Saint's Progress, by John Galsworthy
by
John Galsworthy
Part 1 out of 6
This etext was produced by David Widger
SAINTS PROGRESS
By John Galsworthy
PART I
I
Such a day made glad the heart. All the flags of July were waving;
the sun and the poppies flaming; white butterflies spiring up and
twining, and the bees busy on the snapdragons. The lime-trees were
coming into flower. Tall white lilies in the garden beds already
rivaled the delphiniums; the York and Lancaster roses were full-blown
round their golden hearts. There was a gentle breeze, and a swish
and stir and hum rose and fell above the head of Edward Pierson,
coming back from his lonely ramble over Tintern Abbey. He had
arrived at Kestrel, his brother Robert's home on the bank of the Wye
only that morning, having stayed at Bath on the way down; and now he
had got his face burnt in that parti-coloured way peculiar to the
faces of those who have been too long in London. As he came along
the narrow, rather overgrown avenue, the sound of a waltz thrummed
out on a piano fell on his ears, and he smiled, for music was the
greatest passion he had. His dark grizzled hair was pushed back off
his hot brow, which he fanned with his straw hat. Though not broad,
that brow was the broadest part of a narrow oval face whose length
was increased by a short, dark, pointed beard--a visage such as
Vandyk might have painted, grave and gentle, but for its bright grey
eyes, cinder-lashed. and crow's-footed, and its strange look of not
seeing what was before it. He walked quickly, though he was tired
and hot; tall, upright, and thin, in a grey parsonical suit, on whose
black kerseymere vest a little gold cross dangled.
Above his brother's house, whose sloping garden ran down to the
railway line and river, a large room had been built out apart.
Pierson stood where the avenue forked, enjoying the sound of the
waltz, and the cool whipping of the breeze in the sycamores and
birches. A man of fifty, with a sense of beauty, born and bred in
the country, suffers fearfully from nostalgia during a long unbroken
spell of London; so that his afternoon in the old Abbey had been
almost holy. He had let his senses sink into the sunlit greenery of
the towering woods opposite; he had watched the spiders and the
little shining beetles, the flycatchers, and sparrows in the ivy;
touched the mosses and the lichens; looked the speedwells in the eye;
dreamed of he knew not what. A hawk had been wheeling up there above
the woods, and he had been up there with it in the blue. He had
taken a real spiritual bath, and washed the dusty fret of London off
his soul.
For a year he had been working his parish single-handed--no joke--
for his curate had gone for a chaplain; and this was his first real
holiday since the war began, two years ago; his first visit, too, to
his brother's home. He looked down at the garden, and up at the
trees of the avenue. Bob had found a perfect retreat after his
quarter of a century in Ceylon. Dear old Bob! And he smiled at the
thought of his elder brother, whose burnt face and fierce grey
whiskers somewhat recalled a Bengal tiger; the kindest fellow that
ever breathed! Yes, he had found a perfect home for Thirza and
himself. And Edward Pierson sighed. He too had once had a perfect
home, a perfect wife; the wound of whose death, fifteen years ago,
still bled a little in his heart. Their two daughters, Gratian and
Noel, had not "taken after" her; Gratian was like his own mother, and
Noel's fair hair and big grey eyes always reminded him of his cousin
Leila, who--poor thing!--had made that sad mess of her life, and now,
he had heard, was singing for a living, in South Africa. Ah! What a
pretty girl she had been
Drawn by that eternal waltz tune he reached the doorway of the music-
room. A chintz curtain hung there, and to the sound of feet slipping
on polished boards, he saw his daughter Noel waltzing slowly in the
arms of a young officer in khaki: Round and round they went,
circling, backing, moving sideways with curious steps which seemed to
have come in recently, for he did not recognise them. At the piano
sat his niece Eve, with a teasing smile on her rosy face. But it was
at his young daughter that Edward Pierson looked. Her eyes were
half-closed, her cheeks rather pale, and her fair hair, cut quite
short, curled into her slim round neck. Quite cool she seemed,
though the young man in whose arms she was gliding along looked fiery
hot; a handsome boy, with blue eyes and a little golden down on the
upper lip of his sunny red-cheeked face. Edward Pierson thought:
'Nice couple!' And had a moment's vision of himself and Leila,
dancing at that long-ago Cambridge May Week--on her seventeenth
birthday, he remembered, so that she must have been a year younger
than Nollie was now! This would be the young man she had talked of
in her letters during the last three weeks. Were they never going to
stop?
He passed into view of those within, and said:
"Aren't you very hot, Nollie?"
She blew him a kiss; the young man looked startled and self-
conscious, and Eve called out:
"It's a bet, Uncle. They've got to dance me down."
Pierson said mildly:
"A bet? My dears!"
Noel murmured over her shoulder:
"It's all right, Daddy!" And the young man gasped:
"She's bet us one of her puppies against one of mine, sir!"
Pierson sat down, a little hypnotized by the sleepy strumming, the
slow giddy movement of the dancers, and those half-closed swimming
eyes of his young daughter, looking at him over her shoulder as she
went by. He sat with a smile on his lips. Nollie was growing up!
Now that Gratian was married, she had become a great responsibility.
If only his dear wife had lived! The smile faded from his lips; he
looked suddenly very tired. The struggle, physical and spiritual, he
had been through, these fifteen years, sometimes weighed him almost
to the ground: Most men would have married again, but he had always
felt it would be sacrilege. Real unions were for ever, even though
the Church permitted remarriage.
He watched his young daughter with a mixture of aesthetic pleasure
and perplexity. Could this be good for her? To go on dancing
indefinitely with one young man could that possibly be good for her?
But they looked very happy; and there was so much in young creatures
that he did not understand. Noel, so affectionate, and dreamy,
seemed sometimes possessed of a little devil. Edward Pierson was
naif; attributed those outbursts of demonic possession to the loss of
her mother when she was such a mite; Gratian, but two years older,
had never taken a mother's place. That had been left to himself, and
he was more or less conscious of failure.
He sat there looking up at her with a sort of whimsical distress.
And, suddenly, in that dainty voice of hers, which seemed to spurn
each word a little, she said:
"I'm going to stop!" and, sitting down beside him, took up his hat to
fan herself.
Eve struck a triumphant chord. "Hurrah I've won!"
The young man muttered:
"I say, Noel, we weren't half done!"
"I know; but Daddy was getting bored, weren't you, dear? This is
Cyril Morland."
Pierson shook the young man's hand.
"Daddy, your nose is burnt!"
"My dear; I know."
"I can give you some white stuff for it. You have to sleep with it
on all night. Uncle and Auntie both use it."
"Nollie!"
"Well, Eve says so. If you're going to bathe, Cyril, look out for
that current!"
The young man, gazing at her with undisguised adoration, muttered:
"Rather!" and went out.
Noel's eyes lingered after him; Eve broke a silence.
"If you're going to have a bath before tea, Nollie, you'd better
hurry up."
"All right. Was it jolly in the Abbey, Daddy?"
"Lovely; like a great piece of music."
"Daddy always puts everything into music. You ought to see it by
moonlight; it's gorgeous then. All right, Eve; I'm coming." But she
did not get up, and when Eve was gone, cuddled her arm through her
father's and murmured:
"What d'you think of Cyril?"
"My dear, how can I tell? He seems a nice-looking young man."
"All right, Daddy; don't strain yourself. It's jolly down here,
isn't it?" She got up, stretched herself a little, and moved away,
looking like a very tall child, with her short hair curling in round
her head.
Pierson, watching her vanish past the curtain, thought: 'What a
lovely thing she is!' And he got up too, but instead of following,
went to the piano, and began to play Mendelssohn's Prelude and Fugue
in E minor. He had a fine touch, and played with a sort of dreamy
passion. It was his way out of perplexities, regrets, and longings;
a way which never quite failed him.
At Cambridge, he had intended to take up music as a profession, but
family tradition had destined him for Holy Orders, and an emotional
Church revival of that day had caught him in its stream. He had
always had private means, and those early years before he married had
passed happily in an East-End parish. To have not only opportunity
but power to help in the lives of the poor had been fascinating;
simple himself, the simple folk of his parish had taken hold of his
heart. When, however, he married Agnes Heriot, he was given a parish
of his own on the borders of East and West, where he had been ever
since, even after her death had nearly killed him. It was better to
go on where work and all reminded him of one whom he had resolved
never to forget in other ties. But he knew that his work had not the
zest it used to have in her day, or even before her day. It may well
be doubted whether he, who had been in Holy Orders twenty-six years,
quite knew now what he believed. Everything had become
circumscribed, and fixed, by thousands of his own utterances; to have
taken fresh stock of his faith, to have gone deep into its roots,
would have been like taking up the foundations of a still-standing
house. Some men naturally root themselves in the inexpressible--for
which one formula is much the same as another; though Edward Pierson,
gently dogmatic, undoubtedly preferred his High-Church statement of
the inexpressible to that of, say, the Zoroastrians. The subtleties
of change, the modifications by science, left little sense of
inconsistency or treason on his soul. Sensitive, charitable, and
only combative deep down, he instinctively avoided discussion on
matters where he might hurt others or they hurt him. And, since
explanation was the last thing which o could be expected of one who
did not base himself on Reason, he had found but scant occasion ever
to examine anything. Just as in the old Abbey he had soared off into
the infinite with the hawk, the beetles, and the grasses, so now, at
the piano, by these sounds of his own making, he was caught away
again into emotionalism, without realising that he was in one of his,
most religious moods.
"Aren't you coming to tea, Edward?"
