Chapter 40

had to abandon the conviction."

Her voice was an apology.

"I was so ill with fever," Michael said, "that I wasn't able to write, and the faithful Abdul couldn't. Like many Arabs, he can speak a smattering, and a very fair one, of three or four languages, but he can't write a line in any one of them. As soon as I was strong enough to travel I went back to the Valley."

"Oh, did you?" He felt Margaret tremble as she said the words.

"I went back to find our Eden a barren desert, Meg, no sign of either Freddy or you in it. It was horrible. I started off to Cairo in hopes of learning from the Iretons where you had gone to, to discover what you had heard of Millicent." His pressure of Meg's hands explained the full meaning of his words. "But they had left Cairo--it was very hot--so I returned to England by way of Italy. In Naples I had a slight relapse--I had to wait there for some time, until I was able to continue my journey. I only arrived in London the day before war was declared. Of course I volunteered at once--I was glad to do it. Life seemed empty of all its former sweetness. I don't think I cared what happened to me; and I did care what happened to England and Belgium. I was at last going to fight in the great fight against absolute monarchy and militarism!"

When Michael had finished his short account of his doings, which merely touched on essentials, they realized that they were in Hyde Park. Margaret's eyes had caught sight of a clock over the gateway as they entered; she had noticed how her two hours were flying, even while her conscious self was enthralled with her lover's story. Spring was in the year; it was in the hearts of the united lovers. Love smiled to them from the budding shrubs and from the daffodils swaying in the breeze.

To Michael "Blighty" was the most beautiful land in the world. His heart was so burdened with happiness that Margaret had to laugh at his high spirits and absurd remarks. He was the old enthusiastic Mike, delighting in life and embracing it rapturously.

In the midst of this intoxication of happiness, Margaret's sense of duty and responsibility, her Lampton characteristics, urged her. The clock over the archway had subconsciously reminded her that she was, after all, a pantry-maid in a hospital full of wounded soldiers; that the soldier by her side was a part and portion of the great war; that war, not love, ruled the world; this interlude had been stolen from the God of Battles.

"Time's flying, dearest," she said. "I've less than one more hour. Let's drive to a little garden-square close to my hospital--we can dismiss the taxi there and talk until I have to go in--that's to say, if you are free to come."

"Are you nursing?" he said. His eyes looked questioningly at her blue uniform.

"No, not yet--I'm a pantry-maid."

"A what?" he said, laughingly. "You're a darling!"'

"I wash up tea-cups and saucers which Tommies drink from, and lay out trays with tea-cups and saucers all day long." She paused. "That's as near as I've got to the war."

"With your brains, Meg--is that all they could find for you to do?" His encircling arm hugged her closely. Each moment she was becoming more desirable and beautiful in his eyes; each moment life in the trenches seemed further and further away.

"Freddy was sniped," Margaret said, "before he even killed a German. Washing up dirty cups makes me mind it less."

"You dear darling," Michael said. "I understand and Freddy knows."

"I'll tell the man where to drive to," Margaret said bravely. "Then we can be together until I have to begin work." She raised the speaking-tube to her lips and told the driver where to go, explaining the most direct way to the secluded square, When she dropped the tube and sank back into her seat Michael's arm was round her; she had felt his eyes and their passion, gazing at her while she instructed the driver.

"Will you marry me the day after to-morrow?" he said. "I'll get a special licence. Let's start this little time of perfect happiness at once, Meg--it may never come again."

Meg laughed nervously, but there was gladness in the sound of her voice. "But, Mike, it's so sudden--the day after to-morrow!"

"So was our love, darling--don't you remember?" He paused. "Am I asking too much? You might be my wife for less than two weeks, beloved, remember that."

They looked into each other's eyes. Meg knew the meaning of his words; he was a Tommy on leave.

"I can't go on having hairbreadth escapes to the end of the war," he said. "Up to now I'm the mascot amongst the boys; I've had prodigious luck."

Meg remained silent. Her heart was beating. His hair-breadth escapes--what were they due to? She saw her vision of him in her London bedroom, surrounded by the rays of Aton. She nursed the knowledge of it in her heart--she dared not tell him.

"Over and over again, Meg, the most extraordinary things have happened. I can't tell you them all now--they would sound like exaggerations, but I'm almost beginning to agree with the boys that I've a charmed life."

