Chapter XV

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　"But why should I go?" Sara Lee asked. "It is kind of you to ask me,Jean. But I am here to work, not to play."

　　Long ago Sara Lee had abandoned her idea of Jean as a paid chauffeur.She even surmised, from something Marie had said, that he had been aperson of importance in the Belgium of before the war. So she wasgrateful, but inclined to be obstinate.

　　"You have been so much alone, mademoiselle—"

　　"Alone!"

　　"Cut off from your own kind. And now and then one finds, at the hotelin Dunkirk, some English nurses who are having a holiday. You wouldlike to talk to them perhaps."

　　"Jean," she said unexpectedly, "why don't you tell me the truth? Youwant me to leave the village to-night. Why?"

　　"Because, mademoiselle, there will be a bombardment."

　　"The village itself?"

　　"We expect it," he answered dryly.

　　Sara Lee went a little pale.

　　"But then I shall be needed, as I was before."

　　"No troops will pass through the town to-night. They will take a roadbeyond the fields."

　　"How do you know these things?" she asked, wondering. "About the troopsI can understand. But the bombardment."

　　"There are ways of finding out, mademoiselle," he replied in hisnoncommittal voice. "Now, will you go?"

　　"May I tell Marie and René?"

　　"No."

　　"Then I shall not go. How can you think that I would consider my ownsafety and leave them here?"

　　Jean had ascertained before speaking that Marie was not in the house.As for René, he sat on the single doorstep and whittled pegs on which tohang his rifle inside the door. And as he carved he sang words of hisown to the tune of Tipperary.

　　Inside the little salle à manger Jean reassured Sara Lee. It wasimportant—vital—that René and Marie should not know far in advanceof the bombardment. They were loyal, certainly, but these were hisorders. In abundance of time they would be warned to leave the village.

　　"Who is to warn them?"

　　"Henri has promised, mademoiselle. And what he promises is done."

　　"You said this morning that he was in England."

　　"He has returned."

　　Sara Lee's heart, which had been going along merely as a matter of dutyall day, suddenly began to beat faster. Her color came up, and then fadedagain. He had returned, and he had not come to the little house. Butthen—what could Henri mean to her, his coming or his going? Was sheto add to her other sins against Harvey the supreme one of beinginterested in Henri?

　　Not that she said all that, even to herself. There was a wave ofgladness and then a surge of remorse. That is all. But it was a verysober Sara Lee who put on her black suit with the white collar thatafternoon and ordered, by Jean's suggestion, the evening's preparationsas though nothing was to happen.

　　She looked round her little room before she left it. It might not bethere when she returned. So she placed Harvey's photograph under hermattress for safety, and rather uncomfortably she laid beside it thesmall ivory crucifix that Henri had found in a ruined house and broughtto her. Harvey was not a Catholic. He did not believe in visualizinghis religion. And she had a distinct impression that he considered suchthings as did so as bordering on idolatry.

　　Sometime after dusk that evening the ammunition train moved out. At apoint a mile or so from the village a dispatch rider on a motor cyclestopped the rumbling lorry at the head of the procession and delivereda message, which the guide read by the light of a sheltered match. Thetrain moved on, but it did not turn down to the village. It went beyondto a place of safety, and there remained for the night.

　　But before that time Henri, lying close in a field, had seen a skulkingfigure run from the road to the mill, and soon after had seen the millwheel turn once, describing a great arc; and on one of the wings, showingonly toward the poplar trees, was a lighted lantern.

　　Five minutes later, exactly time enough for the train to have reachedthe village street, German shells began to fall in it. Henri, lyingflat on the ground, swore silently and deeply.

　　In every land during this war there have been those who would sell theircountry for a price. Sometimes money. Sometimes protection. And of allbetrayals that of the man who sells his own country is the most dastardly.Henri, lying face down, bit the grass beneath him in sheer rage.

　　One thing he had not counted on, he who foresaw most things. The millerand his son, being what they were, were cowards as well. Doubtless themill had been promised protection. It was too valuable to the Germansto be destroyed. But with the first shot both men left the house by themill and scurried like rabbits for the open fields.

　　Maurice, poor Marie's lover by now, almost trampled on Henri's prostratebody. And Henri was alone, and his work was to take them alive. Theyhad information he must have—how the modus vivendi had been arranged,through what channels. And under suitable treatment they would tell.

　　He could not follow them through the fields. He lay still, during afiercer bombardment than the one before, raising his head now and thento see if the little house of mercy still stood. No shells came hisway, but the sky line of the village altered quickly. The standingfragment of the church towers went early. There was much sound offalling masonry. From somewhere behind him a Belgian battery gavetongue, but not for long. And then came silence.

