CHAPTER XXIII

Early the next morning Michael again stood at the gate of the

university-mosque, but it was a different Michael to the Michael of the

night before. The unseen hand which had stopped him when he was about

to ring the bell did not have to interfere a second time. He rang it

resolutely, thinking calm thoughts, and despising himself for his

foolish mood of the night before.

When the gate was opened to him, he passed in and hurried across the

blinding brightness of the open courtyard. He made haste to reach the

shelter of the colonnade; he was in no drifting humour; he was again

asserting his capacity for being practical about the unpractical. He

did not even allow himself to dwell on the memories which the scene

recalled of the day when he had visited his friend, before he

determined to leave the Valley and go into the Libyan Desert.

When he reached the portion of the building where the old African

student lived, his steps slackened. What if he was dead? He was an

old man for a mid-African, and his physique had been greatly exhausted

by continued chastening of the flesh.

When he was well within sight of his cell he saw the lean, gaunt figure

of the hermit-student standing inside the iron-barred gate; he was

straining his eyes into the distance; he was looking for someone.

When Michael was near enough to address him, which he did in tones of

pleasure and respect, the African opened the gate slowly and not

without difficulty, his trembling hands thinner and more bloodless even

than they had been when Michael had visited him before.

After the proper greetings were exchanged, the African invited Michael

to enter, and asked him if he would lend a patient ear to what he had

to tell him.

"I am an old man," he said. "I can see the end of this existence--it

is not far off. It is well that you have come."

When Michael expressed his sorrow, the tired eyes flashed.

"Do not grieve, my son. When the righteous servant of God sees death

face to face, he does not contend with his God--that is to oppose His

will, that is not in accordance with total resignation."

Michael said that his grief was for himself, not for his friend; his

words were an apology. The old man had seated himself in a humble

attitude on the floor in front of Michael; with the never-failing

courtesy of an Oriental, he was not forgetful of the etiquette which

prescribes for the seating of oneself in the presence of a superior.

There is always a position of honour in a native room, and this, even

in his cell, the zealot of Islam reserved for his professors and for

his honoured guests, if they were his social superiors.

When they were seated and the tired old man had rested for a few

moments, he said, in the lengthy and flowery style of Orientals:

"I looked for you, my son; your coming was foretold. I have long and

eagerly awaited it."

"Were you watching for me?" Michael asked. "I saw you at the door of

your cell. I am glad I came."

"Even as you came, I looked for you. The Lord of Kindness knows the

desires of our hearts; He grants all those which in His mercy He deems

fit."

"You desired to see me, O my father?"

"_Aiwah_, for long I have desired it."

A rosary was in his hands; he pulled the beads slowly along the string.

Michael had learned to banish impatience in the presence of natives.

"I have been in great tribulation," he said. "Did you know that? I am

even yet sorely troubled."

The African answered with his eyes.

"O Lord, give us in our affliction the contentment of mind which may

give us patience."

"My peace of mind has gone, O my father. I feel that my feet have

strayed far from the way of peace. I came to hear your counsel."

The old man's eyes flamed with the fire of righteousness. "My son," he

said, "the Lord has revealed to His dying servant the things which as

yet you know not. You speak of peace where there is no peace, for I

have seen the Armageddon of God's enemies; I have seen the world washed

in the blood of those who know not Islam; I have seen the heathen

nations of the earth blind with rage. Why do these nations of the

earth so furiously rage together? I tell you, O my son it is because

they have not the love of God in their hearts."

Michael was silent. The old man's words conveyed very little to him,

for as yet there was no rumour of the war which was breeding in Europe.

The internal troubles in Ireland, distressing as they were, were not of

a nature to be spoken of with such appalling gravity. The old man's

anxiety and sincerity were unmistakable, but what did he mean? While

he sat in silence, wondering what the seer had in his mind, Michael saw

that his dark eyes were far away. His attitude was that of one who had

detached himself from his surroundings; his spirit was immeasurably

removed from his material body. Suddenly he spoke.

"Take heed, my son, for everywhere, even unto the ends of the earth I

can see bloodshed and suffering, and an agony of evil such as the world

has never seen. I can see nations rising against nations, and the

blood of kindred spilt by each other's swords, for they know not God."