The woman standing behind him, in a lilac-coloured gown, had one of
those faces which remain innocent to the end of the chapter, in spite
of the complete knowledge of life which appertains to mothers. In
days of suffering and anxiety, like these of the great war, Thirza
Pierson was a valuable person. Without ever expressing an opinion on
cosmic matters, she reconfirmed certain cosmic truths, such as that
though the whole world was at war, there was such a thing as peace;
that though all the sons of mothers were being killed, there remained
such a thing as motherhood; that while everybody was living for the
future, the present still existed. Her tranquil, tender, matter-of-
fact busyness, and the dew in her eyes, had been proof against
twenty-three years of life on a tea-plantation in the hot part of
Ceylon; against Bob Pierson; against the anxiety of having two sons
at the front, and the confidences of nearly every one she came
across. Nothing disturbed her. She was like a painting of
"Goodness" by an Old Master, restored by Kate Greenaway. She never
went to meet life, but when it came, made the best of it. This was
her secret, and Pierson always felt rested in her presence.
He rose, and moved by her side, over the lawn, towards the big tree
at the bottom of the garden.
"How d'you think Noel is looking, Edward?"
"Very pretty. That young man, Thirza?"
"Yes; I'm afraid he's over head and ears in love with her."
At the dismayed sound he uttered, she slipped her soft round arm
within his. "He's going to the front soon, poor boy!"
"Have they talked to you?"
"He has. Nollie hasn't yet."
"Nollie is a queer child, Thirza."
"Nollie is a darling, but rather a desperate character, Edward."
Pierson sighed.
In a swing under the tree, where the tea-things were set out, the
"rather desperate character" was swaying. "What a picture she is!"
he said, and sighed again.
The voice of his brother came to them,--high and steamy, as though
corrupted by the climate of Ceylon:
"You incorrigible dreamy chap, Ted! We've eaten all the raspberries.
Eve, give him some jam; he must be dead! Phew! the heat! Come on,
my dear, and pour out his tea. Hallo, Cyril! Had a good bathe? By
George, wish my head was wet! Squattez-vous down over there, by
Nollie; she'll swing, and keep the flies off you."
"Give me a cigarette, Uncle Bob--"
"What! Your father doesn't--"
"Just for the flies. You don't mind, Daddy?"
"Not if it's necessary, my dear."
Noel smiled, showing her upper teeth, and her eyes seemed to swim
under their long lashes.
"It isn't necessary, but it's nice."
"Ah, ha!" said Bob Pierson. "Here you are, Nollie!"
But Noel shook her head. At that moment she struck her father as
startlingly grown-up-so composed, swaying above that young man at her
feet, whose sunny face was all adoration. 'No longer a child!' he
thought. 'Dear Nollie!'
II
1
Awakened by that daily cruelty, the advent of hot water, Edward
Pierson lay in his chintz-curtained room, fancying himself back in
London. A wild bee hunting honey from the bowl of flowers on the
window-sill, and the scent of sweetbrier, shattered that illusion.
He drew the curtain, and, kneeling on the window-seat thrust his head
out into the morning. The air was intoxicatingly sweet. Haze clung
over the river and the woods beyond; the lawn sparkled with dew, and
two wagtails strutted in the dewy sunshine. 'Thank God for
loveliness!' he thought. 'Those poor boys at the front!' And
kneeling with his elbows on the sill, he began to say his prayers.
The same feeling which made him beautify his church, use vestments,
good music, and incense, filled him now. God was in the loveliness
of His world, as well as in His churches. One could worship Him in a
grove of beech trees, in a beautiful garden, on a high hill, by the
banks of a bright river. God was in the rustle of the leaves, and
the hum of a bee, in the dew on the grass, and the scent of flowers;
God was in everything! And he added to his usual prayer this
whisper: "I give Thee thanks for my senses, O Lord. In all of us,
keep them bright, and grateful for beauty." Then he remained
motionless, prey to a sort of happy yearning very near, to
melancholy. Great beauty ever had that effect on him. One could
capture so little of it--could never enjoy it enough! Who was it had
said not long ago: "Love of beauty is really only the sex instinct,
which nothing but complete union satisfies." Ah! yes, George--
Gratian's husband. George Laird! And a little frown came between
his brows, as though at some thorn in the flesh. Poor George! But
then, all doctors were materialists at heart--splendid fellows,
though; a fine fellow, George, working himself to death out there in
France. One must not take them too seriously. He plucked a bit of
sweetbrier and put it to his nose, which still retained the shine of
that bleaching ointment Noel had insisted on his using. The sweet
smell of those little rough leaves stirred up an acute aching. He
dropped them, and drew back. No longings, no melancholy; one ought
to be out, this beautiful morning!
It was Sunday; but he had not to take three Services and preach at
least one sermon; this day of rest was really to be his own, for
once. It was almost disconcerting; he had so long felt like the cab
horse who could not be taken out of the shafts lest he should fall
down. He dressed with extraordinary deliberation, and had not quite
finished when there came a knock on his door, and Noel's voice said:
"Can I come in, Daddy?"
In her flax-blue frock, with a Gloire de Dijon rose pinned where it
met on her faintly browned neck, she seemed to her father a perfect
vision of freshness.
"Here's a letter from Gratian; George has been sent home ill, and
he's gone to our house. She's got leave from her hospital to come
home and nurse him."
Pierson read the letter. "Poor George!"
"When are you going to let me be a nurse, Daddy?"
"We must wait till you're eighteen, Nollie."
"I could easily say I was. It's only a month; and I look much more."
Pierson smiled.
"Don't I?"
"You might be anything from fifteen to twenty-five, my dear,
according as you behave."
"I want to go out as near the front as possible."
Her head was poised so that the sunlight framed her face, which was
rather broad--the brow rather too broad--under the waving light-brown
hair, the nose short and indeterminate; cheeks still round from
youth, almost waxen-pale, and faintly hollowed under the eyes. It
was her lips, dainty yet loving, and above all her grey eyes, big and
dreamily alive, which made her a swan. He could not imagine her in
nurse's garb.
"This is new, isn't it, Nollie?"
"Cyril Morland's sisters are both out; and he'll be going soon.
Everybody goes."
"Gratian hasn't got out yet: It takes a long time to get trained."
"I know; all the more reason to begin."
She got up, looked at him, looked at her hands, seemed about to
speak, but did not. A little colour had come into her cheeks. Then,
obviously making conversation, she asked:
"Are you going to church? It's worth anything to hear Uncle Bob read
the Lessons, especially when he loses his place. No; you're not to
put on your long coat till just before church time. I won't have
it!"
Obediently Pierson resigned his long coat.
"Now, you see, you can have my rose. Your nose is better!" She
kissed his nose, and transferred her rose to the buttonhole of his
short coat. "That's all. Come along!" And with her arm through
his, they went down. But he knew she had come to say something which
she had not said.
2
Bob Pierson, in virtue of greater wealth than the rest of the
congregation, always read the Lessons, in his high steamy voice, his
breathing never adjusted to the length of any period. The
congregation, accustomed, heard nothing peculiar; he was the
necessary gentry with the necessary finger in the pie. It was his
own family whom he perturbed. In the second row, Noel, staring
solemnly at the profile of her father in the front row, was thinking:
'Poor Daddy! His eyes look as if they were coming out. Oh, Daddy!
Smile! or it'll hurt you!' Young Morland beside her, rigid in his
tunic, was thinking: 'She isn't thinking of me!' And just then her
little finger crooked into his. Edward Pierson was thinking: 'Oh! My
dear old Bob! Oh!' And, beside him, Thirza thought: 'Poor dear Ted I
how nice for him to be having a complete rest! I must make him eat
he's so thin!' And Eve was thinking: 'Oh, Father! Mercy!' But Bob
Pierson was thinking: 'Cheer oh! Only another three verses!' Noel's
little finger unhooked itself, but her eyes stole round to young
Morland's eyes, and there was a light in them which lingered through
the singing and the prayers. At last, in the reverential rustle of
the settling congregation, a surpliced figure mounted the pulpit.
"I come not to bring Peace, but a sword."
Pierson looked up. He felt deep restfulness. There was a pleasant
light in this church; the hum of a country bluebottle made all the
difference to the quality of silence. No critical thought stirred
within him, nor any excitement. He was thinking: 'Now I shall hear
something for my good; a fine text; when did I preach from it last?'
Turned a little away from the others, he saw nothing but the
preacher's homely face up there above the carved oak; it was so long
since he had been preached to, so long since he had had a rest! The
words came forth, dropped on his forehead, penetrated, met something
which absorbed them, and disappeared. 'A good plain sermon!' he
thought. 'I suppose I'm stale; I don't seem--' "Let us not, dear
brethren," droned the preacher's earnest voice, "think that our dear
Lord, in saying that He brought a sword, referred to a physical
sword. It was the sword of the spirit to which He was undoubtedly
referring, that bright sword of the spirit which in all ages has
cleaved its way through the fetters imposed on men themselves by
their own desires, imposed by men on other men in gratification of
their ambitions, as we have had so striking an example in the
invasion by our cruel enemies of a little neighbouring country which
had done them no harm. Dear brethren, we may all bring swords."
Pierson's chin jerked; he raised his hand quickly and passed it over
his face. 'All bring swords,' he thought, 'swords--I wasn't asleep--
surely!' "But let us be sure that our swords are bright; bright with
hope, and bright with faith, that we may see them flashing among the
carnal desires of this mortal life, carving a path for us towards
that heavenly kingdom where alone is peace, perfect peace. Let us
pray."
Pierson did not shut his eyes; he opened them as he fell on his
knees. In the seat behind, Noel and young Morland had also fallen on
their knees their faces covered each with a single hand; but her left
hand and his right hung at their sides. They prayed a little longer
than any others and, on rising, sang the hymn a little louder.