　　Henri moved then. He crept nearer the mill and nearer. And at last hestood inside and took his bearings. A lamp burned in the kitchen,showing a dirty brick floor and a littered table—such a house as menkeep, untidy and unhomelike. A burnt kettle stood on the hearth, andleaning against the wall was the bag of grain Maurice had carried fromthe crossroads.

　　"A mill which grinds without grain," Henri said to himself.

　　There was a boxed-in staircase to the upper floor, and there, with thedoor slightly ajar, he stationed himself, pistol in hand. Now and thenhe glanced uneasily at the clock. Sara Lee must not be back before hehad taken his prisoners to the little house and turned them over tothose who waited there.

　　There were footsteps outside, and Henri drew the door a little closer.But he was dismayed to find it Marie. She crept in, a white and brokenthing, and looked about her.

　　"Maurice!" she called.

　　She sat down for a moment, and then, seeing the disorder about her, setto work to clear the table. It was then that Henri lowered his pistoland opened the door.

　　"Don't shriek, Marie," he said.

　　She turned and saw him, and clutched at the table.

　　"Monsieur!"

　　"Marie," he said quietly, "go up these stairs and remain quiet. Do notwalk round. And do not come down, no matter what you hear!"

　　She obeyed him, stumbling somewhat. For she had seen his revolver, andit frightened her. But as she passed him she clutched at his sleeve.

　　"He is good—Maurice," she said, gasping. "Of the father I know nothing,but Maurice—"

　　"Go up and be silent!" was all he said.

　　Now, by all that goes to make a story, Sara Lee should have met Mabel atthe Hôtel des Arcades in Dunkirk, and should have been able to make thatefficient young woman burn with jealousy—Mabel, who from the safety ofher hospital in Boulogne considered Dunkirk the Front.

　　Indeed Sara Lee, to whom the world was beginning to seem very small, hadhad some such faint hope. But Mabel was not there, and it was not untillong after that they met at all, and then only when the lights had gonedown and Sara Lee was again knitting by the fire.

　　There were a few nurses there, in their white veils with the red crossover the forehead, and one or two Englishwomen in hats that sat a trifletoo high on the tops of their heads and with long lists before themwhich they checked as they ate. Aviators in leather coats; a few Spahisin cloak and turban, with full-gathered bloomers and high boots; someAmerican ambulance drivers, rather noisy and very young; and manyofficers, in every uniform of the Allied armies—sat at food togetherand for a time forgot their anxieties under the influence of lights, foodand warmth, and red and white wine mixed with water.

　　When he chose, Jean could be a delightful companion; not with Henri'slift of spirits, but quietly interesting. And that evening he was a newJean to Sara Lee, a man of the world, talking of world affairs. Hefound her apt and intelligent, and for Sara Lee much that had beenclouded cleared up forever that night. Until then she had known onlythe humanities of the war, or its inhumanities. There, over that littletable, she learned something of its politics and its inevitability. Shehad been working in the dark, with her heart only. Now she began tograsp the real significance of it all, of Belgium's anxiety for manyyears, of Germany's cold and cruel preparation, and empty protests offriendship. She learned of the flight of the government from Brussels,the most important state papers being taken away in a hand cart, on topof which, at the last moment, some flustered official had placed a tallsilk hat! She learned of the failure of great fortifications before theinvaders' heavy guns. And he had drawn for her such a picture ofAlbert of Belgium as she was never to forget.

　　Perhaps Sara Lee's real growth began that night, over that simple dinnerat the Hôtel des Arcades.

　　"I wish," she said at last, "that Uncle James could have heard all this.He was always so puzzled about it all. And—you make it so clear."

　　When dinner was over a bit of tension had relaxed in her somewhat. Shehad been too close, for too long. And when a group of Belgian officers,learning who she was, asked to be presented and gravely thanked her, sheflushed with happiness.

　　"We must see if mademoiselle shall not have a medal," said the only onewho spoke English.

　　"A medal? For what?"

　　"For courage," he said, bowing. "Belgium has little to give, but it canat least do honor to a brave lady."

　　Jean was smiling when they passed on. What a story would this slip of agirl take home with her!

　　But: "I don't think I want a medal, Jean," she said. "I didn't come forthat. And after all it is you and Henri who have done the thing—not I."

　　Accustomed to women of a more sophisticated class, Jean had at firsttaken her naïveté for the height of subtlety. He was always expectingher to betray herself. But after that evening with her he changed. Justsuch simplicity had been his wife's. Sometimes Sara Lee reminded him ofher—the upraising of her eyes or an unstudied gesture.

　　He sighed.

