Chapter 39

Nearly four months had passed and Margaret was still a pantry-maid in the same private hospital. The V.A.D. who was to have gone to France had suffered as great a disappointment as Margaret, for at the very last moment word had been sent to her--it had been unavoidably delayed--that her services in France would not yet be required. Margaret, with her bigness of nature, had insisted upon the girl retaining the post in the wards and letting things go on as they were. Her "bit" was very, very dull, but it was her "bit," and nothing she did, she knew, could in any way compare in dullness to the lives of the boys in the trenches. So she worked and endured, and found the necessary change of scene in the mixed company of her garden-square society.

The days fled past. It was a dull life for a young girl, but since the war began all girls worthy of their country had said good-bye to the pleasures of youth. Youth had no time to be young; old age had forgotten that it was old. The renaissance of patriotism had transformed England. The war recognized neither old age nor youth; it opened its hungry jaws and took everyone in.

Margaret had neither seen nor heard anything of Michael since the eventful winter night when she had handed him a cup of coffee in the free-refreshment-room at the large northern station. She did not even know what regiment he was in. That, of course, was owing to her own stupidity; it was a matter of constant regret to her that she had not at the time had the forethought to ask the weeping woman on the platform what regiment her husband was in. Knowing nothing more than that Michael was at the Front, all she could do was to keep an eye on each day's casualty list in _The Times_ newspaper. But even as her eyes hastily scanned the long columns of small print, she said to herself, "I need not look--his name will not be there. I have had my assurance of his safety."

She was certain now that the mystic message, which lay locked away in the dispatch-box which held her most important papers, had been sent to her to help her. It had been given to her to lessen her loneliness and to ease her anxiety.

Of course, this state of certainty had its feebler moments, and many, many times as she did her day's work she became affected by the waves of pessimism which spread at intervals over the British Isles. At these times she went about the pantry chalk-faced and tragic-eyed; but generally, when her suffering was becoming more than she could endure, from visualizing Michael blind, or limbless, or, still worse, an imbecile through shell-shock, a clear voice would speak to her, her super-self would repeat the contents of her treasured message.

The fact that her hand had written the message before and not after Michael's going to the Front established her confidence in it. If it had been after, her sound judgment told her that suggestion might have had something to do with the automatic writing.

It was early spring, and Margaret's country-loving nature cried out for the smell of damp fields, for the scents and the sounds of untrodden paths. The long twilight evenings seemed the loneliest hours to her in London. Their beauty was wasted. But the real country was denied her, for what distance could her two-hours-off take her from London? Scarcely beyond soot-blackened trees and the prim avenues of suburban respectability. But she had one great pleasure to look forward to--the Iretons were to be in London for the season, or, rather, what used to be termed the season in London.

They were to arrive in Clarges Street that very night. They were coming to England to help in the arrangements for the better equipping of native military hospitals in Egypt. Hadassah's knowledge of the native's likes and dislikes was considerable.

Margaret was now on her way to a tube railway-station. The afternoon was so glorious that she was going to make an excursion to Kew. She would just have time to look at the maythorns and hurry back. The one brave laburnum which gave brightness and fragrance to her garden-square told her that in the larger open spaces the flowering shrubs would be at their best.

As she ran down the steps of the tube station, she saw that a train which would take her to Hammersmith, where she would have to change for Kew Gardens, was drawn up at the platform; the passengers who were leaving it were trying to ascend the stairs. With youthful tightness she leapt down the last two or three steps and sprang across the platform. She only just had time to step into the train before the iron gates closed behind her.

A little breathless with excitement and greatly pleased that she had succeeded in catching the train, she obeyed the order of the officious guard to "Step along--don't block the gangway!"

The carriage was not full, but there were not many empty seats in it, so Margaret hastily sank into the one which was nearest to her and close to the door. It happened to be near to one on which a soldier was seated. His kit was lying at his feet in front of him. As she sat down, a voice said quietly:

"I'd advise you to sit a little further on--I'm not very nice."

