John stroked her hair.

"I am afraid it will not be over for a long time, Amaryllis. Yes, I think we shall go out and pretty soon. You would not wish to stop me, child?"

Amaryllis looked straight in front of her.

"What is this thing in us, John, which makes us feel that--yes, we would give our nearest and dearest, even if they must be killed? When the big thing comes even into the lives which have been perhaps all frivolous like mine--it seems to make a great light. There is an exaltation, and a pity, and a glory, and a grief, but no holding back.

Is that patriotism, John?"

"That is one name for it, darling."

"But it is really beyond that in this war, because we are not going to fight for England, but for right. I think that feeling that we must give is some oblation of the soul which has freed itself from the chains of the body at last. For so many years we have all been asleep."

"This is a rude awakening."

They were silent for a little while, each busy with unusual thoughts.

There was a sense of nearness between them--of understanding, new and dangerously sweet.

Amaryllis felt it deliciously, sensuously, and took joy in that she was touching him.

John thrust it away.

"I must get through to-night," he thought, "but I cannot if this hideous pain of knowledge of what I must renounce conquers me--I must be strong."

He went on stroking her hair; it made her thrill and she turned and bit one of his fingers playfully with a wicked little laugh.

"I wish I knew what I am feeling, John," she whispered, and her eyes were aflame, "I wish I knew--"

"I must teach you!" and with sudden fierceness he bent down and kissed her lips.

Then he told her to go to bed.

"You must be tired, Amaryllis, after your journey. Go like a good child."

She pouted. She was all vibrating with some totally new and overmastering emotion. She wanted to stay and be made love to. She wanted--she knew not what, only everything in her was thrilling with pa.s.sionate warmth.

"Must I? It is only ten."

"I have a frightful lot of business things to write tonight, Amaryllis.

Go now and sleep, and I will come and wake you about twelve!" He looked lover-like. She sighed.

"Ah! if you would only come now!"

He kissed her almost roughly again and led her to the door. And he stood watching her with burning eyes as she went up the stairs.

Then he came back and rang the bell.

"I shall be very late, Murcheson--do not sit up, I will turn out the lights. Good-night."

"Very good, Sir John."

And the valet left the room.

But John Ardayre did not write any business letters; he sank back into his great leather chair--his lips were trembling, and presently sobs shook him, and he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.

Just before twelve had struck, he went out into the hall, and turned off the light at the main. The whole house would now be in absolute darkness but for an electric torch he carried. He listened--there was not a sound.

Then he crept quietly up to his dressing room and returned with a bottle of the clove-scented hair lotion.

"What a mercy she spoke of it," his thoughts ran. "How sensitive women are--I should never have remembered such a thing."

Yes--now there was a sound.

Midnight had struck--and Amaryllis, sleeping peacefully, had been dreaming of John.

"Oh! dearest," she whispered drowsily, as but half awakened, she felt herself being drawn into a pair of strong arms--"Oh!--you know I love that scent of cloves--Oh!--I love you, John!"

CHAPTER IX

When Amaryllis awoke in the morning her head rested on John's breast, and his arm encircled her. She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him.

He was still asleep--and his face was infinitely sad. She bent over and kissed him with shy tenderness, but he did not move, he only sighed heavily as he lay there.

Why should he look so sad, when they were so happy?

She thought of loving things he had said to her at dinner--and then the afterwards!--and she thrilled with emotion. Life seemed a glorious thing and--But John was sad, of course, because he must go away. The recollection of this fact came upon her suddenly like a blast of cold air. They must part. War hung there with its hideous shadow, and John must be conscious of it even in his dreams, that was why he sighed.

The irony of things--now--when--Oh! how cruel that he must go.

Then John awoke with a shudder, and saw her there leaning over him with a new soft love light in her eyes, and he realised that the anguish of his calvary had only just begun.

She was perfectly exquisite at breakfast, a fresh and tender graciousness radiated in her every glance; she was subtle and captivating, teasing him that he had been so silent in the night. "Why wouldn't you talk to me, John? But it was all divine, I did not mind." Then she became full of winsome ways and caresses, which she had hitherto been too timid to express; and every fond word she spoke stabbed John's heart.

Could she not come and stay somewhere near so as to be with him while he was in training? It was unbearable to remain alone.

But he told her that this would be impossible and that she must go back to Ardayre.

"I will get leave, if there is a chance, dear little girl."

"Oh! John, you must indeed."

After he had gone out to the War Office, she sang as she undid a bundle of late roses he had sent her from Soloman's, on his way.

She must herself put them in water; no servant should have this pleasing task. Was it the thought of the imminence of separation which had altered John into so dear a lover? She went over his words there in the library.