V
They had both known what they had thought was love,—among flowers, dances, the lovely but artificial things of life—
But here—among the dying—blood, privation, life divested of its mantles and laid bare—the true love sprang up between these two. Something more than love. A perfect understanding of each—like the treble and the base of a symphony—
In the still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit in the organ loft together, speaking the enchanted language only lovers know—made dearer by the phantom of separation ever near them.
Dearest, when the Regiment has called me back, play each day at twilight—the Miserere. If—in the trenches—I shall know your soul is calling to mine—if, beyond, my soul will drink from the depths of yours——
Snow was falling.
Goodbye, dear, he whispered—
Now even the organ could not calm. She had tasted the sweet of life—and it had been torn away. For what—
Suddenly hate possessed her—hate for this man who would rule the world—causing whole nations to rise up against him to defend their soil—hatred for the power that had brought despair into unknown lives—
Brought murder into peaceful souls.
The days followed each other in bleak sameness.
She moved among the wounded—a shadow self—
But at twilight each day, Janet lived. She played the Miserere—with her soul. Then again—the moving dazed form would return to help the men lying on mattresses where once peasants had knelt in prayer—