Michael, not without a feeling of mental irritation, listened to the

African's foretelling. It seemed to him the imaginings of a zealot's

weakening brain. This war which he foretold was to Michael an

impossible thing amongst civilized nations, but he listened patiently

to all that he had to say. Blood which was to pour like a river over

the Western world, was to be spilt for the cause of Truth; it was to be

the punishment and final agony of the unbelievers; war was to spread

over the world like a deadly plague. God in His wisdom had willed it,

for it was to be a proof that the infidels, who had flourished like the

green bay-tree, were at last to suffer the vengeance of God. This war,

which he saw as clearly as astrologers see the stars and the moon in

the heavens through their scientific instruments, was ordained by

Allah, it was the work of His hand, it was His terrible revelation to

mankind of the falseness of the doctrines preached by those who called

themselves the followers of Christ. For nearly two thousand years they

had fed the nations on lies and set up images which were abhorrent to

the one and only God. They had, to suit their own doctrines and

dogmas, perverted the meaning of the words of Jesus; they had made the

name of Christ a byword to all true believers. The sin of hate and the

lust for blood, which was to fill the hearts of all Christian

countries, was to be a token to all true believers that the teachings

of Christians had been vain and fruitless. They had lived without God

in their hearts; now even the example of the Prophet Jesus they laughed

to scorn.

"God is alone in His personal attributes, He has no partner, He is

neither a Son nor a Father, for there is none of His kind."

Knowing the religious fervour of devout Moslems, Michael listened to

his warning, but without the interest which he would have felt if he

had had the slightest inkling of the agony which was so soon to

convulse Europe. He thought that as the African's end was not far off,

he was becoming more troubled and desirous for the conversion of the

world to Islam. He said to himself, "If he knows nothing about my

experience in the desert and my failure to find the treasure, I will

give no second thought to this imaginary war of nations." While he

listened to his strange and fervent warnings, he determined to find out

if he knew what had happened. When the African paused, he said:

"Pray tell me, O my father, if it was known to you the things that

befell me in the desert. If not, I have much to tell you."

The African was far away; only his emaciated body was in the cell when

Michael spoke; when he drew back his mind to his material presence, he

met Michael's questioning eyes; his own were tragic and stricken.

"These things are past, my son, in this new world of despair and

suffering there is no place for them. Very often I saw you, very often

you were in great trouble, trouble as the world understood trouble in

the days of peace. But because of the avarice of ungodly rulers there

is sorrow and mourning coming to the world, which will teach men that

they knew not the meaning of anguish. In the Armageddon they will

understand the suffering of the Prophet Jesus, the Man of Sorrows Who

was acquainted with grief."

Michael, convinced that the seer's mind was obsessed with this one

idea, accepted the fact philosophically; he shrank from asking him the

more personal questions he wished answered. Nevertheless, he was

extremely curious to learn if he was ignorant of the result of his

expedition.

"Tell me, my father, did you see me securing the great treasure of gold

and jewels which I went into the desert to find? Did you know how

greatly I have reaped my reward?"

"My son, speak to me of the truth which is in thy heart, not of lies."

His angry eyes rebuked Michael. "Stand fast to truth and justice. The

men of truth shall find a rich reward--they do not sit in the company

of liars."

"I ask your forgiveness, O my father. Truly I spoke not after the

fashion of those who have understanding."

"My son, I have seen what I have seen. Your deeds of charity are known

to God, His power extends over all things; not a chicken cheeps in the

egg-shell but He has created. Your trials and losses are known to Him,

they are His ordaining. Because of your weakness and the carnal

thoughts and desires which were in your heart, God saw fit to remove

the treasure from your sight. Again in the days of peace you must seek

it, in the bowels of the earth it is laid up for you."

Michael's heart stood still. Verily the old man had seen, for in his

words there were truth and meaning.

"My son, listen to the teachings of the Prophet, God bless his holy

name. 'Believing men should restrain their eyes from looking upon

strange women, whose sight may excite their carnal passions. Draw not

near unto fornication. The word of God restrains the carnal desires of

man even from smouldering in secret.'"

"You know, O my father, that I sought not the presence of the strange

woman in my camp?"

"My son, through the grace of Allah I have seen. Your temptation was

great, your charity was acceptable in God's sight. He knows that many

unbelievers look towards Him, but do not see Him."

"And what now is thy counsel, O my father?"

The African shook his head. "Prayer, my son, that is my counsel. The

world has much need of prayer. Pray that through Allah's guidance all

nations of the earth may learn how to live peacefully one with another.

I can see nothing further; that is my counsel: Work and pray. I can

give you no assurance, but Allah granting, I will pray without ceasing.

