
careless of what was happening across the Channel.  But she saw nothing
now.  She sat back and twisted Harvey's ring on her finger, and saw
herself going back, her work undone, her faith in herself shattered.
And Harvey's arms and the Leete house ready to receive her.

However, a ray of hope opened for her at the Savoy--not much, a prospect.

The Savoy was crowded.  Men in uniform, a sprinkling of anxious-faced
wives and daughters, and more than a sprinkling of gaily dressed and
painted women, filled the lobby or made their way slowly up and down the
staircase.  It was all so utterly different from what she had expected--
so bright, so full of life.  These well-fed people they seemed happy
enough.  Were they all wrong back home?  Was the war the ghastly thing
they thought it?

Long months afterward Sara Lee was to learn that the Savoy was not
London.  She was to learn other things--that America knew more, through
a free press, of war conditions than did England.  And she was to
learn what never ceased to surprise her--the sporting instinct of the
British which made their early slogan "Business as usual."  Business
and pleasure--but only on the surface.  Underneath was a dogged and
obstinate determination to make up as soon as possible for the
humiliation of the early days of the war.

Those were the transition days in England.  The people were slowly
awaking to the magnitude of the thing that was happening to them. Certain
elements of the press, long under political dominion, were preparing to
come out for a coalition ministry.  The question of high-explosive
shells as against shrapnel was bitterly fought, some of the men at home
standing fast for shrapnel, as valuable against German artillery as a
garden hose.  Men coming back from the Front were pleading for real help,
not men only, not Red Cross, not food and supplies, but for something
more competent than mere man power to hold back the deluge.

But over it all was that surface cheerfulness, that best-foot-forward
attitude of London.  And Sara Lee saw only that, and lost faith.  She
had come far to help.  But here was food in plenty and bands playing
and smiling men in uniform drinking tea and playing for a little.  That,
too, Sara Lee was to understand later; but just then she did not.  At
home there was more surface depression.  The atrocities, the plight of
the Belgians, the honor list in the Illustrated London News--that was
the war to Sara Lee.  And here!

But later on, down in a crowded dark little room, things were different.
She was one of a long line, mostly women.  They were unhappy and desolate
enough, God knows.  They sat or stood with a sort of weary resignation.
Now and then a short heavy man with an upcurled mustache came out and
took in one or two.  The door closed.  And overhead the band played
monotonously.

It was after seven when Sara Lee's turn came.  The heavy-set man spoke
to her in French, but he failed to use a single one of the words she
had memorized.

"Don't you speak any English?" she asked helplessly.

"I do; but not much," he replied.  Though his French had been rapid he
spoke English slowly. "How can we serve you, mademoiselle?"

"I don't want any assistance.  I--I want to help, if I can."

"Here?"

"In France.  Or Belgium."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"We have many offers of help.  What we need, mademoiselle, is not
workers.  We have, at our base hospital, already many English nurses."

"I am not a nurse."

"I am sorry.  The whole world is sorry for Belgium, and many would work.
What we need"--he shrugged his shoulders again--"is food, clothing,
supplies for our brave little soldiers."

Sara Lee looked extremely small and young.  The Belgian sat down on a
chair and surveyed her carefully.

"You English are doing a--a fine work for us," he observed.  "We are
grateful.  But of course the"--he hesitated--"the pulling up of an
entire people--it is colossal."

"But I am not English," said Sara Lee.  "And I have a little money.  I
want to make soup for your wounded men at a railway station or--any
place.  I can make good soup.  And I shall have money each month to buy
what I need."

Only then was Sara Lee admitted to the crowded little room.

Long afterward, when the lights behind the back drop had gone down and
Sara Lee was back again in her familiar setting, one of the clearest
pictures she retained of that amazing interlude was of that crowded
little room in the Savoy, its single littered desk, its two typewriters
creating an incredible din, a large gentleman in a dark-blue military
cape seeming to fill the room.  And in corners and off stage, so to
speak, perhaps a half dozen men, watching her curiously.

The conversation was in French, and Sara Lee's acquaintance of the
passage acted as interpreter.  It was only when Sara Lee found that a
considerable discussion was going on in which she had no part that she
looked round and saw her friend of two nights before and of the little
donkey.  He was watching her intently, and when he caught her eye
he bowed.

Now men, in Sara Lee's mind, had until now been divided into the ones at
home, one's own kind, the sort who married one's friends or oneself, the
kind who called their wives "mother" after the first baby came, and were
easily understood, plain men, decent and God-fearing and self-respecting;
and the men of that world outside America, who were foreigners.  One
might like foreigners, but they were outsiders.

So there was no self-consciousness in Sara Lee's bow and smile.  Later
on Henri was to find that lack of self and sex consciousness one of the
maddening mysteries about Sara Lee.  Perhaps he never quite understood
it.  But always he respected it.

More conversation, in an increasing staccato.  Short contributions from
the men crowded into corners.  Frenzied beating of the typewriting
machines, and overhead and far away the band.  There was no air in the
room.  Sara Lee was to find out a great deal later on about the contempt
of the Belgians for air.  She loosened Aunt Harriet's neckpiece.

So far Henri had not joined in the discussion.  But now he came forward
and spoke.  Also, having finished, he interpreted to Sara Lee.

"They are most grateful," he explained.  "It is a--a practical idea,
mademoiselle.  If you were in Belgium"--he smiled rather mirthlessly--
"if you were already in the very small part of Belgium remaining to us,
we could place you very usefully.  But--the British War Office is most
careful, just now.  You understand--there are reasons."

Sara Lee flushed indignantly.

"They can watch me if they want to," she said.  "What trouble can I make?
I've only just landed.  You--you'd have to go a good ways to find any
one who knows less than I do about the war."

"There is no doubt of that," he said, unconscious of offense.  "But the
War Office--" He held out his hands.

Sara Lee, who had already caught the British "a" and was rather overdoing
it, had a wild impulse to make the same gesture.  It meant so much.

More conversation.  Evidently more difficulties--but with Henri now
holding the center of the stage and speaking rapidly.  The heavy-set man
retired and read letters under an electric lamp.  The band upstairs was
having dinner.  And Henri argued and wrangled.  He was quite passionate.
The man in the military cape listened and smiled.  And at last he nodded.

Henri turned to Sara Lee.

"You Americans are all brave," he said.  "You like--what is it you
say?--taking a chance, I think.  Would you care to take such a chance?"

"What sort of a chance?"

"May I visit you this evening at your hotel?"

Just for an instant Sara Lee hesitated.  There was Harvey at home.  He
would not like her receiving a call from any man.  And Harvey did not
like foreigners.  He always said they had no respect for women.  It
struck her suddenly what Harvey would call Henri's bowing and his kissing
her hand, and his passionate gesticulations when he was excited.  He
would call it all tomfool nonsense.

And she recalled his final words, his arms so close about her that she
could hardly breathe, his voice husky with emotion.

