Part 78 (1/2)

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 ta.s.sels; 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 pa.s.s her seat; she is always here.

She's a great character, an old actress--such a good sort.”

As they pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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?”