Once a British aviator brought his machine down in the field by the mill,
and walked over with the stiff stride of a man who has been for hours in
the air. She gave him tea and bread and butter, and she learned then of
the big fighting that was to come.
When she was alone she thought about Henri. Generally her thoughts were
tender; always they were grateful. But she was greatly puzzled. He had
said that he loved her. Then, if he loved her, why should he not be
gentle and kind to her? Men did not hurt the women they loved. And
because she was hurt, she was rather less than just. He had not asked
her to marry him. He had said that he loved her, but that was different.
And the insidious poison of Harvey's letter about foreigners began to
have its effect.
The truth was that she was tired. The strain was telling on her. And
at a time when she needed every moral support Henri had drawn off behind
a wall of misery, and all her efforts at a renewal of their old
friendship only brought up against a sort of stony despair.
There were times, too, when she grew a little frightened. She was so
alone. What if Henri went away altogether? What if he took away the
little car, and his protection, and the supplies that came so regularly?
It was not a selfish fear. It was for her work that she trembled.
For the first time she realized her complete dependence on his good
will. And now and then she felt that it would be good to see Harvey
again, and be safe from all worry, and not have to depend on a man who
loved her as Henri did. For that she never doubted. Inexperienced as
she was in such matters, she knew that the boy loved her. Just how
wildly she did not know until later, too late to undo what the madness
had done.
Then one day a strange thing happened. It had been raining, and when in
the late afternoon the sun came out it gleamed in the puddles that filled
the shell holes in the road and set to a red blaze the windows of the
house of the mill.
First, soaring overhead, came a half dozen friendly planes. Next, the
eyes of the enemy having thus been blinded, so to speak, there came a
regiment of fresh troops, swinging down the street for all the world as
though the German Army was safely drinking beer in Munich. They passed
Rene, standing open-mouthed in the doorway, and one wag of a Belgian boy,
out of sheer joy of spring, did the goose step as he passed the little
sentry and, head screwed round in the German salute, crossed his eyes
over his impudent nose.