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Saint's Progress

John Galsworthy

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Title: Saint's Progress

Author: John Galsworthy

Release Date: September 25, 2004 [EBook #2683]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAINT'S PROGRESS ***

Produced by David Widger

SAINTS PROGRESS

By John Galsworthy

PART 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

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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

ads:

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!'

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.

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.

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.

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!

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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."

Pierson flushed. "I don't follow you," he said painfully. "How can you

say such things, when you yourself are only just No; I refuse to argue,

George; I refuse."

Laird stretched out his hand to his wife, who came to him, and stood

clasping it with her own. "Well, I'm going to argue," he said; "I'm

simply bursting with it. I challenge you, sir, to show me where there's

any sign of altruistic pity, except in man. Mother love doesn't

count--mother and child are too much one."

The curious smile had come already, on both their faces.

"My dear George, is not man the highest work of God, and mercy the

highest quality in man?"

"Not a bit. If geological time be taken as twenty-four hours, man's

existence on earth so far equals just two seconds of it; after a few more

seconds, when man has been frozen off the earth, geological time will

stretch for as long again, before the earth bumps into something, and

becomes nebula once more. God's hands haven't been particularly full,

sir, have they--two seconds out of twenty-four hours--if man is His pet

concern? And as to mercy being the highest quality in, man, that's only

a modern fashion of talking. Man's highest quality is the sense of

proportion, for that's what keeps him alive; and mercy, logically

pursued, would kill him off. It's a sort of a luxury or by-product."

"George! You can have no music in your soul! Science is such a little

thing, if you could only see."

"Show me a bigger, sir."

"Faith."

"In what?"

"In what has been revealed to us."

"Ah! There it is again! By whom--how?

"By God Himself--through our Lord."

A faint flush rose in Laird's yellow face, and his eyes brightened.

"Christ," he said; "if He existed, which some people, as you know, doubt,

was a very beautiful character; there have been others. But to ask us to

believe in His supernaturalness or divinity at this time of day is to ask

us to walk through the world blindfold. And that's what you do, don't

you?"

Again Pierson looked at his daughter's face. She was standing quite

still, with her eyes fixed on her husband. Somehow he was aware that all

these words of the sick man's were for her benefit. Anger, and a sort of

despair rose within him, and he said painfully:

"I cannot explain. There are things that I can't make clear, because you

are wilfully blind to all that I believe in. For what do you imagine we

are fighting this great war, if it is not to reestablish the belief in

love as the guiding principle of life?"

Laird shook his head. "We are fighting to redress a balance, which was

in danger of being lost."

"The balance of power?"

"Heavens!--no! The balance of philosophy."

Pierson smiled. "That sounds very clever, George; but again, I don't

follow you."

"The balance between the sayings: 'Might is Right,' and 'Right is Might.'

They're both half-truth, but the first was beating the other out of the

field. All the rest of it is cant, you know. And by the way, sir, your

Church is solid for punishment of the evildoer. Where's mercy there?

Either its God is not merciful, or else it doesn't believe in its God."

"Just punishment does not preclude mercy, George."

"It does in Nature."

"Ah! Nature, George--always Nature. God transcends Nature."

"Then why does He give it a free rein? A man too fond of drink, or

women--how much mercy does he get from Nature? His overindulgence brings

its exact equivalent of penalty; let him pray to God as much as he

likes--unless he alters his ways he gets no mercy. If he does alter his

ways, he gets no mercy either; he just gets Nature's due reward. We

English who have neglected brain and education--how much mercy are we

getting in this war? Mercy's a man-made ornament, disease, or

luxury--call it what you will. Except that, I've nothing to say against

it. On the contrary, I am all for it."

Once more Pierson looked at his daughter. Something in her face hurt

him--the silent intensity with which she was hanging on her husband's

words, the eager search of her eyes. And he turned to the door, saying:

"This is bad for you, George."

He saw Gratian put her hand on her husband's forehead, and

thought--jealously: 'How can I save my poor girl from this infidelity?

Are my twenty years of care to go for nothing, against this modern

spirit?'

Down in his study, the words went through his mind: "Holy, holy, holy,

Merciful and Mighty!" And going to the little piano in the corner, he

opened it, and began playing the hymn. He played it softly on the shabby

keys of this thirty-year old friend, which had been with him since

College days; and sang it softly in his worn voice.

A sound made him look up. Gratian had come in. She put her hand on his

shoulder, and said:

"I know it hurts you, Dad. But we've got to find out for ourselves,

haven't we? All the time you and George were talking, I felt that you

didn't see that it's I who've changed. It's not what he thinks, but what

I've come to think of my own accord. I wish you'd understand that I've

got a mind of my own, Dad."

Pierson looked up with amazement.

"Of course you have a mind."

Gratian shook her head. "No, you thought my mind was yours; and now you

think it's George's. But it's my own. When you were my age weren't you

trying hard to find the truth yourself, and differing from your father?"

Pierson did not answer. He could not remember. It was like stirring a

stick amongst a drift of last year's leaves, to awaken but a dry

rustling, a vague sense of unsubstantiality. Searched? No doubt he had

searched, but the process had brought him nothing. Knowledge was all

smoke! Emotional faith alone was truth--reality!

"Ah, Gracie!" he said, "search if you must, but where will you find

bottom? The well is too deep for us. You will come back to God, my

child, when you're tired out; the only rest is there."

"I don't want to rest. Some people search all their lives, and die

searching. Why shouldn't I.

"You will be most unhappy, my child."

"If I'm unhappy, Dad, it'll be because the world's unhappy. I don't

believe it ought to be; I think it only is, because it shuts its eyes."

Pierson got up. "You think I shut my eyes?"

Gratian nodded.

"If I do, it is because there is no other way to happiness."

"Are you happy; Dad?"

"As happy as my nature will let me be. I miss your mother. If I lose

you and Noel--"

"Oh, but we won't let you!"

Pierson smiled. "My dear," he said, "I think I have!"

VIII

Some wag, with a bit of chalk, had written the word "Peace" on three

successive doors of a little street opposite Buckingham Palace.

It caught the eye of Jimmy Fort, limping home to his rooms from a very

late discussion at his Club, and twisted his lean shaven lips into a sort

of smile. He was one of those rolling-stone Englishmen, whose early

lives are spent in all parts of the world, and in all kinds of physical

conflict--a man like a hickory stick, tall, thin, bolt-upright, knotty,

hard as nails, with a curved fighting back to his head and a straight

fighting front to his brown face. His was the type which becomes, in a

generation or so, typically Colonial or American; but no one could

possibly have taken Jimmy Fort for anything but an Englishman. Though he

was nearly forty, there was still something of the boy in his face,

something frank and curly-headed, gallant and full of steam, and his

small steady grey eyes looked out on life with a sort of combative

humour. He was still in uniform, though they had given him up as a bad

job after keeping him nine months trying to mend a wounded leg which

would never be sound again; and he was now in the War Office in

connection with horses, about which he knew. He did not like it, having

lived too long with all sorts and conditions of men who were neither

English nor official, a combination which he found trying. His life

indeed, just now, bored him to distraction, and he would ten times rather

have been back in France. This was why he found the word "Peace" so

exceptionally tantalising.

Reaching his rooms, he threw off his tunic, to whose stiff regularity he

still had a rooted aversion; and, pulling out a pipe, filled it and sat

down at his window.