3
No paper came on Sundays--not even the local paper, which had so long
and so nobly done its bit with headlines to win the war. No news
whatever came, of men blown up, to enliven the hush of the hot July
afternoon, or the sense of drugging--which followed Aunt Thirza's
Sunday lunch. Some slept, some thought they were awake; but Noel and
young Morland walked upward through the woods towards a high common
of heath and furze, crowned by what was known as Kestrel rocks.
Between these two young people no actual word of love had yet been
spoken. Their lovering had advanced by glance and touch alone.
Young Morland was a school and college friend of the two Pierson boys
now at the front. He had no home of his own, for his parents were
dead; and this was not his first visit to Kestrel. Arriving three
weeks ago, for his final leave before he should go out, he had found
a girl sitting in a little wagonette outside the station, and had
known his fate at once. But who knows when Noel fell in love? She
was--one supposes--just ready for that sensation. For the last two
years she had been at one of those high-class finishing
establishments where, in spite of the healthy curriculum, perhaps
because of it, there is ever an undercurrent of interest in the
opposing sex; and not even the gravest efforts to eliminate instinct
are quite successful. The disappearance of every young male thing
into the maw of the military machine put a premium on instinct. The
thoughts of Noel and her school companions were turned, perforce, to
that which, in pre-war freedom of opportunity they could afford to
regard as of secondary interest. Love and Marriage and Motherhood,
fixed as the lot of women by the countless ages, were threatened for
these young creatures. They not unnaturally pursued what they felt
to be receding.
When young Morland showed, by following her about with his eyes, what
was happening to him, Noel was pleased. From being pleased, she
became a little excited; from being excited she became dreamy. Then,
about a week before her father's arrival, she secretly began to
follow the young man about with her eyes; became capricious too, and
a little cruel. If there had been another young man to favour--but
there was not; and she favoured Uncle Bob's red setter. Cyril
Morland grew desperate. During those three days the demon her father
dreaded certainly possessed her. And then, one evening, while they
walked back together from the hay-fields, she gave him a sidelong
glance; and he gasped out: "Oh! Noel, what have I done?" She caught
his hand, and gave it a quick squeeze. What a change! What blissful
alteration ever since!
Through the wood young Morland mounted silently, screwing himself up
to put things to the touch. Noel too mounted silently, thinking: 'I
will kiss him if he kisses me!' Eagerness, and a sort of languor,
were running in her veins; she did not look at him from under her
shady hat. Sun light poured down through every chink in the foliage;
made the greenness of the steep wood marvellously vivid and alive;
flashed on beech leaves, ash leaves, birch leaves; fell on the ground
in little runlets; painted bright patches on trunks and grass, the
beech mast, the ferns; butterflies chased each other in that
sunlight, and myriads of ants and gnats and flies seemed possessed by
a frenzy of life. The whole wood seemed possessed, as if the
sunshine were a happy Being which had come to dwell therein. At a
half-way spot, where the trees opened and they could see, far below
them, the gleam of the river, she sat down on the bole of a beech-
tree, and young Morland stood looking at her. Why should one face
and not an other, this voice and not that, make a heart beat; why
should a touch from one hand awaken rapture, and a touch from another
awaken nothing? He knelt down and pressed his lips to her foot. Her
eyes grew very bright; but she got up and ran on--she had not
expected him to kiss her foot. She heard him hurrying after her, and
stopped, leaning against a birch trunk. He rushed to her, and,
without a word spoken, his lips were on her lips. The moment in
life, which no words can render, had come for them. They had found
their enchanted spot, and they moved no further, but sat with their
arms round each other, while the happy Being of the wood watched. A
marvellous speeder-up of Love is War. What might have taken six
months, was thus accomplished in three weeks.
A short hour passed, then Noel said:
"I must tell Daddy, Cyril. I meant to tell him something this
morning, only I thought I'd better wait, in case you didn't."
Morland answered: "Oh, Noel!" It was the staple of his conversation
while they sat there.
Again a short hour passed, and Morland said:
"I shall go off my chump if we're not married before I go out."
"How long does it take?"
"No time, if we hurry up. I've got six days before I rejoin, and
perhaps the Chief will give me another week, if I tell him."
"Poor Daddy! Kiss me again; a long one."
When the long one was over, she said:
"Then I can come and be near you till you go out? Oh, Cyril!"
"Oh, Noel!"
"Perhaps you won't go so soon. Don't go if you can help it!"
"Not if I can help it, darling; but I shan't be able."
"No, of course not; I know."
Young Morland clutched his hair. "Everyone's in the same boat, but
it can't last for ever; and now we're engaged we can be together all
the time till I've got the licence or whatever it is. And then--!"
"Daddy won't like our not being married in a church; but I don't
care!"
Looking down at her closed eyes, and their lashes resting on her
cheeks, young Morland thought:
'My God! I'm in heaven!'
Another short hour passed before she freed herself.
"We must go, Cyril. Kiss me once more!"
It was nearly dinner-time, and they ran down.
4
Edward Pierson, returning from the Evening Service, where he had read
the Lessons, saw them in the distance, and compressed his lips.
Their long absence had vexed him. What ought he to do? In the
presence of Love's young dream, he felt strange and helpless. That
night, when he opened the door of his room, he saw Noel on the
window-seat, in her dressing-gown, with the moonlight streaming in on
her.
"Don't light up, Daddy; I've got something to say."
She took hold of the little gold cross on his vest, and turned it
over.
"I'm engaged to Cyril; we want to be married this week."
It was exactly as if someone had punched him in the ribs; and at the
sound he made she hurried on:
"You see, we must be; he may be going out any day."
In the midst of his aching consternation, he admitted a kind of
reason in her words. But he said:
"My dear, you're only a child. Marriage is the most serious thing in
life; you've only known him three weeks."
"I know all that, Daddy" her voice sounded so ridiculously calm; "but
we can't afford to wait. He might never come back, you see, and then
I should have missed him."
"But, Noel, suppose he never did come back; it would only be much
worse for you."
She dropped the little cross, and took hold of his hand, pressing it
against her heart. But still her voice was calm:
"No; much better, Daddy; you think I don't know my own feelings, but
I do,"'
The man in Pierson softened; the priest hardened.
"Nollie, true marriage is the union of souls; and for that, time is
wanted. Time to know that you feel and think the same, and love the
same things."
"Yes, I know; but we do."
"You can't tell that, my dear; no one could in three weeks."
"But these aren't ordinary times, are they? People have to do things
in a hurry. Oh, Daddy! Be an angel! Mother would have understood,
and let me, I know!"
Pierson drew away his hand; the words hurt, from reminder of his
loss, from reminder of the poor substitute he was.
"Look, Nollie!" he said. "After all these years since she left us,
I'm as lonely as ever, because we were really one. If you marry this
young man without knowing more of your own hearts than you can in
such a little time, you may regret it dreadfully; you may find it
turn out, after all, nothing but a little empty passion; or again, if
anything happens to him before you've had any real married life
together, you'll have a much greater grief and sense of loss to put
up with than if you simply stay engaged till after the war. Besides,
my child, you're much too young."
She sat so still that he looked at her in alarm. "But I must!"
He bit his lips, and said sharply: "You can't, Nollie!"
She got up, and before he could stop her, was gone. With the closing
of the door, his anger evaporated, and distress took its place. Poor
child! What to do with this wayward chicken just out of the egg, and
wanting to be full-fledged at once? The thought that she would be
lying miserable, crying, perhaps, beset him so that he went out into
the passage and tapped on her door. Getting no answer, he went in.
It was dark but for a streak of moonlight, and in that he saw her,
lying on her bed, face down; and stealing up laid his hand on her
head. She did not move; and, stroking her hair, he said gently:
"Nollie dear, I didn't mean to be harsh. If I were your mother, I
should know how to make you see, but I'm only an old bumble-daddy."
She rolled over, scrambling into a cross-legged posture on the bed.
He could see her eyes shining. But she did not speak; she seemed to
know that in silence was her strength.
He said with a sort of despair:
"You must let me talk it over with your aunt. She has a lot of good
sense."
"Yes."
He bent over and kissed her hot forehead.
"Good night, my dear; don't cry. Promise me!"
She nodded, and lifted her face; he felt her hot soft lips on his
forehead, and went away a little comforted.
But Noel sat on her bed, hugging her knees, listening to the night,
to the emptiness and silence; each minute so much lost of the little,
little time left, that she might have been with him.
III
Pierson woke after a troubled and dreamful night, in which he had
thought himself wandering in heaven like a lost soul.
After regaining his room last night nothing had struck him more
forcibly than the needlessness of his words: "Don't cry, Nollie!"
for he had realised with uneasiness that she had not been near
crying. No; there was in her some emotion very different from the
tearful. He kept seeing her cross-legged figure on the bed in that
dim light; tense, enigmatic, almost Chinese; kept feeling the
feverish touch of her lips. A good girlish burst of tears would have
done her good, and been a guarantee. He had the uncomfortable
conviction that his refusal had passed her by, as if unspoken. And,
since he could not go and make music at that time of night, he had
ended on his knees, in a long search for guidance, which was not
vouchsafed him.
The culprits were demure at breakfast; no one could have told that
for the last hour they had been sitting with their arms round each
other, watching the river flow by, talking but little, through lips
too busy. Pierson pursued his sister-in-law to the room where she
did her flowers every morning. He watched her for a minute dividing
ramblers from pansies, cornflowers from sweet peas, before he said:
"I'm very troubled, Thirza. Nollie came to me last night. Imagine!
They want to get married--those two!"
Accepting life as it came, Thirza showed no dismay, but her cheeks
grew a little pinker, and her eyes a little rounder. She took up a
sprig of mignonette, and said placidly:
"Oh, my dear!"
"Think of it, Thirza--that child! Why, it's only a year or two since
she used to sit on my knee and tickle my face with her hair."
