These Americans were strange.An American girl would cross the seas, and come here alone with him - a man and human.And she would take for granted that he would do what he was doing for love of his kind - which was partly true; and she would be beautiful and sweet and amiable and quite unself-conscious.And then she would go back home, warm of heart with gratitude, and marry the man of the picture.
The village had but one street, and that deserted and in ruins.Behind its double row of houses, away from the enemy, lay the fields, a muddy canal and more poplar trees.And from far away, toward Ypres, there came constantly that somewhat casual booming of artillery which marked the first winter of the war.
The sound of the guns had first alarmed, then interested Sara Lee.It was detached then, far away.It meant little to her.It was only later, when she saw some of the results of the sounds she heard, that they became significant.But this is not a tale of the wounding of men.There are many such.This is the story of a little house of mercy, and of a girl with a dauntless spirit, and of two men who loved her.Only that.
The maid Henri had found was already in the house, sweeping.Henri presented her to Sara Lee, and he also brought a smiling little Belgian boy, in uniform and with a rifle.
"Your staff, mademoiselle!" he said."And your residence!"Sara Lee looked about her.With the trifling exception that there was no roof, it was whole.And the roof was not necessary, for the floors of the upper story served instead.There was a narrow passage with a room on either side, and a tiny kitchen behind.
Henri threw open a door on the right.
"Your bedroom," he said."Well furnished, as you will see.It should be, since there has been brought here all the furniture not destroyed in the village."His blacker mood had fallen away before her naive delight.He went about smiling boyishly, showing her the kettles in the kitchen; the supply, already so rare, of firewood; the little stove.But he stiffened somewhat when she placed her hand rather timidly on his arm.
"How am I ever to thank you?" she asked.
"By doing much good.And by never going beyond the poplar trees." She promised both very earnestly.
But she was a little sad as she followed Henri about, he volubly expatiating on such advantages as plenty of air owing to the absence of a roof; and the attraction of the stove, which he showed much like a salesman anxious to make a sale."Such a stove!" he finished contentedly."It will make soup even in your absence, mademoiselle! Our peasants eat much soup; therefore it is what you would call a trained stove."Before Sara Lee's eyes came a picture of Harvey and the Leete house, its white dining room, its bay window for plants, its comfortable charm and prettiness.And Harvey's face, as he planned it for her anxious, pleading, loving.She drew a long breath.If Henri noticed her abstraction he ignored it.He was all over the little house.One moment he was instructing Marie volubly, to her evident confusion.On Rene, the guard, he descended like a young cyclone, with warnings for mademoiselle's safety and comfort.He was everywhere, sitting on the bed to see if it was soft, tramping hard on the upper floor to discover if any plaster might loosen below, and pausing in that process to look keenly at a windmill in the field behind.
When he came down it was to say: "You are not entirely alone in the village, after all, mademoiselle.The miller has come back.I shall visit him now and explain."He found Sara Lee, however, still depressed.She was sitting in a low chair in the kitchen gazing thoughtfully at the stove.
"I am here," she said."And here is the house, and a stove, and -everything.But there are no shops; and what shall I make my soup out of?"Henri stared at her rather blankly.
"True!" he said."Very true.And I never thought of it!"Then suddenly they both laughed, the joyous ringing laugh of ridiculous youth, which can see its own absurdities and laugh at them.
Henri counted off on his fingers.
"I thought of water," he said, "and a house, and firewood, and kettles and furniture.And there I ceased thinking."It was dusk now.Marie lifted the lid from the stove, and a warm red glow of reflected light filled the little kitchen.It was warm and cozy; the kettle sang like the purring of a cat.And something else that had troubled Sara Lee came out.
"I wonder," she said, "if you are doing all this only because I - well, because I persuaded you." Which she had not."Do the men really need me here?""Need you, mademoiselle?"
"Do they need what little I can give? They were smiling, all the ones I saw.""A Belgian soldier always smiles.Even when he is fighting." His voice had lost its gayety and had taken on a deeper note."Mademoiselle, I have brought you here, where I can think of no other woman who would have the courage to come, because you are needed.I cannot promise you entire safety" - his mouth tightened -"but I can promise you work and gratitude.Such gratitude, mademoiselle, as you may never know again."That reassured her.But in her practical mind the matter of supplies loomed large.She brought the matter up again directly.
"It is to be hot chocolate and soup?" he asked.
"Both, if I find I have enough money.Soup only, perhaps." "And soup takes meat, of course.""It should, to be strengthening."
Henri looked up, to see Jean in the doorway smiling grimly.
