Chapter V

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　Yet for a day or two nothing much was changed. Mr. Travers sent SaraLee 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 askSara Lee to tea.

　　Sara Lee was extremely nervous on the day she went. She wore a blackjacket suit with a white collar, and she carried Aunt Harriet's minkfurs, Aunt Harriet mourning thoroughly and completely in black astrachan.She had the faculty of the young American girl of looking smart withoutmuch expense, and she appeared absurdly young.

　　She followed the neat maid up a wide staircase to a door with a screenjust 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 halfhour.

　　Mr. Travers was on the hearth rug. Mrs. Travers was in a chair, a portlywoman with a not unkindly face, but the brusque manner many Englishwomenacquire after forty. She held Sara Lee's hand and gave her a completeif 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 bellfor tea. That was another thing Sara Lee had read about but neverseen—that ringing for tea. At home no one served afternoon tea; butat a party, when refreshments were coming, the hostess slipped out tothe kitchen and gave a whispered order or two.

　　"I shall be frank with you," said Mrs. Travers. "I think it quiteimpossible. It is not getting you over. That might be done. And ofcourse there are women over there—young ones too. But the armyobjects very seriously to their being in danger. And of course onenever 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. "Hermother 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 daresayshe is safe enough."

　　Mrs. Travers made the tea thoughtfully. So far Mr. Travers had hardlyspoken, 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 standsomewhat 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. Theredoesn't seem to be a chance to get you over, my child. Same answereverywhere. Place is full of untrained women. Spies have been usingRed Cross passes. Result is that all the lines are drawn as tight aspossible."

　　Sara Lee stared at him with wide eyes.

　　"But I can't go back," she said. "I—well, I just can't. They'reraising 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. Shehas 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. NeitherMr. Travers nor I feel that a girl so young as you, and alone, has anyplace 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 notbelong 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 makeup 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 knowboth sides of the picture."

　　Somewhat later Sara Lee was ushered downstairs by the neat maid, whostood on the steps and blew a whistle for a taxi—Sara Lee had come ina bus. She carried in her hand the address of a Belgian commission ofrelief at the Savoy Hotel, and in her heart, for the first time, a doubtof her errand. She gave the Savoy address mechanically and, huddled ina 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—thelittle groups of drilling men in khaki, the mellow tones of a bugle, andhere and there on the bridle paths well-groomed men and women onhorseback, as clean-cut as the horses they rode, and on the surface ascareless of what was happening across the Channel. But she saw nothingnow. She sat back and twisted Harvey's ring on her finger, and sawherself 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-facedwives and daughters, and more than a sprinkling of gaily dressedand painted women, filled the lobby or made their way slowly up anddown the staircase. It was all so utterly different from what she hadexpected—so bright, so full of life. These well-fed people they seemedhappy enough. Were they all wrong back home? Was the war the ghastlything they thought it?

　　Long months afterward Sara Lee was to learn that the Savoy was notLondon. She was to learn other things—that America knew more, througha free press, of war conditions than did England. And she was tolearn what never ceased to surprise her—the sporting instinct of theBritish which made their early slogan "Business as usual." Businessand pleasure—but only on the surface. Underneath was a dogged andobstinate determination to make up as soon as possible for thehumiliation of the early days of the war.

　　Those were the transition days in England. The people were slowlyawaking to the magnitude of the thing that was happening to them. Certainelements of the press, long under political dominion, were preparing tocome out for a coalition ministry. The question of high-explosiveshells as against shrapnel was bitterly fought, some of the men at homestanding fast for shrapnel, as valuable against German artillery as agarden hose. Men coming back from the Front were pleading for real help,not men only, not Red Cross, not food and supplies, but for somethingmore competent than mere man power to hold back the deluge.

　　But over it all was that surface cheerfulness, that best-foot-forwardattitude of London. And Sara Lee saw only that, and lost faith. Shehad come far to help. But here was food in plenty and bands playingand 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. Athome there was more surface depression. The atrocities, the plight ofthe Belgians, the honor list in the Illustrated London News—that wasthe 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 desolateenough, 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 andtook in one or two. The door closed. And overhead the band playedmonotonously.

