Long before that Sara Lee had learned not to question Jean about Henri's absences.Even his knowledge, now, that she knew something of Henri's work, did not remove the barrier.So Sara Lee waited, as did Jean, but more helplessly.She knew something was wrong, but she had notJean's privilege of going at night to the trenches and there waiting, staring over the gray water with its ugly floating shadows, for Henri to emerge from the flood.
Something rather forced and mechanical there was those days in her work.Her smile was rather set.She did not sleep well.And one night she violated Henri's orders and walked across the softened fields to beyond the poplar trees.
There was nothing to see except an intermittent flash from the clouds that hung low over the sea at Nieuport, where British gunboats were bombarding the coast; or the steady streaks from the Ypres salient, where night and day the guns never rested.
>From the Belgian trenches, fifteen hundred feet or so away, there was no sound.A German electric signal blazed its message in code, and went out quickly.- Now and then a rifle shot, thin and sharp, rang out from where, under the floating starlights, keen eyes on each side watched for movements on the other.
Sara Lee sat down under a tree and watched for a while.Then she found herself crying softly.It was all so sad, and useless, and cruel.And somewhere there ahead was Henri, Henri with his blue eyes, his smile, the ardor of his young arms - Henri, who had been to her many friends.
Sara Lee had never deceived herself about Henri.She loved him.But she was quite certain she was not in love with him, which is entirely different.She knew that this last was impossible, because she was engaged to Harvey.What was probably the truth was that she loved them both in entirely different ways.Men have always insisted on such possibilities, and have even asserted their right, now and then, to love two women at the same time.But women are less frank with themselves.
And, in such cases, there is no grand passion.There are tenderness, and the joy of companionship, and sometimes a touching dependence.But it is not a love that burns with a white fire.
Perhaps Sara Lee was one of those women who are always loved more than they love.There are such women, not selfish, not seeking love, but softly feminine, kind, appealing and genuine.Men need, after all, but analtar on which to lay tribute.And the high, remote white altar that was Sara Lee had already received the love of two strong men.
She was not troubling her head that night, however, about being an altar, of a sort.She cried a little at first, because she was terrified for Henri and because Jean's face was growing pinched and gray.Then she cried very hard, prone on the ground and face down, because Henri was young, and all of life should have been before him.And he was missing.
Henri was undeniably missing.Even the King knew it now, and set down in his heart, among the other crosses there, Henri's full name, which we may not know, and took to pacing his little study and looking out at the spring sea.
That night Marie, having ladled to the bottom of her kettle, found Sara Lee missing, and was told by Rene of the direction she had taken.Marie, muttering to herself, set out to find her, and almost stumbled over her in the wood by the road.
She sat down on the ground without a word and placed a clumsy hand on the girl's shoulder.It was not until Sara Lee ceased sobbing that she spoke:
"It is far from hopeless, mademoiselle."
They had by now established a system of communication.Sara Lee spoke her orders in halting French, but general conversation was beyond her.And much hearing of English had taught the Belgian girl enough to follow.