Meg longed to confide her secret to him, but something held her back; something said to her that he was not meant to know it, that if he knew he might be tempted to do still more foolhardy deeds, he would feel compelled to put her mystical message to the test. She remained silent; her mind was working too quickly for speech. She had forgotten that Michael wanted her answer. Her heart had given it so willingly that words were scarcely needed, but he pressed her for her consent. There are some words which lovers like to hear spoken by beautiful lips.

"You are the mistress of my happiness," he urged. "And if our happiness in this world is to be condensed into twelve days, surely it would be worth while seizing it and being thankful for it? In this world of agony and death, twelve days of life at its fullest is of more account than a long lifetime of unrecognized benefits and indefinite happiness."

Meg agreed that the war had taught people to be thankful for what seemed to her pitifully small mercies; people married for ten days or for a fortnight at the longest, knowing that for that little time of forgetfulness their husbands were among the quick; at the end of it they might be among the dead.

"Then, if I can get a special licence to-morrow, will you marry me the day after? If I may go back to the Front as your husband, Meg, I think I can win the war. My life will be more charmed than ever." He laughed gaily. "What will the boys say? I'm the only one in the trench who doesn't write to about six girls every day, telling each one that she is the only girl he loves."

Margaret's answer was in her laugh, which was all love, and in the lips she held up to meet Michael's kiss. "And it's proud I'll be to be Mrs. Amory!" she said. "And ye can tell the boys that, if you like." She broke off suddenly from her mock Irish tones, and said more gravely, "Isn't it wonderful? Only an hour ago I was alone in London, so lonely that the very flowers hurt me! I hated the spring in the year--it laughed at my dull room and humdrum existence. And now----"

"And now," he said, "you are going to be a soldier's wife, you are going to marry a verminous Tommy in two days' time, you darling!"

Meg looked at her own dark uniform. "I don't see even one," she said, "but I'll have to be careful. I'll change when I go in. Are you really as bad as that?"

"I tried to clean myself up a bit," he said. "But I have been awful. That's the thing I hate most about the whole business. I've got used to all the other discomforts long ago, and to everything else."

"Even to the killing of human beings, Mike?"

"Yes," he said. "Even to the killing of brave men. I know what you're saying to yourself--I thought that too, I thought it would send me mad, I longed to kill myself to get out of it. But, in an attack, when you've seen your own jolly pals, who have lived in the trenches with you, bleeding and tattered, spatchcocked against barbed wire, and had to leave them sticking to it, their eyes haunt you, your blood gets up, you long for a hundred hands to shoot with, instead of only two. When you've seen the result of Prussian militarism on decent German soldiers, you know that it's your duty to destroy it, to give the German people, as well as the rest of the world, their freedom and rights."

"If only we could get at the Prussian military power, and spare the wretched soldiers--they are all sons and husbands, and somebody's darlings," Meg said pathetically.

"But we can't. It's their punishment, perhaps, poor devils, for having submitted to such an arrogant, absolute monarchy. To get at the rulers we have to slaughter the innocent. It sounds all wrong, but I know it's the only way."

"I suppose so," Margaret said. "But it does seem hard, just because they have been law-abiding, industrious, obedient subjects, they are to be slaughtered like sheep and made to do all sorts of cruel acts which will brand them for ever as barbarians in the eyes of the world. There must be thousands and thousands of them who are decent men."

"There is a saying that every country has the Government it deserves. They have got theirs. A German Liberal has written these words to-day, or something like them. He says, 'Peace and war are, after all, not so much the result of foreign policy (strange though it may appear) as the inevitable consequences of the inward constitution of the State. "International anarchy" is not a thing apart, but only the natural consequence of feudal military institutions. Hence away with these institutions.'"

"But will they ever away with them in Germany?"

"Not unless we, the Allies, crush the feudal military constitution; not until the people realize that their submission has brought this war upon themselves."

"But surely up to now we have admired law-abiding, uncomplaining peoples?"

"I haven't," Michael laughed. "You know I haven't."

"Oh no, you haven't! But then you're a firebrand, always 'agin the Government.'"

"I always walked on my head." He hugged her as he spoke. "I'm doing it to-day, darling."

"Poor old Freddy!" Margaret said. "If he could only hear us now, he'd think I was anti-war, and you were pro-war." She sighed. "If he could only see you in a Tommy's uniform, defending the morality of taking human lives!"

