Chapter XXIV

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

　　It was early in June when at last the lights went down behind the backdrop and came up in front, to show Sara Lee knitting again, though notby the fire. The amazing interlude was over.

　　Over, except in Sara Lee's heart. The voyage had been a nightmare. Shehad been ill for one thing—a combination of seasickness andheartsickness. She had allowed Henri to come to England with her, andthe Germans had broken through. All the good she had done—and she hadhelped—was nothing to this mischief she had wrought.

　　It had been a small raid. She gathered that from the papers on board.But that was not the vital thing. What mattered was that she had let aman forget his duty to his country in his solicitude for her.

　　But as the days went on the excitement of her return dulled the edge ofher misery somewhat. The thing was done. She could do only one thingto help. She would never go back, never again bring trouble andsuffering where she had meant only to bring aid and comfort.

　　She had a faint hope that Harvey would meet her at the pier. She neededcomforting and soothing, and perhaps a bit of praise. She was so verytired; depressed, too, if the truth be known. She needed a hand to leadher back to her old place on the stage, and kind faces to make her forgetthat she had ever gone away.

　　Because that was what she had to do. She must forget Henri and thelittle house on the road to the poplar trees; and most of all, she mustforget that because of her Henri had let the Germans through.

　　But Harvey did not meet her. There was a telegram saying he would meether train if she wired when she was leaving—an exultant messagebreathing forgiveness and signed "with much love." She flushed when sheread it.

　　Of course he could not meet her in New York. This was not the Continentin wartime, where convention had died of a great necessity. And he wasnot angry, after all. A great wave of relief swept over her. But itwas odd how helpless she felt. Since her arrival in England monthsbefore there had always been Henri to look after things for her. It wasincredible to recall how little she had done for herself.

　　Was she glad to be back? She did not ask herself. It was as though thevoyage had automatically detached her from that other Sara Lee of thelittle house. That was behind her, a dream—a mirage—or a memory.Here, a trifle confused by the bustle, was once again the Sara Lee whohad knitted for Anna, and tended the plants in the dining-room window,and watched Uncle James slowly lowered into his quiet grave.

　　She had but to close her eyes to see Henri's tragic face that last nightat Morley's. And part of the detachment was because, after all, theinterlude had been but a matter of months, and reaching out familiarhands to her were the habits and customs and surroundings of all theearlier years of her life, drawing her back to them.

　　It was strange how Henri's face haunted her. She could close her eyesand see it, line by line, his very swagger—for he did swagger, just alittle; his tall figure and unruly hair; his long, narrow, muscularhands. Strange and rather uncomfortable. Because she could not summonHarvey's image at all. She tried to bring before her, that night in thetrain speeding west, his solid figure and kind eyes as they would greether the next day—tried, and failed. All she got was the profile ofthe photograph, and the stubborn angle of the jaw.

　　She was up very early the next morning, and it was then, as the trainrolled through familiar country, that she began to find Harvey again.A flush of tenderness warmed her. She must be very kind to him becauseof all that he had suffered.

　　The train came to a stop. Rather breathless Sara Lee went out on theplatform. Harvey was there, in the crowd. He did not see her at first.He was looking toward the front of the train. So her first glimpse ofhim was the view of the photograph. His hat was off, and his hair,carefully brushed back, gave him the eager look of the picture.

　　He was a strong and manly figure, as unlike Henri as an oak is unlikeone of Henri's own tall and swaying poplars. Sara Lee drew a longbreath. Here after all were rest and peace; love and gentleness; quietdays and still evenings. No more crowds and wounds and weary men, nomore great thunderings of guns, no imminence of death. Rest and peace.

　　Then Harvey saw her, and the gleam of happiness and relief in his eyesmade her own eyes misty. She saw even in that first glance that helooked thinner and older. A pang of remorse shot through her. Washappiness always bought at the cost of happiness? Did one always takeaway in order to give? Not in so many words, but in a flash of doubtthe thought went through her mind.

　　There was no reserve in Harvey's embrace. He put his arms about her andheld her close. He did not speak at first. Then:

　　"My own little girl," he said. "My own little girl!"

　　Suddenly Sara Lee was very happy. All her doubts were swept away by hisvoice, his arms. There was no thrill for her in his caress, but therewere peace and quiet joy. It was enough for her, just then, that shehad brought back some of the happiness she had robbed him of.

　　"Oh, Harvey!" she said. "I'm glad to be back again—with you."

　　He held her off then and looked at her.

　　"You are thin," he said. "You're not pale, but you are thin." And in aharder voice: "What did they do to you over there?"

