"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, butI'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 theGovernment.'"
"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 admirablemaître 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 inLondon? 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 inEgypt?" 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 forFreddy 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 littledéjeunerwe 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 littledéjeuner à quatrein 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.
The next day, when Margaret met Michael in the garden square, she was not in her V.A.D.'s uniform. She told him that she was now her own mistress, so much so that she had that morning almost completed the purchase of her trousseau, and that she was free to stay out as long as she liked.
"But I want you," she said, "to return with me now to Clarges Street, to the Iretons. They are in town, and Hadassah says we can be married from their rooms to-morrow."
"They are the kindest people in the world," he said. "I felt sure you were making friends with Hadassah while I was in the desert. I often comforted myself with the fact that she would understand the whole situation and help you."
"She's a brick!" Margaret said. "She has been your ardent champion all the time."
They signalled to a taxi-cab to drive them to Clarges Street. It was necessary to do everything as quickly as they could; there was no time for leisurely walking or discussion.
Suddenly Margaret said, "Look! Quick, Mike, there! I saw that black figure again. She was sitting in the gardens when I arrived. She never used to be here—I feel convinced that she is following us. I believe one of these taxies is waiting for her." Her eyes indicated two taxis, which were waiting outside the gardens.
"Why do you think so?" Michael said. "What can any human being want with us? Why should our movements be interesting to any one but our two selves?" He laughed. "By Jove, they are interesting to us, though, aren't they?"
His eyes spoke of the morrow.
Margaret laughed, too. Michael's high spirits allowed her no time for reflection. He was carrying her off her feet in his old magnetic way. If he had only beckoned, she would have followed him to the ends of the earth; wings would have carried her, the air would have borne her. The dull realities of her life in London had vanished as if they had never been. The black figure, which had stepped into a cab and followed them, was forgotten.
* * * * * *
For something like half an hour Michael sat talking with Hadassah and Margaret. He had so much to tell them that he succeeded in telling them nothing connectedly or completely. He began a hundred different things and left most of them halfway through, to plunge headlong into another and entirely different subject. The things he wanted to say were tumbling over each other in his mind. The bewildering idea that he was going to be married the next day sent all his thoughts reeling.
Margaret was not the sort of girl to worry over a lot of superficial clothes for a ten days' honeymoon. What she needed she had got together in a couple of hours at Harrod's and one or two good shops in the West End.
They had made up their minds to spend their brief period of married life together at Glastonbury. It was not too far from London and Michael had once stayed in the historical old inn in that quiet city of Arthurian romance. In Egypt he had inspired Margaret with a desire to see Glastonbury in the spring time, when the maythorns were in bloom and the luscious meadows gay with flowers.
Like all soldiers, Michael was very silent upon the subject of his own personal experiences at the Front, although at intervals he would suddenly burst out with some dramatic incident in which he had taken part.
When Hadassah congratulated him on being offered a commission, he laughingly said, "Oh, I must accept it. It isn't fair to shirk it, though I'd rather remain as I am."
Margaret's heart stood still. She knew what he meant; she was not ignorant of the appalling death-rate of officers.
"You mean," Hadassah said, "that——"
She got no further, for Michael interrupted her. "I mean that if I'm capable of leading the men I ought to do it, but I dread the responsibility. That's why I never tried for a commission—I. didn't feel confident. But as the deaths amongst the officers are much greater than among the men, I can't remain a Tommy, can I?" He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. "Read that," he said. "That's the sort of thing that proves whether a man can lead or not."
Margaret and Hadassah read the newspaper cutting. It had been quoted from thePetit Journal.
"The British High Command relies more and more on the value of the individual soldier, and in this we see one of the main factors which will mean German defeat. Take the case of the heroism of a sergeant who, seeing his officer seriously wounded, himself assumed command of his company and led them victoriously to the third line. There he fell in his turn, but one of the men immediately took his place and completed the conquest of the objective. It is thanks to such acts that . . . has been seized, crossed and left behind."
When Hadassah and Margaret looked up, they met Michael's eyes. They were looking into the things beyond, things very far from Clarges Street.
"That was my sergeant," he said, "the finest fellow that ever wore shoe-leather!"
"And the Tommy," Hadassah said, "has he been promoted?"
Michael's eyes dropped; his tanned skin flushed slightly.
"Of course he'll have to take a commission if it's offered to him. He can't very well refuse. He has proved his ability to lead, poor chap! I expect he'd rather remain as he was. I know I would—it's a terrible responsibility, inspiring your men as well as teaching them, but one can't shelter oneself while others face greater risks."