Moonshine could not cool the hot town, and it seemed sleeping badly--the

seven million sleepers in their million homes. Sound lingered on, never

quite ceased; the stale odours clung in the narrow street below, though a

little wind was creeping about to sweeten the air. 'Curse the war!' he

thought. 'What wouldn't I give to be sleeping out, instead of in this

damned city!' They who slept in the open, neglecting morality, would

certainly have the best of it tonight, for no more dew was falling than

fell into Jimmy Fort's heart to cool the fret of that ceaseless thought:

'The war! The cursed war!' In the unending rows of little grey houses,

in huge caravanserais, and the mansions of the great, in villas, and high

slum tenements; in the government offices, and factories, and railway

stations where they worked all night; in the long hospitals where they

lay in rows; in the camp prisons of the interned; in bar racks,

work-houses, palaces--no head, sleeping or waking, would be free of that

thought: 'The, cursed war!' A spire caught his eye, rising ghostly over

the roofs. Ah! churches alone, void of the human soul, would be

unconscious! But for the rest, even sleep would not free them! Here a

mother would be whispering the name of her boy; there a merchant would

snore and dream he was drowning, weighted with gold; and a wife would be

turning to stretch out her arms to-no one; and a wounded soldier wake out

of a dream trench with sweat on his brow; and a newsvendor in his garret

mutter hoarsely. By thousands the bereaved would be tossing, stifling

their moans; by thousands the ruined would be gazing into the dark

future; and housewives struggling with sums; and soldiers sleeping like

logs--for to morrow they died; and children dreaming of them; and

prostitutes lying in stale wonder at the busyness of their lives; and

journalists sleeping the sleep of the just. And over them all, in the

moonlight that thought 'The cursed war!' flapped its black wings, like an

old crow! "If Christ were real," he mused, "He'd reach that moon down,

and go chalking 'Peace' with it on every door of every house, all over

Europe. But Christ's not real, and Hindenburg and Harmsworth are!" As

real they were as two great bulls he had once seen in South Africa,

fighting. He seemed to hear again the stamp and snort and crash of those

thick skulls, to see the beasts recoiling and driving at each other, and

the little red eyes of them. And pulling a letter out of his pocket, he

read it again by the light of the moon:

"15, Camelot Mansions, "St. John's Wood.

"DEAR MR. FORT, "I came across your Club address to-night, looking at

some old letters. Did you know that I was in London? I left Steenbok

when my husband died, five years ago. I've had a simply terrific time

since. While the German South West campaign was on I was nursing out

there, but came back about a year ago to lend a hand here. It would be

awfully nice to meet you again, if by any chance you are in England. I'm

working in a V. A. D. hospital in these parts, but my evenings are

usually free. Do you remember that moonlit night at grape harvest? The

nights here aren't scented quite like that. Listerine! Oh! This war!

"With all good remembrances, "LEILA LYNCH."

A terrific time! If he did not mistake, Leila Lynch had always had a

terrific time. And he smiled, seeing again the stoep of an old Dutch

house at High Constantia, and a woman sitting there under the white

flowers of a sweet-scented creeper--a pretty woman, with eyes which could

put a spell on you, a woman he would have got entangled with if he had

not cut and run for it! Ten years ago, and here she was again,

refreshing him out of the past. He sniffed the fragrance of the little

letter. How everybody always managed to work into a letter what they

were doing in the war! If he answered her he would be sure to say:

"Since I got lamed, I've been at the War Office, working on remounts, and

a dull job it is!" Leila Lynch! Women didn't get younger, and he

suspected her of being older than himself. But he remembered agreeably

her white shoulders and that turn of her neck when she looked at you with

those big grey eyes of hers. Only a five-day acquaintanceship, but they

had crowded much into it as one did in a strange land. The episode had

been a green and dangerous spot, like one of those bright mossy bits of

bog when you were snipe-shooting, to set foot on which was to let you

down up to the neck, at least. Well, there was none of that danger now,

for her husband was dead-poor chap! It would be nice, in these dismal

days, when nobody spent any time whatever except in the service of the

country, to improve his powers of service by a few hours' recreation in

her society. 'What humbugs we are!' he thought: 'To read the newspapers

and the speeches you'd believe everybody thought of nothing but how to

get killed for the sake of the future. Drunk on verbiage! What heads

and mouths we shall all have when we wake up some fine morning with Peace

shining in at the window! Ah! If only we could; and enjoy ourselves

again!' And he gazed at the moon. She was dipping already, reeling away

into the dawn. Water carts and street sweepers had come out into the

glimmer; sparrows twittered in the eaves. The city was raising a strange

unknown face to the grey light, shuttered and deserted as Babylon. Jimmy

Fort tapped out his pipe, sighed, and got into bed.

Coming off duty at that very moment, Leila Lynch decided to have her

hour's walk before she went home. She was in charge of two wards, and as

a rule took the day watches; but some slight upset had given her this

extra spell. She was, therefore, at her worst, or perhaps at her best,

after eighteen hours in hospital. Her cheeks were pale, and about her

eyes were little lines, normally in hiding. There was in this face a

puzzling blend of the soft and hard, for the eyes, the rather full lips,

and pale cheeks, were naturally soft; but they were hardened by the

self-containment which grows on women who have to face life for

themselves, and, conscious of beauty, intend to keep it, in spite of age.

Her figure was contradictory, also; its soft modelling a little too

rigidified by stays. In this desert of the dawn she let her long blue

overcoat flap loose, and swung her hat on a finger, so that her

light-brown, touched-up hair took the morning breeze with fluffy freedom.

Though she could not see herself, she appreciated her appearance, swaying

along like that, past lonely trees and houses. A pity there was no one

to see her in that round of Regent's Park, which took her the best part

of an hour, walking in meditation, enjoying the colour coming back into

the world, as if especially for her.

There was character in Leila Lynch, and she had lived an interesting life

from a certain point of view. In her girlhood she had fluttered the

hearts of many besides Cousin Edward Pierson, and at eighteen had made a

passionate love match with a good-looking young Indian civilian, named

Fane. They had loved each other to a standstill in twelve months. Then

had begun five years of petulance, boredom, and growing cynicism, with

increasing spells of Simla, and voyages home for her health which was

really harmed by the heat. All had culminated, of course, in another

passion for a rifleman called Lynch. Divorce had followed, remarriage,

and then the Boer War, in which he had been badly wounded. She had gone

out and nursed him back to half his robust health, and, at twenty-eight,

taken up life with him on an up-country farm in Cape Colony. This middle

period had lasted ten years, between the lonely farm and an old Dutch

house at High Constantia. Lynch was not a bad fellow, but, like most

soldiers of the old Army, had been quite carefully divested of an

aesthetic sense. And it was Leila's misfortune to have moments when

aesthetic sense seemed necessary. She had struggled to overcome this

weakness, and that other weakness of hers--a liking for men's admiration;

but there had certainly been intervals when she had not properly

succeeded. Her acquaintance with Jimmy Fort had occurred during one of

these intervals, and when he went back to England so abruptly, she had

been feeling very tenderly towards him. She still remembered him with a

certain pleasure. Before Lynch died, these "intervals" had been

interrupted by a spell of returning warmth for the invalided man to whom

she had joined her life under the romantic conditions of divorce. He had

failed, of course, as a farmer, and his death left her with nothing but

her own settled income of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Faced by

the prospect of having almost to make her living, at thirty-eight, she

felt but momentary dismay--for she had real pluck. Like many who have

played with amateur theatricals, she fancied herself as an actress; but,

after much effort, found that only her voice and the perfect preservation

of her legs were appreciated by the discerning managers and public of

South Africa; and for three chequered years she made face against fortune

with the help of them, under an assumed name. What she did--keeping a

certain bloom of refinement, was far better than the achievements of many

more respectable ladies in her shoes. At least she never bemoaned her

"reduced circumstances," and if her life was irregular and had at least

three episodes, it was very human. She bravely took the rough with the

smooth, never lost the power of enjoying herself, and grew in sympathy

with the hardships of others. But she became deadly tired. When the war

broke out, remembering that she was a good nurse, she took her real name

again and a change of occupation. For one who liked to please men, and

to be pleased by them, there was a certain attraction about that life in

war-time; and after two years of it she could still appreciate the way

her Tommies turned their heads to look at her when she passed their beds.