You must humbly submit to the will of Allah. This I give you as my

counsel. You took the great journey; your heart is still filled with

the eagerness of youth, with the vanity of earthly ambition. But all

these things will be purged from your heart, your bowels of compassion

will yearn for the mothers of sons, who weep for their sons because

they are not. Your journey was not in vain. If your fingers have not

yet touched the treasure which you sought, if your desires have strayed

from the path of righteousness, if you have not always stood in the

Light, there is a new treasure laid up in your heart, my son, the

treasure of meekness. Meekness is one of the moral conditions of the

Koran, and the servants of the All-Merciful are those who walk meekly

upon earth. This treasure has been revealed to you, you have learned

many strange and wonderful things, a spiritual treasure has been

bestowed upon you which is of greater richness than the gold and the

jewels which you sought. You dreamed not of man's weakness, O my son,

you relied upon your own strength. Allah has chosen His own method of

revealing to you the manner of man's carnal nature."

Michael remained lost in thought while the old man finished his counsel

by reciting a beautiful _sura_ from the Koran. In his mind there had

been gathering the conviction that there was more truth than he had at

first imagined in his daring prophecy, in his foretelling of the

calamity which was to befall all Christian countries. He had been

perfectly accurate on the subject of his own journey, that it had not

been successful in regard to the treasure of Akhnaton. He had seen

with extraordinary clearness all which had happened, even to the

reading of his heart. It was unnecessary for Michael to tell him in

words all that he had gone through, for the African was tired, and his

eyes had seen. There was just one thing he had been craving to ask him

about; it had been glowing at the back of his mind like a light from a

sacred lamp. That precious thing was Margaret. Had this mid-African,

whose feet were bending to the open grave, any seer's knowledge which

would assist him?

"I would ask you yet one more question, O my father. Of my dear

friends, whom I left in Upper Egypt when I journeyed into the

desert--have you counsel regarding them which will ease the anxiety I

feel?"

The old man's eyes flashed brightly. He had forgotten; his voice was

expressive of human sympathy. "Your guarded lady, _insha Allah_, the

future mother of your sons, she was never far from you, she it was who

many times comforted you. Often have I seen her spiritual presence

very close to you."

"Your words are the truth, O my father. When the weakness of man's

nature overwhelmed me, she came to me in the desert."

"Spiritually you embraced her, my son; Allah, in His perfect

understanding, granted you this great comfort."

"I have not heard from her, my father, nor has her spiritual presence

been close to me for many weeks. My heart is desolate."

"Pray for fortitude, my son, that moral condition which enables us to

meet danger and endure pain with calmness." As he said the last words,

his eyes looked into the future; his expression became agonized.

"Fortitude," he repeated the word slowly and deliberately,

"fortitude--you must pray for it without ceasing, for without it you

cannot face the future."

"You do not explain, O my father, why I do not see or hear anything

from those who love me."

Michael had seen by the visionary's expression that his thoughts were

again obsessed with the Armageddon he had visualized.

The African shook his head. "Some things I may not see, O my son,

Allah withholds them from my imperfect human understanding. It is only

by His ordaining that I can see what I see. If your heart is clean and

worthy, my son, doubt not the faithfulness and steadfastness of the

woman to whom you are spiritually united. She raises not her eyes to

strange men; if by your own weakness you have lost your spiritual

connection with her, then hasten to act worthily of her. The world

will have need of all those who have the love of God in their hearts,

of all those who have the moral quality of forgiveness and sympathy.

It is an easy matter to forgive those whom we love. Go you forth into

battle and learn to forgive those whom you hate. Never have your

opportunities been greater."

As his last words were uttered, with extreme earnestness, through the

colonnade and courtyard of the ancient building came the midday call to

prayer; it was sonorous and prolonged.

Michael rose hastily from his low seat. The aged student did not

detain him. Their farewell was comparatively brief, owing to the

_mueddin's_ harmonious and sonorous chanting of the _adan_.

"I will return," Michael said. "I will not leave Egypt without saying

farewell to you, O my father, and asking for thy blessing."

"_Insha Allah_ (if God wills), my son. Very soon God will permit His

servant to enjoy the blessings of paradise."

"It will not be many days before I go to England."