"_Qui sait_, Meg? He probably sees far more of it than you or I do. Don't you make any mistake about that. He knows that I'm fighting in the war because I'm anti-war, with a vengeance. If this war isn't won by the Allies, Meg, there will be no end to war. It will never cease; it will burst out at intervals until the Kaiser's Alexandrian and Napoleonic dream is accomplished. If he wins this war, he'll turn his eyes in other directions, for new worlds to conquer. With Europe subdued, there is Egypt, India, America. Lamartine said, 'It is not the country, but liberty, that is most imperilled by war.'"

"What did he mean?" Margaret asked.

"'That every victorious war means for the victorious nation a loss of political liberty, whilst for the vanquished it is a foundation of inspiration and democratic progress.'" [1]

"Oh, Mike, and if we win? I mean, when we win?"

"As our cause is the cause of right over might, ours is not a war of aggression or annexation. He was speaking of an aggressive war."

"Who was speaking?"

"Well, I was voicing Hermann Fernau, the brave Liberal who is exiled from the Fatherland. I can't give you his exact words, but he says something like this in his wonderful book, _Germany and Democracy_: 'For what would happen if we Germans emerged victorious from this war? Our victory would only mean a strengthening of the dynastic principle of arbitrary power all along the line. Those of us who bewail the political backwardness of our Fatherland must realize that a German victory would prolong this backward condition for centuries. And not only Germany, but the whole of Europe, would have to suffer the consequences.'"

"Fancy a German saying that!"

"There are some sane Germans left, darling. Fernau belongs to the small band of German Liberals who have been driven from their country."

The taxi had reached the garden-square. They got out and Michael prodigally overpaid the driver. The man took the money.

"I'd have driven you for nothing, sir," he said delightedly, "if the car was my own. I was young once, and so was the missus." He saluted respectfully.

As they turned into the quiet little garden, Michael said happily, "Why, Meg, what a dear little bit of France! How did you discover it?"

"My hospital's just across the square, and so is my bedroom. This is my sitting-room."

They found a quiet seat amongst the tombstones and sat down, a typical resort for a Tommy and his sweetheart. When they had been seated for a few moments, Michael said:

"It's a far cry to the Valley, and the little wooden hut, and the tombs of the Pharaohs, Meg."

Meg's eyes swept the garden-square; the laburnum-tree was shedding flakes of gold from its long tassels; they were falling like yellow rain in the spring breeze.

"Very, very far," she said as her eyes pointed to the smoke-begrimed tombstones. "Here the homes of the dead seem so forsaken, so humble. Death has triumphed. In the Valley the dead were the eternal citizens, their homes were immortal. The dead have no abiding cities here, and even the palaces of the living will be crumbled into powder before Egypt's tombs show any signs of wear and decay."

Their thoughts having turned to Egypt, beautiful memories were recalled. Often broken sentences spoke volumes. Their time was very short, so short that Love devised a sort of shorthand conversation, which saved a thousand words.

And so for the rest of Margaret's precious hour they talked and dreamed and loved. There was so much to explain and so much to tell on both sides that, as Margaret laughingly said, they would both still be trying to get through their "bit" when Michael would have to leave for the Front.

Margaret just left herself time to hurry upstairs and change her uniform in her lodgings before she returned to the hospital. Michael waited for her in the square.

Before they left it, Margaret said, "I want you to shake hands with an old friend of mine. We'll have to pass her seat; she is always here. She's a great character, an old actress--such a good sort."

As they passed the shabby little woman, picking down old uniforms, Meg stopped. The woman looked up; her eyes brightened. The V.A.D. had a soldier with her--her lover, she could see that at a glance. He had brought an atmosphere of romance and passion into the laburnum-lit garden.

Margaret introduced Michael, who was perfectly at his ease on such an occasion.

"My friend has arrived from the Front," she said. "We are going to be married the day after to-morrow . . ." she paused, ". . . that is to say, if I can get leave from my hospital for a week."

The woman looked up at the handsome couple. "Well, what a surprise!" she said, as she stared hard at Michael. "Who would ever have thought that you were going to be married so soon? You never even told me you were engaged! You were very sly." She smiled happily.

Margaret laughed at her astonished expression. "I mustn't stop to tell you about it now," she said. "My time is up--I ought to be back in ten minutes to my cups and saucers. I just wanted you to shake hands with the man I'm going to marry."

The woman rose from her seat. As she did so, the old scarlet coat which she had been unpicking fell to her feet. She glanced at her hands, as much as to say, "They aren't very clean." Michael held out his, ignoring her hesitation, and gave her slender, artist's fingers a hearty shake and warm grasp.