"Just let me hear of any of those foreigners bothering you," he said,
"and I'll go over and wipe out the whole damned nation."

It had not sounded funny then.  It was not funny now.

"Please come," said Sara Lee in a small voice.

The other gentlemen bowed profoundly.  Sara Lee, rather at a loss, gave
them a friendly smile that included them all.  And then she and Henri
were walking up the stairs and to the entrance, Henri's tall figure the
target for many women's eyes.  He, however, saw no one but Sara Lee.

Henri, too, called a taxicab.  Every one in London seemed to ride in
taxis.  And he bent over her hand, once she was in the car, but he did
not kiss it.

"It is very kind of you, what you are doing," he said.  "But, then, you
Americans are all kind.  And wonderful."

Back at Morley's Hotel Sara Lee had a short conversation with Harvey's
picture.

"You are entirely wrong, dear," she said.  She was brushing her hair at
the time, and it is rather a pity that it was a profile picture and that
Harvey's pictured eyes were looking off into space--that is, a piece
of white canvas on a frame, used by photographers to reflect the light
into the eyes.  For Sara Lee with her hair down was even lovelier than
with it up.  "You were wrong.  They are different, but they are kind and
polite.  And very, very respectful.  And he is coming on business."

She intended at first to make no change in her frock.  After all, it was
not a social call, and if she did not dress it would put things on the
right footing.

But slipping along the corridor after her bath, clad in a kimono and
slippers and extremely nervous, she encountered a young woman on her
way to dinner, and she was dressed in that combination of street skirt
and evening blouse that some Englishwomen from the outlying districts
still affect.  And Sara Lee thereupon decided to dress.  She called in
the elderly maid, who was already her slave, and together they went over
her clothes.

It was the maid, perhaps, then who brought into Sara Lee's life the
strange and mad infatuation for her that was gradually to become a
dominant issue in the next few months.  For the maid chose a white dress,
a soft and young affair in which Sara Lee looked like the heart of a rose.

"I always like to see a young lady in white, miss," said the maid.
"Especially when there's a healthy skin."

So Sara Lee ate her dinner alone, such a dinner as a healthy skin and
body demanded.  And she watched tall young Englishwomen with fine
shoulders go out with English officers in khaki, and listened to a babel
of high English voices, and--felt extremely alone and very subdued.

Henri came rather late.  It was one of the things she was to learn about
him later--that he was frequently late.  It was only long afterward that
she realized that such time as he spent with her was gained only at the
cost of almost superhuman effort.  But that was when she knew Henri's
story, and his work.  She waited for him in the reception room, where a
man and a woman were having coffee and talking in a strange tongue.
Henri found her there, at something before nine, rather downcast and
worried, and debating about going up to bed.  She looked up, to find him
bowing before her.

"I thought you were not coming," she said.

"I?  Not come?  But I had said that I would come, mademoiselle.  I may
sit down?"

Sara Lee moved over on the velvet sofa, and Henri lowered his long body
onto it.  Lowered his voice, too, for the man and woman were staring at
him.

"I'm afraid I didn't quite understand about this afternoon," began Sara
Lee.  "You spoke about taking a chance.  I am not afraid of danger, if
that is what you mean."

"That, and a little more, mademoiselle," said Henri.  "But now that I am
here I do not know."

His eyes were keen.  Sara Lee had suddenly a strange feeling that he
was watching the couple who talked over their coffee, and that, oddly
enough, the couple were watching him.  Yet he was apparently giving his
undivided attention to her.

"Have you walked any to-day?" he asked her unexpectedly.

Sara Lee remembered the bus, and, with some bitterness, the two taxis.

"I haven't had a chance to walk," she said.

"But you should walk," he said.  "I--will you walk with me?  Just about
the square, for air?"  And in a lower tone: "It is not necessary that
those two should know the plan, mademoiselle."

"I'll get my coat and hat," Sara Lee said, and proceeded to do so in a
brisk and businesslike fashion.  When she came down Henri was emerging
from the telephone booth.  His face was impassive.  And again when in
time Sara Lee was to know Henri's face better than she had ever known
Harvey's, she was to learn that the masklike look he sometimes wore
meant danger--for somebody.

They went out without further speech into the clear cold night.  Henri,
as if from custom, threw his head back and scanned the sky.  Then they
went on and crossed into the square.

"The plan," Henri began abruptly, "is this: You will be provided
to-morrow with a passport to Boulogne.  You will, if you agree, take the
midnight train for Folkestone.  At the railway station here you will
be searched.  At Folkestone a board, sitting in an office on the quay,
will examine your passport."

"Does any one in Boulogne speak English?" Sara Lee inquired nervously.
Somehow that babel of French at the Savoy had frightened her.  Her
little phrase book seemed pitifully inadequate for the great things
in her mind.

"That hardly matters," said Henri, smiling faintly.  "Because I think
you shall not go to Boulogne."

"Not go!" She stopped dead, under the monument, and looked up at him.

"The place for you to go, to start from, is Calais," Henri explained.
He paused, to let pass two lovers, a man in khaki and a girl.  "But
Calais is difficult.  It is under martial law--a closed city.  From
Boulogne to Calais would be perhaps impossible."

Sara Lee was American and her methods were direct.

"How can I get to Calais?"

"Will you take the chance I spoke of?"

"For goodness' sake," said Sara Lee in an exasperated tone, "how can I
tell you until I know what it is?"

Henri told her.  He even, standing under a street lamp, drew a small
sketch for her, to make it clear. Sara Lee stood close, watching him,
and some of the lines were not as steady as they might have been.  And
in the midst of it he suddenly stopped.

"Do you know what it means?" he demanded.

"Yes, of course."

"And you know what date this is?"

"The eighteenth of February."

But he saw, after all, that she did not entirely understand.

"To-night, this eighteenth of February, the Germans commence a blockade
of this coast.  No vessels, if they can prevent them, will leave the
harbors; or if they do, none shall reach the other side!"

"Oh!" said Sara Lee blankly.

"We are eager to do as you wish, mademoiselle.  But"--he commenced
slowly to tear up the sketch--"it is too dangerous.  You are too young.
If anything should go wrong and I had--No.  We will find another way."

He put the fragments of the sketch in his pocket.

"How long is this blockade to last?" Sara Lee asked out of bitter
disappointment.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can say?  A week!  A year!  Not at all!"

"Then," said Sara Lee with calm deliberation, "you might as well get out
your pencil and draw another picture--because I'm going."

Far enough away now, the little house at home and the peace that dwelt
therein; and Harvey; and the small white bedroom; and the daily round of
quiet duties.  Sara Lee had set her face toward the east, and the land
of dying men.  And as Henri looked down at her she had again that poised
and eager look, almost of flight, that had brought into Harvey's love
for her just a touch of fear.



                        VI

Sara Lee Kennedy was up at dawn the next morning.  There was a very
serious matter to decide, for Henri's plan had included only such hand
luggage as she herself could carry.