"_Aiwah_, the time draws near when each man will return to the land

which gave him birth. The Lord of Battles has decreed it, the Lord of

Battles will send forth His summons. From the uttermost ends of the

earth all those who have denied Him, all those who have denied that He

is God beside Whom there is none other to be worshipped, they will

answer to the call: with pride in their hearts they will slaughter

those who should be their brethren. The voice of the slain will travel

even as the wind travels to the world's end. Woe unto those nations

who have taught false doctrines, who have stretched out their hands to

oppress the widows and the helpless, for the anger of the God of

Battles is turned against them. He knows everything, and nothing lies

hidden from His sight."

Michael made no answer. His mind was groping after the true

understanding of all that the African said.

"If Allah had so willed it, my son, great would have been my happiness,

my rejoicing, to see the final triumph of Islam, to see the nations

upon the earth loving each other, all borders and barriers broken down,

to see the love of God ruling all men and all countries. When men live

with the image of the true God in their hearts, there will be no

dividing barriers. True patriots will be the obedient children of God,

the banner of Islam the universal banner of mankind. Farewell, my son,

God be with you."

His gate was shut behind Michael; the lean figure hastened to obey the

call to prayer.

As Michael hurried to the outer gate and crossed the thronged courts of

el-Azhar, he meditated on the old man's words. What did they mean?

What had his eyes seen? Locked away in his obscure cell in the centre

of the Moslem university-mosque, how could he know what was going to

happen in the great countries of Europe? He would find it difficult,

no doubt, to assign to England her correct position on the map. And

yet his warnings were strangely intense. Had they any connection with

the tales of political sedition of which the _Omdeh_ had so often

spoken? Nothing belonging to the present seemed to matter to him now;

his thoughts and visualizing were riveted on the agony of the world

which he foretold. His prayers were for this new agony and world-wide

disaster which had been revealed to him.

It was strangely perplexing. Michael felt great pity for him, that his

last few weeks on earth should be so saddened; even though he was

convinced that this agony was to be for the final triumph of Islam, it

was tearing at his bowels of compassion. His gentle nature was

suffering for the children whom Allah now saw fit to punish.

PART III

CHAPTER I

The war was six months old and Margaret was still a pantry-maid in the

private hospital in St. Alphege's Square. She was to be promoted to

the wards in a few weeks' time, to fill the place of a V.A.D. who was

going out to France. Before taking up her more interesting work, she

had been granted a fortnight's leave; the exacting matron realized that

the willing horse which works its hardest is one which will eventually

collapse under its burden.

Margaret was now visiting an aunt in a northern town, drinking in the

keen air of the winter hills and the resin of the pine-woods. She was

conscientiously building up her tired system, fitting herself for fresh

endeavours; she considered that her brief holiday had been given her

for this purpose. Her health and capacity for work were the two assets

which she could give to the war; it was as much a matter of duty to

nurse that capital and increase it as it was the duty of the engineers

on a ship to keep the driving power of the vessel in perfect order.

During her holiday the only form of war-work which she allowed herself

to do, except the mechanical one of knitting, was to help at a

railway-station canteen, which supplied free meals to all the soldiers

and sailors who passed through. The aunt whom she was visiting had the

entire responsibility for the free-refreshment-room for one of the

shifts for two nights in the week; her shift began at six and ended at

nine o'clock. Punctually at nine o'clock another member of the

canteen, or "barrow-fund," as it was called, took the responsibility

off her hands and kept it until two-thirty a.m. Margaret's aunt asked

her to take the place of a helper who had suddenly been telegraphed for

to see a wounded brother; who had just arrived at a hospital in

Edinburgh.

At the large station, a very important junction, the third-class

ladies' waiting-room had been given over to this energetic body of

women war-workers, who had converted it into an attractive

refreshment-room. Margaret was established behind the buffet in her

V.A.D.'s uniform. The wide counter in front of her was covered with

cups and plates, piled high with tempting sandwiches and bread and

butter, cakes and scones; immense urns, full to the brim with steaming

coffee and tea, gleamed brightly on a wide shelf behind her.

Everything was in readiness, and there were a few minutes to spare

before the first train was due, which would bring a bevy of hungry men

into the hospitable room. Margaret used those few minutes to make a

tour of inspection; she had to see that plenty of post-cards and

writing materials were in evidence on the centre table, that the

illustrated papers were conspicuously displayed. The barrow, or the

moving refreshment buffet, was already out on the platform; it served

the men who had no time to leave their carriages. It was winter, so

flowers were scarce, but hardly a night passed but there was a fresh

bouquet on the counter and table. The owners of large country-houses

saw to that. The dominoes and draught-boards had been forgotten;

Margaret put them on the table in the centre of the room. And then,

satisfied that all was right, she took up her position again behind the

counter. She was to be responsible for the serving of the tea and

coffee; the men helped themselves to the contents of the plates. Her

aunt attended to the tea and coffee urns, keeping them replenished and

their contents in good condition. Margaret's was distinctly the

pleasanter work of the two.