Margaret never grasped the meaning of the words; the voice was all she heard. It made her heart bound, and her senses reel; her bewilderment was overwhelming.

Some instinct made the soldier swing right round; he had been sitting with his broad back turned to the vacant seat, which Margaret still occupied. They faced each other; the soldier was Michael.

Under his ardent gaze Margaret paled pitifully and made a valiant effort to speak, to collect her thoughts. All that came from her trembling lips were the prosaic words, rather timidly spoken:

"Is it you, Michael?"

They seemed to content Michael and tell him a thousand things which dazed and intoxicated him. His surprise was even greater than Margaret's.

"Yes, it is me, Meg," he said. "Thank God we've met!"

For Margaret, in one moment all the long months of doubt and pride were wiped out. Michael's eyes had banished them. Her characteristic courage and her self-possession returned. She put her hand on the top of Michael's, the one which held his rifle. Her touch thrilled the soldier home from the Front; it travelled through his veins like an electric current. Margaret's eyes had dropped; now they met her lover's again.

The train in its narrow channel under the city was making such a noise that it was impossible to hear even a loud voice above its hideous rattle. There are few noises more devastating to conversation than the awful roar of a London tube-railway. But Love speaks with an eloquence which no noise can drown; its sympathy and passion carry it far above the din and noise of battle. Margaret and Michael knew it well. If Love depended upon words, what a poor cold thing it would be! No quarrels would ever be settled, no journeys end in lovers' meetings.

Michael moved the hand which Margaret clasped. It was hard to do it, but he felt compelled to.

"I'm horribly verminous," he said, apologetically. "I'm just back from the trenches--you ought to keep further off."

Margaret's eyes dropped; a flame of love's shyness spread over her glowing face. It heightened her beauty and bewildered Michael. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her--even before the whole carriage-full of people. Perhaps in the early days of the war the scene would only have brought tears and tender smiles to worldly eyes.

Margaret tried to say something, she scarcely knew what--just anything to break the passion of their silence, but the roaring of the train drowned her trembling question. How she hated the swaying and groaning and the rattling of the tube train as it dashed through its confined way! Never before had it seemed so awful, so maddening.

Michael, too, was tongue-tied. How could he offer Margaret any explanation, or ask if she had understood, while the train drowned the loudest voices? What a hideous place for a lovers' meeting, after months of weary longing!

When the train drew up at Knightsbridge Margaret rose from her seat. Her desire to see Kew had fled. It mattered little now where she went; she was only conscious of the fact that she must put an end to the present strain. If Michael was as anxious to speak to her as she was to speak to him, he would follow her. He was obviously home on leave. He was a free man.

As she rose from her seat, Michael hurriedly gathered his kit together and rose also, and pushed his way through the crowd of passengers who were disgorging from the train. Whatever happened, he must keep her in sight; her obviously unpremeditated leaving of the train left him in doubt as to her feelings towards him.

He was on leave, he was in "Blighty," and Margaret was only a few steps ahead. He would risk anything rather than let her disappear and be lost once more.

When Margaret reached the platform, she turned round. She wondered if Michael had left the train. He was standing by her side. She laughed delightedly, a girl's healthy laugh, and gave a breathless gasp.

"May I?" he said. "I have risked annoying you."

"Annoying me!" Margaret's eyes banished the idea; they carried him off his feet. He was a soldier, home from the war; she was a girl, fresh and sweet. She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm not angry, Michael--I never was angry. Besides, you're . . . you're . . ." she hesitated. "You're a Tommy," she said, "and I love every one of them."

Michael knew that her shyness made her link him with the men who were fighting for their country. Even with the fondest lovers, there is a nervous shyness between them for the first moments of meeting after a prolonged separation. Margaret had moved closer to his side. His passion drew her to him; it was like the current of a magnet.

"You mustn't stand so close," he said, laughingly. "I'm horribly verminous--really I am!"

"As if I cared, Mike!" Margaret's words poured from her lips. Ordinary as they were, they were a love-lyric to his ears.

"May I come with you?" he asked. "Where were you going to? I've so much to say, so much to ask you!"