Thirza went on arranging her flowers.
"Noel is older than you think, Edward; she is more than her age. And
real married life wouldn't begin for them till after--if it ever
began."
Pierson experienced a sort of shock. His sister-in-law's words
seemed criminally light-hearted.
"But--but--" he stammered; "the union, Thirza! Who can tell what
will happen before they come together again!"
She looked at his quivering face, and said gently:
"I know, Edward; but if you refuse, I should be afraid, in these
days, of what Noel might do. I told you there's a streak of
desperation in her."
"Noel will obey me."
"I wonder! There are so many of these war marriages now."
Pierson turned away.
"I think they're dreadful. What do they mean--Just a momentary
gratification of passion. They might just as well not be."
"They mean pensions, as a rule," said Thirza calmly.
"Thirza, that is cynical; besides, it doesn't affect this case. I
can't bear to think of my little Nollie giving herself for a moment
which may come to nothing, or may turn out the beginning of an
unhappy marriage. Who is this boy--what is he? I know nothing of
him. How can I give her to him--it's impossible! If they had been
engaged some time and I knew something of him--yes, perhaps; even at
her age. But this hasty passionateness--it isn't right, it isn't
decent. I don't understand, I really don't--how a child like that
can want it. The fact is, she doesn't know what she's asking, poor
little Nollie. She can't know the nature of marriage, and she can't
realise its sacredness. If only her mother were here! Talk to her,
Thirza; you can say things that I can't!"
Thirza looked after the retreating figure. In spite of his cloth,
perhaps a little because of it, he seemed to her like a child who had
come to show her his sore finger. And, having finished the
arrangement of her flowers, she went out to find her niece. She had
not far to go; for Noel was standing in the hall, quite evidently
lying in wait. They went out together to the avenue.
The girl began at once:
"It isn't any use talking to me, Auntie; Cyril is going to get a
license."
"Oh! So you've made up your minds?"
"Quite."
"Do you think that's fair by me, Nollie? Should I have asked him
here if I'd thought this was going to happen?"
Noel only smiled.
"Have you the least idea what marriage means?"
Noel nodded.
"Really?"
"Of course. Gratian is married. Besides, at school--"
"Your father is dead against it. This is a sad thing for him. He's
a perfect saint, and you oughtn't to hurt him. Can't you wait, at
least till Cyril's next leave?"
"He might never have one, you see."
The heart of her whose boys were out there too, and might also never
have another leave; could not but be responsive to those words. She
looked at her niece, and a dim appreciation of this revolt of life
menaced by death, of youth threatened with extinction, stirred in
her. Noel's teeth were clenched, her lips drawn back, and she was
staring in front of her.
"Daddy oughtn't to mind. Old people haven't to fight, and get
killed; they oughtn't to mind us taking what we can. They've had
their good time."
It was such a just little speech that Thirza answered:
"Yes; perhaps he hasn't quite realised that."
"I want to make sure of Cyril, Auntie; I want everything I can have
with him while there's the chance. I don't think it's much to ask,
when perhaps I'll never have any more of him again."
Thirza slipped her hand through the girl's arm.
"I understand," she said. "Only, Nollie, suppose, when all this is
over, and we breathe and live naturally once more, you found you'd
made a mistake?"
Noel shook her head. "I haven't."
"We all think that, my dear; but thousands of mistakes are made by
people who no more dream they're making them than you do now; and
then it's a very horrible business. It would be especially horrible
for you; your father believes heart and soul in marriage being for
ever."
"Daddy's a darling; but I don't always believe what he believes, you
know. Besides, I'm not making a mistake, Auntie! I love Cyril ever
so."
Thirza gave her waist a squeeze.
"You mustn't make a mistake. We love you too much, Nollie. I wish
we had Gratian here."
"Gratian would back me up," said Noel; "she knows what the war is.
And you ought to, Auntie. If Rex or Harry wanted to be married, I'm
sure you'd never oppose them. And they're no older than Cyril. You
must understand what it means to me Auntie dear, to feel that we
belong to each other properly before--before it all begins for him,
and--and there may be no more. Daddy doesn't realise. I know he's
awfully good, but--he's forgotten."
"My dear, I think he remembers only too well. He was desperately
attached to your mother."
Noel clenched her hands.
"Was he? Well, so am I to Cyril, and he to me. We wouldn't be
unreasonable if it wasn't--wasn't necessary. Talk, to Cyril, Auntie;
then you'll understand. There he is; only, don't keep him long,
because I want him. Oh! Auntie; I want him so badly!"
She turned; and slipped back into the house; and Thirza, conscious of
having been decoyed to this young man, who stood there with his arms
folded, like Napoleon before a battle, smiled and said:
"Well, Cyril, so you've betrayed me!"
Even in speaking she was conscious of the really momentous change in
this sunburnt, blue-eyed, lazily impudent youth since the day he
arrived, three weeks ago, in their little wagonette. He took her
arm, just as Noel had, and made her sit down beside him on the rustic
bench, where he had evidently been told to wait.
"You see, Mrs. Pierson," he said, "it's not as if Noel were an
ordinary girl in an ordinary time, is it? Noel is the sort of girl
one would knock one's brains out for; and to send me out there
knowing that I could have been married to her and wasn't, will take
all the heart out of me. Of course I mean to come back, but chaps do
get knocked over, and I think it's cruel that we can't take what we
can while we can. Besides, I've got money; and that would be hers
anyway. So, do be a darling, won't you?" He put his arm round her
waist, just as if he had been her son, and her heart, which wanted
her own boys so badly, felt warmed within her.
"You see, I don't know Mr. Pierson, but he seems awfully gentle and
jolly, and if he could see into me he wouldn't mind, I know. We
don't mind risking our lives and all that, but we do think we ought
to have the run of them while we're alive. I'll give him my dying
oath or anything, that I could never change towards Noel, and she'll
do the same. Oh! Mrs. Pierson, do be a jolly brick, and put in a
word for me, quick! We've got so few days!"
"But, my dear boy," said Thirza feebly, "do you think it's fair to
such a child as Noel?"
"Yes, I do. You don't understand; she's simply had to grow up. She
is grown-up--all in this week; she's quite as old as I am, really--
and I'm twenty-two. And you know it's going to be--it's got to be
--a young world, from now on; people will begin doing things much
earlier. What's the use of pretending it's like what it was, and
being cautious, and all that? If I'm going to be killed, I think
we've got a right to be married first; and if I'm not, then what does
it matter?"
"You've known each other twenty-one days, Cyril."
"No; twenty-one years! Every day's a year when Oh! Mrs. Pierson,
this isn't like you, is it? You never go to meet trouble, do you?"
At that shrewd remark, Thirza put her hand on the hand which still
clasped her waist, and pressed it closer.
"Well, my dear," she said softly, "we must see what can be done."
Cyril Morland kissed her cheek. "I will bless you for ever," he
said. "I haven't got any people, you know, except my two sisters."
And something like tears started up on Thirza's eyelashes. They
seemed to her like the babes in the wood--those two!
IV
1
In the dining-room of her father's house in that old London Square
between East and West, Gratian Laird, in the outdoor garb of a nurse,
was writing a telegram: "Reverend Edward Pierson, Kestrel, Tintern,
Monmouthshire. George terribly ill. Please come if you can.
Gratian." Giving it to a maid, she took off her long coat and sat
down for a moment. She had been travelling all night, after a full
day's work, and had only just arrived, to find her husband between
life and death. She was very different from Noel; not quite so tall,
but of a stronger build; with dark chestnut-coloured hair, clear
hazel eyes, and a broad brow. The expression of her face was
earnest, with a sort of constant spiritual enquiry; and a singularly
truthful look: She was just twenty; and of the year that she had been
married, had only spent six weeks with her husband; they had not even
a house of their own as yet. After resting five minutes, she passed
her hand vigorously over her face, threw back her head, and walked up
stairs to the room where he lay. He was not conscious, and there was
nothing to be done but sit and watch him.
'If he dies,' she thought, 'I shall hate God for His cruelty. I have
had six weeks with George; some people have sixty years.' She fixed
her eyes on his face, short and broad, with bumps of "observation" on
the brows. He had been sunburnt. The dark lashes of his closed eyes
lay on deathly yellow cheeks; his thick hair grew rather low on his
broad forehead. The lips were just open and showed strong white
teeth. He had a little clipped moustache, and hair had grown on his
clean-cut jaw. His pyjama jacket had fallen open. Gratian drew it
close. It was curiously still, for a London day, though the window
was wide open. Anything to break this heavy stupor, which was not
only George's, but her own, and the very world's! The cruelty of it
--when she might be going to lose him for ever, in a few hours or
days! She thought of their last parting. It had not been very
loving, had come too soon after one of those arguments they were
inclined to have, in which they could not as yet disagree with
suavity. George had said there was no future life for the
individual; she had maintained there was. They had grown hot and
impatient. Even in the cab on the way to his train they had pursued
the wretched discussion, and the last kiss had been from lips on lips
yet warm from disagreement.
Ever since, as if in compunction, she had been wavering towards his
point of view; and now, when he was perhaps to solve the problem--
find out for certain--she had come to feel that if he died, she would
never see him after. It was cruel that such a blight should have
come on her belief at this, of all moments.
She laid her hand on his. It was warm, felt strong, although so
motionless and helpless. George was so vigorous, so alive, and
strong-willed; it seemed impossible that life might be going to play
him false. She recalled the unflinching look of his steel-bright
eyes, his deep, queerly vibrating voice, which had no trace of self-
consciousness or pretence. She slipped her hand on to his heart, and
began very slowly, gently rubbing it. He, as doctor, and she, as
nurse, had both seen so much of death these last two years! Yet it
seemed suddenly as if she had never seen death, and that the young
faces she had seen, empty and white, in the hospital wards, had just
been a show. Death would appear to her for the first time, if this
face which she loved were to be drained for ever of light and colour
and movement and meaning.