Sara Lee carefully laid out on the bed such articles as she could not
possibly do without, and was able to pack into her suitcase less than
a fourth of them.  She had fortunately brought a soft wool sweater,
which required little room.  Undergarments, several blouses, the sweater
and a pair of heavy shoes--that was her equipment, plus such small
toilet outfit as is necessary when a young woman uses no make-up and
regards cold cream only as a remedy for chapped hands.

The maid found her in rather a dismal mood.

"Going across, miss!" she said.  "Fancy that!"

"It's a secret," cautioned Sara Lee.  "I am really not sure I am going.
I am only trying to go."

The maid, who found Sara Lee and the picture of Harvey on her dressing
table both romantic and appealing, offered to pack.  From the first
moment it was evident that she meant to include the white dress. Indeed
she packed it first.

"You never know what's going to happen over there," she asserted.  "They
do say that royalties are everywhere, going about like common people.
You'd better have a good frock with you."

She had an air of subdued excitement, and after she had established the
fact that not only the white frock but slippers and hose also would go
in she went to the door and glanced up and down the passage.  Then she
closed the door.

"There was queer goings-on here last night, miss," she said cautiously.
"Spies!"

"Oh, no!" cried Sara Lee.

"Spies," she repeated.  "A man and a woman, pretending to be Belgian
refugees.  They took them away at daylight.  I expect by now they've
been shot."

Sara Lee ate very little breakfast that morning.  All through England
it was confidently believed that spies were shot on discovery, a theory
that has been persistent--and false, save at the battle line--since
the beginning of the war.  And Henri's plan assumed new proportions.
Suppose she made her attempt and failed?  Suppose they took her for a
spy, and that tomorrow's sun found her facing a firing squad?  Not,
indeed, that she had ever heard of a firing squad, as such.  But she
had seen spies shot in the movies.  They invariably stood in front of
a brick wall, with the hero in the center.

So she absent-mindedly ate her kippered herring, which had been strongly
recommended by the waiter, and tried to think of what a spy would do, so
she might avoid any suspicious movements.  It struck her, too, that war
seemed to have made the people on that side of the ocean extremely ready
with weapons.  They would be quite likely to shoot first and ask
questions afterwards--which would be too late to be helpful.

She remembered Henri, for instance, and the way, without a word, he had
shot the donkey.

That day she wrote Harvey a letter.

"Dearest:" it began; "I think I am to leave for France to-night.  Things
seem to be moving nicely, and I am being helped by the Belgian Relief
Commission.  It is composed of Belgians and is at the Savoy Hotel."

Here she stopped and cried a little.  What if she should never see
Harvey again--never have his sturdy arms about her?  Harvey gained by
distance.  She remembered only his unfailing kindness and strength and
his love for her.  He seemed, here at the edge of the whirlpool, a sort
of eddy of peace and quiet.  Even then she had no thought of going back
until her work was done, but she did an unusual thing for her, unused
to demonstration of any sort.  She kissed his ring.

Followed directions about sending the money from the church society,
a description of Morley's and Trafalgar Square, an account of tea at
the Travers', and of the little donkey--without mention, however, of
Henri.  She felt that Harvey would not understand Henri.

But at the end came the passage which poor Harvey read and re-read
when the letter came, and alternately ground his teeth over and kissed.

"I do love you, Harvey dear.  And I am coming back to you.  I have felt
that I had to do what I am doing, but I am coming back.  That's a
promise.  Unless, of course, I should take sick, or something like that,
which isn't likely."

There was a long pause in the writing here, but Harvey could not know
that.

"I shall wear your ring always; and always, Harvey, it will mean to me
that I belong to you.  With dearest love.
                                    "SARA LEE"

Then she added a postscript, of course.

"The War Office is not letting people cross to Calais just now.  But I
am going to do it anyhow.  It is perfectly simple.  And when I get over
I shall write and tell you how.
                                       "S. L."

It was the next day that an indignant official in the censor's office
read that postscript, and rose in his wrath and sent a third
Undersomething-or-other to look up Sara Lee at Morley's.  But by this
time she was embarked on the big adventure; and by the time a cable
reached Calais there was no trace of Sara Lee.

During the afternoon she called up Mr. Travers at his office, and rather
gathered that he did not care to use the telephone during business hours.

"I just wanted to tell you that you need not bother about me any more,"
she said.  "I am being sent over and I think everything is all right."

He was greatly relieved.  Mrs. Travers had not fully indorsed his
encomiums of the girl.  She had felt that no really nice girl would
travel so far on so precarious an errand, particularly when she was
alone.  And how could one tell, coming from America, how her sympathies
really lay?  She might be of German parentage--the very worst sort,
because they spoke American.  It was easy enough to change a name.

Nevertheless, Mr. Travers felt a trifle low in his mind when he hung up
the receiver.  He said twice to himself: "Twenty pounds!"  And at last
he put four sovereigns in an envelope and sent them to her anonymously
by messenger.  Sara Lee guessed whence they came, but she respected the
manner of the gift and did not thank him.  It was almost the first gold
money she had ever seen.

She was very carefully searched at the railway station that night and
found that her American Red Cross button, which had come with her dollar
subscription to the association, made the matron inspector rather
kindly inclined.  Nevertheless, she took off Sara Lee's shoes, and ran
over the lining of her coat, and quite ruined the maid's packing of the
suitcase.

"You are going to Boulogne?" asked the matron inspector.

Sara Lee did not like to lie.

"Wherever the boat takes me," she said with smile.

The matron smiled too.

"I shouldn't be nervous, miss," she said.  "It's a chance, of course,
but they have not done much damage yet."

It was after midnight then, and a cold fog made the station a gloomy
thing of blurred yellow lights and raw chill.  A few people moved about,
mostly officers in uniform.  Half a dozen men in civilian clothes
eyed her as she passed through the gates; Scotland Yard, but she did not
know.  And once she thought she saw Henri, but he walked away into the
shadows and disappeared.  The train, looking as absurdly small and light
as all English trains do, was waiting out in the shed.  There were no
porters, and Sara Lee carried her own bag.

She felt quite sure she had been mistaken about Henri, for of course
he would have come and carried it for her.

The train was cold and quiet.  When it finally moved out it was under
way before she knew that it was going.  And then suddenly Sara Lee's
heart began to pound hard.

It was a very cold and shivering Sara Lee who curled up, alone in her
compartment, and stared hard at Harvey's ring to keep her courage up.
But a curious thing had happened.  Harvey gave her no moral support.
He brought her only disapproval.  She found herself remembering none of
the loving things he had said to her, but only the bitter ones.

Perhaps it was the best thing for her, after all.  For a sort of dogged
determination to go through with it all, at any cost, braced her to her
final effort.

So far it had all been busy enough, but not comfortable.  She was cold,
and she had eaten almost nothing all day.  As the hours went on and the
train slid through the darkness she realized that she was rather faint.
The steam pipes, only warm at the start, were entirely cold by one
o'clock, and by two Sara Lee was sitting on her feet, with a heavy coat
wrapped about her knees.

