"Hada.s.sah?"

"Yes, Hada.s.sah." 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 att.i.tude 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 a.s.surance of his faithfulness to her and of his right to ask for her love.

These thoughts pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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."