A humblebee from the Square Garden boomed in and buzzed idly round
the room. She caught her breath in a little sob....
2
Pierson received that telegram at midday, returning from a lonely
walk after his talk with Thirza. Coming from Gratian so self-
reliant--it meant the worst. He prepared at once to catch the next
train. Noel was out, no one knew where: so with a sick feeling he
wrote:
"DEAREST CHILD,
"I am going up to Gratian; poor George is desperately ill. If it
goes badly you should be with your sister. I will wire to-morrow
morning early. I leave you in your aunt's hands, my dear. Be
reasonable and patient. God bless you.
"Your devoted
"DADDY."
He was alone in his third-class compartment, and, leaning forward,
watched the ruined Abbey across the river till it was out of sight.
Those old monks had lived in an age surely not so sad as this. They
must have had peaceful lives, remote down here, in days when the
Church was great and lovely, and men laid down their lives for their
belief in her, and built everlasting fanes to the glory of God! What
a change to this age of rush and hurry, of science, trade, material
profit, and this terrible war! He tried to read his paper, but it
was full of horrors and hate. 'When will it end?' he thought. And
the train with its rhythmic jolting seemed grinding out the answer:
"Never--never!"
At Chepstow a soldier got in, followed by a woman with a very flushed
face and curious, swimmy eyes; her hair was in disorder, and her lip
bleeding, as if she had bitten it through. The soldier, too, looked
strained and desperate. They sat down, far apart, on the seat
opposite. Pierson, feeling that he was in their way, tried to hide
himself behind his paper; when he looked again, the soldier had taken
off his tunic and cap and was leaning out of the window. The woman,
on the seat's edge, sniffing and wiping her face, met his glance with
resentful eyes, then, getting up, she pulled the man's sleeve.
"Sit dahn; don't 'ang out o' there."
The soldier flung himself back on the seat and looked at Pierson.
"The wife an' me's 'ad a bit of a row," he said companionably. "Gits
on me nerves; I'm not used to it. She was in a raid, and 'er nerves
are all gone funny; ain't they, old girl? Makes me feel me 'ead.
I've been wounded there, you know; can't stand much now. I might do
somethin' if she was to go on like this for long."
Pierson looked at the woman, but her eyes still met his resentfully.
The soldier held out a packet of cigarettes. "Take one," he said.
Pierson took one and, feeling that the soldier wanted him to speak,
murmured: "We all have these troubles with those we're fond of; the
fonder we are of people, the more we feel them, don't we? I had one
with my daughter last night."
"Ah!" said the soldier; "that's right. The wife and me'll make it
up. 'Ere, come orf it, old girl."
>From behind his paper he soon became conscious of the sounds of
reconciliation--reproaches because someone had been offered a drink,
kisses mixed with mild slappings, and abuse. When they got out at
Bristol the soldier shook his hand warmly, but the woman still gave
him her resentful stare, and he thought dreamily: 'The war! How it
affects everyone!' His carriage was invaded by a swarm of soldiers,
and the rest of the journey was passed in making himself small. When
at last he reached home, Gratian met him in the hall.
"Just the same. The doctor says we shall know in a few hours now.
How sweet of you to come! You must be tired, in this heat. It was
dreadful to spoil your holiday."
"My dear! As if May I go up and see him?"
George Laird was still lying in that stupor. And Pierson stood
gazing down at him compassionately. Like most parsons, he had a wide
acquaintance with the sick and dying; and one remorseless fellowship
with death. Death! The commonest thing in the world, now--commoner
than life! This young doctor must have seen many die in these last
two years, saved many from death; and there he lay, not able to lift
a finger to save himself. Pierson looked at his daughter; what a
strong, promising young couple they were! And putting his arm round
her, he led her away to the sofa, whence they could see the sick man.
"If he dies, Dad--" she whispered.
"He will have died for the Country, my love, as much as ever our
soldiers do."
"I know; but that's no comfort. I've been watching here all day;
I've been thinking; men will be just as brutal afterwards--more
brutal. The world will go on the same."
"We must hope not. Shall we pray, Gracie?"
Gratian shook her head.
"If I could believe that the world--if I could believe anything!
I've lost the power, Dad; I don't even believe in a future life. If
George dies, we shall never meet again."
Pierson stared at her without a word.
Gratian went on: "The last time we talked, I was angry with George
because he laughed at my belief; now that I really want belief, I
feel that he was right."
Pierson said tremulously:
"No, no, my dear; it's only that you're overwrought. God in His
mercy will give you back belief."
"There is no God, Dad"
"My darling child, what are you saying?"
"No God who can help us; I feel it. If there were any God who could
take part in our lives, alter anything without our will, knew or
cared what we did--He wouldn't let the world go on as it does."
"But, my dear, His purposes are inscrutable. We dare not say He
should not do this or that, or try to fathom to what ends He is
working."
"Then He's no good to us. It's the same as if He didn't exist. Why
should I pray for George's life to One whose ends are just His own?
I know George oughtn't to die. If there's a God who can help, it
will be a wicked shame if George dies; if there's a God who can help,
it's a wicked shame when babies die, and all these millions of poor
boys. I would rather think there's no God than a helpless or a
wicked God--"
Her father had suddenly thrown up his hands to his ears. She moved
closer, and put her arm round him.
"Dad dear, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Pierson pressed her face down to his shoulder; and said in a dull
voice:
"What do you think would have happened to me, Gracie, if I had lost
belief when your mother died? I have never lost belief. Pray God I
never shall!"
Gratian murmured:
"George would not wish me to pretend I believe--he would want me to
be honest. If I'm not honest, I shan't deserve that he should live.
I don't believe, and I can't pray."
"My darling, you're overtired."
"No, Dad." She raised her head from his shoulder and, clasping her
hands round her knees, looked straight before her. "We can only help
ourselves; and I can only bear it if I rebel."
Pierson sat with trembling lips, feeling that nothing he could say
would touch her just then. The sick man's face was hardly visible
now in the twilight, and Gratian went over to his bed. She stood
looking down at him a long time.
"Go and rest, Dad; the doctor's coming again at eleven. I'll call
you if I want anything. I shall lie down a little, beside him."
Pierson kissed her, and went out. To lie there beside him would be
the greatest comfort she could get. He went to the bare narrow
little room he had occupied ever since his wife died; and, taking off
his boots, walked up and down, with a feeling of almost crushing
loneliness. Both his daughters in such trouble, and he of no use to
them! It was as if Life were pushing him utterly aside! He felt
confused, helpless, bewildered. Surely if Gratian loved George, she
had not left God's side, whatever she might say. Then, conscious of
the profound heresy of this thought, he stood still at the open
window.
Earthly love--heavenly love; was there any analogy between them?
>From the Square Gardens the indifferent whisper of the leaves
answered; and a newsvendor at the far end, bawling his nightly tale
of murder.
3
George Laird passed the crisis of his illness that night, and in the
morning was pronounced out of danger. He had a splendid
constitution, and--Scotsman on his father's side--a fighting
character. He came back to life very weak, but avid of recovery; and
his first words were: "I've been hanging over the edge, Gracie!"
A very high cliff, and his body half over, balancing; one inch, the
merest fraction of an inch more, and over he would have gone. Deuced
rum sensation! But not so horrible as it would have been in real
life. With the slip of that last inch he felt he would have passed
at once into oblivion, without the long horror of a fall. So this
was what it was for all the poor fellows he had seen slip in the past
two years! Mercifully, at the end, one was not alive enough to be
conscious of what one was leaving, not alive enough even to care. If
he had been able to take in the presence of his young wife, able to
realise that he was looking at her face, touching her for the last
time--it would have been hell; if he had been up to realising
sunlight, moonlight, the sound of the world's life outside, the
softness of the bed he lay on--it would have meant the most poignant
anguish of defraudment. Life was a rare good thing, and to be
squashed out of it with your powers at full, a wretched mistake in
Nature's arrangements, a wretched villainy on the part of Man--for
his own death, like all those other millions of premature deaths,
would have been due to the idiocy and brutality of men! He could
smile now, with Gratian looking down at him, but the experience had
heaped fuel on a fire which had always smouldered in his doctor's
soul against that half emancipated breed of apes, the human race.
Well, now he would get a few days off from his death-carnival! And
he lay, feasting his returning senses on his wife. She made a pretty
nurse, and his practised eye judged her a good one--firm and quiet.
George Laird was thirty. At the opening of the war he was in an
East-End practice, and had volunteered at once for service with the
Army. For the first nine months he had been right up in the thick of
it. A poisoned arm; rather than the authorities, had sent him home.
During that leave he married Gratian. He had known the Piersons some
time; and, made conscious of the instability of life, had resolved to
marry her at the first chance he got. For his father-in-law he had
respect and liking, ever mixed with what was not quite contempt and
not quite pity. The blend of authority with humility, cleric with
dreamer, monk with artist, mystic with man of action, in Pierson,
excited in him an interested, but often irritated, wonder. He saw
things so differently himself, and had little of the humorous
curiosity which enjoys what is strange simply because it is strange.
They could never talk together without soon reaching a point when he
wanted to say: "If we're not to trust our reason and our senses for
what they're worth, sir--will you kindly tell me what we are to
trust? How can we exert them to the utmost in some matters, and in
others suddenly turn our backs on them?" Once, in one of their
discussions, which often bordered on acrimony, he had expounded
himself at length.