Hadassah's quick brain read the truth, while Margaret merely lost herself in visualizing the dangers which Michael would so soon have to face. The twelve days would be gone so soon that they were scarcely worth counting.
From the war their sketchy talk returned again to Michael's experiences in the desert. He told them briefly about the saint, omitting the nature of his illness. He spoke so naturally and unguardedly about Millicent, and of his annoyance at her appearance and at her persistence in remaining, that if there had been any lingering doubt in Hadassah's mind upon the subject of his absolute loyalty to Margaret, it was completely dispersed.
When he was hurriedly telling them about the meeting of the saint and all about his knowledge of the hidden treasure, and how completely it tallied with the African's prophecies, he produced a tiny parcel from his pocket-book. He handed it to Margaret, who felt as if she had been listening to the last chapter of a long story fromThe Arabian Nights.
The little packet was made up of many folds of tissue-paper. With nervous fingers Margaret unwrapped it.
When the last piece was discarded and she saw that uncut jewel lying against the palm of her hand, she gave a cry of delight mixed with apprehension. Its beauty was unique, its colour as indescribable as the crimson of an afterglow in the Valley.
She looked almost pitifully at Michael. She wished that the world was a little less strange; some of the humdrum of her pantry-maid's existence would be almost welcome.
"The saint carried it in his ear," he said. "He took it fromAkhnaton's treasure."
"Have you had it with you at the Front all this time?" Hadassah said.Margaret's emotion touched her.
"Yes. But now it is for you, Meg. I will have it made into anything you like, so that you can always wear it. It will be my wedding-present, a jewel of Akhnaton."
"No, no!" Margaret said quickly. "You must take it, it belongs to you.You must always carry it about with you, Mike—it is your talisman."She stopped, for Michael had closed her fingers over the stone.
"But I want you to have it," he said. "Let it be my wedding-gift—there is no time for the buying of presents."
"No," Margaret said. "Don't urge me, Mike. I shan't like it. Hadassah, don't you agree with me?—he must never part with it!" She smiled. "I should be terribly afraid if you did, I should think your luck had deserted you. Dearest, do take it—I believe Akhnaton meant you to keep it."
While she spoke she was longing to tell him of the hand which had written, of her message. The words almost passed her lips, but again she refrained, she obeyed her super-senses. She was convinced that Michael, when his blood was up, ran terrible risks, that he was reckless to the verge of folly. She had heard a letter read in the hospital which had been written to a mother about her son. His Colonel had said, "There are some men who will storm hell, there are others who will follow, and there are some who will lag behind. Your son belongs to the first of the three. What he needs to learn is caution and the value in this war of officers as able as himself." Margaret knew that Michael's rash nature needed no encouragement.
Hadassah championed Margaret. "I think you should keep it," she said to Michael, "and give it to Margaret after the war."
They all laughed, not unmirthfully, and yet not happily. "After the war!" they echoed in one voice. "Oh, that wonderful 'after'!"
"That promised land," Michael said. "Never mind—it's coming. The labour and travail of the war will bring forth Liberty. The pains of childbirth are soon forgotten—mothers know how soon, when the infant is at their breast."
Hadassah and Margaret looked at one another. Their eyes said many things; Margaret's were full of pride because Hadassah was hearing from his own lips that Michael was as whole-heartedly in the war as even Freddy could have desired.
She was still fingering and gazing at the wonderful stone. It seemed scarcely more strange to her that it had actually once belonged to the first king who had abhorred war, had once formed a part of his great royal treasury, than the fact that it had played its part in the mystical drama of her life in Egypt. As Michael talked, she questioned herself dreamily. Which was real—her humdrum pantry-maid existence in London, with her dreary walks through darkened streets, with now and then a Zeppelin scare to make her lonely bedroom seem more lonely? Or her life in the Valley, surrounded by the unearthly light of the Theban hills, her life of intellectual excitement and strange intimacy with things and people which the world had forgotten for thousands of years?
Michael felt her abstraction. He put his hand on the top of hers, which held the jewel, and pressed it.
"Come back," he said, laughing. "We're in Clarges Street, and we're going to be married to-morrow."
Meg looked up with startled eyes. "Are we?" she said.
"My dear, practical mystic, we are." He caught her round the waist and looked at Hadassah as he spoke. "You'll get her ready, won't you?"
She laughed. "Well, if you really mean it, I think we must all be up and doing."
"If!" Michael cried. "With this in my pocket, I should rather think I do mean it!" He brandished the special licence in the air. "Do you know what this means, Meg? It's your death-warrant. Are you resigned? Have you anything to confess? You've not been married to anyone else while I was away?"
