Chapter XXII

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　Much of Sara Lee's life at home had faded. She seemed to be two people.One was the girl who had knitted the afghan for Anna, and had hidden itaway from Uncle James' kind but curious eyes. And one was this presentSara Lee, living on the edge of eternity, and seeing men die or sufferhorribly, not to gain anything—except perhaps some honorableadvancement for their souls—but that there might be preserved, at anycost, the right of honest folk to labor in their fields, to love, topray, and at last to sleep in the peace of God.

　　She had lost the past and she dared not look into the future. So shewas living each day as it came, with its labor, its love, its prayersand at last its sleep. Even Harvey seemed remote and stern and bitter.She reread his letters often, but they were forced. And after a timeshe realized another quality in them. They were self-centered. It washis anxiety, his loneliness, his humiliation. Sara Lee's eyes werelooking out, those days, over a suffering world. Harvey's eyes wereturned in on himself.

　　She realized this, but she never formulated it, even to herself. Whatshe did acknowledge was a growing fear of the reunion which must comesometime—that he was cherishing still further bitterness against thatday, that he would say things that he would regret later. Sometimes thethought of that day came to her when she was doing a dressing, and herhands would tremble.

　　Henri had not returned when, the second day after René's death, theletter came which recalled her. She opened it eagerly. Though fromHarvey there usually came at the best veiled reproach, the society hadalways sent its enthusiastic approval.

　　She read it twice before she understood, and it was only when she readBelle's letter again that she began to comprehend. She was recalled;and the recall was Harvey's work.

　　She was very close to hating him that day. He had never understood.She would go back to him, as she had promised; but always, all the restof their lives, there would be this barrier between them. To thebarrier of his bitterness would be added her own resentment. She couldnever even talk to him of her work, of those great days when in hersmall way she had felt herself a part of the machinery of mercy ofthe war.

　　Harvey had lost something out of Sara Lee's love for him. He had doneit himself, madly, despairingly. She still loved him, she felt. Nothingcould change that or her promise to him. But with that love there wassomething now of fear. And she felt, too, that after all the years shehad known him she had not known him at all. The Harvey she had knownwas a tender and considerate man, soft-spoken, slow to wrath, alwaysgentle. But the Harvey of his letters and of the recall was a stranger.

　　It was the result of her upbringing, probably, that she had no thoughtof revolt. Her tie to Harvey was a real tie. By her promise to him herlife was no longer hers to order. It belonged to some one else, to beordered for her. But, though she accepted, she was too clear a thinkernot to resent.

　　When Henri returned, toward dawn of the following night, he did not comealone. Sara Lee, rising early, found two men in her kitchen—one ofthem Henri, who was making coffee, and a soldier in a gray-green uniform,with a bad bruise over one eye and a sulky face. His hands were tied,but otherwise he sat at ease, and Henri, having made the coffee, held acup to his lips.

　　"It is good for the spirits, man," he said in German. "Drink it."

　　The German took it, first gingerly, then eagerly. Henri was in highgood humor.

　　"See, I have brought you a gift!" he exclaimed on seeing Sara Lee. "Whatshall we do with him? Send him to America? To show the appearance ofthe madmen of Europe?"

　　The prisoner was only a boy, such a boy as Henri himself; but a peasant,and muscular. Beside his bulk Henri looked slim as a reed. Henri eyedhim with a certain tolerant humor.

　　"He is young, and a Bavarian," he said. "Other wise I should havekilled him, for he fought hard. He has but just been called."

　　There was another conference in the little house that morning, butHenri's prisoner could tell little. He had heard nothing of an advance.Further along the line it was said that there was much fighting. He satthere, pale and bewildered and very civil, and in the end his frightenedpoliteness brought about a change in the attitude of the men whoquestioned him. Hate all Germans as they must, who had suffered sogrossly, this boy was not of those who had outraged them.

　　They sent him on at last, and Sara Lee was free to tell Henri her news.But she had grown very wise as to Henri's moods, and she hesitated. Acertain dissatisfaction had been growing in the boy for some time, asense of hopelessness. Further along the spring had brought renewedactivity to the Allied armies. Great movements were taking place.

　　But his own men stood in their trenches, or what passed for trenches, orlay on their hours of relief in such wretched quarters as could be found,still with no prospect of action. No great guns, drawn by heavytractors, came down the roads toward the trenches by the sea. Steadybombarding, incessant sniping and no movement on either side—that wasthe Belgian Front during the first year of the war. Inaction, with thateating anxiety as to what was going on in the occupied territory, wasthe portion of the heroic small army that stretched from Nieuport toDixmude.

　　And Henri's nerves were not good. He was unhappy—that always—and hewas not yet quite recovered from his wounds. There was on his mind, too,a certain gun which moved on a railway track, back and forth, behind theGerman lines, doing the work of many. He had tried to get to that gun,and failed. And he hated failure.

　　Certainly in this story of Sara Lee and of Henri, whose other name mustnot be known, allowance must be made for all those things. Yet—perhapsno allowance is enough.