The sharp air of the north had brought back the glow to Margaret's eyes

and a freshness to her rather London-bleached cheeks. She looked a

deliciously fresh and pleasing waitress in her crisp indoor V.A.D.

uniform. The red cross on the front of her apron was as becoming to

her as a bunch of scarlet geraniums. It was too hot, standing so near

the steaming urns, for hats and coats, so she had the advantage of

showing her rippling hair. The cosy atmosphere of the room made her

forgetful of the severity of the wintry atmosphere outside. Margaret's

pretty figure and dark head appearing above the buffet-counter were

certainly great assets to the free-refreshment-room. Her aunt, who was

a conscientiously undemonstrative woman, felt proud of her niece. She

more than once that evening thought to herself what pleasure the girl's

beauty would give to the men. It was unfortunately against her

principles to allow Margaret to even guess how much she both approved

of her and admired her.

Her aunt's thoughts were correct. Margaret's pretty head and her dark

eyes were remembered by many an aching heart that night; from her hands

the tea and coffee they drank had more flavour than that which was so

casually dispensed to them in the army canteens.

"Here they come, Margaret!" her aunt called out, as the door opened and

a crowd of khaki-clad figures poured into the room. Most of their

faces brightened as they saw the inviting buffet.

They had only twenty minutes in which to enjoy their refreshment and

change trains; most of them were going to London. This was only one of

the many train-loads of men which would visit the room that night.

There were about forty men, pushing and elbowing their way to the

counter.

With a sharp-spouted, blue-enamelled tin jug in her hand, Margaret

began her work, quickly filling the empty cups on the counter. As fast

as her active movements would allow her she filled and refilled the

saucerless cups. What seemed a never-ending stream of men pushed

forward and tried to get closer to the counter.

"Help yourselves, please, to sandwiches and cakes," came from

Margaret's lips every few minutes, for some of the men were shy--she

had to keep on repeating the invitation. She had scarcely time to

glance at them, or raise her eyes from the cups which she was filling.

As there were no saucers, it required a steady hand to prevent the tea

from splashing on the counter. Such a large majority of the men took

tea that she had to tell them that there was coffee. "Tea or coffee?"

she would ask, with quickly raised eyes. "We have both."

There was on these occasions no opportunity for any conversation with

the men. Their time was too limited for speech, and she was too busy

to distinguish one khaki-clad figure from another. It was only a pair

of eyes which she met now and then, when it was possible to raise hers

from the extended cup she was refilling. More than once her

blue-enamelled jug ran dry, and impatient men had to wait while she

replenished it from one of the big urns which were steaming on the

shelf behind her. When the jug was quite full, it was so heavy to hold

extended, that she had to exercise care not to spill some of its

contents on the sandwiches and cake. It was exceptionally difficult

not to spill any of it when cups were held high up to be refilled.

One tall man, a late-comer, had with difficulty pushed his way forward;

he was waiting to be served. He held up his cup, thinking that it

would make it easier for Margaret to reach it. Before filling it, she

recollected to say, "Would you rather have some coffee?"

She raised her eyes as she spoke. Some curious sense of the man's more

refined personality had made her think that coffee might appeal to him.

As she did so, Michael's Irish-blue eyes gazed back into hers.

For a moment the world stood still for Margaret. Her poor heart beat

so quickly that her hand gave a spasmodic shake, with the result that a

considerable quantity of the tea from the enamelled jug splashed over

the brim and drenched a plate of scones.

Michael had not spoken, nor could Margaret. What she had waited so

long to ask him could not be called out over a dozen eager heads.

A kilted Scot, broad-faced and broad-kneed, had pushed himself in front

of Michael, who recognized that it was his duty to step back from the

counter now that his cup was full, and allow the man just behind him to

get his chance.

Margaret had to go on filling white cups with tea. She dared not even

raise her eyes to see if she could catch sight of Michael above the

crowd of khaki figures. It was hopeless now, for another train had

brought in a fresh batch of weary, cold, homesick men, all eager for a

hot cup of tea. Most of the first-comers had already disappeared; one

or two of them were hastily addressing with pen and ink the pencilled

postcards which they had written in the train. The writing of many

post-cards seemed to afford them great comfort. While Margaret was

filling cups as fast as she could, she was often interrupted by men who

would hold out a penny and ask if she kept postage-stamps. Stamps were

the only things which were not given away in the free refreshment-room;

a copper always went into the little red box when a stamp was taken

out. The men were eager to get them.