Margaret shook her head. He had brought laughter back to her eyes. Just at that moment the ex-butler entered the room. As they all turned to look at him, he said:
"A person has called to see Miss Lampton."
"Who is it?" Margaret said. Her thoughts flew to her dressmaker, who was hurriedly making a light frock, bought ready-made, the proper length for her; in all other respects it fitted her.
"I don't know, miss. She has a box in her arms."
"Oh, I'll go," Margaret said. "I won't be long."
"Then, while you're gone, I'll make use of my time," Michael said as he rose to his feet. "I'll be back in ten minutes." He looked into Margaret's eyes. "Don't waste any time on dressmakers, Meg! Wear any old things,—you always look delightful."
"Catch me wasting time!" Margaret said. Her eyes assured him of her words. "Come upstairs for me in ten minutes—I'll be ready."
* * * * * *
A minute or two later Margaret returned to the sitting-room. Michael had left it. She was glad.
"Hadassah," she said, "listen. The most extraordinary thing has happened. Millicent Mervill is up in the drawing-room." Margaret was trembling with anger and nervousness.
"What? That woman here? How has she found you, how dare she come to see you?" Hadassah's voice was indignant, furious; her eyes flashed.
Margaret hurriedly explained to her how for the last two days she had felt that someone was following her, a dark figure, indistinctly dressed in black.
"She watched me in the square this morning. With her old cunning, she managed to get in by bringing some corset-boxes with her. Smith thought she had come to try something on. Isn't it like her?"
"Have you seen her?"
"No, not yet. She gave this note to Smith to give to me; he thought it was just a list of the things she had brought. I knew her handwriting the moment I saw it. Please read it."
Hadassah read the letter. It was very short.
"Dear Miss Lampton,
"If you will let me see you, I will tell you something which you ought to know. Please don't refuse. What I know may greatly help Mr. Amory.
"I only heard the other day that he never discovered the treasure. It is about that I want to see you.
"Yours,
When Hadassah had finished reading the note, she raised her eyes; they met Margaret's.
"You had better see her." Hadassah spoke quickly.
"Yes, I must, I suppose. I only wanted to know if you would mind—it is your house. I think it's such impertinence."
"Of course not. But what can she have to tell you?"
"I don't know, but whatever it is, I do wish she hadn't come." Margaret sighed. "We were all so happy, and she is associated with everything that is hateful."
"Would you like me to come with you?"
"No, no." Margaret shook her head. "I am always best alone, but I dread the interview."
She paused for a moment or two before leaving the room. She was building up her courage, trying to subdue her nervousness. As she went out, Hadassah's eyes followed her.
"Poor girl!" she said to herself. "She has gone through so much. I thought she was in for a little time of peace and happiness. Poor Margaret!" She sighed. "And what is there still before her?" Hadassah's eyes looked into the future, "with this cruel, cruel war only beginning, for we are really just getting into it!"
She had been preparing to write some letters relating to Margaret's affairs, but for a moment or two she did not take up her pen. A little of the truth of what did actually happen to Michael on the battlefields of Flanders swam before her eyes; it was just the things which were happening and have happened to England's brave boys and men during these three wonderful years. The war was still in its infancy, but even then the vices of Germany were as old as her race and as terrible.
She pictured the truth—Michael's charmed life, his reckless courage, his magnetic power over his men. She foresaw it all. His temperament foretold it, his absolute belief in the triumph of righteousness.
While Hadassah was thinking these things, and thanking God in her heart that her husband, by reason of his special qualifications, had at once been placed in a post of great responsibility and one far removed from the danger-zone, Margaret had reached the drawing-room. She paused for a moment outside the door; she needed all her self-control.
As she entered the room, and before she had closed the door behind her, a slight figure, so shapelessly enveloped in black and closely-veiled that she could not distinguish any individuality, turned from the window, which opened into a small glass recess full of ferns and flowers.
Margaret did not hold out her hand; she could not. Nor did Millicent Mervill; she stood before Margaret, her head bent and her hands clasped in front of her, a slight bundle of drooping black, as mysterious as any veiled Egyptian woman.
"You have something to tell me?" Margaret said. In spite of her anger, the humility of the fragile figure brought a suggestion of pity into her voice. The radiant beauty whom she had steeled her nerves to meet had given place to this meek, formless penitent. "Please put up your veil—I can't see you." She knew that she could not trust the woman's words; she wished to watch her eyes while she spoke.
"I am wearing it," Millicent said, "because I can't bear you to look at me, to see how changed I am. Please let me keep it down, while I tell you all I know about Mr. Amory and the treasure."
"What has happened?" Margaret said. Millicent's voice was agonized.