"I grant," he had said, "that there's a great ultimate Mystery, that
we shall never know anything for certain about the origin of life and
the principle of the Universe; but why should we suddenly shut up our
enquiring apparatus and deny all the evidence of our reason--say,
about the story of Christ, or the question of a future life, or our
moral code? If you want me to enter a temple of little mysteries,
leaving my reason and senses behind--as a Mohammedan leaves his
shoes--it won't do to say to me simply: 'There it is! Enter!' You
must show me the door; and you can't! And I'll tell you why, sir.
Because in your brain there's a little twist which is not in mine, or
the lack of a little twist which is in mine. Nothing more than that
divides us into the two main species of mankind, one of whom
worships, and one of whom doesn't. Oh, yes! I know; you won't admit
that, because it makes your religions natural instead of what you
call supernatural. But I assure you there's nothing more to it.
Your eyes look up or they look down--they never look straight before
them. Well, mine do just the opposite."
That day Pierson had been feeling very tired, and though to meet this
attack was vital, he had been unable to meet it. His brain had
stammered. He had turned a little away, leaning his cheek on his
hand, as if to cover that momentary break in his defences. Some days
later he had said:
"I am able now to answer your questions, George. I think I can make
you understand."
Laird had answered: "All right, sir; go ahead."
"You begin by assuming that the human reason is the final test of all
things. What right have you to assume that? Suppose you were an
ant. You would take your ant's reason as the final test, wouldn't
you? Would that be the truth?" And a smile had fixed itself on his
lips above his little grave beard.
George Laird also had smiled.
"That seems a good point, sir," he said, "until you recognise that I
don't take, the human reason as final test in any absolute sense. I
only say it's the highest test we can apply; and that, behind that
test all is quite dark and unknowable."
"Revelation, then, means nothing to you?"
"Nothing, sir."
"I don't think we can usefully go on, George."
"I don't think we can, sir. In talking with you, I always feel like
fighting a man with one hand tied behind his back."
"And I, perhaps, feel that I am arguing with one who was blind from
birth."
For all that, they had often argued since; but never without those
peculiar smiles coming on their faces. Still, they respected each
other, and Pierson had not opposed his daughter's marriage to this
heretic, whom he knew to be an honest and trustworthy man. It had
taken place before Laird's arm was well, and the two had snatched a
month's honeymoon before he went back to France, and she to her
hospital in Manchester. Since then, just one February fortnight by
the sea had been all their time together....
In the afternoon he had asked for beef tea, and, having drunk a cup,
said:
"I've got something to tell your father."
But warned by the pallor of his smiling lips, Gratian answered:
"Tell me first, George."
"Our last talk, Gracie; well--there's nothing--on the other side. I
looked over; it's as black as your hat."
Gratian shivered.
"I know. While you were lying here last night, I told father."
He squeezed her hand, and said: "I also want to tell him."
"Dad will say the motive for life is gone."
"I say it leaps out all the more, Gracie. What a mess we make of it
--we angel-apes! When shall we be men, I wonder? You and I, Gracie,
will fight for a decent life for everybody. No hands-upping about
that! Bend down! It's good to touch you again; everything's good.
I'm going to have a sleep...."
After the relief of the doctor's report in the early morning Pierson
had gone through a hard struggle. What should he wire to Noel? He
longed to get her back home, away from temptation to the burning
indiscretion of this marriage. But ought he to suppress reference to
George's progress? Would that be honest? At last he sent this
telegram: "George out of danger but very weak. Come up."
By the afternoon post, however, he received a letter from Thirza:
"I have had two long talks with Noel and Cyril. It is impossible to
budge them. And I really think, dear Edward, that it will be a
mistake to oppose it rigidly. He may not go out as soon as we think.
How would it be to consent to their having banns published?--that
would mean another three weeks anyway, and in absence from each other
they might be influenced to put it off. I'm afraid this is the only
chance, for if you simply forbid it, I feel they will run off and get
married somewhere at a registrar's."
Pierson took this letter out with him into the Square Garden, for
painful cogitation. No man can hold a position of spiritual
authority for long years without developing the habit of judgment.
He judged Noel's conduct to be headlong and undisciplined, and the
vein of stubbornness in his character fortified the father and the
priest within him. Thirza disappointed him; she did not seem to see
the irretrievable gravity of this hasty marriage. She seemed to look
on it as something much lighter than it was, to consider that it
might be left to Chance, and that if Chance turned out unfavourable,
there would still be a way out. To him there would be no way out.
He looked up at the sky, as if for inspiration. It was such a
beautiful day, and so bitter to hurt his child, even for her good!
What would her mother have advised? Surely Agnes had felt at least
as deeply as himself the utter solemnity of marriage! And, sitting
there in the sunlight, he painfully hardened his heart. He must do
what he thought right, no matter what the consequences. So he went
in and wrote that he could not agree, and wished Noel to come back
home at once.
V
1
But on the same afternoon, just about that hour, Noel was sitting on
the river-bank with her arms folded tight across her chest, and by
her side Cyril Morland, with despair in his face, was twisting a
telegram "Rejoin tonight. Regiment leaves to-morrow."
What consolation that a million such telegrams had been read and
sorrowed over these last two years! What comfort that the sun was
daily blotted dim for hundreds of bright eyes; the joy of life poured
out and sopped up by the sands of desolation!
"How long have we got, Cyril?"
"I've engaged a car from the Inn, so I needn't leave till midnight.
I've packed already, to have more time."
"Let's have it to ourselves, then. Let's go off somewhere. I've got
some chocolate."
Morland answered miserably:
"I can send the car up here for my things, and have it pick me up at
the Inn, if you'll say goodbye to them for me, afterwards. We'll
walk down the line, then we shan't meet anyone."
And in the bright sunlight they walked hand in hand on each side of a
shining rail. About six they reached the Abbey.
"Let's get a boat," said Noel. "We can come back here when it's
moonlight. I know a way of getting in, after the gate's shut."
They hired a boat, rowed over to the far bank, and sat on the stern
seat, side by side under the trees where the water was stained deep
green by the high woods. If they talked, it was but a word of love
now and then, or to draw each other's attention to a fish, a bird, a
dragon-fly. What use making plans--for lovers the chief theme?
Longing paralysed their brains. They could do nothing but press
close to each other, their hands enlaced, their lips meeting now and
then. On Noel's face was a strange fixed stillness, as if she were
waiting--expecting! They ate their chocolates. The sun set, dew
began to fall; the river changed, and grew whiter; the sky paled to
the colour of an amethyst; shadows lengthened, dissolved slowly. It
was past nine already; a water-rat came out, a white owl flew over
the river, towards the Abbey. The moon had come up, but shed no
light as yet. They saw no beauty in all this--too young, too
passionate, too unhappy.
Noel said: "When she's over those trees, Cyril, let's go. It'll be
half dark."
They waited, watching the moon, which crept with infinite slowness up
and up, brightening ever so little every minute.
"Now!" said Noel. And Morland rowed across.
They left the boat, and she led the way past an empty cottage, to a
shed with a roof sloping up to the Abbey's low outer wall.
"We can get over here," she whispered.
They clambered up, and over, to a piece of grassy courtyard, and
passed on to an inner court, under the black shadow of the high
walls.
"What's the time?" said Noel.
"Half-past ten."
"Already! Let's sit here in the dark, and watch for the moon."
They sat down close together. Noel's face still had on it that
strange look of waiting; and Morland sat obedient, with his hand on
her heart, and his own heart beating almost to suffocation. They
sat, still as mice, and the moon crept up. It laid a first vague
greyness on the high wall, which spread slowly down, and brightened
till the lichen and the grasses up there were visible; then crept on,
silvering the dark above their heads. Noel pulled his sleeve, and
whispered: "See!" There came the white owl, soft as a snowflake,
drifting across in that unearthly light, as if flying to the moon.
And just then the top of the moon itself looked over the wall, a
shaving of silvery gold. It grew, became a bright spread fan, then
balanced there, full and round, the colour of pale honey.
"Ours!" Noel whispered.
2
>From the side of the road Noel listened till the sound of the car was
lost in the folds of the valley. She did not cry, but passed her
hands over her face, and began to walk home, keeping to the shadow of
the trees. How many years had been added to her age in those six
hours since the telegram came! Several times in that mile and a half
she stepped into a patch of brighter moonlight, to take out and kiss
a little photograph, then slip it back next her heart, heedless that
so warm a place must destroy any effigy. She felt not the faintest
compunction for the recklessness of her love--it was her only comfort
against the crushing loneliness of the night. It kept her up, made
her walk on with a sort of pride, as if she had got the best of Fate.
He was hers for ever now, in spite of anything that could be done.
She did not even think what she would say when she got in. She came
to the avenue, and passed up it still in a sort of dream. Her uncle
was standing before the porch; she could hear his mutterings. She
moved out of the shadow of the trees, went straight up to him, and,
looking in his perturbed face, said calmly:
"Cyril asked me to say good-bye to you all, Uncle. Good night!"
"But, I say, Nollie look here you !"
She had passed on. She went up to her room. There, by the door, her
aunt was standing, and would have kissed her. She drew back:
"No, Auntie. Not to-night!" And, slipping by, she locked her door.
Bob and Thirza Pierson, meeting in their own room, looked at each
other askance. Relief at their niece's safe return was confused by
other emotions. Bob Pierson expressed his first:
"Phew! I was beginning to think we should w have to drag the river.
What girls are coming to!"
"It's the war, Bob."
"I didn't like her face, old girl. I don't know what it was, but I
didn't like her face."
Neither did Thirza, but she would not admit it, and encourage Bob to
take it to heart. He took things so hardly, and with such a noise!
She only said: "Poor young things! I suppose it will be a relief to
Edward!"
