The Amazing Interlude | Page 2

the matter
came up for mention at the little afternoon bridge club, as it did now
and then after the prizes were distributed, she always said "Isn't it
horrible!" and changed the subject.
On the night of the nineteenth of December Sara Lee had read her
chapter in the Bible--she read it through once each year--and had
braided down her hair, which was as smooth and shining and lovely as
Sara Lee herself, and had raised her window for the night when Aunt
Harriet came in. Sara Lee did not know, at first, that she had a visitor.
She stood looking out toward the east, until Aunt Harriet touched her
on the arm.
"What in the world!" said Aunt Harriet. "A body would suppose it was
August."
"I was just thinking," said Sara Lee.
"You'd better do your thinking in bed. Jump in and I'll put out your
light."
So Sara Lee got into her white bed with the dotted Swiss valance, and
drew the covers to her chin, and looked a scant sixteen. Aunt Harriet,
who was an unsentimental woman, childless and diffident, found her
suddenly very appealing there in her smooth bed, and did an
unexpected thing. She kissed her. Then feeling extremely
uncomfortable she put out the light and went to the door. There she
paused.
"Thinking!" she said. "What about, Sara Lee?"

Perhaps it was because the light was out that Sara Lee became
articulate. Perhaps it was because things that had been forming in her
young mind for weeks had at last crystallized into words. Perhaps it
was because of a picture she had happened on that day, of a boy lying
wounded somewhere on a battlefield and calling "Mother!"
"About--over there," she said rather hesitatingly. "And about Anna."
"Over there?"
"The war," said Sara Lee. "I was just thinking about all those women
over there--like Anna, you know. They--they had babies, and got
everything ready for them. And then the babies grew up, and they're all
getting killed."
"It's horrible," said Aunt Harriet. "Do you want another blanket? It's
cold to-night."
Sara Lee did not wish another blanket.
"I'm a little worried about your Uncle James," said Aunt Harriet, at the
door. "He's got indigestion. I think I'll make him a mustard plaster."
She prepared to go out then, but Sara Lee spoke from her white bed.
"Aunt Harriet," she said, "I don't think I'll ever get married."
"I said that too, once," said Aunt Harriet complacently. "What's got into
your head now?"
"I don't know," Sara Lee replied vaguely. "I just--What's the use?"
Aunt Harriet was conscious of a hazy impression of indelicacy.
Coming from Sara Lee it was startling and revolutionary. In Aunt
Harriet's world young women did not question their duty, which was to
marry, preferably some one in the neighborhood, and bear children,
who would be wheeled about that same neighborhood in perambulators
and who would ultimately grow up and look after themselves.

"The use?" she asked tartly.
"Of having babies, and getting to care about them, and then--There will
always be wars, won't there?"
"You turn over and go to sleep," counseled Aunt Harriet. "And stop
looking twenty years or more ahead." She hesitated. "You haven't
quarreled with Harvey, have you?"
Sara Lee turned over obediently.
"No. It's not that," she said. And the door closed.
Perhaps, had she ever had time during the crowded months that
followed, Sara Lee would have dated certain things from that cold
frosty night in December when she began to question things. For after
all that was what it came to. She did not revolt. She questioned.
She lay in her white bed and looked at things for the first time. The sky
had seemed low that night. Things were nearer. The horizon was close.
And beyond that peaceful horizon, to the east, something was going on
that could not be ignored. Men were dying. Killing and dying. Men
who had been waited for as Anna watched for her child.
Downstairs she could hear Aunt Harriet moving about. The street was
quiet, until a crowd of young people--she knew them by their
voices--went by, laughing.
"It's horrible," said Sara Lee to herself. There was a change in her, but
she was still inarticulate. Somewhere in her mind, but not formulated,
was the feeling that she was too comfortable. Her peace was a cheap
peace, bought at no price. Her last waking determination was to finish
the afghan quickly and to knit for the men at the war.
Uncle James was ill the next morning. Sara Lee went for the doctor, but
Anna's hour had come and he was with her. Late in the afternoon he
came, however looking a bit gray round the mouth with fatigue, but
triumphant. He had on these occasions always a