In the little house of mercy two weeks went by, and then a third.Soldiers marching out to the trenches sometimes wore flowers tucked gayly in their caps.More and more Allied aeiroplanes were in the air.Sometimes, standing in the streets, Sara Lee saw one far overhead, while balloon-shaped clouds of bursting shells hung far below it.
Once or twice in the early morning a German plane, flying so low that one could easily see the black cross on each wing, reconnoitered the village for wagon trains or troops.Always they found it empty.
Hope had almost fled now.In the afternoons Marie went to the ruined church, and there knelt before the heap of marble and masonry that had once been the altar, and prayed.And Sara Lee, who bad been brought up a Protestant and had never before entered a Catholic church, took to going there too.In some strange fashion the peace of former days seemed to cling to the little structure, roofless as it was.On quiet days it silence was deeper than elsewhere.On days of much firing the sound from within its broken walls seemed deadened, far away.
Marie burned a candle as she prayed, for that soul in purgatory which she had once loved, and now pitied.Sara Lee burned no candle, but she knelt, sometimes beside Marie, sometimes alone, and prayed for many things: that Henri should be living, somewhere; that the war might end; that that day there would be little wounding; that some day the Belgians might go home again; and that back in America Harvey might grow to understand and forgive her.And now and then she looked into the very depths of her soul, and on those days she prayed that her homeland might, before it was too late, see this thing as she was seeing it.The wanton waste of it all, the ghastly cruelty the Germans had brought into this war.
Sara Lee's vague thinking began to crystallize.This war was not a judgment sent from on high to a sinful world.It was the wicked imposition of one nation on other nations.It was national.It was almost racial.But most of all it was a war of hate on the German side.She had neverbelieved in hate.There were ugly passions in the world - jealousy, envy, suspicion; but not hate.The word was not in her rather limited vocabulary.
There was no hate on the part of the men she knew.The officers who stopped in on their way to and from the trenches were gentlemen and soldiers.They were determined and grave; they resented, they even loathed.But they did not hate.The little Belgian soldiers were bewildered, puzzled, desperately resentful.But of hate, as translated into terms of frightfulness, they had no understanding.
Yet from the other side were coming methods of war so wantonly cruel, so useless save as inflicting needless agony, as only hate could devise.No strategic value justified them.They were spontaneous outgrowths of venom, nursed during the winter deadlock and now grown to full size and destructive power.
The rumor of a gas that seared and killed came to the little house as early as February.In March there came the first victims, poor writhing creatures, deprived of the boon of air, their seared lungs collapsed and agonized, their faces drawn into masks of suffering.Some of them died in the little house, and even after death their faces held the imprint of horror.
To Sara Lee, burying her own anxiety under the cloak of service, there came new and terrible thoughts.This was not war.The Germans had sent their clouds of poisoned gas across the inundation, but had made no attempt to follow.This was killing, for the lust of killing; suffering, for the joy of inflicting pain.
And a day or so later she heard of The Hague Convention.She had not known of it before.Now she learned of that gentlemen's agreement among nations, and that it said: "The use of poison or of poisoned weapons is forbidden." She pondered that carefully, trying to think dispassionately.Now and then she received a copy of a home newspaper, and she saw that the use of poison gases was being denied by Germans in America and set down to rumor and hysteria.
So, on a cold spring day, she sat down at the table in the salle manger and wrote a letter to the President, beginning " Dear Sir"; and telling what she knew of poison gas.She also, on second thought, wrote one to AndrewCarnegie, who had built a library in her city.She felt that the expense to him of sending some one over to investigate would not be prohibitive, and something must be done.
She never heard from either of her letters, but she felt better for having written them.And a day or two later she received from Mrs.Travers, in England, a small supply of the first gas masks of the war.Simple and primitive they were, those first masks; useless, too, as it turned out - a square of folded gauze, soaked in some solution and then dried, with tapes to tie it over the mouth and nose.To adjust them the soldiers had but to stoop and wet them in the ever-present water in the trench, and then to tie them on.
Sara Lee gave them out that night, and there was much mirth in the little house, such mirth as there had not been since Henri went away.The Belgians called it a bal masque, and putting them on bowed before one another and requested dances, and even flirted coyly with each other over their bits of white gauze.And in the very middle of the gayety some one propounded one of Henri's idiotic riddles; and Sara Lee went across to her little room and closed the door and stood there with her eyes shut, for fear she would scream.
Then, one day, coming out of the little church, she saw the low broken gray car turn in at the top of the street and come slowly, so very slowly, toward her.There were two men in it.
One was Henri.
She ran, stumbling because of tears, up the street.It was Henri! There was no mistake.There he sat beside Jean, brushed and very neat; and very, very white.