"I love Nollie!" said Bob Pierson suddenly. "She's an affectionate
creature. D-nit, I'm sorry about this. It's not so bad for young
Morland; he's got the excitement--though I shouldn't like to be
leaving Nollie, if I were young again. Thank God, neither of our
boys is engaged. By George! when I think of them out there, and
myself here, I feel as if the top of my head would come off. And
those politician chaps spouting away in every country--how they can
have the cheek!"
Thirza looked at him anxiously.
"And no dinner!" he said suddenly. "What d'you think they've been
doing with themselves ?"
"Holding each other's hands, poor dears! D'you know what time it is,
Bob? Nearly one o'clock."
"Well, all I can say is, I've had a wretched evening. Get to bed,
old girl. You'll be fit for nothing."
He was soon asleep, but Thirza lay awake, not exactly worrying, for
that was not her nature, but seeing Noel's face, pale, languid,
passionate, possessed by memory.
VI
1
Noel reached her father's house next day late in the afternoon.
There was a letter in the hall for her. She tore it open, and read:
"MY DARLING LOVE,
"I got back all right, and am posting this at once to tell you we
shall pass through London, and go from Charing Cross, I expect about
nine o'clock to-night. I shall look out for you, there, in case you
are up in time. Every minute I think of you, and of last night. Oh!
Noel!
"Your devoted lover,
"C."
She looked at the wrist-watch which, like every other little patriot,
she possessed. Past seven! If she waited, Gratian or her father
would seize on her.
"Take my things up, Dinah. I've got a headache from travelling; I'm
going to walk it off. Perhaps I shan't be in till past nine or so.
Give my love to them all."
"Oh, Miss Noel, you can't,--"
But Noel was gone. She walked towards Charing Cross; and, to kill
time, went into a restaurant and had that simple repast, coffee and a
bun, which those in love would always take if Society did not
forcibly feed them on other things. Food was ridiculous to her. She
sat there in the midst of a perfect hive of creatures eating
hideously. The place was shaped like a modern prison, having tiers
of gallery round an open space, and in the air was the smell of
viands and the clatter of plates and the music of a band. Men in
khaki everywhere, and Noel glanced from form to form to see if by
chance one might be that which represented, for her, Life and the
British Army. At half-past eight she went out and made her way:
through the crowd, still mechanically searching "khaki" for what she
wanted; and it was perhaps fortunate that there was about her face
and walk something which touched people. At the station she went up
to an old porter, and, putting a shilling into his astonished hand,
asked him to find out for her whence Morland's regiment would start.
He came back presently, and said:
"Come with me, miss."
Noel went. He was rather lame, had grey whiskers, and a ghostly thin
resemblance to her uncle Bob, which perhaps had been the reason why
she had chosen him. 64
"Brother goin' out, miss?"
Noel nodded.
"Ah! It's a crool war. I shan't be sorry when it's over. Goin' out
and comin' in, we see some sad sights 'ere. Wonderful spirit they've
got, too. I never look at the clock now but what I think: 'There you
go, slow-coach! I'd like to set you on to the day the boys come
back!' When I puts a bag in: 'Another for 'ell" I thinks. And so it
is, miss, from all I can 'ear. I've got a son out there meself.
It's 'ere they'll come along. You stand quiet and keep a lookout,
and you'll get a few minutes with him when he's done with 'is men. I
wouldn't move, if I were you; he'll come to you, all right--can't
miss you, there." And, looking at her face, he thought: 'Astonishin'
what a lot o' brothers go. Wot oh! Poor little missy! A little
lady, too. Wonderful collected she is. It's 'ard!' And trying to
find something consoling to say, he mumbled out: "You couldn't be in
a better place for seen'im off. Good night, miss; anything else I
can do for you?"
"No, thank you; you're very kind."
He looked back once or twice at her blue-clad figure standing very
still. He had left her against a little oasis of piled-up empty
milk-cans, far down the platform where a few civilians in similar
case were scattered. The trainway was empty as yet. In the grey
immensity of the station and the turmoil of its noise, she felt
neither lonely nor conscious of others waiting; too absorbed in the
one thought of seeing him and touching him again. The empty train
began backing in, stopped, and telescoped with a series of little
clattering bangs, backed on again, and subsided to rest. Noel turned
her eyes towards the station arch ways. Already she felt tremulous,
as though the regiment were sending before it the vibration of its
march.
She had not as yet seen a troop-train start, and vague images of
brave array, of a flag fluttering, and the stir of drums, beset her.
Suddenly she saw a brown swirling mass down there at the very edge,
out of which a thin brown trickle emerged towards her; no sound of
music, no waved flag. She had a longing to rush down to the barrier,
but remembering the words of the porter, stayed where she was, with
her hands tightly squeezed together. The trickle became a stream, a
flood, the head of which began to reach her. With a turbulence of
voices, sunburnt men, burdened up to the nose, passed, with rifles
jutting at all angles; she strained her eyes, staring into that
stream as one might into a walking wood, to isolate a single tree.
Her head reeled with the strain of it, and the effort to catch his
voice among the hubbub of all those cheery, common, happy-go-lucky
sounds. Some who saw her clucked their tongues, some went by silent,
others seemed to scan her as though she might be what they were
looking for. And ever the stream and the hubbub melted into the
train, and yet came pouring on. And still she waited motionless,
with an awful fear. How could he ever find her, or she him? Then
she saw that others of those waiting had found their men. And the
longing to rush up and down the platform almost overcame her; but
still she waited. And suddenly she saw him with two other officer
boys, close to the carriages, coming slowly down towards her. She
stood with her eyes fixed on his face; they passed, and she nearly
cried out. Then he turned, broke away from the other two, and came
straight to her. He had seen her before she had seen him. He was
very flushed, had a little fixed frown between his blue eyes and a
set jaw. They stood looking at each other, their hands hard gripped;
all the emotion of last night welling up within them, so that to
speak would have been to break down. The milk-cans formed a kind of
shelter, and they stood so close together that none could see their
faces. Noel was the first to master her power of speech; her words
came out, dainty as ever, through trembling lips:
"Write to me as much as ever you can, Cyril. I'm going to be a nurse
at once. And the first leave you get, I shall come to you--don't
forget."
"Forget! Move a little back, darling; they can't see us here. Kiss
me!" She moved back, thrust her face forward so that he need not
stoop, and put her lips up to his. Then, feeling that she might
swoon and fall over among the cans, she withdrew her mouth, leaving
her forehead against his lips. He murmured:
"Was it all right when you got in last night?"
"Yes; I said good-bye for you."
"Oh! Noel--I've been afraid--I oughtn't--I oughtn't--"
"Yes, yes; nothing can take you from me now."
"You have got pluck. More than!"
Along whistle sounded. Morland grasped her hands convulsively:
"Good-bye, my little wife! Don't fret. Goodbye! I must go. God
bless you, Noel!"
"I love you."
They looked at each other, just another moment, then she took her
hands from his and stood back in the shadow of the milk-cans, rigid,
following him with her eyes till he was lost in the train.
Every carriage window was full of those brown figures and red-brown
faces, hands were waving vaguely, voices calling vaguely, here and
there one cheered; someone leaning far out started to sing: "If auld
acquaintance--" But Noel stood quite still in the shadow of the
milk-cans, her lips drawn in, her hands hard clenched in front of
her; and young Morland at his window gazed back at her.
2
How she came to be sitting in Trafalgar Square she did not know.
Tears had formed a mist between her and all that seething, summer-
evening crowd. Her eyes mechanically followed the wandering search-
lights, those new milky ways, quartering the heavens and leading
nowhere. All was wonderfully beautiful, the sky a deep dark blue,
the moonlight whitening the spire of St. Martin's, and everywhere
endowing the great blacked-out buildings with dream-life. Even the
lions had come to life, and stared out over this moonlit desert of
little human figures too small to be worth the stretching out of a
paw. She sat there, aching dreadfully, as if the longing of every
bereaved heart in all the town had settled in her. She felt it
tonight a thousand times worse; for last night she had been drugged
on the new sensation of love triumphantly fulfilled. Now she felt as
if life had placed her in the corner of a huge silent room, blown out
the flame of joy, and locked the door. A little dry sob came from
her. The hay-fields and Cyril, with shirt unbuttoned at the neck,
pitching hay and gazing at her while she dabbled her fork in the thin
leavings. The bright river, and their boat grounded on the shallows,
and the swallows flitting over them. And that long dance, with the
feel of his hand between her shoulder-blades! Memories so sweet and
sharp that she almost cried out. She saw again their dark grassy
courtyard in the Abbey, and the white owl flying over them. The
white owl! Flying there again to-night, with no lovers on the grass
below! She could only picture Cyril now as a brown atom in that
swirling brown flood of men, flowing to a huge brown sea. Those
cruel minutes on the platform, when she had searched and searched the
walking wood for her, one tree, seemed to have burned themselves into
her eyes. Cyril was lost, she could not single him out, all blurred
among those thousand other shapes. And suddenly she thought: 'And I
--I'm lost to him; he's never seen me at home, never seen me in
London; he won't be able to imagine me. It's all in the past, only
the past--for both of us. Is there anybody so unhappy?' And the
town's voices-wheels, and passing feet, whistles, talk, laughter-
seemed to answer callously: 'Not one.' She looked at her wrist-
watch; like his, it had luminous hands: 'Half-past ten' was
greenishly imprinted there. She got up in dismay. They would think
she was lost, or run over, or something silly! She could not find an
empty taxi, and began to walk, uncertain of her way at night. At
last she stopped a policeman, and said:
"Which is the way towards Bloomsbury, please? I can't find a taxi."
The man looked at her, and took time to think it over; then he said:
"They're linin' up for the theatres," and looked at her again.
Something seemed to move in his mechanism:
"I'm goin' that way, miss. If you like, you can step along with me."
Noel stepped along.