　　"You are very wonderful, you Americans," he said. It was the nearest toa compliment that he had ever come. And after that evening he was alwaysvery gentle with her. Once he had protected her because Henri had askedhim to do so; now he himself became in his silent way her protector.

　　The ride home through the dark was very quiet. Sara Lee sat beside himwatching the stars and growing increasingly anxious as they went, nottoo rapidly, toward the little house. There were no lights. Air raidshad grown common in Dunkirk, and there were no street lights in thelittle city. Once on the highway Jean lighted the lamps, but left themvery low, and two miles from the little house he put them out altogether.They traveled by starlight then, following as best they could the talltrees that marked the road. Now and then they went astray at that, andonce they tilted into the ditch and had hard pulling to get out.

　　At the top of the street Jean stopped and went on foot a little way down.He came back, with the report that new shells had made the way impassable;and again Sara Lee shivered. If the little house was gone!

　　But it was there, and lighted too. Through its broken shutters came theyellow glow of the oil lamp that now hung over the table in the salle àmanger.

　　Whatever Jean's anxieties had been fell from him as he pushed open thedoor. Henri's voice was the first thing they heard. He was too muchoccupied to notice their approach.

　　So it was that Sara Lee saw, for the last time, the miller and his son,Maurice; saw them, but did not know them, for over their heads were bagsof their own sacking, with eyeholes roughly cut in them. Their handswere bound, and three soldiers were waiting to take them away.

　　"I have covered your heads," Henri was saying in French, "because it isnot well that our brave Belgians should know that they have been betrayedby those of their own number."

　　It was a cold and terrible Henri who spoke.

　　"Take them away," he said to the waiting men.

　　A few moments later he turned from the door and heard Sara Lee sobbingin her room. He tapped, and on receiving no reply he went in. The roomwas unharmed, and by the light of a candle he saw the girl, face down onthe bed. He spoke to her, but she only lay crouched deeper, hershoulders shaking.

　　"It is war, mademoiselle," he said, and went closer. Then suddenly allthe hurt of the past days, all the bitterness of the last hour, werelost in an overwhelming burst of tenderness.

　　He bent over her and put his arms round her.

　　"That I should have hurt you so!" he said softly. "I, who would die foryou, mademoiselle. I who worship you." He buried his face in the warmhollow of her neck and held her close. He was trembling. "I love you,"he whispered. "I love you."

　　She quieted under his touch. He was very strong, and there was refugein his arms. For a moment she lay still, happier than she had been forweeks. It was Henri who was shaken now and the girl who was still.

　　But very soon came the thing that, after all, he expected. She drewherself away from him, and Henri, sensitive to every gesture, stood back.

　　"Who are they?" was the first thing she said. It rather stabbed him.He had just told her that he loved her, and never before in his carelessyoung life had he said that to any woman.

　　"Spies," he said briefly.

　　A flushed and tearful Sara Lee stood up then and looked up at him gravely.

　　"Then—that is what you do?"

　　"Yes, mademoiselle."

　　Quite suddenly she went to him and held up her face.

　　"Please kiss me, Henri," she said very simply. "I have been cruel andstupid, and—"

　　But he had her in his arms then, and he drew her close as though hewould never let her go. He was one great burst of joy, poor Henri. Butwhen she gently freed herself at last it was to deliver what seemed fora time his death wound.

　　"You have paid me a great tribute," she said, still simply and gravely."I wanted you to kiss me, because of what you said. But that will haveto be all, Henri dear."

　　"All?" he said blankly.

　　"You haven't forgotten, have you? I—I am engaged to somebody else."

　　Henri stood still, swaying a little.

　　"And you love him? More than you care for me?"

　　"He is—he is my kind," said Sara Lee rather pitifully. "I am not whatyou think me. You see me here, doing what you think is good work, andyou are grateful. And you don't see any other women. So I—"

　　"And you think I love you because I see no one else?" he demanded, stillrather stunned.

　　"Isn't that part of it?"

　　He flung out his hands as though he despaired of making her understand.

　　"This man at home—" he said bitterly; "this man who loves you so wellthat he let you cross the sea and come here alone—do you love him verydearly?"

　　"I am promised to him."

　　All at once Sara Lee saw the little parlor at home, and Harvey, gentle,rather stolid and dependable. Oh, very dependable. She saw him as hehad looked the night he had said he loved her, rather wistful and very,very tender. She could not hurt him so. She had said she was goingback to him, and she must go.

　　"I love him very much, Henri."

　　Very quietly, considering the hell that was raging in him, Henri bentover and kissed her hand. Then he turned it over, and for an instanthe held his cheek against its warmth. He went out at once, and SaraLee heard the door slam.