But in a hard school she had learned perfect self-control; and though the

sour and puritanical perceived her attraction, they knew her to be

forty-three. Besides, the soldiers liked her; and there was little

trouble in her wards. The war moved her in simple ways; for she was

patriotic in the direct fashion of her class. Her father had been a

sailor, her husbands an official and a soldier; the issue for her was

uncomplicated by any abstract meditation. The Country before everything!

And though she had tended during those two years so many young wrecked

bodies, she had taken it as all in the a day's work, lavishing her

sympathy on the individual, without much general sense of pity and waste.

Yes, she had worked really hard, had "done her bit"; but of late she had

felt rising within her the old vague craving for "life," for pleasure,

for something more than the mere negative admiration bestowed on her by

her "Tommies." Those old letters--to look them through them had been a

sure sign of this vague craving--had sharpened to poignancy the feeling

that life was slipping away from her while she was still comely. She had

been long out of England, and so hard-worked since she came back that

there were not many threads she could pick up suddenly. Two letters out

of that little budget of the past, with a far cry between them, had

awakened within her certain sentimental longings.

"DEAR LADY OF THE STARRY FLOWERS,

"Exiturus (sic) to saluto! The tender carries you this message of

good-bye. Simply speaking, I hate leaving South Africa. And of all my

memories, the last will live the longest. Grape harvest at Constantia,

and you singing: 'If I could be the falling dew: If ever you and your

husband come to England, do let me know, that I may try and repay a

little the happiest five days I've spent out here.

"Your very faithful servant,

"TIMMY FORT."

She remembered a very brown face, a tall slim figure, and something

gallant about the whole of him. What was he like after ten years?

Grizzled, married, with a large family? An odious thing--Time! And

Cousin Edward's little yellow letter.

Good heavens! Twenty-six years ago--before he was a parson, or married

or anything! Such a good partner, really musical; a queer, dear fellow,

devoted, absentminded, easily shocked, yet with flame burning in him

somewhere.

'DEAR LEILA,

"After our last dance I went straight off'--I couldn't go in. I went

down to the river, and walked along the bank; it was beautiful, all grey

and hazy, and the trees whispered, and the cows looked holy; and I walked

along and thought of you. And a farmer took me for a lunatic, in my

dress clothes. Dear Leila, you were so pretty last night, and I did love

our dances. I hope you are not tired, and that I shall see you soon

again:

"Your affectionate cousin,

"EDWARD PIERSON."

And then he had gone and become a parson, and married, and been a widower

fifteen years. She remembered the death of his wife, just before she

left for South Africa, at that period of disgrace when she had so shocked

her family by her divorce. Poor Edward--quite the nicest of her cousins!

The only one she would care to see again. He would be very old and

terribly good and proper, by now.

Her wheel of Regent's Park was coming full circle, and the sun was up

behind the houses, but still no sound of traffic stirred. She stopped

before a flower-bed where was some heliotrope, and took a long, luxurious

sniff: She could not resist plucking a sprig, too, and holding it to her

nose. A sudden want of love had run through every nerve and fibre of

her; she shivered, standing there with her eyes half closed, above the

pale violet blossom. Then, noting by her wrist-watch that it was four

o'clock, she hurried on, to get to her bed, for she would have to be on

duty again at noon. Oh! the war! She was tired! If only it were over,

and one could live!...

Somewhere by Twickenham the moon had floated down; somewhere up from

Kentish Town the sun came soaring; wheels rolled again, and the seven

million sleepers in their million houses woke from morning sleep to that

same thought....

Edward Pierson, dreaming over an egg at breakfast, opened a letter in a

handwriting which he did not recognise.

"V. A. D. Hospital,

"Mulberry Road, St. John's Wood N. W.

"DEAR COUSIN EDWARD,

"Do you remember me, or have I gone too far into the shades of night? I

was Leila Pierson once upon a time, and I often think of you and wonder

what you are like now, and what your girls are like. I have been here

nearly a year, working for our wounded, and for a year before that was

nursing in South Africa. My husband died five years ago out there.

Though we haven't met for I dare not think how long, I should awfully

like to see you again. Would you care to come some day and look over my

hospital? I have two wards under me; our men are rather dears.

"Your forgotten but still affectionate cousin

"LEILA LYNCH."

"P. S. I came across a little letter you once wrote me; it brought back

old days."

No! He had not forgotten. There was a reminder in the house. And he

looked up at Noel sitting opposite. How like the eyes were! And he

thought: 'I wonder what Leila has become. One mustn't be uncharitable.

That man is dead; she has been nursing two years. She must be greatly

changed; I should certainly like to see her. I will go!' Again he

looked at Noel. Only yesterday she had renewed her request to be allowed

to begin her training as a nurse.

"I'm going to see a hospital to-day, Nollie," he said; "if you like, I'll

make enquiries. I'm afraid it'll mean you have to begin by washing up."

"I know; anything, so long as I do begin."

"Very well; I'll see about it." And he went back to his egg.

Noel's voice roused him. "Do you feel the war much, Daddy? Does it hurt

you here?" She had put her hand on her heart. "Perhaps it doesn't,

because you live half in the next world, don't you?"

The words: "God forbid," sprang to Pierson's lips; he did not speak them,

but put his egg-spoon down, hurt and bewildered. What did the child

mean? Not feel the war! He smiled.

"I hope I'm able to help people sometimes, Nollie," and was conscious

that he had answered his own thoughts, not her words. He finished his

breakfast quickly, and very soon went out. He crossed the Square, and

passed East, down two crowded streets to his church. In the traffic of

those streets, all slipshod and confused, his black-clothed figure and

grave face, with its Vandyk beard, had a curious remote appearance, like

a moving remnant of a past civilisation. He went in by the side door.

Only five days he had been away, but they had been so full of emotion

that the empty familiar building seemed almost strange to him. He had

come there unconsciously, groping for anchorage and guidance in this

sudden change of relationship between him and his daughters. He stood by

the pale brazen eagle, staring into the chancel. The choir were wanting

new hymn-books--he must not forget to order them! His eyes sought the

stained-glass window he had put in to the memory of his wife. The sun,

too high to slant, was burnishing its base, till it glowed of a deep

sherry colour. "In the next world!" What strange words of Noel's! His

eyes caught the glimmer of the organ-pipes; and, mounting to the loft, he

began to play soft chords wandering into each other. He finished, and

stood gazing down. This space within high walls, under high vaulted

roof, where light was toned to a perpetual twilight, broken here and

there by a little glow of colour from glass and flowers, metal, and dark

wood, was his home, his charge, his refuge. Nothing moved down there,

and yet--was not emptiness mysteriously living, the closed-in air

imprinted in strange sort, as though the drone of music and voices in

prayer and praise clung there still? Had not sanctity a presence?

Outside, a barrel-organ drove its tune along; a wagon staggered on the

paved street, and the driver shouted to his horses; some distant guns

boomed out in practice, and the rolling of wheels on wheels formed a net

of sound. But those invading noises were transmuted to a mere murmuring

in here; only the silence and the twilight were real to Pierson, standing

there, a little black figure in a great empty space.

When he left the church, it was still rather early to go to Leila's

hospital; and, having ordered the new hymn-books, he called in at the

house of a parishioner whose son had been killed in France. He found her

in her kitchen; an oldish woman who lived by charing. She wiped a seat

for the Vicar.

"I was just makin' meself a cup o' tea, sir."

"Ah! What a comfort tea is, Mrs. Soles!" And he sat down, so that she

should feel "at home."

"Yes; it gives me 'eart-burn; I take eight or ten cups a day, now. I

take 'em strong, too. I don't seem able to get on without it. I 'ope

the young ladies are well, sir?"

"Very well, thank you. Miss Noel is going to begin nursing, too."

"Deary-me! She's very young; but all the young gells are doin' something

these days. I've got a niece in munitions-makin' a pretty penny she is.