"I was going to Kew," she said, blushingly. "But I changed my mind."

Their eyes laughed as they met; he knew why she had changed her plans.

As they went up the station steps together, they were separated by a number of people who were hurrying to catch the next train. When they reached the open street, Michael made a signal to the driver of a taxi-cab who was touting for passengers. He instantly drew up, jumped from his seat and opened the door. Michael stood beside him, while Margaret, obeying his eyes, stepped into the cab. She asked herself no questions; she was only conscious of Michael's air of protection and possession. After her lonely life in London, it almost made her cry. It was the most delicious feeling she had ever experienced. She gave herself up to it.

In Michael's presence her pride and dignity and wounded womanhood were swept away. Even Freddy, in his soldier's grave, was forgotten. Her whole life and world was Michael; he began it and ended it. This verminous and roughly-dressed Tommy, who was gazing at her with eyes which bewildered and humbled her, was the dearest thing on earth.

She was comfortably seated; Michael had shut the door, and they were side by side, waiting for the taxi to go on. The next moment the driver popped his head in at the window.

"Where to, sir?" he said, politely. Michael's worn, weatherbeaten face had called up his sentiment for the men at the front.

"Where to?" Michael repeated foolishly. He paused. "Oh, anywhere! Anywhere will do--it doesn't matter." He smiled. "I'm back in old Blighty--that's all that matters--anywhere is good enough for me."

"Right you are, sir! I'll take you somewhere pleasant."

Margaret smiled. She was, indeed, all smiles and heart-beats and nervous anticipation.

The moment the taxi had swung away from the station, it entered a quiet street, bordered with high houses on either side. Michael lost no time; he folded her in his arms and kissed her again and again, and held her to him.

"This is heaven, just heaven, darling!" he said ardently. "I could eat you all up, you're so fresh and sweet and delicious!"

Meg was unresisting. Her yielding told her lover more than hours of explanation could have done. All she said was:

"But what if I don't think it's heaven?"

"What indeed?" he said, happily. "But don't you?" He had released her to read her answer in her eyes.

She said nothing; words seemed for lighter moments.

"Say something nice," he pleaded.

"I love you, Mike," she said shyly. "Is that enough?"

"It's all I want," he said, while Meg wound her arms round his neck and drew his face nearer hers to receive her kiss. As she nestled against him, he said tenderly, "Remember, I'm verminous; I'm not fit to touch, dearest."

"I don't care! I don't mind if I get covered with them," she laughed. "And I don't care if all the world sees me kissing you! I just love you, Mike, and you're here--nothing in all the world matters except that!"

She unclasped her hands. Her weeping face was pressed to his rough uniform; horrible as it was, she was kissing it tenderly, almost devoutly, stroking it with her fingers. It gave her a sense of pride and assurance that he was there beside her.

In the beautiful way known to love and youth, the foolish things they said and left unsaid told them whispers of the wonderful things which were to be. Michael was too exacting in his demands to allow of sustained conversation; sentences lost themselves in "one more kiss," or in one more bewildering meeting of happy eyes.

At last Michael said--not without a feeling of nervousness, for he had asked few questions, and the scraps of information which Margaret had volunteered he had so often interrupted by his own impetuous demands, that she had accepted the fact that all explanations and questioning must wait until the excitement of their meeting had abated--"Why did Freddy not answer my letters? Why did you leave Egypt without one word?"

His voice expressed the fact that his letters had contained the full explanation of his conduct. It also said, "Why this forgiveness, if you were so unkind?"

It brought a strange revelation to Margaret of the ravages of war, of the changes which it had made in their lives. She remained lost in thought.

"Will Freddy consent? Will he understand, as you do?"

Margaret shivered. Her hand left Michael's; her fingers touched the band of crêpe which she was wearing on her uniform coat-sleeve.

"No, no, Meg!" he cried. "Not Freddy! Anybody but Freddy!" His words were a cry of horror, of anguish. In the surprise and excitement of their meeting, he had forgotten to ask for Freddy. Even though he was in his soldier's uniform, his happiness had obliterated the war. He had the true soldier's temperament--a fighter while fighting had to be done, a lover of pleasure in peace-time.