Another voice would ask for a time-table, and another would inquire if

she sold pipes; he had lost his in the train and he dreaded the twelve

hours' journey which lay before him without the comfort of even his

pipe.

All these demands had to be attended to quickly and sympathetically.

The twenty minutes which the first batch of men had to spend in the

station was almost up. On record nights the canteen had served three

hundred men in half an hour. Margaret felt rather than knew that

Michael was still in the room, that he was standing behind the first

line of men, looking at her. Her heart was throbbing and her mind

distracted. How could she reach him? How could she learn where he was

going to?

His eyes had told her nothing; they had simply gazed into hers as

though he had seen a vision. Of the surprise and relief which hers had

afforded him she knew nothing. In the midst of the hurly-burly of

hungry, tired soldiers she had met his eyes--that was all. She had

scarcely seen his figure.

The place was emptying. Michael, having stayed to the very last

second, turned and quickly left the room. Soon there would be a lull,

but Margaret could not wait for it. She put down her can as Michael

disappeared and moved down the counter to its exit, a little door which

opened inwards and allowed her to pass into the room. To reach it she

had to brush past her aunt. As she did so, she said as calmly as she

could:

"I must fly out to the platform for a few minutes, aunt, even if these

men go without their tea--I really must go and speak to a soldier I

know."

Her aunt looked at her in astonishment. This new emotional Margaret

was so very unlike the reliable V.A.D., whose dignity was one of her

individual charms.

"Very well, my dear, I can manage. Go along."

There was no time for more words--indeed, Margaret did not wait to be

allowed. She darted out of the refreshment-room like an arrow freed

from the bow. She had but one idea, to follow Michael. When the door

closed behind her, she gazed up the wide expanse of platform. She

caught sight of him, but he was well ahead, and he was walking very

quickly. Even if she ran, she doubted if she could catch him. After

the heat of the room, the air was bitingly cold. Margaret did not feel

it; her eyes were trying to keep Michael's khaki-clad figure in sight.

She tried, but failed, for soon he was lost in the crowd of men who

were boarding the train. Bevies of women and girls and children had

gathered on the platform to see their relatives leave for the Front.

Before Margaret's flying feet could overtake Michael he had jumped into

a carriage and was as completely lost to sight as a needle in a stack

of hay. He was a common Tommy, as heavily-laden, Margaret thought, as

an Arab-porter, with his accoutrements of war. All the window seats in

the train had been taken up long before he entered it, so it was quite

impossible for her to distinguish him amongst the late-comers who were

struggling to find even standing-room.

Margaret stood for a moment or two in breathless despair. What could

she do? He was there somewhere, in that very train. She was standing

beside it, and yet she could not even see him. She was only wasting

time; her sense of duty urged her to return to the hungry men in the

refreshment-room. Had she forgotten how eager and longing everyone of

them was for something to drink?

Her conscience might urge her, but for this once she was a human,

love-hungry girl, as eager to speak to her man as the men were to

swallow big mouthfuls of tea. With tear-blinded eyes she saw the train

leave the platform; she had allowed herself that extension of time.

After all, if the soldiers' throats were starved for moisture, had not

the whole of her being suffered a far more acute starvation for many,

many months? Her womanhood was crying out for its rights.

As the end of the train was lost to sight, she turned away. She was

just the girl he had left behind him, forlorn and desolate. A

soldier's wife, who was crying healthily, almost tripped Margaret up as

she swung quickly round. Her baby, a tired little fractious creature,

was in her arms.

As Margaret apologized to her, the idea came to her to ask the woman

where the men in the train were going to.

"Most of them to the Front," the woman said. "I lost my only brother

two months ago, and now my man's gone. Oh, this is a cruel war!" Her

sobs became heavier. "When my brother went to France, I thought it was

a grand thing--I was awfully proud. It's a different thing now." She

looked at Margaret keenly. "Has someone you care for gone to the

Front? Is he in yon train?" She indicated the vanishing train.

Margaret's eyes answered. The woman saw that she was making an effort

to keep calm.

"But he's not leaving his little ones behind him--ye'll no be married?

I've got two at home to keep."