I've been meanin' to tell you--I don't come to church now; since my son

was killed, I don't seem to 'ave the 'eart to go anywhere--'aven't been

to a picture-palace these three months. Any excitement starts me

cryin'."

"I know; but you'd find rest in church."

Mrs. Soles shook her head, and the small twisted bob of her discoloured

hair wobbled vaguely.

"I can't take any recreation," she said. "I'd rather sit 'ere, or be at

work. My son was a real son to me. This tea's the only thing that does

me any good. I can make you a fresh cup in a minute."

"Thank you, Mrs. Soles, but I must be getting on. We must all look

forward to meeting our beloved again, in God's mercy. And one of these

days soon I shall be seeing you in church, shan't I."

Mrs. Soles shifted her weight from one slippered foot to the other.

"Well! let's 'ope so," she said. "But I dunno when I shall 'ave the

spirit. Good day, sir, and thank you kindly for calling, I'm sure."

Pierson walked away with a very faint smile. Poor queer old soul!--she

was no older than himself, but he thought of her as ancient--cut off from

her son, like so many--so many; and how good and patient! The melody of

an anthem began running in his head. His fingers moved on the air beside

him, and he stood still, waiting for an omnibus to take him to St. John's

Wood. A thousand people went by while he was waiting, but he did not

notice them, thinking of that anthem, of his daughters, and the mercy of

God; and on the top of his 'bus, when it came along, he looked lonely and

apart, though the man beside him was so fat that there was hardly any

seat left to sit on. Getting down at Lord's Cricket-ground, he asked his

way of a lady in a nurse's dress.

"If you'll come with me," she said, "I'm just going there."

"Oh! Do you happen to know a Mrs. Lynch who nurses"

"I am Mrs. Lynch. Why, you're Edward Pierson!"

He looked into her face, which he had not yet observed.

"Leila!" he said.

"Yes, Leila! How awfully nice of you to come, Edward!"

They continued to stand, searching each for the other's youth, till she

murmured:

"In spite of your beard, I should have known you anywhere!" But she

thought: 'Poor Edward! He is old, and monk-like!'

And Pierson, in answer, murmured:

"You're very little changed, Leila! We haven't, seen each other since my

youngest girl was born. She's just a little like you." But he thought:

'My Nollie! So much more dewy; poor Leila!'

They walked on, talking of his daughters, till they reached the hospital.

"If you'll wait here a minute, I'll take you over my wards."

She had left him in a bare hall, holding his hat in one hand and touching

his gold cross with the other; but she soon came hack, and a little

warmth crept about his heart. How works of mercy suited women! She

looked so different, so much softer, beneath the white coif, with a white

apron over the bluish frock.

At the change in his face, a little warmth crept about Leila, too, just

where the bib of her apron stopped; and her eyes slid round at him while

they went towards what had once been a billiard-room.

"My men are dears," she said; "they love to be talked to."

Under a skylight six beds jutted out from a green distempered wall,

opposite to six beds jutting out from another green distempered wall, and

from each bed a face was turned towards them young faces, with but little

expression in them. A nurse, at the far end, looked round, and went on

with her work. The sight of the ward was no more new to Pierson than to

anyone else in these days. It was so familiar, indeed, that it had

practically no significance. He stood by the first bed, and Leila stood

alongside. The man smiled up when she spoke, and did not smile when he

spoke, and that again was familiar to him. They passed from bed to bed,

with exactly the same result, till she was called away, and he sat down

by a young soldier with a long, very narrow head and face, and a heavily

bandaged shoulder. Touching the bandage reverently, Pierson said:

"Well, my dear fellow-still bad?"

"Ah!" replied the soldier. "Shrapnel wound: It's cut the flesh

properly."

"But not the spirit, I can see!"

The young soldier gave him a quaint look, as much as to say: "Not 'arf

bad!" and a gramophone close to the last bed began to play: "God bless

Daddy at the war!"

"Are you fond of music?"

"I like it well enough. Passes the time."

"I'm afraid the time hangs heavy in hospital."

"Yes; it hangs a bit 'eavy; it's just 'orspital life. I've been wounded

before, you see. It's better than bein' out there. I expect I'll lose

the proper use o' this arm. I don't worry; I'll get my discharge."

"You've got some good nurses here."

"Yes; I like Mrs. Lynch; she's the lady I like."

"My cousin."

"I see you come in together. I see everything 'ere. I think a lot, too.

Passes the time."

"Do they let you smoke?"

"Oh, yes! They let us smoke."

"Have one of mine?"

The young soldier smiled for the first time. "Thank you; I've got

plenty."

The nurse came by, and smiled at Pierson.

"He's one of our blase ones; been in before, haven't you, Simson?"

Pierson looked at the young man, whose long, narrow face; where one

sandy-lashed eyelid drooped just a little, seemed armoured with a sort of

limited omniscience. The gramophone had whirred and grunted into "Sidi

Brahim." The nurse passed on.

"'Seedy Abram,'" said the young soldier. "The Frenchies sing it; they

takes it up one after the other, ye know."

"Ah!" murmured Pierson; "it's pretty." And his fingers drummed on the

counterpane, for the tune was new to him. Something seemed to move in

the young man's face, as if a blind had been drawn up a little.

"I don't mind France," he said abruptly; "I don't mind the shells and

that; but I can't stick the mud. There's a lot o' wounded die in the

mud; can't get up--smothered." His unwounded arm made a restless

movement. "I was nearly smothered myself. Just managed to keep me nose

up."

Pierson shuddered. "Thank God you did!"

"Yes; I didn't like that. I told Mrs. Lynch about that one day when I

had the fever. She's a nice lady; she's seen a lot of us boys: That

mud's not right, you know." And again his unwounded arm made that

restless movement; while the gramophone struck up: "The boys in brown."

The movement of the arm affected Pierson horribly; he rose and, touching

the bandaged shoulder, said:

"Good-bye; I hope you'll soon be quite recovered."

The young soldier's lips twisted in the semblance of a smile; his drooped

eyelid seemed to try and raise itself.

"Good day, sir," he said; "and thank you."

Pierson went back to the hall. The sunlight fell in a pool just inside

the open door, and an uncontrollable impulse made him move into it, so

that it warmed him up to the waist. The mud! How ugly life was! Life

and Death! Both ugly! Poor boys! Poor boys!

A voice behind him said:

"Oh! There you are, Edward! Would you like to see the other ward, or

shall I show you our kitchen?"

Pierson took her hand impulsively. "You're doing a noble work, Leila. I

wanted to ask you: Could you arrange for Noel to come and get trained

here? She wants to begin at once. The fact is, a boy she is attracted

to has just gone out to the Front."

"Ah!" murmured Leila, and her eyes looked very soft. "Poor child! We

shall be wanting an extra hand next week. I'll see if she could come

now. I'll speak to our Matron, and let you know to-night." She squeezed

his hand hard.

"Dear Edward, I'm so glad to see you again. You're the first of our

family I've seen for sixteen years. I wonder if you'd bring Noel to have

supper at my flat to-night--Just nothing to eat, you know! It's a tiny

place. There's a Captain Fort coming; a nice man."

Pierson accepted, and as he walked away he thought: 'Dear Leila! I

believe it was Providence. She wants sympathy. She wants to feel the

past is the past. How good women are!'

And the sun, blazing suddenly out of a cloud, shone on his black figure

and the little gold cross, in the middle of Portland Place.

Men, even if they are not artistic, who have been in strange places and

known many nooks of the world, get the scenic habit, become open to

pictorial sensation. It was as a picture or series of pictures that

Jimmy Fort ever afterwards remembered his first supper at Leila's. He

happened to have been all day in the open, motoring about to horse farms

under a hot sun; and Leila's hock cup possessed a bland and subtle

strength. The scenic sense derived therefrom had a certain poignancy,

the more so because the tall child whom he met there did not drink it,

and her father seemed but to wet his lips, so that Leila and he had all

the rest. Rather a wonderful little scene it made in his mind, very

warm, glowing, yet with a strange dark sharpness to it, which came

perhaps from the black walls.