　　Sara Lee told him that evening of her recall, told him when the shufflingof many feet in the street told of the first weary men from the trenchescoming up the road.

　　He heard her in a dazed silence. Then:

　　"But you will not go?" he said. "It is impossible! You—you areneeded, mademoiselle."

　　"What can I do, Henri? They have recalled me. My money will not comenow."

　　"Perhaps we can arrange that. It does not cost so much. I havefriends—and think, mademoiselle, how many know now of what you aredoing, and love you for it. Some of them would contribute, surely."

　　He was desperately revolving expedients in his mind. He could himselfdo no more than he had done. He, or rather Jean and he together, hadbeen bearing a full half of the expense of the little house since thebeginning. But he dared not tell her that. And though he spokehopefully, he knew well that he could raise nothing from the Belgianshe knew best. Henri came of a class that held its fortunes in land, andthat land was now in German hands.

　　"We will arrange it somehow," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Nobeautiful thing—and this is surely beautiful—must die because ofmoney."

　　It was then that Sara Lee took the plunge.

　　"It is not only money, Henri."

　　"He has sent for you!"

　　Harvey was always "he" to Henri.

　　"Not exactly. But I think he went to some one and said I should not behere alone. You can understand how he feels. We were going to bemarried very soon, and then I decided to come. It made an awful upset."

　　Henri stood with folded arms and listened. At first he said nothing.When he spoke it was in a voice of ominous calm:

　　"So for a stupid convention he would destroy this beautiful thing youhave made! Does he know your work? Does he know what you are to themen here? Have you ever told him?"

　　"I have, of course, but—"

　　"Do you want to go back?"

　　"No, Henri. Not yet. I—"

　　"That is enough. You are needed. You are willing to stay. I shallattend to the money. It is arranged."

　　"You don't understand," said Sara Lee desperately. "I am engaged to him.I can't wreck his life, can I?"

　　"Would it wreck your life?" he demanded. "Tell me that and I shall knowhow to reason with you."

　　But she only looked at him helplessly.

　　Heavy tramping in the passage told of the arrival of the first men.They did not talk and laugh as usual. As well as they could they camequietly. For René had been a good friend to many of them, and hadadmitted on slack nights many a weary man who had no ticket. Much asthe neighbors had entered the house back home after Uncle James had goneaway, came these bearded men that night. And Sara Lee, hearing theirmuffled voices, brushed a hand over her eyes and tried to smile.

　　"We can talk about it later," she said. "We mustn't quarrel. I owe somuch to you, Henri."

　　Suddenly Henri caught her by the arm and turned her about so that shefaced the lamp.

　　"Do you love him?" he demanded. "Sara Lee, look at me!" Only hepronounced it Saralie. "He has done a very cruel thing. Do you stilllove him?"

　　Sara Lee shut her eyes.

　　"I don't know. I think I do. He is very unhappy, and it is my fault."

　　"Your fault!"

　　"I must go, Henri. The men are waiting."

　　But he still held her arm.

　　"Does he love you as I love you?" he demanded. "Would he die for you?"

　　"That's rather silly, isn't it? Men don't die for the people they love."

　　"I would die for you, Saralie."

　　She eyed him rather helplessly.

　　"I don't think you mean that." Bad strategy that, for he drew her tohim. His arms were like steel, and it was a rebellious and very rigidSara Lee who found she could not free herself.

　　"I would die for you, Saralie!" he repeated fiercely. "That would beeasier, far, than living without you. There is nothing that matters butyou. Listen—I would put everything I have—my honor, my life, myhope of eternity—on one side of the scale and you on the other. And Iwould choose you. Is that love?" He freed her.

　　"It's insanity," said Sara Lee angrily. "You don't mean it. And Idon't want that kind of love, if that is what you call it."

　　"And you will go back to that man who loves himself better than he lovesyou?"

　　"That's not true!" she flashed at him. "He is sending for me, not toget me back to him, but to get me back to safety."

　　"What sort of safety?" Henri demanded in an ominous tone. "Is he afraidof me?"

　　"He doesn't know anything about you."

　　"You have never told him? Why?" His eyes narrowed.

　　"He wouldn't have understood, Henri."

　　"You are going back to him," he said slowly; "and you will always keepthese days of ours buried in your heart. Is that it?" His eyes softened."I am to be a memory! Do you know what I think? I think you care forme more than you know. We have lived a lifetime together in thesemonths. You know me better than you know him, already. We have faceddeath together. That is a strong tie. And I have held you in my arms.Do you think you can forget that?"

　　"I shall never want to forget you."

　　"I shall not let you forget me. You may go—I cannot prevent thatperhaps. But wherever I am; Saralie, I shall stand between that loverof yours and you. And sometime I shall come from this other side of theworld, and I shall find you, and you will come back with me. Back tothis country—our country."

　　They were boyish words, but back of them was the iron determination of aman. His eyes seemed sunken in his head. His face was white. But therewas almost a prophetic ring in his voice.

　　Sara Lee went out and left him there, went out rather terrified andbewildered, and refusing absolutely to look into her own heart.