The old actress's emotions were kindled; poverty had not dimmed the romance of her world.

"You'll do, sir," she said. "You'll do--you'll do for the sweetest and truest lady that lives in London town."

"We have your blessing, then?" he said gaily. "And you'll look after her when I'm at the Front--promise me that?"

"That I will, sir. But it's she who looks after me, and more than me." She cast her eyes round the strange neighbourhood. "Looks after us and helps us in a hundred different ways." But she was speaking to Michael's retreating figure, for Margaret and her lover had left her. As she watched his swinging strides, she murmured to herself, "He'll do for her--there's no mistaking his kind. He'll do for her." Her thoughts flew to familiar scenes. "There was something in his voice which reminded me of . . ." she recalled a celebrated actor. "He would make a fine Hamlet, a heavenborn Hamlet."

As they left the gardens Margaret said, "I have a feeling, Mike, that someone has been watching us ever since we came into the gardens--have you?"

"No," Michael said. "I hadn't any eyes or ears for anything but you."

Margaret smiled. "I felt it," she said, "rather than saw it. But, just this minute, didn't you see that dark figure?"

"No. Anyhow, let them watch--I don't care. Everybody's doing it." His arm was round her.

Meg laughed, but not so whole-heartedly, and when she was saying good-bye to him at the hospital, she said, nervously and anxiously, "There's that black figure again--she's just passed us. I saw her yesterday--she watched me go in after my hours on."

In spite of that fact, Margaret kissed her Tommy quite openly and flagrantly and in the broad daylight. She had promised to walk with him again on the next afternoon during her hours off, and to marry him the day after, if he got the licence and she got her leave.

When they had parted she said to herself, "Ours will be a war-wedding with a vengeance! When I went out for my two hours this afternoon I was absolutely free, not even engaged. Now," she blushed beautifully, "I am the bride-elect of a Tommy home on leave for a fortnight!"

After her day's work was done, she tried to find the busy matron. When she found her, she went straight to the point--it was Margaret's way.

"I want to get married the day after to-morrow," she said. "Could you get someone to take my place? Can you let me go?"

"For good, do you mean?" The matron was scarcely surprised. These sudden marriages were all a part of her day's work, the flower and the passion of war.

Margaret's eyes brightened. "If you could get a temporary V.A.D., I think I'd like to come back when he's gone."

The older woman looked at her. "I think you'd better take a rest. You've been at this dull job for a long time now. Don't you think you would be better for it?"

"Perhaps you are right," Margaret said. "I really haven't had time to consider details--I'd only got as far as wanting the week while he is at home, to get married in."

"Take it, by all means," the matron said. "I've a good long waiting-list on my books of voluntary helpers to choose from." She paused. "I don't mean that it will be easy to replace you, Miss Lampton--I wish all my workers gave me as little trouble as you have done."

"Oh, but it's been such ordinary work! Anyone could have done it as well."

"I've not been a hospital nurse for twenty years, Miss Lampton, for nothing. You can comfort yourself with the fact that a good worker always makes herself felt in whatever capacity she is in. No sentiment or romance finds its way into an area-pantry, though there's plenty of it in the wards." She smiled. "But in spite of that, your romance seems to have progressed. I wish you every happiness and the best of luck."

Luck nowadays, Margaret knew, meant but one thing--the life of her husband. "Thank you," she said. "I've loved being of use. I've really been grateful for the work--it's been what I needed."

"I think I can get a V.A.D. to take your place to-morrow morning--you will want all your time. If you will look in at your usual hour, you will hear if we have got one. But take my advice, Miss Lampton," the matron said, as she turned to leave the astonished Margaret, "if you are going to nurse, go in for a thorough hospital training. You'd make a good nurse . . ." she paused, ". . . that is to say, if you are free to do it when your husband is at the Front. Anyhow, think it over. It seems to me a pity that you should be content to remain a V.A.D. when you may be wanted for much more serious work later on."

When she had said good-bye, Margaret fled to the telephone. She had so much to do and arrange that she had to go from one thing to another as fast as she could. She rang up the rooms in Clarges Street where she knew that Hadassah Ireton was going to stay. She ought to have arrived that afternoon. When at last she got on to the right number, she was answered by the husband of the landlady, an ex-butler, and an admirable _maître de cuisine_.

"Has Mrs. Ireton arrived yet?" Margaret asked.