The flat had belonged to an artist who was at the war. It was but a

pocket dwelling on the third floor. The two windows of the little square

sitting-room looked out on some trees and a church. But Leila, who hated

dining by daylight, had soon drawn curtains of a deep blue over them.

The picture which Fort remembered was this: A little four-square table of

dark wood, with a Chinese mat of vivid blue in the centre, whereon stood

a silver lustre bowl of clove carnations; some greenish glasses with hock

cup in them; on his left, Leila in a low lilac frock, her neck and

shoulders very white, her face a little powdered, her eyes large, her

lips smiling; opposite him a black-clothed padre with a little gold

cross, over whose thin darkish face, with its grave pointed beard, passed

little gentle smiles, but whose deep sunk grey eyes were burnt and

bright; on his right, a girl in a high grey frock, almost white, just

hollowed at the neck, with full sleeves to the elbow, so that her slim

arms escaped; her short fair hair a little tumbled; her big grey eyes

grave; her full lips shaping with a strange daintiness round every

word--and they not many; brilliant red shades over golden lights dotting

the black walls; a blue divan; a little black piano flush with the wall;

a dark polished floor; four Japanese prints; a white ceiling. He was

conscious that his own khaki spoiled something as curious and rare as

some old Chinese tea-chest. He even remembered what they ate; lobster;

cold pigeon pie; asparagus; St. Ivel cheese; raspberries and cream. He

did not remember half so well what they talked of, except that he himself

told them stories of the Boer War, in which he had served in the

Yeomanry, and while he was telling them, the girl, like a child listening

to a fairy-tale, never moved her eyes from his face. He remembered that

after supper they all smoked cigarettes, even the tall child, after the

padre had said to her mildly, "My dear!" and she had answered: "I simply

must, Daddy, just one." He remembered Leila brewing Turkish coffee--very

good, and how beautiful her white arms looked, hovering about the cups.

He remembered her making the padre sit down at the piano, and play to

them. And she and the girl on the divan together, side by side, a

strange contrast; with just as strange a likeness to each other. He

always remembered how fine and rare that music sounded in the little

room, flooding him with a dreamy beatitude. Then--he remembered--Leila

sang, the padre standing-by; and the tall child on the divan bending

forward over her knees, with her chin on her hands. He remembered rather

vividly how Leila turned her neck and looked up, now at the padre, now at

himself; and, all through, the delightful sense of colour and warmth, a

sort of glamour over all the evening; and the lingering pressure of

Leila's hand when he said good-bye and they went away, for they all went

together. He remembered talking a great deal to the padre in the cab,

about the public school they had both been at, and thinking: 'It's a good

padre--this!' He remembered how their taxi took them to an old Square

which he did not know, where the garden trees looked densely black in the

starshine. He remembered that a man outside the house had engaged the

padre in earnest talk, while the tall child and himself stood in the open

doorway, where the hall beyond was dark. Very exactly he remembered the

little conversation which then took place between them, while they waited

for her father.

"Is it very horrid in the trenches, Captain Fort?"

"Yes, Miss Pierson; it is very horrid, as a rule."

"Is it dangerous all the time?"

"Pretty well."

"Do officers run more risks than the men?"

"Not unless there's an attack."

"Are there attacks very often?"

It had seemed to him so strangely primitive a little catechism, that he

had smiled. And, though it was so dark, she had seen that smile, for her

face went proud and close all of a sudden. He had cursed himself, and

said gently:

"Have you a brother out there?"

She shook her head.

"But someone?"

"Yes."

Someone! He had heard that answer with a little shock. This child--this

fairy princess of a child already to have someone! He wondered if she

went about asking everyone these questions, with that someone in her

thoughts. Poor child! And quickly he said:

"After all, look at me! I was out there a year, and here I am with only

half a game leg; times were a lot worse, then, too. I often wish I were

back there. Anything's better than London and the War Office." But just

then he saw the padre coming, and took her hand. "Good night, Miss

Pierson. Don't worry. That does no good, and there isn't half the risk

you think."

Her hand stirred, squeezed his gratefully, as a child's would squeeze.

"Good night," she murmured; "thank you awfully."

And, in the dark cab again, he remembered thinking: 'Fancy that child! A

jolly lucky boy, out there! Too bad! Poor little fairy princess!'

PART II

To wash up is not an exciting operation. To wash up in August became for

Noel a process which taxed her strength and enthusiasm. She combined it

with other forms of instruction in the art of nursing, had very little

leisure, and in the evenings at home would often fall asleep curled up in

a large chintz-covered chair.

George and Gratian had long gone back to their respective hospitals, and

she and her father had the house to themselves. She received many

letters from Cyril which she carried about with her and read on her way

to and from the hospital; and every other day she wrote to him. He was

not yet in the firing line; his letters were descriptive of his men, his

food, or the natives, or reminiscent of Kestrel; hers descriptive of

washing up, or reminiscent of Kestrel. But in both there was always some

little word of the longing within them.

It was towards the end of August when she had the letter which said that

he had been moved up. From now on he would be in hourly danger! That

evening after dinner she did not go to sleep in the chair, but sat under

the open window, clenching her hands, and reading "Pride and Prejudice"

without understanding a word. While she was so engaged her father came

up and said:

"Captain Fort, Nollie. Will you give him some coffee? I'm afraid I must

go out."

When he had gone, Noel looked at her visitor drinking his coffee. He had

been out there, too, and he was alive; with only a little limp. The

visitor smiled and said:

"What were you thinking about when we came in?"

"Only the war."

"Any news of him?"

Noel frowned, she hated to show her feelings.

"Yes! he's gone to the Front. Won't you have a cigarette?"

"Thanks. Will you?"

"I want one awfully. I think sitting still and waiting is more dreadful

than anything in the world."

"Except, knowing that others are waiting. When I was out there I used to

worry horribly over my mother. She was ill at the time. The cruelest

thing in war is the anxiety of people about each other--nothing touches

that."

The words exactly summed up Noel's hourly thought. He said nice things,

this man with the long legs and the thin brown bumpy face!

"I wish I were a man," she said, "I think women have much the worst time

in the war. Is your mother old?" But of course she was old why he was

old himself!

"She died last Christmas."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!"

"You lost your mother when you were a babe, didn't you?"

"Yes. That's her portrait." At the end of the room, hanging on a strip

of black velvet was a pastel, very faint in colouring, as though faded,

of a young woman, with an eager, sweet face, dark eyes, and bent a little

forward, as if questioning her painter. Fort went up to it.

"It's not a bit like you. But she must have been a very sweet woman."

"It's a sort of presence in the room. I wish I were like her!"

Fort turned. "No," he said; "no. Better as you are. It would only have

spoiled a complete thing."

"She was good."

"And aren't you?"

"Oh! no. I get a devil."

"You! Why, you're out of a fairy-tale!"

"It comes from Daddy--only he doesn't know, because he's a perfect saint;

but I know he's had a devil somewhere, or he couldn't be the saint he

is."

"H'm!" said Fort. "That's very deep: and I believe it's true--the saints

did have devils."

"Poor Daddy's devil has been dead ages. It's been starved out of him, I

think."

"Does your devil ever get away with you?"

Noel felt her cheeks growing red under his stare, and she turned to the

window:

"Yes. It's a real devil."

Vividly there had come before her the dark Abbey, and the moon balancing

over the top of the crumbling wall, and the white owl flying across.

And, speaking to the air, she said:

"It makes you do things that you want to do."

She wondered if he would laugh--it sounded so silly. But he did not.

"And damn the consequences? I know. It's rather a jolly thing to have."

