Part 79 (2/2)

”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 Hada.s.sah; 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_.

CHAPTER III

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 Hada.s.sah 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 Hada.s.sah 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 Hada.s.sah 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 Glas...o...b..ry. 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 Glas...o...b..ry 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 Hada.s.sah congratulated him on being offered a commission, he laughingly said, ”Oh, I must accept it. It isn't fair to s.h.i.+rk 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,” Hada.s.sah 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 Hada.s.sah read the newspaper cutting. It had been quoted from the _Pet.i.t 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 a.s.sumed 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.”

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