The train moved quietly, as do all English trains, with no jars and
little sound.  There were few lights outside, for the towns of Eastern
England were darkened, like London, against air attacks.  So when she
looked at the window she saw only her own reflection, white and
wide-eyed, above Aunt Harriet's fur neckpiece.

In the next compartment an officer was snoring, but she did not close
her eyes.  Perhaps, for that last hour, some of the glow that had brought
her so far failed her.  She was not able to think beyond Folkestone, save
occasionally, and that with a feeling that it should not be made so
difficult to do a kind and helpful thing.

At a quarter before three the train eased down.  In the same proportion
Sara Lee's pulse went up.  A long period of crawling along, a stop or
two, but no resultant opening of the doors; and at last, in a cold rain
and a howling wind from the channel, the little seaport city.

More officers than she had suspected, a few women, got out. The latter
Sara Lee's experience on the steamer enabled her to place; buyers mostly,
and Americans, on their way to Paris, blockade or no blockade, because
the American woman must be well and smartly gowned and hatted.  A man
with a mourning band on his sleeve carried a wailing child.

The officers lighted cigarettes.  The civilians formed a line on the
jetty under the roof of the shed, and waited, passports in hand, before
a door that gleamed with yellow light.  Faces looked pale and anxious.
The blockade was on, and Germany had said that no ships would cross
that night.

As if defiantly the Boulogne boat, near at hand, was ablaze, on the shore
side at least, with lights.  Stewards came and went.  Beyond it lay the
harbor, dark and mysterious save where, from somewhere across, a
flashlight made a brave effort to pierce the fog.

One of the buyers ahead of Sara Lee seemed exhilarated by the danger
ahead.

"They'll never get us," she said.  "Look at that fog!"

"It's lifting, dearie," answered a weary voice behind her.  "The wind is
carrying it away."

When Sara Lee's turn came she was ready.  A group of men in civilian
clothes, seated about a long table, looked her over carefully.  Her
passports moved deliberately from hand to hand.  A long business, and
the baby wailing harder than ever.  But the office was at least warm.
Some of her failing courage came back as she moved, following her papers,
round the table.  They were given back to her at last, and she went out.
She had passed the first ordeal.

Suitcase in hand she wandered down the stone jetty.  The Boulogne boat
she passed, and kept on.  At the very end, dark and sinister, lay another
boat.  It had no lights.  The tide was in, and its deck lay almost flush
with the pier.  Sara Lee walked on toward it until a voice spoke to her
out of the darkness and near at hand.

"Your boat is back there, madam."

"I know.  Thank you.  I am just walking about."

The petty officer--he was a petty officer, though Sara Lee had never
heard the term--was inclined to be suspicious.  Under excuse of lighting
his pipe he struck a match, and Sara Lee's young figure stood out in full
relief.  His suspicions died away with the flare.

"Bad night, miss," he offered.

"Very," said Sara Lee, and turned back again.

This time, bewildered and uneasy, she certainly saw Henri.  But he
ignored her.  He was alone, and smoking one of his interminable
cigarettes.  He had not said he was crossing, and why had he not spoken
to her?  He wandered past down the pier, and she lost him in the shadows.
When he came back he paused near her, and at last saluted and spoke.

"Pardon," he said.  "If you will stand back here you will find less wind."

"Thank you."

He carried her suitcase back, and stooping over to place it at her feet
he said: "I shall send him on board with a message to the captain.  When
I come back try again."

He left her at once.  The passengers for Boulogne were embarking now.
A silent lot, they disappeared into the warmth and brightness of the
little boat and were lost.  No one paid any attention to Sara Lee
standing in the shadows.

Soon Henri came back.  He walked briskly and touched his cap as he
passed. He went aboard the Boulogne steamer, and without a backward
glance disappeared.

Sara Lee watched him out of sight, in a very real panic.  He had been
something real and tangible in that shadowy place--something familiar
in an unfamiliar world.  But he was gone.  She threw up her head.

So once more Sara Lee picked up her suitcase and went down the pier.
Now she was unchallenged.  What lurking figure might be on the dark deck
of the Calais boat she could not tell.  That was the chance she was to
take.  The gangway was still out, and as quietly as possible she went
aboard.  The Boulogne boat had suddenly gone dark, and she heard the
churning of the screw.  With the extinction of the lights on the other
boat came at last deeper night to her aid. A few steps, a stumble, a
gasp--and she was on board the forbidden ship.

She turned forward, according to her instructions, where the overhead
deck made below an even deeper shadow.  Henri had said that there were
cabins there, and that the chance was of finding an unlocked one.  If
they were all locked she would be discovered at dawn, and arrested.  And
Sara Lee was not a war correspondent.  She was not accustomed to arrest.
Indeed she had a deep conviction that arrest in her case would mean death.
False, of course, but surely it shows her courage.

As she stood there, breathless and listening, the Boulogne boat moved
out.  She heard the wash against the jetty, felt the rolling of its
waves.  But being on the landward side she could not see the faint
gleam of a cigarette that marked Henri's anxious figure at the rail.
So long as the black hulk of the Calais boat was visible, and long
after indeed, Henri stood there, outwardly calm but actually shaken by
many fears.  She had looked so small and young; and who could know what
deviltry lurked abroad that night?

He had not gone with her because it was necessary that he be in Boulogne
the next morning.  And also, the very chance of getting her across lay
in her being alone and unobserved.

So he stood by the rail and looked back and said a wordless little prayer
that if there was trouble it come to his boat and not to the other.
Which might very considerably have disturbed the buyers had they known
of it and believed in prayer.

Sara Lee stood in the shadows and listened.  There were voices overhead,
from the bridge.  A door opened onto the deck and threw out a ray of
light.  Some one came out and went on shore, walking with brisk ringing
steps.  And then at last she put down her bag and tried door after door,
without result.

The man who had gone ashore called another.  The gangway was drawn in.
The engines began to vibrate under foot.  Sara Lee, breathless and
terrified, stood close to a cabin door and remained immovable.  At one
moment it seemed as if a seaman was coming forward to where she stood.
But he did not come.

The Calais boat was waiting until the other steamer had got well out of
the harbor.  The fog had lifted, and the searchlight was moving over
the surface.  It played round the channel steamer without touching it.
But none of this was visible to Sara Lee.

At last the lights of the quay began to recede.  The little boat rocked
slightly in its own waves as it edged away.  It moved slowly through
the shipping and out until, catching the swell of the channel, it shot
ahead at top speed.

For an hour Sara Lee stood there.  The channel wind caught her and tore
at her skirts until she was almost frozen.  And finally, in sheer
desperation, she worked her way round to the other side.  She saw no
one.  Save for the beating heart of the engine below it might have been
a dead ship.

