For four days the gray car did not come again.Supplies appeared in another gray car, driven by a surly Fleming.The waking hours were full, as usual.Sara Lee grew a little thin, and seemed to be always listening.But there was no Henri, and something that was vivid and joyous seemed to have gone out of the little house.
Even Marie no longer sang as she swept or washed the kettles, and Sara Lee, making up the records to send home, put little spirit into the letter that went with them.
On the second day she wrote to Harvey.
"I am sorry that you feel as you do," she wrote, perhaps unconsciously using Henri's last words to her."I have not meant to be cruel.And if you were here you would realize that whether others could have done what I am doing or not - and of course many could - it is worth doing.I hear that other women are establishing houses like this, but the British and the French will not allow women so near the lines.The men come in at night from the trenches so tired, so hungry and so cold.Some of them are wounded too.I dress the little wounds.I do give them something, Harvey dear - if it is only a reminder that there are homes in the world, and everything is not mud and waiting and killing."She told him that his picture was on her mantel, but she did not say that a corner of her room had been blown away or that the mantel was but a plank from a destroyed house.And she sent a great deal of love, but she did not say that she no longer wore his ring on her finger.And of course she was coming back to him if he still wanted her.
More than Henri's absence was troubling Sara Lee those days.Indeed she herself laid all her anxiety to one thing, a serious one at that.With all the marvels of Henri's buying, and Jean's, her money was not holding out.The scope of the little house had grown with its fame.Now and then there were unexpected calls, too - Marie's mother, starving in Havre; sickness and death in the little town at the crossroads: a dozen small emergencies,but adding to the demands on her slender income.She had, as a matter of fact, already begun to draw on her private capital.
And during the days when no gray car appeared she faced the situation, took stock, as it were, and grew heavy-eyed and wistful.
On the fifth day the gray car came again, but Jean drove it alone.He disclaimed any need for sympathy over his wound, and with Rene's aid carried in the supplies.
There was the business of checking them off, and the further business of Sara Lee's paying for them in gold.She sat at the table, Jean across, and struggled with centimes and francs and louis d'or, an engrossed frown between her eyebrows.
Jean, sitting across, thought her rather changed.She smiled very seldom, and her eyes were perhaps more steady.It was a young' girl he and Henri had brought out to the little house.It was a very serious and rather anxious young woman who sat across from him and piled up the money he had brought back into little stacks.
"Jean," she said finally, "I am not going to be able to do it." "To do what?""To continue - here." "No?"
"You see I had a little money of my own, and twenty pounds I got in London.You and - and Henri have done miracles for me.But soon I shall have used all my own money, except enough to take me back.And now I shall have to start on my English notes.After that -""You are too good to the men.These cigarettes, now - you could do without them.""But they are very cheap, and they mean so much, Jean."She sat still, her hands before her on the table.From the kitchen came the bubbling of the eternal soup.Suddenly a tear rolled slowly down her cheek.She had a hatred of crying in public, but Jean apparently did not notice.
"The trouble, mademoiselle, is that you are trying to feed and comfort too many.""Jean," she said suddenly, "where is Henri?" "In England, I think."The only clear thought in Sara Lee's mind was that Henri was not in France, and that he had gone without telling her.She had hurt him orribly.She knew that.He might never come back to the little house of mercy.There was, in Henri, for all his joyousness, an implacable strain.And she had attacked his honor.What possible right had she to do that?
The memory of all his thoughtful kindness came back, and it was a pale and distracted Sara Lee who looked across the table at Jean.
"Did he tell you anything?" "Nothing, mademoiselle.""He is very angry with me, Jean."
"But surely no, mademoiselle.With you? It is impossible."But though they said nothing more, Jean considered the matter deeply.He understood now, for instance, a certain strangeness in Henri's manner before his departure.They had quarreled, these two.Perhaps it was as well, though Jean was by now a convert to Sara Lee.But he looked out, those days, on but half a world, did Jean.So he saw only the woman hunger in Henri, and nothing deeper.And in Sara Lee a woman, and nothing more.
And - being Jean he shrugged his shoulders.
They fell to discussing ways and means.The chocolate could be cut out, but not the cigarettes.Sara Lee, arguing vehemently for them and trying to forget other things, remembered suddenly how Uncle James had hated cigarettes, and that Harvey himself disapproved of them.Somehow Harvey seemed, those days, to present a constant figure of disapproval.He gave her no moral support.
At Jean's suggestion she added to her report of so many men fed with soup, so much tobacco, sort not specified, so `many small wounds dressed- a request that if possible her allowance be increased.She did it nervously, but when the letter had gone she felt a great relief.She inclosed a snapshot of the little house.
Jean, as it happens, had lied about Henri.Not once, but several times.He had told Marie, for instance, that Henri was in England, and later on hetold Rene.Then, having done his errand, he drove six miles back along the main road to Dunkirk and picked up Henri, who was sitting on the bank of a canal watching an ammunition train go by.