"Yes," she said, "Freddy. He was only in Flanders a few weeks."

Michael put his arms round her tenderly, protectingly. "You poor little girl, you brave little woman!"

Margaret loved his anguish, his complete understanding of the fact that of all people it was Freddy who should have been spared.

"If you had only seen him, Mike! He was so young, so fair. And he never had a chance."

Michael's eyes questioned her words.

"He was just sniped at the very beginning. That was the hardest part of it--to know that all his talents and intellect had been wasted!"

Michael held her closer. "Not wasted, dearest, don't say that."

"I didn't exactly mean wasted. But he could have done such great things for the world; he could surely have been given work more worthy of his abilities!"

"He is doing wonderful things now, Meg, he's hard at work. Freddy just got his promotion--look at it that way." He kissed her trembling lips; tears were flooding her glorious eyes.

"That's what Hadassah says."

"Hadassah?"

"Yes, Hadassah." Margaret sighed. "Oh, Michael, we have so much to talk about--whatever shall we do?" She laughed tearfully. Telling Michael about Freddy's death had brought back the anguish of the year which had separated them. "You can't imagine how kind and sweet she has been to me, and how hard they both tried to find you!" She paused. "Freddy tried, too--he was the best and dearest brother, Mike."

"I know it," he said; his words were a groan. He was trying to grasp the truth of Margaret's news. Nothing which he had seen in the war brought its waste and sacrifice more vividly before his eyes than the fact that Freddy was dead, the living, vital Freddy, the energetic, brilliant Freddy, whom he always visualized picking up the gleaming gems in the vast Egyptian tomb; he saw the scene with painful clearness.

There was a little silence. Margaret's hands were clasped tightly in the sunburnt hands of her "Tommy." Freddy was in both their minds, and the life they had shared with him in the Valley--the sense of order and method and ardour for work which he had instilled into their days.

Margaret was resting against Michael, as open about her love for him as any 'Arriet. She could think of Freddy without any feeling of guilt or even doubt of his approval. The things which come from within cannot be explained by forces from without. It was not what Michael had done or had said which had banished her pride and told her of his faithfulness. It was the consciousness which came from within, the consciousness which had always fought back the forces from without. She had not felt one qualm of conscience, for Freddy was understanding and approving. He would know that any doubt she had ever had had been banished the moment Michael had taken her in his arms. Freddy, who had only blamed him for his weakness, would realize that even in that he had misjudged him. If Michael had had any guilt on his conscience, he would never have behaved as he had done. He had read in her eyes that her love for himself was unchanged, and knowing himself to be worthy of her love, he had not stopped to consider smaller things. She was so thankful that he had taken the bull by the horns.

* * * * * *

And now they were thinking of less bewildering things than their own love for each other. Michael was tenderly dreaming of Freddy. Margaret was reviewing Freddy's true attitude towards Michael in her mind. It was true that he had said that until he gave some satisfactory explanation of his behaviour, she was not to treat him as her lover. Well, her finer senses told her that Michael had given her a satisfactory explanation, and she was certain that Freddy also knew it. He had, by his taking her in his arms without one word of pleading or explanation, given her the fairest and most perfect assurance of his faithfulness to her and of his right to ask for her love.

These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, while she silently enjoyed the delight of feeling Michael's close presence by her side. Never, even in Egypt, under the high-sailing moon in the great Sahara, had she loved him as romantically as she did at this moment. As a weather-stained, wind-tanned Tommy he was dearer to her than ever he had been in the days when, as a painter and an Egyptologist, he had opened her eyes to a new world of intellectual enjoyment.

Michael's mind was obsessed by Freddy's death. He had never for one moment imagined that such a thing was in the least likely to happen. He did not know that Freddy was at the Front; he had imagined to himself that such exceptional brains and unusual qualities would have been given other work to do, than to stand all day long knee-deep in mud in the trenches of Flanders. His heart ached for Margaret. Her devotion to Freddy was exceptional; her pride in him had been the keynote of her existence. He spoke abruptly, while his hands clasped hers hungrily and tightly.