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

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

　　"I do; but not much," he replied. Though his French had been rapid hespoke 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 notworkers. 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 achair and surveyed her carefully.

　　"You English are doing a—a fine work for us," he observed. "We aregrateful. But of course the"—he hesitated—"the pulling up of anentire people—it is colossal."

　　"But I am not English," said Sara Lee. "And I have a little money. Iwant to make soup for your wounded men at a railway station or—anyplace. I can make good soup. And I shall have money each month to buywhat 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 andSara Lee was back again in her familiar setting, one of the clearestpictures she retained of that amazing interlude was of that crowdedlittle room in the Savoy, its single littered desk, its two typewriterscreating an incredible din, a large gentleman in a dark-blue militarycape seeming to fill the room. And in corners and off stage, so tospeak, perhaps a half dozen men, watching her curiously.

　　The conversation was in French, and Sara Lee's acquaintance of thepassage acted as interpreter. It was only when Sara Lee found that aconsiderable discussion was going on in which she had no part that shelooked round and saw her friend of two nights before and of the littledonkey. He was watching her intently, and when he caught her eyehe bowed.

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

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

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

　　So far Henri had not joined in the discussion. But now he came forwardand 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—"ifyou were already in the very small part of Belgium remaining to us, wecould place you very usefully. But—the British War Office is mostcareful, 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 anyone who knows less than I do about the war."

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

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

　　More conversation. Evidently more difficulties—but with Henri nowholding the center of the stage and speaking rapidly. The heavy-set manretired and read letters under an electric lamp. The band upstairs washaving 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 yousay?—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. Hewould not like her receiving a call from any man. And Harvey did notlike foreigners. He always said they had no respect for women. Itstruck her suddenly what Harvey would call Henri's bowing and his kissingher hand, and his passionate gesticulations when he was excited. Hewould call it all tomfool nonsense.

　　And she recalled his final words, his arms so close about her that shecould 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, gavethem a friendly smile that included them all. And then she and Henriwere walking up the stairs and to the entrance, Henri's tall figure thetarget 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 intaxis. And he bent over her hand, once she was in the car, but he didnot kiss it.

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

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

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

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

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

　　It was the maid, perhaps, then who brought into Sara Lee's life thestrange and mad infatuation for her that was gradually to become adominant 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 andbody demanded. And she watched tall young Englishwomen with fineshoulders go out with English officers in khaki, and listened to a babelof high English voices, and—felt extremely alone and very subdued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

　　His eyes were keen. Sara Lee had suddenly a strange feeling that hewas watching the couple who talked over their coffee, and that, oddlyenough, the couple were watching him. Yet he was apparently giving hisundivided 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 aboutthe square, for air?" And in a lower tone: "It is not necessary thatthose two should know the plan, mademoiselle."

　　"I'll get my coat and hat," Sara Lee said, and proceeded to do so in abrisk and businesslike fashion. When she came down Henri was emergingfrom the telephone booth. His face was impassive. And again when intime Sara Lee was to know Henri's face better than she had ever knownHarvey's, she was to learn that the masklike look he sometimes woremeant 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 theywent on and crossed into the square.

　　"The plan," Henri began abruptly, "is this: You will be providedto-morrow with a passport to Boulogne. You will, if you agree, take themidnight train for Folkestone. At the railway station here you willbe 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. Herlittle phrase book seemed pitifully inadequate for the great thingsin her mind.

　　"That hardly matters," said Henri, smiling faintly. "Because I thinkyou 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. "ButCalais is difficult. It is under martial law—a closed city. FromBoulogne 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 Itell you until I know what it is?"

　　Henri told her. He even, standing under a street lamp, drew a smallsketch 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. Andin 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 blockadeof this coast. No vessels, if they can prevent them, will leave theharbors; 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 commencedslowly 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 bitterdisappointment.

　　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 outyour pencil and draw another picture—because I'm going."

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