On the other side she found an open door and stumbled into the tiny dark
deck cabin, as chilled and frightened a philanthropist as had ever
crossed that old and tricky and soured bit of seaway.  And there, to be
frank, she forgot her fright in as bitter a tribute of seasickness as
even the channel has ever exacted.

She had locked herself in, and she fell at last into an exhausted sleep.
When she wakened and peered out through the tiny window it was gray
winter dawn.  The boat was quiet, and before her lay the quay of Calais
and the Gare Maritime.  A gangway was out and a hurried survey showed
no one in sight.

Sara Lee picked up her suitcase and opened the door.  The fresh morning
air revived her, but nevertheless it was an extremely pale young woman
who, obeying Henri's instructions, went ashore that morning in the gray
dawn unseen, undisturbed and unquestioned.  But from the moment she
appeared on the gangway until the double glass doors of the Gare
Maritime closed behind her this apparently calm young woman did not
breathe at all.  She arrived, indeed, with lungs fairly collapsed and
her heart entirely unreliable.

A woman clerk was asleep at a desk.  Sara Lee roused her to half
wakefulness, no interest and extremely poor English.  A drowsy porter
led her up a staircase and down an endless corridor.  Then at last he
was gone, and Sara Lee turned the key in her door and burst into tears.



                    VII


Now up to this point Sara Lee's mind had come to rest at Calais.  She
must get there; after that the other things would need to be worried
over.  Henri had already in their short acquaintance installed himself
as the central figure of this strange and amazing interlude--not as a
good-looking young soldier surprisingly fertile in expedients, but as a
sort of agent of providence, by whom and through whom things were done.

And Henri had said she was to go to the Gare Maritime at Calais and make
herself comfortable--if she got there.  After that things would be
arranged.

Sara Lee therefore took a hot bath, though hardly a satisfactory one,
for there was no soap and she had brought none.  She learned later on
to carry soap with her everywhere.  So she soaked the chill out of her
slim body and then dressed.  The room was cold, but a great exultation
kept her warm.  She had run the blockade, she had escaped the War
Office--which, by the way, was looking her up almost violently by
that time, via the censor.  It had found the trunk she left at Morley's,
and cross-questioned the maid into hysteria--and here she was,
safe in France, the harbor of Calais before her, and here and there
strange-looking war craft taking on coal.  Destroyers, she learned later.
Her ignorance was rather appalling at first.

It was all unreal--the room with its cold steam pipes, the heavy window
hangings, the very words on the hot and cold taps in the bathroom.  A
great vessel moved into the harbor.  As it turned she saw its name
printed on its side in huge letters, and the flag, also painted, of a
neutral country--a hoped-for protection against German submarines.  It
brought home to her, rather, the thing she had escaped.

After a time she thought of food, but rather hopelessly.  Her attempts
to get savon from a stupid boy had produced nothing more useful than a
flow of unintelligible French and no soap whatever.  She tried a
pantomime of washing her hands, but to the boy she had appeared to be
merely wringing them.  And, as a great many females were wringing their
hands in France those days, he had gone away, rather sorry for her.

When hunger drove her to the bell again he came back and found her with
her little phrase book in her hands, feverishly turning the pages.  She
could find plenty of sentences such as "Garcon, vous avez renverse du
vin sur ma robe," but not an egg lifted its shining pate above the pages.
Not cereal.  Not fruit.  Not even the word breakfast.

Long, long afterward Sara Lee found a quite delightful breakfast
hidden between two pages that were stuck together.  But it was then far
too late.

"Donnez-moi," began Sara Lee, and turned the pages rapidly, "this; do
you see?"  She had found roast beef.

The boy observed stolidly, in French, that it was not ready until noon.
She was able to make out, from his failing to depart, that there was no
roast beef.

"Good gracious!" she said, ravenous and exasperated.  "Go and get me
some bread and coffee, anyhow."  She repeated it, slightly louder.

That was the tableau that Henri found when, after a custom that may be
war or may be Continental, he had inquired the number of her room and
made his way there.

There was a twinkle in his blue eyes as he bowed before her--and a vast
relief too.

"So you are here!" he said in a tone of satisfaction.  He had put in an
extremely bad night, even for him, by whom nights were seldom wasted in
a bed.  While he was with her something of her poise had communicated
itself to him.  He had felt the confidence, in men and affairs, that
American girls are given as a birthright.  And her desire for service
he had understood as a year or two ago he could not have understood.
But he had stood by the rail staring north, and cursing himself for
having placed her in danger during the entire crossing.

There was nothing about him that morning, however to show his bad
hours.  He was debonnaire and smiling.

"I am famishing," said Sara Lee.  "And there are no eggs in this book
--none whatever."

"Eggs!  You wish eggs?"

"I just want food.  Almost anything will do.  I asked for eggs because
they can come quickly."

Henri turned to the boy and sent him off with a rapid order.  Then:
"May I come in?" he said.

Sara Lee cast an uneasy glance over the room.  It was extremely tidy,
and unmistakably it was a bedroom.  But though her color rose she asked
him in.  After all, what did it matter?  To have refused would have
looked priggish, she said to herself.  And as a matter of fact one of
the early lessons she learned in France was learned that morning--that
though convention had had to go, like many other things in the war, men
who were gentlemen ignored its passing.

Henri came in and stood by the center table.

"Now, please tell me," he said.  "I have been most uneasy.  On the quay
last night you looked--frightened."

"I was awfully frightened.  Nothing happened.  I even slept."

"You were very brave."

"I was very seasick."

"I am sorry."

Henri took a turn up and down the room.

"But," said Sara Lee slowly, "I--I--can't be on your hands, you know.
You must have many things to do.  If you are going to have to order my
meals and all that, I'm going to be a dreadful burden."

"But you will learn very quickly."

"I'm stupid about languages."

Henri dismissed that with a gesture.  She could not, he felt, be stupid
about anything.  He went to the window and looked out.  The destroyers
were still coaling, and a small cargo was being taken off the boat at
the quay.  The rain was over, and in the early sunlight an officer in
blue tunic, red breeches and black cavalry boots was taking the air, his
head bent over his chest.  Not a detail of the scene escaped him.

"I have agreed to find the right place for you," he said thoughtfully.
"There is one, but I think--" He hesitated.  "I do not wish to place
you again in danger."

"You mean that it is near the Front?"

"Very near, mademoiselle."

"But I should be rather near, to be useful."

"Perhaps, for your work.  But what of you?  These brutes--they shell
far and wide.  One can never be sure."

He paused and surveyed her whimsically.

"Who allowed you to come, alone, like this?" he demanded.  "Is there no
one who objected?"

Sara Lee glanced down at her ring.

"The man I am going to marry.  He is very angry."

Henri looked at her, and followed her eyes to Harvey's ring.  He said
nothing, however, but he went over and gave the bell cord a violent jerk.

"You must have food quickly," he said in a rather flat voice.  "You are
looking tired and pale."