　　But he did not wait for a reply. He did not seem to want one. He pickedup her bag, and guiding her by the elbow, piloted her through the crowd.

　　"A lot of folks wanted to come and meet you," he said, "but I steeredthem off. You'd have thought Roosevelt was coming to town the waythey've been calling up."

　　"To meet me?"

　　"I expect the Ladies' Aid Society wanted to get into the papers again,"he said rather grimly. "They are merry little advertisers, all right."

　　"I don't think that, Harvey."

　　"Well, I do," he said, and brought her to a stop facing a smart littlecar, very new, very gay.

　　"How do you like it?" he asked.

　　"Like it? Why, it's not yours, is it?"

　　"Surest thing you know. Or, rather, it's ours. Had a few war babies,and they grew up."

　　Sara Lee looked at it, and for just an instant, a rather sickeninginstant, she saw Henri's shattered low car, battle-scarred and broken.

　　"It's—lovely," said Sara Lee. And Harvey found no fault with her tone.

　　Sara Lee had intended to go to Anna's, for a time at least. But shefound that Belle was expecting her and would not take no.

　　"She's moved the baby in with the others," Harvey explained as he tookthe wheel. "Wait until you see your room. I knew we'd be buyingfurniture soon, so I fixed it up."

　　He said nothing for a time. He was new to driving a car, and the trafficengrossed him. But when they had reached a quieter neighborhood he puta hand over hers.

　　"Good God, how I've been hungry for you!" he said. "I guess I was prettynearly crazy sometimes." He glanced at her apprehensively, but if sheknew his connection with her recall she showed no resentment. As amatter of fact there was in his voice something that reminded her ofHenri, the same deeper note, almost husky.

　　She was, indeed, asking herself very earnestly what was there in her ofall people that should make two men care for her as both Henri and Harveycared. In the humility of all modest women she was bewildered. It madeher rather silent and a little sad. She was so far from being what theythought her.

　　Harvey, stealing a moment from the car to glance at her, saw somethingbaffling in her face.

　　"Do you still care, Sara Lee?" he asked almost diffidently. "As much asever?"

　　"I have come back to you," she said after an imperceptible pause.

　　"Well, I guess that's the answer."

　　He drew a deep satisfied breath. "I used to think of you over there,and all those foreigners in uniform strutting about, and it almost gotme, some times."

　　And again, as long before, he read into her passivity his own passion,and was deeply content.

　　Belle was waiting on the small front porch. There was an anxious frownon her face, and she looked first, not at Sara Lee, but at Harvey. Whatshe saw there evidently satisfied her, for the frown disappeared. Shekissed Sara Lee impulsively.

　　All that afternoon, much to Harvey's resentment, Sara Lee receivedcallers. The Ladies' Aid came en masse and went out to the dining-roomand there had tea and cake. Harvey disappeared when they came.

　　"You are back," he said, "and safe, and all that. But it's not theirfault. And I'll be hanged if I'll stand round and listen to them."

　　He got his hat and then, finding her alone in a back hall for a moment,reverted uneasily to the subject.

　　"There are two sides to every story," he said. "They're going to knifeme this afternoon, all right. Damned hypocrites! You just keep yourhead, and I'll tell you my side of it later."

　　"Harvey," she said slowly, "I want to know now just what you did. I'mnot angry. I've never been angry. But I ought to know."

　　It was a very one-sided story that Harvey told her, standing in thelittle back hall, with Belle's children hanging over the staircase andbegging for cake. Yet in the main it was true. He had reached hislimit of endurance. She was in danger, as the photograph plainly showed.And a fellow had a right to fight for his own happiness.

　　"I wanted you back, that's all," he ended. And added an anticlimax bypassing a plate of sliced jelly roll through the stair rail to theclamoring children.

　　Sara Lee stood there for a moment after he had gone. He was right, orat least he had been within his rights. She had never even heard of thenew doctrine of liberty for women. There was nothing in her training toteach her revolt. She was engaged to Harvey; already, potentially, shebelonged to him. He had interfered with her life, but he had had theright to interfere.

　　And also there was in the back of her mind a feeling that was almostguilt. She had let Henri tell her he loved her. She had even kissedhim. And there had been many times in the little house when Harvey, fordays at a time, had not even entered her thoughts. There was, therefore,a very real tenderness in the face she lifted for his good-by kiss.

　　To Belle in the front hall Harvey gave a firm order.

　　"Don't let any reporters in," he said warningly. "This is strictly ouraffair. It's a private matter. It's nobody's business what she did overthere. She's home. That's all that matters."