"I had smallpox in Alexandria—it has left me hideous. Soon after I last saw you I sickened with it. I was very, very ill."
"Smallpox!" There was genuine sympathy in Margaret's voice. "Are you really disfigured? How dreadful that nowadays you should be!"
"Yes," Millicent said, lifelessly. "I have nothing left to live for now. My looks are gone. I was very ignorantly nursed; they were kind people, but hopelessly ignorant."
"Perhaps your looks will come back—give yourself time." Even as Margaret spoke, she wondered how she found it possible to talk to the woman in the way she was doing. Only five minutes ago she had hated her, hated her so intensely that she had had to exercise great control over her passions so that she should not lose her temper in her presence. Now she felt a sincere pity for her, the poor creature. Margaret's subconscious womanhood knew the reason. It was because she could afford, to be sorry for her, now that all rivalry between them was dead.
"I didn't come to tell you about myself," Millicent said. "It is nothing to you—you must be glad." She wrung her hands more tightly. "You are saying in your heart at this moment that I deserve it. So I do. I see things clearly now—I do deserve it. I brought it all on myself, everything. But I have suffered, you don't know how I have suffered."
"Sit down," Margaret said quietly, "and tell me all about it."
"No, no. You are only speaking like this because you feel you ought to, because I am now a thing to pity. You really hate me. I came to tell you that I never reached the hills, I never saw the hidden treasure, I never tried to find it." She paused. "And that your lover was never mine. He never desired any woman but you—he scorned me, ignored my advances."
"I know that," Margaret said hotly. A fire had kindled her calm eyes; it quickened her spirit.
"But it is none the less my duty to tell you. Your lover is too fine, too loyal—he won't stoop to tell you how I tempted him. He wouldn't blacken evenmyname. He has too much respect for womanhood."
"Then why tell me?" Margaret said. "I don't want to hear it. All that is past. We are going to be married tomorrow—Michael is home from the Front. We are perfectly happy—don't recall it all."
A cry rang through the room. Its tone of envy and passion convincedMargaret that even in the worst human beings there is the divine spark.It actually hurt her that her own joy should mean this agony to anotherwoman.
"You are going to be married," Millicent said, "to the finest lover and the truest gentleman I have ever known, or ever shall know, the finest in the world, I think."
"Yes," Margaret said. "He is all that, and more—at least, to me."
"Much more," Millicent said, "much more. And will you tell him that I never reached the hills, that I am not guilty of that one meanness?"
"Then who did?" Margaret said quickly.
"Oh, then you thought I did? You thought I robbed him of his discovery? Does he think so, too?" Her voice shook. Her curious sense of honour scorned the idea.
"No, no," Margaret said. Her love of truth made her speak frankly. "He wouldn't believe it. He is still convinced that you never went to the hills, that you are innocent."
"But you believed it?"
"Yes," Margaret's voice was stern. "Yes, I believed it for a time."
"I have nothing worth lying for now," Millicent said bitterly; "so what I tell you is perfectly true. I never reached the hills; I was too great a coward. I fled away in the night, as fast as I could, back to civilization."
"Then who anticipated Michael's discovery? It's absurd to assume that someone who knew nothing of his theory should have discovered it at the very same time, almost. Do you expect me to believe that?"
"My dragoman told me that one of my men absconded. He left me on the same night as I left Michael's camp. He must have discovered it; he must have heard the saint telling Michael all about it." She paused. "You know the whole story, don't you? All about the saint, and how his illness turned out to be smallpox?" She shuddered at the very mention of the saint.
"No," Margaret said. "I haven't heard about the smallpox. Was that how you got it?"
"Indirectly, yes, but it was my own fault. When I heard that he had got it, I stole away in the night, I left Michael to face it alone." She paused.
Margaret held her tongue. There was something so horrible about smallpox that, in spite of the woman's cowardly behaviour, she felt some sympathy for her.
"He had begged me to go before the saint turned up. I wouldn't. When the saint appeared he forgot almost everything else, and so for one whole day I remained confident in the belief that he had taken my presence for granted. And then," she shuddered, "he came to tell me that the holy man had smallpox."
"And you forgot your love?" Margaret said.
"It was swallowed up in fear, in anger. I was so furious at Michael's rash generosity. I had warned him that the man might be suffering from some contagious malady, but I never dreamed of smallpox."
"It was horrible!" Margaret said. "And Michael has never said a word about it."
"His charity is divine," Millicent said. "It is Christ-like, if you like."
"It is true charity, for it is love, love for everything which God has created."
"He is so happy that he can afford to love almost everything and everyone."
"He is happy because he loves them."
"I don't believe he has ever heard of hell," Millicent said. "His religion's all heaven and beauty and love."