A sense of unreality was growing on Sara Lee.  That she should be alone
in France with a man she had never seen three days before; that she knew
nothing whatever about that man; that, for the present at least, she was
utterly and absolutely dependent on him, even for the food she ate--it
was all of a piece with the night's voyage and the little room at the
Savoy. And it was none of it real.

When the breakfast tray came Henri was again at the window and silent.
And Sara Lee saw that it was laid for two.  She was a little startled,
but the businesslike way in which the young officer drew up two chairs
and held one out for her made protest seem absurd.  And the flat-faced
boy, who waited, looked unshocked and uninterested.

It was not until she had had some coffee that Henri followed up his
line of thought.

"So--the fiance did not approve?  It is not difficult to understand.
There is always danger, for there are German aeroplanes even in remote
places.  And you are very young.  You still wish to establish yourself,
mademoiselle?"

"Of course!"

"Would it be a comfort to cable your safe arrival in France to the
fiance?"  When he saw her face he smiled.  And if it was a rather heroic
smile it was none the less friendly.  "I see.  What shall I say? Or
will you write it?"

So Sara Lee, vastly cheered by two cups of coffee, an egg, and a very
considerable portion of bread and butter, wrote her cable.  It was to
be brief, for cables cost money.  It said, "Safe.  Well.  Love."  And
Henri, who seemed to have strange and ominous powers, sent it almost
immediately.  Total cost, as reported to Sara Lee, two francs.  He took
the money she offered him gravely.

"We shall cable quite often," he said.  "He will be anxious.  And I
think he has a right to know."

The "we" was entirely unconscious.

"And now," he said, when he had gravely allowed Sara Lee to pay her half
of the breakfast, "we must arrange to get you out of Calais.  And that,
mademoiselle, may take time."

It took time.  Sara Lee, growing accustomed now to little rooms entirely
filled with men and typewriters, went from one office to another, walking
along the narrow pavements with Henri, through streets filled with
soldiers.  Once they drew aside to let pass a procession of Belgian
refugees, those who had held to their village homes until bombardment
had destroyed them--stout peasant women in short skirts and with huge
bundles, old men, a few young ones, many children.  The terror of the
early flight was not theirs, but there was in all of them a sort of
sodden hopelessness that cut Sara Lee to the heart.  In an irregular
column they walked along, staring ahead but seeing nothing.  Even the
children looked old and tired.

Sara Lee's eyes filled with tears.

"My people," said Henri.  "Simple country folk, and going to England,
where they will grieve for the things that are gone--their fields and
their sons.  The old ones will die, quickly, of homesickness.  It is
difficult to transplant an old tree."

The final formalities seemed to offer certain difficulties.  Henri, who
liked to do things quickly and like a prince, flushed with irritation.
He drew himself up rather haughtily in reply to one question, and glanced
uneasily at the girl.  But it was all as intelligible as Sanskrit to her.

It was only after a whispered sentence to the man at the head of the
table that the paper was finally signed.

As they went down to the street together Sara Lee made a little protest.

"But I simply must not take all your time," she said, looking up anxiously.
"I begin to realize how foolhardy the whole thing is.  I meant well, but
--it is you who are doing everything; not I."

"I shall not make the soup, mademoiselle," he replied gravely.



                    VIII

Here were more things to do.  Sara Lee's  money must be exchanged at a
bank for French gold.  She had three hundred dollars, and it had been
given her in a tiny brown canvas bag.  And then there was the matter of
going from Calais toward the Front.  She had expected to find a train,
but there were no trains.  All cars were being used for troops.  She
stared at Henri in blank dismay.

"No trains!" she said blankly.  "Would an automobile be very expensive?"

"They are all under government control, mademoiselle.  Even the petrol."

She stopped in the street.

"Then I shall have to go back."

Henri laughed boyishly.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I have been requested to take you to a place
where you may render us the service we so badly need.  For the present
that is my duty, and nothing else.  So if you will accept the offer of
my car, which is a shameful one but travels well, we can continue our
journey."

Long, long afterward, Sara Lee found a snapshot of Henri's car, taken
by a light-hearted British officer.  Found it and sat for a long time
with it in her hand, thinking and remembering that first day she saw it,
in the sun at Calais.  A long low car it was, once green, but now
roughly painted gray.  But it was not the crude painting, significant
as it was, that brought so close the thing she was going to.  It was
that the car was but a shell of a car.  The mud guards were crumpled up
against the side.  Body and hood were pitted with shrapnel.  A door had
been shot away, and the wind shield was but a frame set round with
broken glass.  Even the soldier-chauffeur wore a patch over one eye,
and his uniform was ragged.

"Not a beautiful car, mademoiselle, as I warned you!  But a fast one!"

Henri was having a double enjoyment.  He was watching Sara Lee's face
and his chauffeur's remaining eye.

"But fast; eh, Jean?" he said to the chauffeur.  The man nodded and
said something in French.  It was probably the thing Henri had hoped for,
and he threw back his head and laughed.

"Jean is reminding me," he said gayly, "that it is forbidden to officers
to take a lady along the road that we shall travel."  But when he saw
how Sara Lee flushed he turned to the man.

"Mademoiselle has come from America to help us, Jean," he said quietly.
"And now for Dunkirk."

The road from Dunkirk to Calais was well guarded in those days. From
Nieuport for some miles inland only the shattered remnant of the Belgian
Army held the line.  For the cry "On to Paris!" the Germans had
substituted "On to Calais!"

So, on French soil at least, the road was well guarded.  A few miles in
the battered car, then a slowing up, a showing of passports, the clatter
of a great chain as it dropped to the road, a lowering of leveled rifles,
and a salute from the officer--that was the method by which they
advanced.

Henri sat with the driver and talked in a low tone.  Sometimes he sat
quiet, looking ahead.  He seemed, somehow, older, more careworn.  His
boyishness had gone.  Now and then he turned to ask if she was
comfortable, but in the intervals she felt that he had entirely forgotten
her.  Once, at something Jean said, he got out a pocket map and went
over it carefully.  It was a long time after that before he turned to
see if she was all right.

Sara Lee sat forward and watched everything.  She saw little evidence of
war, beyond the occasional sentries and chains.  Women were walking along
the roads.  Children stopped and pointed, smiling, at the battered car.
One very small boy saluted, and Henri as gravely returned the salute.

Some time after that he turned to her.

"I find that I shall have to leave you in Dunkirk," he said.  "A matter
of a day only, probably.  But I will see before I go that you are
comfortable."

"I shall be quite all right, of course."

But something had gone out of the day for her.

Sara Lee learned one thing that day, learned it as some women do learn,
by the glance of an eye, the tone of a voice.  The chauffeur adored
Henri.  His one unbandaged eye stole moments from the road to glance
at him.  When he spoke, while Henri read his map, his very voice betrayed
him.  And while she pondered the thing, woman-fashion they drew into
the square of Dunkirk, where the statue of Jean Bart, pirate and
privateer stared down at this new procession of war which passed daily
and nightly under his cold eyes.