　　Belle assented, but she was uneasy. She knew that Harvey wasunreasonably, madly jealous of Sara Lee's work at the little house ofmercy, and she knew him well enough to know that sooner or later he wouldshow that jealousy. She felt, too, that the girl should have beenallowed her small triumph without interference. There had beeninterference enough already. But it was easier to yield to Harvey thanto argue with him.

　　It was rather a worried Belle who served tea that afternoon in her diningroom, with Mrs. Gregory pouring; the more uneasy, because already shedivined a change in Sara Lee. She was as lovely as ever, even lovelier.But she had a poise, a steadiness, that were new; and silences in which,to Belle's shrewd eyes, she seemed to be weighing things.

　　Reporters clamored to see Sara Lee that day, and, failing to see her,telephoned Harvey at his office to ask if it was true that she had beendecorated by the King. He was short to the point of affront.

　　"I haven't heard anything about it," he snapped. "And I wouldn't say ifI had. But it's not likely. What d'you fellows think she was doinganyhow? Leading a charge? She was running a soup kitchen. That's all."

　　He hung up the receiver with a jerk, but shortly after that he fell topacing his small office. She had not said anything about being decorated,but the reporters had said it had been in a London newspaper. If shehad not told him that, there were probably many things she had not toldhim. But of course there had been very little time. He would see ifshe mentioned it that night.

　　Sara Lee had had a hard day. The children loved her. In the intervalsof calls they crawled over her, and the littlest one called her Saralie.She held the child in her arms close.

　　"Saralie!" said the child, over and over; "Saralie! That's your name.I love your name."

　　And there came, echoing in her ears, Henri and his tender Saralie.

　　There was an oppression on her too. Her very bedroom thrust on her herapproaching marriage. This was her own furniture, for her new home. Itwas beautiful, simple and good. But she was not ready for marriage. Shehad been too close to the great struggle to be prepared to think in termsof peace so soon. Perhaps, had she dared to look deeper than that, shewould have found something else, a something she had not counted on.

　　She and Belle had a little time after the visitors had gone, beforeHarvey came home. They sat in Belle's bedroom, and her sentences werepunctuated by little backs briskly presented to have small garmentsfastened, or bows put on stiffly bobbed yellow hair.

　　"Did you understand my letter?" she asked. "I was sorry I had sent it,but it was too late then."

　　"I put your letter and—theirs, together. I supposed that Harvey—"

　　"He was about out of his mind," Belle said in her worried voice. "Standstill, Mary Ellen! He went to Mrs. Gregory, and I suppose he said a goodbit. You know the way he does. Anyhow, she was very angry. She calleda special meeting, and—I tried to prevent their recalling you. Hedoesn't know that, of course."

　　"You tried?"

　　"Well, I felt as though it was your work," Belle said ratheruncomfortably. "Bring me the comb, Alice. I guess we get pretty narrowhere and—I've been following things more closely since you went over.I know more than I did. And, of course, after one marries there isn'tmuch chance. There are children and—" Her face twisted. "I wish Icould do something."

　　She got up and brought from the dresser a newspaper clipping.

　　"It's the London newspaper," she explained. "I've been taking it, butHarvey doesn't know. He doesn't care much for the English. This isabout your being decorated."

　　Sara Lee held it listlessly in her hands.

　　"Shall I tell him, Belle?" she asked.

　　Belle hesitated.

　　"I don't believe I would," she said forlornly. "He won't like it.That's why I've never showed him that clipping. He hates it all so."

　　Sara Lee dressed that evening in the white frock. She dressed slowly,thinking hard. All round her was the shiny newness of her furniture,a trifle crowded in Belle's small room. Sara Lee had a terrible feelingof being fastened in by it. Wherever she turned it gleamed. She feltsurrounded, smothered.

　　She had meant to make a clean breast of things—of the little house,and of Henri, and of the King, pinning the medal on her shabby blackjacket and shaking hands with her. Henri she must tell about—not hisname of course, nor his madness, nor even his love. But she felt thatshe owed it to Harvey to have as few secrets from him as possible. Shewould tell about what the boy had done for her, and how he, and he alone,had made it all possible.

　　Surely Harvey would understand. It was a page that was closed. It hadheld nothing to hurt him. She had come back.

　　She stood by her window, thinking. And a breath of wind set the leavesoutside to rustling. Instantly she was back again in the little house,and the sound was not leaves, but the shuffling of many stealthy feeton the cobbles of the street at night, that shuffling that was so likethe rustling of leaves in a wood or the murmur of water running over astony creek bed.