"Hell!" exclaimed Margaret. "But surely," she paused, "surely we're not primitives, we don't need the fear of such impossible cruelties to keep us from doing wrong? His great saint, or reformer, Akhnaton, had no hell in his religion, and he lived, as you know, centuries before David. Even Akhnaton realized that human beings create their own hells. The other hell, of fire and brimstone, which terrorized the ignorant people into obedience and order, belongs to the same category as the crocodile god and the wicked cat-goddess Pasht, of Egypt. It was necessary in its day."
"You and Michael live on such a high plane!"
"Oh no, we don't. You know Michael is very human—that is why he is so understanding, so forgiving."
"He will never forgive me—that would be expecting too much. But I had to come and tell you all that I know about his treasure. I have only just heard—I saw it in the Egyptian monthly Archaeological Report—that Michael never had the glory of discovering the Akhnaton chambers in the hills."
"You didn't know that when I saw you in Cairo?"
"No, I never dreamed of it. If you had only told me that he hadn't, I should have explained, I should have told you about the man who absconded."
Margaret looked at her searchingly, but she could learn nothing more than the voice told her, for Millicent's veil was still covering her disfigured face.
"I never wished to rob him of the honour of the discovery. If I had known when I saw you, I should have cleared my name, at least, of that contemptible deed."
Margaret blushed. "I couldn't tell you," she said. "I was too unhappy, too angry. I didn't want you to know of our disappointment. I pretended that I had heard from Michael."
"You led me to suppose that he had discovered it."
"I know," Margaret said. "I didn't wish to add to your satisfaction by telling you of his disappointment. I was convinced that you knew, and that you had slipped off to the hills." She paused. "We were bluffing each other."
"I was incubating smallpox. I was wearing a blouse and skirt which had been packed with the clothes I wore in the desert. Probably it had come in touch with some infected thing."
"Were you very bad?" Margaret said. "Where have you been all this time?"
Millicent shivered. "I was just going to sail for England, but I was too ill when I reached Alexandria to go on board the boat—I had to stay behind. I have been hiding myself from the world ever since. Yes, I was dreadfully ill, and now. . . ." Her voice broke. "You don't know what I feel when I look at myself—my own face makes me sick."
"I am so sorry," Margaret said. "You were so beautiful, such a wonderful colour!"
"How kind of you to say so!" Millicent's voice left no doubt of her feeling of shame, although Margaret's nobility was beyond her understanding; it humbled her. "I came to you because I wanted to do what I can to undo what I have done. If Michael had known that my servant anticipated his discovery, it might have given him a clue as to where the treasure has gone. You do believe now that I never saw the jewels? I never dreamed of robbing him!" She paused. "In my poor way I loved him. I couldn't have done that—not that."
"And yet you were so horribly cruel! You knew a great deal about men. Michael is only human, and he is so ready to believe the best of everyone."
"Yes, I know. But I suppose I was born bad, born with feelings you don't understand. Michael did his best to help me; he tried to awaken something higher in me. I suppose you won't believe it, but he has—he has helped me; I am not quite what I was. While I was ill, when I thought I was dying, all that he had ever said to me came back to me with a new meaning. I determined that if I got well I would tell you everything—how wonderful his love for you is, how strong he can be—and it is not the strength of a man who does not feel."
"Oh, I know it," Margaret said. Her voice was resentful.
"But please let me tell you, even if you do know it. It is only right to Michael—I must exonerate him, even if you resent hearing me speak of his love for you. Let me make a clean breast of it, show you how ignorant he was of my plans for meeting him. He never was more surprised in his life."
"I didn't mean to resent it, but there are some things we never need telling, things which are better left unsaid. Michael needs no telling that you never stole the jewels, for instance, that you never tried to reach the hills."
"Stole the jewels! No, I never stole them. You thought that?" Horror was in Millicent's voice. "You thought I stole them for my personal use? To wear them?"
"It would not have been so cruel as to steal my lover, would it?"
"It would have been less difficult."
"You tried—oh, how you tried to steal him! How could—you?" A revulsion of feeling hardened Margaret. Her eyes showed it. She was visualizing Millicent in all her former beauty. Even without beauty, she knew how strongly her vitality would appeal to men. Despondent, in her drooping black shawls, Millicent was keenly alive still. Margaret had always felt her vitality; she knew that men felt it. It stirred them to conquest; it invited contest.
Millicent answered her truthfully. "Because I am bad, not good, and I loved him with the only kind of love I know. It swept aside all scruples. You can't judge—try to believe that—you can't begin to judge. I lived for conquest and men's admiration, and now I have lost both."