Jean and a porter carried in her luggage.  Henri and a voluble and
smiling Frenchwoman showed her to her room.  She felt like an island of
silence in a rapid-rolling sea of French.  The Frenchwoman threw open
the door.

A great room with high curtained windows; a huge bed with a faded gilt
canopy and heavy draperies; a wardrobe as vast as the bed; and for a
toilet table an enormous mirror reaching to the ceiling and with a
marble shelf below--that was her room.

"I think you will be comfortable here, mademoiselle."

Sara Lee, who still clutched her small bag of gold, shook her head.

"Comfortable, yes," she said.  "But I am afraid it is very expensive."

Henri named an extremely low figure--an exact fourth, to be accurate,
of its real cost.  A surprising person Henri, with his worn uniform and
his capacity for kindly mendacity.  And seeing something in the
Frenchwoman's face that perhaps he had expected, he turned to her
almost fiercely:

"You are to understand, madame, that this lady has been placed in my
care by authority that will not be questioned.  She is to have every
deference."

That was all, but was enough.  And from that time on Sara Lee Kennedy,
of Ohio, was called, in the tiny box downstairs which constituted the
office, "Mademoiselle La Princesse."

Henri did a characteristic and kindly thing for Sara Lee before he left
that evening on one of the many mysterious journeys that he was to make
during the time Sara Lee knew him.  He came to her door, menus in hand,
and painstakingly ordered for her a dinner for that night, and the
three meals for the day following.

He made no suggestion of dining with her that evening.  Indeed, watching
him from her small table, Sara Lee decided that he had put her entirely
out of his mind.  He did not so much as glance at her.  Save the cashier
at her boxed-in desk and money drawer, she was the only woman in that
room full of officers.  Quite certainly Henri was the only man who did
not find some excuse for glancing in her direction.

But finishing early, he paused by the cashier's desk to pay for his meal,
and then he gave Sara Lee the stiffest and most ceremonious of bows.

She felt hurt.  Alone in her great room, the curtains drawn by order of
the police, lest a ray of light betray the town to eyes in the air, she
went carefully over the hours she had spent with Henri that day,
looking for a cause of offense.  She must have hurt him or he would
surely have stopped to speak to her.

Perhaps already he was finding her a burden.  She flushed with shame
when she remembered about the meals he had had to order for her, and
she sat up in her great bed until late, studying by candlelight such
phrases as:

"Il y a une erreur dans la note," and "Garcon, quels fruits avez-vous?"

She tried to write to Harvey that night, but she gave it up at last.
There was too much he would not understand.  She could not write frankly
without telling of Henri, and to this point everything had centered
about Henri.  It all rather worried her, because there was nothing she
was ashamed of, nothing she should have had to conceal.  She had yet to
learn, had Sara Lee, that many of the concealments of life are based
not on wrongdoing but on fear of misunderstanding.

So she got as far as: "Dearest Harvey: I am here in a hotel at Dunkirk"
--and then stopped, fairly engulfed in a wave of homesickness.  Not so
much for Harvey as for familiar things--Uncle James in his chair by the
fire, with the phonograph playing "My Little Gray Home in the West";
her own white bedroom; the sun on the red geraniums in the dining-room
window; the voices of happy children wandering home from school.

She got up and went to the window, first blowing out the candle.
Outside, the town lay asleep, and from a gate in the old wall a sentry
with a bugle blew a quiet "All's well."  From somewhere near, on top
of the mairie perhaps, where eyes all night searched the sky for danger,
came the same trumpet call of safety for the time, of a little longer
for quiet sleep.

For two days the girl was alone.  There was no sign of Henri.  She had
nothing to read, and her eyes, watching hour after hour the panorama
that passed through the square under her window, searched vainly for
his battered gray car.  In daytime the panorama was chiefly of motor
lorries--she called them trucks--piled high with supplies, often
fodder for the horses in that vague district beyond ammunition and food.
Now and then a battery rumbled through, its gunners on the limbers,
detached, with folded arms; and always there were soldiers.

Sometimes, from her window, she saw the market people below, in their
striped red-and-white booths, staring up at the sky.  She would look up,
too, and there would be an aeroplane sliding along, sometimes so low
that one could hear the faint report of the exhaust.

But it was the ambulances that Sara Lee looked for.  Mostly they came
at night, a steady stream of them.  Sometimes they moved rapidly.
Again, one would be going very slowly, and other machines would circle
impatiently round it and go on.  A silent, grim procession in the
moonlight it was, and it helped the girl to bear the solitude of those
two interminable days.

Inside those long gray cars with the red crosses painted on the tops--a
symbol of mercy that had ceased to protect--inside those cars were
wounded men, men who had perhaps lain for hours without food or care.
Surely, surely it was right that she had come.  The little she could do
must count in the great total.  She twisted Harvey's ring on her finger
and sent a little message to him.

"You will forgive me when you know, dear," was the message.  "It is so
terrible!  So pitiful!"

Yet during the day the square was gay enough.  Officers in spurs clanked
across, wide capes blowing in the wind.  Common soldiers bought fruit
and paper bags of fried potatoes from the booths.  Countless dogs fought
under the feet of passers-by, and over all leered the sardonic face of
Jean Bart, pirate and privateer.

Sara Lee went out daily, but never far.  And she practiced French with
the maid, after this fashion:

"Draps de toile," said the smiling maid, putting the linen sheets on
the bed.

Sara Lee would repeat it some six times.

"Taies d'oreiller," when the pillows came.  So Sara Lee called pillows
by the name of their slips from that time forward!  Came a bright hour
when she rang the bell for the boy and asked for matches, which she
certainly did not need, with entire success.

On the second night Sara Lee slept badly.  At two o'clock she heard a
sound in the hall, and putting on her kimono, opened the door.  On a
stiff chair outside, snoring profoundly, sat Jean, fully dressed.

The light from her candle roused him and he was wide awake in an instant.

"Why, Jean!" she said.  "Isn't there any place for you to sleep?"

"I am to remain here, mademoiselle," he replied in English.

"But surely--not because of me?"

"It is the captain's order," he said briefly.

"I don't understand.  Why?"

"All sorts of people come to this place, mademoiselle.  But few ladies.
It is best that I remain here."

She could not move him.  He had remained standing while she spoke to him,
and now he yawned, striving to conceal it.  Sara Lee felt very
uncomfortable, but Jean's attitude and voice alike were firm.  She
thanked him and said good night, but she slept little after that.

Lying there in the darkness, a warm glow of gratitude to Henri, and a
feeling of her safety in his care, wrapped her like a mantle.  She
wondered drowsily if Harvey would ever have thought of all the small
things that seemed second nature to this young Belgian officer.

She rather thought not.



                    IX


While she was breakfasting the next morning there was a tap at the door,
and thinking it the maid she called to her to come in.

But it was Jean, an anxious Jean, twisting his cap in his hands.