"You have his children--I have nothing," Margaret said enviously.

The woman burst into fresh weeping. Margaret envied her abandonment.

"They are a comfort," she said, "in a way. But they're a deal of

trouble and anxiety--ye're well off without them."

The woman looked poor and clean. Half a crown left Margaret's purse

and took its place beside the coppers which lay in the woman's. It

seemed to her horribly vulgar and insulting to offer the woman money as

a form of comfort, but her knowledge of the very poor told her that on

a cold northern night, the feeling that an extra half-crown had been

added to her income would help. It would "keep the home-fire burning"

for a week or so, at least.

With quick feet Margaret retraced her steps to the free

refreshment-room. Her selfish absence from her post pricked her

conscience. When she entered it she saw that it was almost empty. One

man was lying stretched out at full length on a seat; a pillow was

under his head and he was fast asleep. He had lost his "connection"

and would not be able to get a train until after midnight. He was safe

from temptation in the hospitable room. Another man was writing

letters at the big table; he had already addressed half a dozen

postcards.

Margaret knew that in this quiet interval her aunt would be busy

washing up and drying the dirty cups at the wash-basin in the inner

ladies' room. She hurried to join her.

"Have I been very long?" she said. "I do feel so selfish."

"No, no, my dear," her aunt said quickly. "I managed quite well--the

rush had ceased." She looked at her niece questioningly. "I suppose

you recognized a friend?"

"I saw a man, aunt, amongst the soldiers, whom I knew very well in

Egypt. He was Freddy's best friend. I haven't seen him since. I

wonder if he knows that Freddy is dead? I wanted to speak to him if I

could."

"And did you?"

"No." Margaret's voice trembled. "He had got into the train. The men

were packed like sardines, and I couldn't find him. It left punctually

to the minute--I hadn't much time to look."

Her aunt noticed the emotion in Margaret's voice. The woman in her

longed to put a motherly arm round the girl as she stood beside her,

but her training and national reserve prevented it. So instead of

letting her niece see how generous her sympathy was, she said, in

rather a strident voice, the result of her suppressed feeling:

"There is a good cup of coffee waiting for you in the small brown pot,

and you'll find some egg-sandwiches on a plate on the high shelf above

the tumbler-cupboard. Go and eat them at once, before a fresh lot of

men come in."

"Oh, I don't want anything," Margaret said pleadingly. "Let me help

you wash all these cups, please do, aunt. I really don't want anything

to eat."

"Whether you want it or not, I insist upon your eating it. Go now, at

once, don't waste time."

Her niece obeyed meekly. When her aunt talked like that, and brought

those tones into her voice, Margaret instantly lapsed back into her

childhood. She was once more the little black sheep of Kingdom-come,

the little black sheep who, at the death of her parents, had very

quickly learned to fear rather than to love the various paternal

relatives who had considered it their duty to bring her up in the way a

Lampton should go.

If Margaret's aunt could only have brought herself to speak to her

niece as she many times spoke to strangers of her, how different things

might have been between them! But this God-fearing woman never did.

She was too God-fearing and too little God-loving. She still clung

tenaciously to the old order of things, to the method of rearing girls

and responding to human nature which had been considered wise in her

young days.

While she dried the tea-cups, with a genuine feeling of sympathy for

Margaret in her heart, for she was convinced that this man's going to

the Front had upset her pretty niece, and while Margaret ate her

sandwiches and drank her coffee because she had been bidden to do so,

Michael's train was carrying him through the dark night. He was

sitting in the corridor, on the top of his kit, lost in thought. He

had missed his chance of getting a seat in any of the overcrowded

carriages by his delay in the free-refreshment-room. But what did it

matter? He was accustomed to discomfort, to unutterable hardships.

As he sat there, he heard and saw nothing of his surroundings, for

Margaret's eyes and beauty had given him a delicious new world of his

own. They had told him that she had always trusted him. They had

obliterated the war, and the fact that he was journeying towards it.

They had made his pulses throb again with the wine of passion and gay

romance. He was an individual once more, enjoying the sweetness of the

woman whose love had been so devoutly his.

It seemed so odd that the fresh, clean, proud-looking girl, with the

dark hair and the crimson cross on her breast, behind the food counter,

was actually the woman who had trembled in his arms under the desert

stars, for her very fear of her love for him. She had once been very,

very near to him; she had seemed an indispensable part of his life.

