About the middle of January Mabel Andrews A wrote to Sara Lee from France, where she was already installed in a hospital at Calais.
The evening before the letter came Harvey had brought round the engagement ring.He had made a little money in war stocks, and into the ring he had put every dollar of his profits - and a great love, and gentleness, and hopes which he did not formulate even to himself.
It was a solitaire diamond, conventionally set, and larger, far larger, than the modest little stone on which Harvey had been casting anxious glances for months.
"Do you like it, honey?" he asked anxiously.Sara Lee looked at it on her finger.
"It is lovely! It - it's terrible!" said poor Sara Lee, and cried on his shoulder.
Harvey was not subtle.He had never even heard of Mabel Andrews, and he had a tendency to restrict his war reading to the quarter column in the morning paper entitled "Salient Points of the Day's War News."What could he know, for instance, of wounded men who were hungry? Which is what Mabel wrote about.
"You said you could cook," she had written."Well, we need cooks, and something to cook.Sometime they'll have it all fixed, no doubt, but just now it's awful, Sara Lee.The British have money and food, plenty of it.But here - yesterday I cut the clothes off a wounded Belgian boy.He had been forty-eight hours on a railway siding, without even soup or coffee."It was early in the war then, and between Ypres and the sea stretched a long thin line of Belgian trenches.A frantic Belgian Government, thrust out of its own land, was facing the problem, with scant funds and with no materiel of any sort, for feeding that desolate little army.France had her own problems - her army, non-productive industrially, and the great and constantly growing British forces quartered there, paying for what they got, but requiring much.The world knows now of the starvation of German-occupied Belgium.What it does not know and may never know is of the struggle during those early days to feed the heroic Belgian Army in their wet and almost untenable trenches.
Hospital trains they could improvise out of what rolling stock remained to them.Money could be borrowed, and was.But food? Clothing? Ammunition? In his little villa on the seacoast the Belgian King knew that his soldiers were hungry, and paced the floor of his tiny living- room; and over in an American city whose skyline was as pointed with furnace turrets as Constantinople's is with mosques, over there Sara Lee heard that call of hunger, and - put on her engagement ring.
Later on that evening, with Harvey's wide cheerful face turned adoringly to her, Sara Lee formulated a question:
"Don't you sometimes feel as though you'd like to go to France and fight?""What for?"
"Well, they need men, don't they?"
"I guess they don't need me, honey.I'd be the dickens of a lot of use! Never fired a gun in my life.""You could learn.It isn't hard." Harvey sat upright and stared at her.
"Oh, if you want me to go -" he said, and waited.Sara Lee twisted her ring on her finger.
"Nobody wants anybody to go," she said not very elegantly."I'd just - I'd rather like to think you wanted to go."That was almost too subtle for Harvey.Something about him was rather reminiscent of Uncle James on mornings when he was determined not to go to church.
"It's not our fight," he said."And as far as that goes, I'm not so sure there isn't right on both sides.Or wrong.Most likely wrong.I'd look fine going over there to help the Allies, and then making up my mind it was the British who'd spilled the beans.Now let's talk about something interesting- for instance, how much we love each other."It was always "we" with Harvey.In his simple creed if a girl accepteda man and let him kiss her and wore his ring it was a reciprocal love affair.It never occurred to him that sometimes as the evening dragged toward a close Sara Lee was just a bit weary of his arms, and that she sought, after he had gone, the haven of her little white room, and closed the door, and had to look rather a long time at his photograph before she was in a properly loving mood again.
But that night after his prolonged leave-taking Sara Lee went upstairs to her room and faced the situation.
She was going to marry Harvey.She was committed to that.And she loved him; not as he cared, perhaps, but he was a very definite part of her life.Once or twice when he had been detained by business she had missed him, had put in a lonely and most unhappy evening.
Sara Lee had known comparatively few men.In that small and simple circle of hers, with its tennis court in a vacant lot, its one or two inexpensive cars, its picnics and porch parties, there was none of the usual give and take of more sophisticated circles.Boys and girls paired off rather early, and remained paired by tacit agreement; there was comparatively little shifting.There were few free lances among the men, and none among the girls.When she was seventeen Harvey had made it known unmistakably that Sara Lee was his, and no trespassing.And for two years he had without intentional selfishness kept Sara Lee for himself.
That was how matters stood that January night when Sara Lee went upstairs after Harvey had gone and read Mabel's letter, with Harvey's photograph turned to the wall.Under her calm exterior a little flame of rebellion was burning in her.Harvey's perpetual "we," his attitude toward the war, and Mabel's letter, with what it opened before her, had set the match to something in Sara Lee she did not recognize - a strain of the adventurer, a throw-back to some wandering ancestor perhaps.But more than anything it had set fire to the something maternal that is in all good women.
Yet, had Aunt Harriet not come in just then, the flame might have died.And had it died a certain small page of the history of this war would never have been written.
Aunt Harriet came in hesitatingly.She wore a black wrapper, and her face, with her hair drawn back for the night, looked tight and old.
Harvey gone? " she asked." Yes."