Noel shook her head. "Here's Daddy coming back!"

Fort held out his hand.

"I won't stay. Good night; and don't worry too much, will you?"

He kept her hand rather a long time, and gave it a hard squeeze.

Don't worry! What advice! Ah! if she could see Cyril just for a minute!

In September, 1916, Saturday still came before Sunday, in spite of the

war. For Edward Pierson this Saturday had been a strenuous day, and even

now, at nearly midnight, he was still conning his just-completed sermon.

A patriot of patriots, he had often a passionate longing to resign his

parish, and go like his curate for a chaplain at the Front. It seemed to

him that people must think his life idle and sheltered and useless. Even

in times of peace he had been sensitive enough to feel the cold draughty

blasts which the Church encounters in a material age. He knew that nine

people out of ten looked on him as something of a parasite, with no real

work in the world. And since he was nothing if not conscientious, he

always worked himself to the bone.

To-day he had risen at half-past six, and after his bath and exercises,

had sat down to his sermon--for, even now, he wrote a new sermon once a

month, though he had the fruits of twenty-six years to choose from.

True, these new sermons were rather compiled than written, because,

bereft of his curate, he had not time enough for fresh thought on old

subjects. At eight he had breakfasted with Noel, before she went off to

her hospital, whence she would return at eight in the evening. Nine to

ten was his hour for seeing parishioners who had troubles, or wanted help

or advice, and he had received three to-day who all wanted help, which he

had given. From ten to eleven he had gone back to his sermon, and had

spent from eleven to one at his church, attending to small matters,

writing notices, fixing hymns, holding the daily half-hour Service

instituted during wartime, to which but few ever came. He had hurried

back to lunch, scamping it so that he might get to his piano for an hour

of forgetfulness. At three he had christened a very noisy baby, and been

detained by its parents who wished for information on a variety of

topics. At half-past four he had snatched a cup of tea, reading the

paper; and had spent from five to seven visiting two Parish Clubs, and

those whose war-pension matters he had in hand, and filling up forms

which would be kept in official places till such time as the system

should be changed and a fresh set of forms issued. From seven to eight he

was at home again, in case his flock wanted to see him; to-day four sheep

had come, and gone away, he was afraid, but little the wiser. From

half-past eight to half-past nine he had spent in choir practice, because

the organist was on his holiday. Slowly in the cool of the evening he had

walked home, and fallen asleep in his chair on getting in. At eleven he

had woken with a start, and, hardening his heart, had gone back to his

sermon. And now, at nearly midnight, it was still less than twenty

minutes long. He lighted one of his rare cigarettes, and let thought

wander. How beautiful those pale pink roses were in that old silver

bowl-like a little strange poem, or a piece of Debussy music, or a

Mathieu Maris picture-reminding him oddly of the word Leila. Was he

wrong in letting Noel see so much of Leila? But then she was so

improved--dear Leila!... The pink roses were just going to fall! And

yet how beautiful!... It was quiet to-night; he felt very drowsy....

Did Nollie still think of that young man, or had it passed? She had

never confided in him since! After the war, it would be nice to take her

to Italy, to all the little towns. They would see the Assisi of St.

Francis. The Little Flowers of St. Francis. The Little Flowers!... His

hand dropped, the cigarette went out. He slept with his face in shadow.

Slowly into the silence of his sleep little sinister sounds intruded.

Short concussions, dragging him back out of that deep slumber. He

started up. Noel was standing at the door, in a long coat. She said in

her calm voice:

"Zeps, Daddy!"

"Yes, my dear. Where are the maids?"

An Irish voice answered from the hall: "Here, sir; trustin' in God; but

'tis better on the ground floor."

He saw a huddle of three figures, queerly costumed, against the stairs.

"Yes, Yes, Bridgie; you're safe down here." Then he noticed that Noel

was gone. He followed her out into the Square, alive with faces faintly

luminous in the darkness, and found her against the garden railings.

"You must come back in, Nollie."

"Oh, no! Cyril has this every day."

He stood beside her; not loth, for excitement had begun to stir his

blood. They stayed there for some minutes, straining their eyes for

sight of anything save the little zagged splashes of bursting shrapnel,

while voices buzzed, and muttered: "Look! There! There! There it is!"

But the seers had eyes of greater faith than Pierson's, for he saw

nothing: He took her arm at last, and led her in. In the hall she broke

from him.

"Let's go up on the roof, Daddy!" and ran upstairs.

Again he followed, mounting by a ladder, through a trapdoor on to the

roof.

"It's splendid up here!" she cried.

He could see her eyes blazing, and thought: 'How my child does love

excitement--it's almost terrible!'

Over the wide, dark, star-strewn sky travelling searchlights, were

lighting up the few little clouds; the domes and spires rose from among

the spread-out roofs, all fine and ghostly. The guns had ceased firing,

as though puzzled. One distant bang rumbled out.

"A bomb! Oh! If we could only get one of the Zeps!"

A furious outburst of firing followed, lasting perhaps a minute, then

ceased as if by magic. They saw two searchlights converge and meet right

overhead.

"It's above us!" murmured Noel.

Pierson put his arm round her waist. 'She feels no fear!' he thought.

The search-lights switched apart; and suddenly, from far away, came a

confusion of weird sounds.

"What is it? They're cheering. Oh! Daddy, look!" There in the heavens,

towards the east, hung a dull red thing, lengthening as they gazed.

"They've got it. It's on fire! Hurrah!"

Through the dark firmament that fiery orange shape began canting

downward; and the cheering swelled in a savage frenzy of sound. And

Pierson's arm tightened on her waist.

"Thank God!" he muttered.

The bright oblong seemed to break and spread, tilted down below the level

of the roofs; and suddenly the heavens flared, as if some huge jug of

crimson light had been flung out on them. Something turned over in

Pierson's heart; he flung up his hand to his eyes.

"The poor men in it!" he said. "How terrible!"

Noel's voice answered, hard and pitiless:

"They needn't have come. They're murderers!"

Yes, they were murderers--but how terrible! And he stood quivering, with

his hands pressed to his face, till the cheering had died out into

silence.

"Let's pray, Nollie!" he whispered. "O God, Who in Thy great mercy hath

delivered us from peril, take into Thy keeping the souls of these our

enemies, consumed by Thy wrath before our eyes; give us the power to pity

them--men like ourselves."

But even while he prayed he could see Noel's face flame-white in the

darkness; and, as that glow in the sky faded out, he felt once more the

thrill of triumph.

They went down to tell the maids, and for some time after sat up

together, talking over what they had seen, eating biscuits and drinking

milk, which they warmed on an etna. It was nearly two o'clock before

they went to bed. Pierson fell asleep at once, and never turned till

awakened at half-past six by his alarum. He had Holy Communion to

administer at eight, and he hurried to get early to his church and see

that nothing untoward had happened to it. There it stood in the

sunlight; tall, grey, quiet, unharmed, with bell gently ringing.

And at that hour Cyril Morland, under the parapet of his trench,

tightening his belt, was looking at his wrist-watch for the hundredth

time, calculating exactly where he meant to put foot and hand for the

going over: 'I absolutely mustn't let those chaps get in front of me,' he

thought. So many yards before the first line of trenches, so many yards

to the second line, and there stop. So his rehearsals had gone; it was

the performance now! Another minute before the terrific racket of the

drum-fire should become the curtain-fire, which would advance before

them. He ran his eye down the trench. The man next him was licking his

two first fingers, as if he might be going to bowl at cricket. Further

down, a man was feeling his puttees. A voice said: "Wot price the

orchestra nah!" He saw teeth gleam in faces burnt almost black. Then he

looked up; the sky was blue beyond the brownish film of dust raised by

the striking shells. Noel! Noel! Noel!... He dug his fingers deep

into the left side of his tunic till he could feel the outline of her

photograph between his dispatch-case and his heart. His heart fluttered

just as it used when he was stretched out with hand touching the ground,

before the start of the "hundred yards" at school. Out of the corner of

his eye he caught the flash of a man's "briquet" lighting a cigarette.

