Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner Page A

enough to have wings and a scar. But to die.
    â€œMargaret,” he said with such despair that she gazed at I him in swift pity. (He was so young.) “Margaret, are you in love with him?” (Knowing that if he were a woman, he would be.)
    â€œNo, certainly not. I am not in love with anybody. My husband was killed on the Aisne, you see,” she told him gently.
    â€œOh, Margaret,” he said with bitter sincerity, “I would have been killed there if I could, or wounded like him, don’t you know it?”
    â€œOf course, darling.” She put the tray aside. “Come here.”
    Cadet Lowe rose again and went to her. “I would have been, if I’d had a chance,” he repeated.
    She drew him down beside her, and he knew he was acting the child she supposed him to be, but he couldn’t help it. His disappointment and despair were more than everything now. Here were her knees sweetly under his face, and he put his arms around her legs.
    â€œI wanted to be,” he confessed more than he had ever believed, “I would take his scar and all.”
    â€œAnd be dead, like he is going to be?”
    But what was death to Cadet Lowe, except something true and grand and sad? He saw a tomb, open, and himself in boots and belt, and pilot’s wings on his breast, a wound stripe. . . What more could one ask of Fate?
    â€œYes, yes,” he answered.
    â€œWhy, you have flown, too,” she told him, holding his face against her knees, “you might have been him, but you were lucky. Perhaps you would have flown too well to have been shot down as he was. Had you thought of that?”
    â€œI don’t know. I guess I would let them catch me, if I could have been him. You are in love with him.”
    â€œI swear I am not.” She raised his head to see his face. “I would tell you if I were. Don’t you believe me?” her eyes were compelling: he believed her.
    â€œThen, if you aren’t, can’t you promise to wait for me? I will be older soon and I’ll work like hell and make money.”
    â€œWhat will your mother say?”
    â€œHell, I don’t have to mind her like a kid forever. I am nineteen, as old as you are, and if she don’t like it, she can go to hell.”
    â€œLowe!” she reproved him, not telling him she was twenty-four, “the idea! You go home and tell your mother—I will give you a note to her—and you can write what she says.”
    â€œBut I had rather go with you.”
    â€œBut dear heart, what good will that do? We are going to take him home, and he is sick. Don’t you see, darling, we can’t do anything until we get him settled, and that you would only be in the way?”
    â€œIn the way?” he repeated with sharp pain.
    â€œYou know what I mean. We can’t have anything to think about until we get him home, don’t you see?”
    â€œBut you aren’t in love with him?”
    â€œI swear I’m not. Does that satisfy you?”
    â€œThen, you are in love with me?”
    She drew his face against her knees again. “You sweet child,” she said; “of course I won’t tell you—yet.”
    And he had to be satisfied with this. They held each other in silence for a time. “How good you smell,” remarked Cadet Lowe at last.
    She moved. “Come up here by me,” she commanded, and when he was beside her she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He put his arms around her, and she drew his head between her breasts. After a while she stroked his hair and spoke.
    â€œNow, are you going home at once?”
    â€œMust I?” he asked vacuously.
    â€œYou must,” she answered. “Today. Wire her at once. And I will give you a note to her.”
    â€œOh, hell, you know what she’ll say.”
    â€œOf course I do. You haven’t any sisters and brothers, have you?”
    â€œNo,” he said in surprise. She moved and he