The girl was singularly adaptable. In a few days it was as though she
had been for years in her little ruined house. She was very happy,
though there was scarcely a day when her heart was not wrung. Such
young-old faces! Such weary men! And such tales of wretchedness!
She got the tales by intuition rather than by words, though she was
picking up some French at that. Marie would weep openly, at times. The
most frequent story was of no news from the country held by the Germans,
of families left with nothing and probably starving. The first inquiry
was always for news. Had the American lady any way to make inquiry?
In time Sara Lee began to take notes of names and addresses, and through
Mr. Travers, in London, and the Relief Commission, in Belgium, bits of
information came back. A certain family was in England at a village in
Surrey. Of another a child had died. Here was one that could not be
located, and another reported massacred during the invasion.
Later on Sara Lee was to find her little house growing famous, besieged
by anxious soldiers who besought her efforts, so that she used enormous
numbers of stamps and a great deal of effort. But that was later on.
And when that time came she turned to the work as a refuge from her
thoughts. For days were coming when Sara Lee did not want to think.
But like all big things the little house made a humble beginning. A mere
handful of men, daring the gibes of their comrades, stopped in that first
night the door stood open, with its invitation of firelight and candles.
But these few went away with a strange story--of a beautiful American,
and hot soup, and even a cigarette apiece. That had been Henri's
contribution, the cigarettes. And soon the fame of the little house went
up and down the trenches, and it was like to die of overpopularity.
It was at night that the little house of mercy bloomed like a flower.
During the daytime it was quiet, and it was then, as time went on, that
Sara Lee wrote her letters home and to England, and sent her lists of
names to be investigated. But from the beginning there was much to do.
Vegetables were to be prepared for the soup, Marie must find and bring
in milk for the chocolate, René must lay aside his rifle and chop
firewood.
One worry, however, disappeared with the days. Henri was proving a
clever buyer. The money she sent in secured marvels. Only Jean knew,
or ever knew, just how much of Henri's steadily decreasing funds went
to that buying. Certainly not Sara Lee. And Jean expostulated only
once--to be met by such blazing fury as set him sullen for two days.
"I am doing this," Henri finished, a trifle ashamed of himself, "not for
mademoiselle, but for our army. And since when have you felt that the
best we can give is too much for such a purpose?"
Which was, however lofty, only a part of the truth.
So supplies came in plentifully, and Sara Lee pared vegetables and sang
a bit under her breath, and glowed with good will when at night the weary
vanguard of a weary little army stopped at her door and scraped the mud
off its boots and edged in shyly.
She was very happy, and her soup was growing famous. It is true that
the beef she used was not often beef, but she did not know that, and
merely complained that the meat was stringy. Now and then there was
no beef at all, and she used hares instead. On quiet days, when there
was little firing beyond the poplar trees, she went about with a basket
through the neglected winter gardens of the town. There were Brussels
sprouts, and sometimes she found in a cellar carrots or cabbages. She
had potatoes always.
It was at night then, from seven in the evening until one, that the
little house was busiest. Word had gone out through the trenches beyond
the poplar trees that slightly wounded men needing rest before walking
back to their billets, exhausted and sick men, were welcome to the little
house. It was soon necessary to give the officers tickets for the men.
René took them in at the door, with his rifle in the hollow of his arm,
and he was as implacable as a ticket taker at the opera.
Never once in all the months of her life there did Sara Lee have an ugly
word, an offensive glance. But, though she never knew this, many half
articulate and wholly earnest prayers were offered for her in those
little churches behind the lines where sometimes the men slept, and often
they prayed.
She was very businesslike. She sent home to the Ladies' Aid Society a
weekly record of what had been done: So many bowls of soup; so many
cups of chocolate; so many minor injuries dressed. Because, very soon,
she found first aid added to her activities. She sickened somewhat at
first. Later she allowed to Marie much of the serving of food, and in
the little _salle à manger_ she had ready on the table basins, water,
cotton, iodine and bandages.
Henri explained the method to her.
"It is a matter of cleanliness," he said. "First one washes the wound
and then there is the iodine. Then cotton, a bandage, and--a surgeon
could do little more."
Henri and Jean came often. And more than once during the first ten days
Jean spent the night rolled in a blanket by the kitchen fire, and Henri
disappeared. He was always back in the morning, however, looking dirty
and very tired. Sara Lee sewed more than one rent for him, those days,
but she was strangely incurious. It was as though, where everything was
strange, Henri's erratic comings and goings were but a part with the rest.
Then one night the unexpected happened. The village was shelled.
Sara Lee had received her first letter from Harvey that day. The maid
at Morley's had forwarded it to her, and Henri had brought it up.
"I think I have brought you something you wish for very much," he said,
looking down at her.
"Mutton?" she inquired anxiously.
"Better than that."
"Sugar?"
"A letter, mademoiselle."
Afterward he could not quite understand the way she had suddenly drawn
in her breath. He had no memory, as she had, of Harvey's obstinate anger
at her going, his conviction that she was doing a thing criminally wrong
and cruel.
"Give it to me, please."
She took it into her room and closed the door. When she came out again
she was composed and quiet, but rather white. Poor Henri! He was half
mad that day with jealousy. Her whiteness he construed as longing.
This is a part of Harvey's letter:
You may think that I have become reconciled, but I have not. If I could
see any reason for it I might. But what reason is there? So many others,
older and more experienced, could do what you are doing, and more
safely.
In your letter from the steamer you tell me not to worry. Good God, Sara
Lee, how can I help worrying? I do not even know where you are! If you
are in England, well and good. If you are abroad I do not want to know
it. I know these foreigners. I run into them every day. And they do not
understand American women. I get crazy when I think about it. I have had
to let the Leete house go. There is not likely to be such a chance soon
again. Business is good, but I don't seem to care much about it any
more. Honestly, dear, I think you have treated me very badly. I always
feel as though the people I meet are wondering if we have quarreled or
what on earth took you away on this wild-goose chase. I don't know
myself, so how can I tell them?
I shall always love you, Sara Lee. I guess I'm that sort. But sometimes
I wonder if, when we are married, you will leave me again in some such
uncalled-for way. I warn you now, dear, that I won't stand for it. I'm
suffering too much.