"The streets aren't what they ought to be," the policeman said.
"What with the darkness, and the war turning the girls heads--you'd
be surprised the number of them that comes out. It's the soldiers,
of course."
Noel felt her cheeks burning.
"I daresay you wouldn't have noticed it," the policeman went on: "but
this war's a funny thing. The streets are gayer and more crowded at
night than I've ever seen them; it's a fair picnic all the time.
What we're goin' to settle down to when peace comes, I don't know. I
suppose you find it quiet enough up your way, miss?"
"Yes," said Noel; "quite quiet."
"No soldiers up in Bloomsbury. You got anyone in the Army, miss?"
Noel nodded.
"Ah! It's anxious times for ladies. What with the Zeps, and their
brothers and all in France, it's 'arassin'. I've lost a brother
meself, and I've got a boy out there in the Garden of Eden; his
mother carries on dreadful about him. What we shall think of it when
it's all over, I can't tell. These Huns are a wicked tough lot!"
Noel looked at him; a tall man, regular and orderly, with one of
those perfectly decent faces so often seen in the London police.
"I'm sorry you've lost someone," she said. "I haven't lost anyone
very near, yet."
"Well, let's 'ope you won't, miss. These times make you feel for
others, an' that's something. I've noticed a great change in folks
you'd never think would feel for anyone. And yet I've seen some
wicked things too; we do, in the police. Some of these English wives
of aliens, and 'armless little German bakers, an' Austrians, and
what-not: they get a crool time. It's their misfortune, not their
fault, that's what I think; and the way they get served--well, it
makes you ashamed o' bein' English sometimes--it does straight: And
the women are the worst. I said to my wife only last night, I said:
'They call themselves Christians,' I said, 'but for all the charity
that's in 'em they might as well be Huns.' She couldn't see it-not
she!' Well, why do they drop bombs?' she says. 'What!' I said,
'those English wives and bakers drop bombs? Don't be silly,' I said.
'They're as innocent as we.' It's the innocent that gets punished
for the guilty. 'But they're all spies,' she says. 'Oh!' I said,
'old lady! Now really! At your time of life!' But there it is; you
can't get a woman to see reason. It's readin' the papers. I often
think they must be written by women--beggin' your pardon, miss--but
reely, the 'ysterics and the 'atred--they're a fair knockout. D'you
find much hatred in your household, miss?"
Noel shook her head. "No; my father's a clergyman, you see."
"Ah!" said the policeman. And in the glance he bestowed on her
could be seen an added respect.
"Of course," he went on, "you're bound to have a sense of justice
against these Huns; some of their ways of goin' on have been above
the limit. But what I always think is--of course I don't say these
things--no use to make yourself unpopular--but to meself I often
think: Take 'em man for man, and you'd find 'em much the same as we
are, I daresay. It's the vicious way they're brought up, of actin'
in the mass, that's made 'em such a crool lot. I see a good bit of
crowds in my profession, and I've a very low opinion of them. Crowds
are the most blunderin' blighted things that ever was. They're like
an angry woman with a bandage over her eyes, an' you can't have
anything more dangerous than that. These Germans, it seems, are
always in a crowd. They get a state o' mind read out to them by Bill
Kaser and all that bloody-minded lot, an' they never stop to think
for themselves."
"I suppose they'd be shot if they did," said Noel.
"Well, there is that," said the policeman reflectively. "They've
brought discipline to an 'igh pitch, no doubt. An' if you ask me,"--
he lowered his voice till it was almost lost in his chin-strap,
"we'll be runnin' 'em a good second 'ere, before long. The things we
'ave to protect now are gettin' beyond a joke. There's the City
against lights, there's the streets against darkness, there's the
aliens, there's the aliens' shops, there's the Belgians, there's the
British wives, there's the soldiers against the women, there's the
women against the soldiers, there's the Peace Party, there's 'orses
against croolty, there's a Cabinet Minister every now an' then; and
now we've got these Conchies. And, mind you, they haven't raised our
pay; no war wages in the police. So far as I can see, there's only
one good result of the war--the burglaries are off. But there again,
you wait a bit and see if we don't have a prize crop of 'm, or my
name's not 'Arris."
"You must have an awfully exciting life!" said Noel.
The policeman looked down at her sideways, without lowering his face,
as only a policeman can, and said indulgently:
"We're used to it, you see; there's no excitement in what you're used
to. They find that in the trenches, I'm told. Take our seamen--
there's lots of 'em been blown up over and over again, and there they
go and sign on again next day. That's where the Germans make their
mistake! England in war-time! I think a lot, you know, on my go;
you can't 'elp it--the mind will work--an' the more I think, the more
I see the fightin' spirit in the people. We don't make a fuss about
it like Bill Kaser. But you watch a little shopman, one o' those
fellows who's had his house bombed; you watch the way he looks at the
mess--sort of disgusted. You watch his face, and you see he's got
his teeth into it. You watch one of our Tommies on 'is crutches,
with the sweat pourin' off his forehead an' 'is eyes all strainy,
stumpin' along--that gives you an idea! I pity these Peace fellows,
reely I pity them; they don't know what they're up against. I expect
there's times when you wish you was a man, don't you, miss? I'm sure
there's times when I feel I'd like to go in the trenches. That's the
worst o' my job; you can't be a human bein'--not in the full sense of
the word. You mustn't let your passions rise, you mustn't drink, you
mustn't talk; it's a narrow walk o' life. Well, here you are, miss;
your Square's the next turnin' to the right. Good night and thank
you for your conversation."
Noel held out her hand. "Good night!" she said.
The policeman took her hand with a queer, flattered embarrassment.
"Good night, miss," he said again. "I see you've got a trouble; and
I'm sure I hope it'll turn out for the best."
Noel gave his huge hand a squeeze; her eyes had filled with tears,
and she turned quickly up towards the Square, where a dark figure was
coming towards her, in whom she recognised her father. His face was
worn and harassed; he walked irresolutely, like a man who has lost
something.
"Nollie!" he said. "Thank God!" In his voice was an infinite
relief. "My child, where have you been?"
"It's all right, Daddy. Cyril has just gone to the front. I've been
seeing him off from Charing Cross."
Pierson slipped his arm round her. They entered the house without
speaking....
3
By the rail of his transport, as far--about two feet--as he could get
from anyone, Cyril Morland stood watching Calais, a dream city,
brighten out of the heat and grow solid. He could hear the guns
already, the voice of his new life-talking in the distance. It came
with its strange excitement into a being held by soft and marvellous
memories, by one long vision of Noel and the moonlit grass, under the
dark Abbey wall. This moment of passage from wonder to wonder was
quite too much for a boy unused to introspection, and he stood
staring stupidly at Calais, while the thunder of his new life came
rolling in on that passionate moonlit dream.
VII
After the emotions of those last three days Pierson woke with the
feeling a ship must have when it makes landfall. Such reliefs are
natural, and as a rule delusive; for events are as much the parents
of the future as they were the children of the past. To be at home
with both his girls, and resting--for his holiday would not be over
for ten days--was like old times. Now George was going on so well
Gratian would be herself again; now Cyril Morland was gone Noel would
lose that sudden youthful love fever. Perhaps in two or three days
if George continued to progress, one might go off with Noel somewhere
for one's last week. In the meantime the old house, wherein was
gathered so much remembrance of happiness and pain, was just as
restful as anywhere else, and the companionship of his girls would be
as sweet as on any of their past rambling holidays in Wales or
Ireland. And that first morning of perfect idleness--for no one knew
he was back in London--pottering, and playing the piano in the homely
drawing-room where nothing to speak of was changed since his wife's
day, was very pleasant. He had not yet seen the girls, for Noel did
not come down to breakfast, and Gratian was with George.
Discovery that there was still a barrier between him and them came
but slowly in the next two days. He would not acknowledge it, yet it
was there, in their voices, in their movements--rather an absence of
something old than the presence of something new. It was as if each
had said to him: "We love you, but you are not in our secrets--and
you must not be, for you would try to destroy them." They showed no
fear of him, but seemed to be pushing him unconsciously away, lest he
should restrain or alter what was very dear to them. They were both
fond of him, but their natures had set foot on definitely diverging
paths. The closer the affection, the more watchful they were against
interference by that affection. Noel had a look on her face, half
dazed, half proud, which touched, yet vexed him. What had he done to
forfeit her confidence--surely she must see how natural and right his
opposition had been! He made one great effort to show the real
sympathy he felt for her. But she only said: "I can't talk of Cyril,
Daddy; I simply can't!" And he, who easily shrank into his shell,
could not but acquiesce in her reserve.
With Gratian it was different. He knew that an encounter was before
him; a struggle between him and her husband--for characteristically
he set the change in her, the defection of her faith, down to George,
not to spontaneous thought and feeling in herself. He dreaded and
yet looked forward to this encounter. It came on the third day, when
Laird was up, lying on that very sofa where Pierson had sat listening
to Gratian's confession of disbelief. Except for putting in his head
to say good morning, he had not yet seen his son-in-law: The young
doctor could not look fragile, the build of his face, with that law
and those heavy cheekbones was too much against it, but there was
about him enough of the look of having come through a hard fight to
give Pierson's heart a squeeze.
"Well, George," he said, "you gave us a dreadful fright! I thank
God's mercy." With that half-mechanical phrase he had flung an
unconscious challenge. Laird looked up whimsically.
"So you really think God merciful, sir?"
"Don't let us argue, George; you're not strong enough."
"Oh! I'm pining for something to bite on."
Pierson looked at Gratian, and said softly:
"God's mercy is infinite, and you know it is."
Laird also looked at Gratian, before he answered:
"God's mercy is surely the amount of mercy man has succeeded in
arriving at. How much that is, this war tells you, sir."
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