All right for those chaps, but not for him; he wanted all his

breath--this rifle, and kit were handicap enough! Two days ago he had

been reading in some paper how men felt just before an attack. And now

he knew. He just felt nervous. If only the moment would come, and get

itself over! For all the thought he gave to the enemy there might have

been none--nothing but shells and bullets, with lives of their own. He

heard the whistle; his foot was on the spot he had marked down; his hand

where he had seen it; he called out: "Now, boys!" His head was over the

top, his body over; he was conscious of someone falling, and two men neck

and neck beside him. Not to try and run, not to break out of a walk; to

go steady, and yet keep ahead! D--n these holes! A bullet tore through

his sleeve, grazing his arm--a red-hot sensation, like the touch of an

iron. A British shell from close over his head burst sixty yards ahead;

he stumbled, fell flat, picked himself up. Three ahead of him now! He

walked faster, and drew alongside. Two of them fell. 'What luck!' he

thought; and gripping his rifle harder, pitched headlong into a

declivity. Dead bodies lay there! The first German trench line, and

nothing alive in it, nothing to clean up, nothing of it left! He

stopped, getting his wind; watching the men panting and stumbling in.

The roar of the guns was louder than ever again, barraging the second

line. So far, good! And here was his captain!

"Ready, boys? On, then!"

This time he moved more slowly still, over terrible going, all holes and

hummocks. Half consciously he took cover all he could. The air was

alive with the whistle from machine-gun fire storming across zigzag

fashion-alive it was with bullets, dust, and smoke. 'How shall I tell

her?' he thought. There would be nothing to tell but just a sort of

jagged brown sensation. He kept his eyes steadily before him, not

wanting to seethe men falling, not wanting anything to divert him from

getting there. He felt the faint fanning of the passing bullets. The

second line must be close now. Why didn't that barrage lift? Was this

new dodge of firing till the last second going to do them in? Another

hundred yards and he would be bang into it. He flung himself flat and

waited; looking at his wrist-watch he noted that his arm was soaked with

blood. He thought: 'A wound! Now I shall go home. Thank God! Oh,

Noel!' The passing bullets whirled above him; he could hear them even

through the screech and thunder of the shell-fire. 'The beastly things!'

he thought: A voice beside him gasped out:

"It's lifted, sir."

He called: "Come on, boys!" and went forward, stooping. A bullet struck

his rifle. The shock made him stagger and sent an electric shock

spinning up his arm. 'Luck again!' he thought. 'Now for it! I haven't

seen a German yet!' He leaped forward, spun round, flung up his arms, and

fell on his back, shot through and through....

The position was consolidated, as they say, and in the darkness

stretcher-bearers were out over the half-mile. Like will-o'-the-wisps,

with their shaded lanterns, they moved, hour after hour, slowly

quartering the black honeycomb which lay behind the new British line.

Now and then in the light of some star-shell their figures were

disclosed, bending and raising the forms of the wounded, or wielding pick

and shovel.

"Officer."

"Dead?"

"Sure."

"Search."

From the shaded lantern, lowered to just above the body, a yellowish

glare fell on face and breast. The hands of the searcher moved in that

little pool of light. The bearer who was taking notes bent down.

"Another boy," he said. "That all he has?"

The searcher raised himself.

"Just those, and a photo."

"Dispatch-case; pound loose; cigarette-case; wristwatch; photo. Let's see

it."

The searcher placed the photo in the pool of light. The tiny face of a

girl stared up at them, unmoved, from its short hair.

"Noel," said the searcher, reading.

"H'm! Take care of it. Stick it in his case. Come on!"

The pool of light dissolved, and darkness for ever covered Cyril Morland.

When those four took their seats in the Grand Circle at Queen's Hall the

programme was already at the second number, which, in spite of all the

efforts of patriotism, was of German origin--a Brandenburg concerto by

Bach. More curious still, it was encored. Pierson did not applaud, he

was too far gone in pleasure, and sat with a rapt smile on his face,

oblivious of his surroundings. He remained thus removed from mortal joys

and sorrows till the last applause had died away, and Leila's voice said

in his ear:

"Isn't it a wonderful audience, Edward? Look at all that khaki. Who'd

have thought those young men cared for music--good music--German music,

too?"

Pierson looked down at the patient mass of standing figures in straw hats

and military caps, with faces turned all one way, and sighed.

"I wish I could get an audience like that in my church."

A smile crept out at the corner of Leila's lips. She was thinking: 'Ah!

Your Church is out of date, my dear, and so are you! Your Church, with

its smell of mould and incense, its stained-glass, and narrowed length

and droning organ. Poor Edward, so out of the world!' But she only

pressed his arm, and whispered:

"Look at Noel!"

The girl was talking to Jimmy Fort. Her cheeks were gushed, and she

looked prettier than Pierson had seen her look for a long time now, ever

since Kestrel, indeed. He heard Leila sigh.

"Does she get news of her boy? Do you remember that May Week, Edward?

We were very young then; even you were young. That was such a pretty

little letter you wrote me. I can see you still-wandering in your dress

clothes along the river, among the 'holy' cows."

But her eyes slid round again, watching her other neighbour and the girl.

A violinist had begun to play the Cesar Franck Sonata. It was Pierson's

favourite piece of music, bringing him, as it were, a view of heaven, of

devotional blue air where devout stars were shining in a sunlit noon,

above ecstatic trees and waters where ecstatic swans were swimming.

"Queer world, Mr. Pierson! Fancy those boys having to go back to barrack

life after listening to that! What's your feeling? Are we moving back

to the apes? Did we touch top note with that Sonata?"

Pierson turned and contemplated his questioner shrewdly.

"No, Captain Fort, I do not think we are moving back to the apes; if we

ever came from them. Those boys have the souls of heroes!"

"I know that, sir, perhaps better than you do."

"Ah! yes," said Pierson humbly, "I forgot, of course." But he still

looked at his neighbour doubtfully. This Captain Fort, who was a friend

of Leila's, and who had twice been to see them, puzzled him. He had a

frank face, a frank voice, but queer opinions, or so it seemed to,

Pierson--little bits of Moslemism, little bits of the backwoods, and the

veldt; queer unexpected cynicisms, all sorts of side views on England had

lodged in him, and he did not hide them. They came from him like bullets,

in that frank voice, and drilled little holes in the listener. Those

critical sayings flew so much more poignantly from one who had been

through the same educational mill as himself, than if they had merely

come from some rough diamond, some artist, some foreigner, even from a

doctor like George. And they always made him uncomfortable, like the

touch of a prickly leaf; they did not amuse him. Certainly Edward

Pierson shrank from the rough touches of a knock-about philosophy. After

all, it was but natural that he should.

He and Noel left after the first part of the concert, parting from the

other two at the door. He slipped his hand through her arm; and,

following out those thoughts of his in the concert-hall, asked:

"Do you like Captain Fort, Nollie?"

"Yes; he's a nice man."

"He seems a nice man, certainly; he has a nice smile, but strange views,

I'm afraid."

"He thinks the Germans are not much worse than we are; he says that a

good many of us are bullies too."

"Yes, that is the sort of thing I mean."

"But are we, Daddy?"

"Surely not."

"A policeman I talked to once said the same. Captain Fort says that very

few men can stand having power put into their hands without being

spoiled. He told me some dreadful stories. He says we have no

imagination, so that we often do things without seeing how brutal they

are."

"We're not perfect, Nollie; but on the whole I think we're a kind

people."

Noel was silent a moment, then said suddenly:

"Kind people often think others are kind too, when they really aren't.

Captain Fort doesn't make that mistake."

"I think he's a little cynical, and a little dangerous."