"Would Freddy mind?" he said. "I can't be disloyal to him!"

"Mind?" Meg said questioningly. "Mind my loving you? He knew my love could never change--it was born in unchanging Egypt."

"Yes, mind if you married me while I'm on leave?--I've got a whole fortnight, and my commission."

"Oh!" Meg said breathlessly. "You go at such a pace!"

Michael laughed boyishly at her astonishment. Her woman's mind had not thought of marriage; it was satisfied with the present conditions.

"I don't think Freddy would mind--not now. But"--her laugh joined Michael's--"you see, you haven't asked if I'd mind. We aren't even engaged--you wouldn't be. Do you remember?"

Michael pulled round her head with his hands, and kissed her lips. "I don't care if the whole world sees," he said, quoting her words. "Don't pull away your head--I'm just 'a bloomin' Tommy' back in Blighty with his girl."

Meg resigned herself to his kisses. "All London's doing it," she said breathlessly. "You'll see fathers and sons, and mothers and sons, and lovers walking arm in arm, in the West End even. Their time together is too short and precious to think of stupid conventions. The national reserve of the English nation is swept away."

While Margaret was speaking, she was thinking and thinking. Could she marry him before he returned to the Front? It was all so sudden. But why not? War had taught women to take what happiness they could get in their two hands, not to let it slip. Michael made her thoughts more definite.

"Did Freddy trust me?" he asked.

Meg's eyes dropped; her heart beat painfully.

"He didn't," Michael said. "Don't pain yourself, dearest, by answering. He'll understand better now--everything will be made clear."

"Don't blame him, Mike!"

"I'm not blaming him--I'd have done the same. It sounded beastly, the whole story. Hang Millicent Mervill!"

Margaret proceeded to tell him in broken sentences that she had seen Millicent in Cairo, and related something of what she had told her and how, after that, she had kept the promise which she had made to Freddy, to go back to England if she heard from either Michael himself or from Millicent that they had been together in the desert.

"And you heard that she was in my camp?"

"Yes--Millicent took care that I heard that, and . . ." she paused.

Michael looked into her eyes. "And you went back England?"

"Yes, I kept my promise." Her eyes told him that she had kept it because her honour demanded it, not because she believed all that Millicent had told her.

"And, knowing her story, you didn't condemn me, you still believed in me and loved me?" His eyes thanked her.

Margaret returned his steadfast gaze. "Yes, it was not hard to trust you, Mike. I remembered our promise to help and trust one another. What are promises and vows made for if they are not to be kept when they are put to the test? We did not make ours lightly--I told you I should understand."

"Dearest, how beautiful your love is! To-day you welcomed me without one shadow of reproach! Had I not read in your eyes all that I did, I should not have dared to follow you when you left the train."

"Would you have taken me in your arms if you had been guilty, if Millicent had told the truth?" The words conveyed a world of meaning to Michael. "I have often grumbled, Mike--I have thought that you might have let me hear the story from your own lips, or by letter. I know that in his heart Freddy always thought you were only to be blamed for allowing her to stay in your camp--I know he never really believed that you had arranged the meeting, or that you were her lover."

Michael grasped her two hands in his, tightly. "I never was, Meg, I never was! I hated her for coming, I tried to get rid of her."

"I knew it, Mike--deep, deep down I knew it. But it hurt." She leaned against him. "Oh, how it hurt, dearest! And you never wrote or explained--that was what I found hardest to bear. I suppose you were so certain that I trusted you that you never thought about what others might say; but love makes us exacting, jealous, and you might have written, dearest! Then Freddy would have known. How could I make him understand all that my heart knew? How can one make others see the things which come from within?"

Michael put his arms round her. "My darling," he said, "I did write, I wrote often. I wrote directly Millicent appeared in the desert; I wrote again before I was ill. You know how many letters go astray--you know how many were intercepted by German spies before the war broke out."

"You were ill?" Meg started. "I knew you were, I told Freddy you were