So Sara Lee bandaged, and in the little room across the way, where no longer Harvey's photograph sat on the mantel, Henri told his story to the officers - of his imprisonment in the German prison at Crefeld; of his finding Jean there, weeks later when he was convalescing from typhoid; of their escape and long wandering; of Jean's getting into Holland, whence he would return by way of England.Of his own business, of what he had done behind the lines after Jean had gone, he said nothing.But his listeners knew and understood.
But his dispatches off, his story briefly told, Henri wandered out among the men again.He was very happy.He had never thought to be so happy.He felt the touch on his sleeves of hard brown, not overclean hands, infinitely tender and caressing; and over there, as though she had never gone, was Sara Lee, slightly flushed and very radiant.
And as though he also had never gone away, Henri pushed into the salle a manger and stood before her smiling.
"You bandage well, mademoiselle," he said gayly."But I? I bandage better! See now, a turn here, and it is done! Does it hurt, Paul?"The man in the dressing chair squirmed and grinned sheepishly."The iodine," he explained."It is painful.""Then I shall ask you a question, and you will forget the iodine.Why is a dead German like the tail of a pig?"Paul failed.The room failed.Even Colonel Lilias confessed himself at fault.
"Because it is the end of the swine," explained Henri, and looked about him triumphantly.A gust of laughter spread through the room and even to the kitchen.A door banged.Henri upset a chair.There was noise again, and gayety in the little house of mercy.And much happiness.
And there I think we may leave them all - Henri and Sara Lee; and Jean of the one eye and the faithful heart; and Marie, with her kettles; and even Rene, who still in some strange way belonged to the little house, as though it were something too precious to abandon.
The amazing interlude had become the play itself.Never again for Sara Lee would the lights go up in front, and Henri with his adoring eyes and open arms fade into the shadows.
The drama of the war plays on.The Great Playwright sees fit, now and then, to take away some well-beloved players.New faces appear and disappear.The music is the thunder of many guns.Henri still plays his big part, Sara Lee her little one.Yet who shall say, in the end, which one has done the better? There are new and ever new standards, but love remains the chief.And love is Sara Lee's one quality - love of her kind, of tired men and weary, the love that shall one day knit this broken world together.
And love of one man.
On weary nights, when Henri is again lost in the shadows, Sara Lee, her work done, the men gone, sits in her little house of mercy and waits.The stars on clear evenings shine down on the roofless buildings, on the rubbish that was once the mill, on the ruined poplar trees, and on the small acre of peace where tiny crosses mark the long sleep of weary soldiers.
And sometimes, though she knows it now by heart, she reads aloud that letter of Henri's to her.It comforts her.It is a promise.
"If that is to be, then think of me, somewhere, perhaps with Rene by my side, since he, too, loved you.And I shall still be calling you, and waiting.Perhaps, even beyond the stars, they have need of a little house of mercy.And God knows, wherever I am, I shall have need of you."