"You have had a message from the captain, mademoiselle?"

"No, Jean."

"He was to have returned during the night.  He has not come,
mademoiselle."

Sara Lee forgot her morning negligee in Jean's harassed face.

"But--where did he go?"

Jean shrugged his shoulders and did not reply.

"Are you worried about him?"

"I am anxious, mademoiselle.  But I am often anxious; and--he always
returns."

He smiled almost sheepishly.  Sara Lee, who had no subtlety but a great
deal of intuition, felt that there was a certain relief in the smile, as
though Jean, having had no message from his master, was pleased that
she had none.  Which was true enough, at that.  Also she felt that Jean's
one eye was inspecting her closely, which was also true.  A new factor
had come into Henri's life--by Jean's reasoning, a new and dangerous
one.  And there were dangers enough already.

Highly dangerous, Jean reflected in the back of his head as he backed
out with a bow.  A young girl unafraid of the morning sun and sitting
at a little breakfast table as fresh as herself--that was a picture for
a war-weary man.

Jean forgot for a moment his anxiety for Henri's safety in his fear for
his peace of mind.  For a doubt had been removed.  The girl was straight.
Jean's one sophisticated eye had grasped that at once.  A good girl,
alone, and far from home!  And Henri, like all soldiers, woman-hungry
for good women, for unpainted skins and clear eyes and the freshness and
bloom of youth.

All there, behind that little breakfast table which might so pleasantly
have been laid for two.

Jean took a walk that morning, and stood staring for twenty minutes into
a clock maker's window, full of clocks.  After which he drew out his
watch and looked at the time!

At two in the afternoon Sara Lee saw Henri's car come into the square.
It was, if possible, more dilapidated than before, and he came like a
gray whirlwind, scattering people and dogs out of his way.  Almost
before he had had time to enter the hotel Sara Lee heard him in the
hall, and the next moment he was bowing before her.

"I have been longer than I expected," he explained.  "Have you been
quite comfortable?"

Sara Lee, however, was gazing at him with startled eyes.  He was dirty,
unshaven, and his eyes looked hollow and bloodshot.  From his neck to
his heels he was smeared with mud, and his tidy tunic was torn into
ragged holes.

"But you--you have been fighting!" she gasped.

"I?  No, mademoiselle.  There has been no battle."  His eyes left her
and traveled over the room.  "They are doing everything for you?  They
are attentive?"

"Everything is splendid," said Sara Lee.  "If you won't tell me how you
got into that condition, at least you can send your coat down to me to
mend."

"My tunic!"  He looked at it smilingly.  "You would do that?"

"I am nearly frantic for something to do."

He smiled, and suddenly bending down he took her hand and kissed it.

"You are not only very beautiful, mademoiselle, but you are very good."

He went away then, and Sara Lee got out her sewing things.  The tunic
came soon, carefully brushed and very ragged.  But it was not Jean who
brought it; it was the Flemish boy.

And upstairs in a small room with two beds Sara Lee might have been
surprised to find Jean, the chauffeur, lying on one, while Henri shaved
himself beside the other.  For Jean, of the ragged uniform and the patch
over one eye, was a count of Belgium, and served Henri because he loved
him.  And because, too, he was no longer useful in that little army
where lay his heart.

Sometime a book will be written about the Jeans of this war, the great
friendships it has brought forth between men.  And not the least of its
stories will be that of this Jean of the one eye.  But its place is not
here.

And perhaps there will be a book about the Henris, also.  But not for a
long time, and even then with care.  For the heroes of one department of
an army in the field live and die unsung.  Their bravest exploits are
buried in secrecy.  And that is as it must be.  But it is a fine tale to
go untold.

After he had bathed and shaved, Henri sat down at a tiny table and wrote.
He drew a plan also, from a rough one before him.  Then he took a match
and burned the original drawing until it was but charred black ashes.
When he had finished Jean got up from the bed and put on his overcoat.

"To the King?" he said.

"To the King, old friend."

Jean took the letter and went out.

Down below, Sara Lee sat with Henri's ragged tunic on her lap and
stitched carefully.  Sometime, she reflected, she would be mending worn
garments for another man, now far away.  A little flood of tenderness
came over her.  So helpless these men!  There was so much to do for them!
And soon, please God, she would be helping other tired and weary men,
with food, and perhaps a word--when she had acquired some French--and
perhaps a thread and needle.

She dined alone that night, as usual.  Henri did not appear, though she
had sent what she suspected was his only tunic back to him neatly mended
at five o'clock.  As a matter of fact Henri was sound asleep.  He had
meant to rest only for an hour a body that was crying aloud with fatigue.
But Jean, coming in quietly, had found him sleeping like a child, and
had put his own blanket over him and left him.  Henri slept until morning,
when Jean, coming up from his vigil outside the American girl's door,
found him waking and rested, and rang for coffee.

Jean sat down on the edge of his bed and put on his shoes and puttees.
He was a taciturn man, but now he had something to say that he did not
like to say.  And Henri knew it.

"What is it?" he asked, his arms under his head.  "Come, let us have it!
It is, of course, about the American lady."

"It is," Jean said bluntly.  "You cannot mix women and war."

"And you think I am doing that?"

"I am not an idiot," Jean growled.  "You do not know what you are doing.
I do.  She is young and lonely.  You are young and not unattractive to
women.  Already she turns pale when I so much as ask if she has heard
from you."

"You asked her that?"

"You were gone much longer than--"

"And you thought I might send her word, and not you!"  Henri's voice was
offended.  He lay back while the boy brought in the morning coffee and
rolls.

"Let me tell you something," he said when the boy had gone.  "She is
betrothed to an American.  She wears a betrothal ring.  I am to her--the
French language!"

But, though Henri laughed, Jean remained grave and brooding.  For Henri
had not said what Sara Lee already was to him.

It was later in the morning that Henri broached the subject again.  They
were in the courtyard of an old house, working over the engine of the car.

"I think I have found a location for the young American lady," he said.

Jean hammered for a considerable time at a refractory rim.

"And where?" he asked at last.

Henri named the little town.  Like Henri's family name, it must not be
told.  Too many things happened there, and perhaps it is even now Henri's
headquarters.  For that portion of the line has changed very little.

Jean fell to renewed hammering.

"If you will be silent I shall explain a plan," Henri said in a cautious
tone.  "She will make soup, with help which we shall find.  And if coming
in for refreshments a soldier shall leave a letter for me it is natural,
is it not?"

"She will suspect, of course."

"I think not.  And she reads no French.  None whatever."

Yet Jean's suspicions were not entirely allayed.  The plan had its
advantages.  It was important that Henri receive certain reports, and
already the hotel whispered that Henri was of the secret service.  It
brought him added deference, of course, but additional danger.

So Jean accepted the plan, but with reservation.  And it was not long
afterward that he said to Sara Lee, in French: "There is a spider on
your neck, mademoiselle."

But Sara Lee