To-night, standing behind the buffet, although she was materially quite

close, she was hopelessly far away. His only privilege had been to

take a cup of tea from her hands. A world of fresh experience and

emotion had separated them.

For a long time he sat motionless on his kit, dreaming only of

Margaret. Now it was of the wonderful things which her eyes had told

him; now it was of the distance and circumstances which separated them.

Later on he roused himself out of his reverie, for the men in the

carriage at whose open door he was sitting were singing, "It's a long,

long way to Tipperary"--the song had not yet been depopularized by

"Keep the home-fires burning"; it was still sung by soldiers and

civilians and gramophones. The lusty, cheery voices brought Michael's

mind back to the stern reality of war. He peeped out into the night,

lifting up the blind from the window-pane and putting his head under it.

The cold, bleak day had given place to a starlit night, with a

high-sailing moon. The snowcapped mountains and distant forests of

solemn pine-trees looked serenely indifferent to the material affairs

of mankind. Their purity and indifference wounded Michael. How could

Nature remain so callously superior, so selfishly peaceful, while he

was hurrying to France, to witness cruelties which it had taken the

world all its great age to invent and put into action? These cold

mountains, rushing streams and hidden glens would just go on smiling in

the sunshine by day and sleeping peacefully under the moonlight, while

golden youth was sacrificing itself on the altar of Liberty.

As the train rushed on through the darkness, emitting sparks which

showed her pace, Michael's thoughts drifted to the old African in

el-Azhar and all that he had visualized. As his eyes peered out from

the jealously-covered windows and rested on the long line of mountains,

high in their snowy whiteness, he repeated the old man's words:

"Why do the heathen so furiously rage together and the people imagine

vain things in their hearts? I tell you, my son, it is because they

have not the love of God in their hearts."

Yes, why, oh why, did they do it? The world he looked out upon was

surely meant for grander and better things? It had nothing to do with

bloodshed. And yet, even as he said it, words and voice answered back:

"Pray for fortitude, my son, that moral condition which enables us to

meet danger and endure pain with calmness. I tell you to pray for

fortitude, for without it you cannot face the future."

As his thoughts were lost in this prayer, he got back his assurance

that this war of wars had to be fought in the cause of freedom. He

knew that it had to be won by the Allies, to ensure the triumph of

right over might. This was the war which was to terminate all wars;

the victory of the Allies was to bring about the disarmament of all

powerful nations. It was the forerunner of a higher civilization.

He put his head between his hands and rested it on his knees. He knew

that his words were true. And yet, had not his old friend in el-Azhar

been as sincerely convinced that this war which he had visualized was

to be fought for the triumph of Islam? Was he not certain that Allah

had ordained it to prove to all countries upon the earth that the

Christian nations had shown that their religion was hideous in Allah's

sight, that it was a failure, that it had not redeemed mankind?

And Germany! What of Germany? Michael saw, with his vivid imagination

and unprejudiced mind, German mothers and fathers praying for their

sons who were fighting for the cause of the beloved Fatherland, the

cause which they believed was the cause of righteousness. Did they

also not pray earnestly and sincerely? Did they, too, not believe that

God would be on the side of righteousness?

Why were these agonized parents and brave soldiers to be made to suffer

if it was all to be in vain, if their cause was not the just cause?

Had they not obeyed the cult of their land and the teachings of their

spiritual pastors and masters? He remembered the African's words: "The

time draws near when each man will return to the land that gave him

birth."

In this war which was raging, all the soldiers who suffered, and the

parents who gave up their only-begotten sons to save their countries

from extermination--all of them were the victims of circumstance. They

were all heroes answering to the call which demanded of them life's

highest sacrifice. They were victims of militarism, which must be

wiped out of civilization.

Michael became agonized with the hopelessness of answering the

questions which stormed his brain. Over and over again he said to

himself the words, "Why do the heathen so furiously rage together and

the people imagine vain things in their hearts?" And over and over

again the answer came, "I tell you, my son, it is because they have not

the love of God in their hearts."

He repeated the words almost mechanically until they indefinitely

became a sort of refrain which kept time to the thud, thud of the

engine, and the rushing noise of the train.

At last, tired out both mentally and physically, he fell asleep. In

his dreams Margaret was very near to him. It was the old Margaret,

radiant with the new wonder of love, fragrant with the night-air of the

Sahara which surrounded them.

The war and its demands were wiped out; the world was back again to the

fair free days which knew neither hate nor fear.

CHAPTER II

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

ill. But Millicent spoke as if you were in such perfect health that I

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."