"Yes, she arrived at five o'clock. Who shall I say speaking?"

"Ask her if she can speak to Miss Lampton, please, for a few minutes. Will you tell her that it is very urgent?"

The next minute Margaret heard Hadassah's voice.

"Hallo! Miss Lampton, is that you?"

"Yes," Margaret said. "But, please, not Miss Lampton!"

"Well, Margaret--I always think of you as Margaret. How nice of you to ring me up and welcome me to London!"

"Hadassah," Margaret said breathlessly; her heart was beating with her news; she spoke rather loudly, "I rang you up to tell you that I'm going to be married the day after tomorrow!"

Hadassah heard Margaret sigh even through the telephone. It was a sigh of pent-up emotion, an expression of relief.

Margaret waited. She knew that she had taken Hadassah so completely by surprise that she had no answer ready.

"Margaret!" she said at last, in amazement, "who to?"

Margaret detected, or fancied she did, a little coldness in her question. There was certainly not the pleased ring of congratulation which she had expected in her words.

"Why, to Michael Amory, of course! Who else could it be?" Margaret's happy laugh crackled in Hadassah's ears.

"Oh, my dear, I'm so glad! What a wonderful surprise! Is he in London? When did he turn up?"

"He has been to the Front--as a Tommy, but he's got his commission in the same regiment. I only met him to-day--he's just got back. I feel too bewildered to think; I scarcely know what I am saying."

"Is this the first time that you've seen him since you parted in Egypt?" Hadassah's voice expressed both amusement and eager curiosity.

"Yes, to speak to. We met in the train. Some months ago I saw him at a railway-station in the North. He was passing through, and I was there, but we had no opportunity of speaking to each other." In the same breathless voice she said, "Freddy would approve. I know what you are thinking, but it's all right--he's as keen as Freddy about the war, and there never was anything wrong."

"I'm so awfully glad. You know I never doubted him."

"He arrived in England the day before war was declared by us. He tried to find me, but he couldn't, and so he just gave himself up to the war. He lost himself in it--you know his way! He thought that Freddy and I would approve. He was always worthy of me, Hadassah, but now I'm so proud of him. He would have joined up in any case, but he thought that in doing his bit he would atone for his weakness about Millicent. It was only his old method of letting things slide--he couldn't get rid of her, but he was absolutely loyal to me."

"I understand," Hadassah said. "But I admit that it was difficult for Freddy to look at it in that light."

"It's so hard to explain over the 'phone," Margaret said. "And indeed, it isn't what he has told me so much--it's just what he makes me feel."

"I know, dear. I feel it's all right--I always felt it was."

"He has been absolutely true, Hadassah. Freddy must know that now. And you know, I can afford to marry." Her voice lost its buoyancy.

"Yes, I know, dear. I saw your brother's will."

"And you approve, Hadassah? It seems a shame not to grasp this little bit of happiness." She paused, for above her practical words came the assurance of Michael's safety; the words of the message almost came to her lips.

"I quite approve. In these awful days, even a fortnight of happiness is a wonderful thing. Use your own judgment, Margaret--it's been unerring so far. Take this joy right to your heart."

"Will you and your husband witness our marriage? I want to telegraph to Aunt Anna--may I say that I am being married from your house? We won't bother you--is it awful cheek asking you?"

"Why, my dear, of course you can come here to-morrow, as early as ever you like, and we'll go into all the details, and fix up everything quite nicely. With telephones and money and London at our backs, you will be astonished at what a nice little _déjeuner_ we shall have ready for you." Hadassah laughed. "Money has its uses, my dear, in spite of all your Mike's oblivion of the fact."

"Oh, you are too kind! Won't it be nice--a little _déjeuner à quatre_ in your rooms? Your husband is with you? I forgot to ask."

"Yes, he's here. He'll stand by your Michael. Now, all you've got to do is to look after your own concerns--get your things together and send them here. I'll have them packed for you and do all the rest."

"You angel!" Margaret said. "Oh, don't cut us off!" she cried to the girl at the exchange, for a buzzing sound filled her ears. "Are you there? Can you hear? I won't take much on my honeymoon," she said, but her words did not reach Hadassah; no answer came back to her. They had been cut off. She quickly put the receiver back on its hook and hurried off to do the next thing which suggested itself as being the most important--writing a short list of the things which she would have to buy the next day, and sending a telegram to her Aunt Anna.

[1] Hermann Fernau: _The Coming Democracy_.