"Are all people dangerous who don't think like others, Daddy?"

Pierson, incapable of mockery, was not incapable of seeing when he was

being mocked. He looked at his daughter with a smile.

"Not quite so bad as that, Nollie; but Mr. Fort is certainly subversive.

I think perhaps he has seen too many queer sides of life."

"I like him the better for that."

"Well, well," Pierson answered absently. He had work to do in

preparation for a Confirmation Class, and sought his study on getting in.

Noel went to the dining-room to drink her hot milk. The curtains were

not drawn, and bright moonlight was coming in. Without lighting up, she

set the etna going, and stood looking at the moon-full for the second

time since she and Cyril had waited for it in the Abbey. And pressing her

hands to her breast, she shivered. If only she could summon him from the

moonlight out there; if only she were a witch-could see him, know where

he was, what doing! For a fortnight now she had received no letter.

Every day since he had left she had read the casualty lists, with the

superstitious feeling that to do so would keep him out of them. She took

up the Times. There was just enough light, and she read the roll of

honour--till the moon shone in on her, lying on the floor, with the

dropped journal....

But she was proud, and soon took grief to her room, as on that night

after he left her, she had taken love. No sign betrayed to the house her

disaster; the journal on the floor, and the smell of the burnt milk which

had boiled over, revealed nothing. After all, she was but one of a

thousand hearts which spent that moonlit night in agony. Each night, year

in, year out, a thousand faces were buried in pillows to smother that

first awful sense of desolation, and grope for the secret spirit-place

where bereaved souls go, to receive some feeble touch of healing from

knowledge of each other's trouble....

In the morning she got up from her sleepless bed, seemed to eat her

breakfast, and went off to her hospital. There she washed up plates and

dishes, with a stony face, dark under the eyes.

The news came to Pierson in a letter from Thirza, received at lunch-time.

He read it with a dreadful aching. Poor, poor little Nollie! What an

awful trouble for her! And he, too, went about his work with the

nightmare thought that he had to break the news to her that evening.

Never had he felt more lonely, more dreadfully in want of the mother of

his children. She would have known how to soothe, how to comfort. On

her heart the child could have sobbed away grief. And all that hour, from

seven to eight, when he was usually in readiness to fulfil the functions

of God's substitute to his parishioners, he spent in prayer of his own,

for guidance how to inflict and heal this blow. When, at last, Noel

came, he opened. the door to her himself, and, putting back the hair from

her forehead, said: "Come in here a moment, my darling!" Noel followed

him into the study, and sat down. "I know already, Daddy." Pierson was

more dismayed by this stoicism than he would have been by any natural out

burst. He stood, timidly stroking her hair, murmuring to her what he had

said to Gratian, and to so many others in these days: "There is no death;

look forward to seeing him again; God is merciful" And he marvelled at

the calmness of that pale face--so young.

"You are very brave, my child!" he said.

"There's nothing else to be, is there?"

"Isn't there anything I can do for you, Nollie?"

"No, Daddy."

"When did you see it?"

"Last night." She had already known for twenty-four hours without

telling him!

"Have you prayed, my darling?"

"No."

"Try, Nollie!"

"No."

"Ah, try!"

"It would be ridiculous, Daddy; you don't know."

Grievously upset and bewildered, Pierson moved away from her, and said:

"You look dreadfully tired. Would you like a hot bath, and your dinner

in bed?"

"I'd like some tea; that's all." And she went out.

When he had seen that the tea had gone up to her, he too went out; and,

moved by a longing for woman's help, took a cab to Leila's flat.

III

On leaving the concert Leila and Jimmy Fort had secured a taxi; a vehicle

which, at night, in wartime, has certain advantages for those who desire

to become better acquainted. Vibration, sufficient noise, darkness, are

guaranteed; and all that is lacking for the furtherance of emotion is the

scent of honeysuckle and roses, or even of the white flowering creeper

which on the stoep at High Constantia had smelled so much sweeter than

petrol.

When Leila found herself with Fort in that loneliness to which she had

been looking forward, she was overcome by an access of nervous silence.

She had been passing through a strange time for weeks past. Every night

she examined her sensations without quite understanding them as yet.

When a woman comes to her age, the world-force is liable to take

possession, saying:

"You were young, you were beautiful, you still have beauty, you are not,

cannot be, old. Cling to youth, cling to beauty; take all you can get,

before your face gets lines and your hair grey; it is impossible that you

have been loved for the last time."

To see Jimmy Fort at the concert, talking to Noel, had brought this

emotion to a head. She was not of a grudging nature, and could genuinely

admire Noel, but the idea that Jimmy Fort might also admire disturbed her

greatly. He must not; it was not fair; he was too old--besides, the girl

had her boy; and she had taken care that he should know it. So, leaning

towards him, while a bare-shouldered young lady sang, she had whispered:

"Penny?"

And he had whispered back:

"Tell you afterwards."

That had comforted her. She would make him take her home. It was time

she showed her heart.

And now, in the cab, resolved to make her feelings known, in sudden

shyness she found it very difficult. Love, to which for quite three

years she had been a stranger, was come to life within her. The

knowledge was at once so sweet, and so disturbing, that she sat with face

averted, unable to turn the precious minutes to account. They arrived at

the flat without having done more than agree that the streets were dark,

and the moon bright. She got out with a sense of bewilderment, and said

rather desperately:

"You must come up and have a cigarette. It's quite early, still."

He went up.

"Wait just a minute," said Leila.

Sitting there with his drink and his cigarette, he stared at some

sunflowers in a bowl--Famille Rose--and waited just ten; smiling a

little, recalling the nose of the fairy princess, and the dainty way her

lips shaped the words she spoke. If she had not had that lucky young

devil of a soldier boy, one would have wanted to buckle her shoes, lay

one's coat in the mud for her, or whatever they did in fairytales. One

would have wanted--ah! what would one not have wanted! Hang that soldier

boy! Leila said he was twenty-two. By George! how old it made a man

feel who was rising forty, and tender on the off-fore! No fairy

princesses for him! Then a whiff of perfume came to his nostrils; and,

looking up, he saw Leila standing before him, in a long garment of dark

silk, whence her white arms peeped out.

"Another penny? Do you remember these things, Jimmy? The Malay women

used to wear them in Cape Town. You can't think what a relief it is to

get out of my slave's dress. Oh! I'm so sick of nursing! Jimmy, I want

to live again a little!"

The garment had taken fifteen years off her age, and a gardenia, just

where the silk crossed on her breast, seemed no whiter than her skin. He

wondered whimsically whether it had dropped to her out of the dark!

"Live?" he said. "Why! Don't you always?"

She raised her hands so that the dark silk fell, back from the whole

length of those white arms.

"I haven't lived for two years. Oh, Jimmy! Help me to live a little!

Life's so short, now."

Her eyes disturbed him, strained and pathetic; the sight of her arms; the

scent of the flower disturbed him; he felt his cheeks growing warm, and

looked down.

She slipped suddenly forward on to her knees at his feet, took his hand,

pressed it with both of hers, and murmured:

"Love me a little! What else is there? Oh! Jimmy, what else is there?"

And with the scent of the flower, crushed by their hands, stirring his

senses, Fort thought: 'Ah, what else is there, in these forsaken days?'

To Jimmy Fort, who had a sense of humour, and was in some sort a

philosopher, the haphazard way life settled things seldom failed to seem

amusing. But when he walked away from Leila's he was pensive. She was a

good sort, a pretty creature, a sportswoman, an enchantress; but--she was

decidedly mature. And here he was--involved in helping her to "live";

involved almost alarmingly, for there had been no mistaking the fact that

she had really fallen in love with him.

This was flattering and sweet. Times were sad, and pleasure scarce,

but--! The roving instinct which had kept him, from his youth up,

rolling about the world, shied instinctively at bonds, however pleasant,

the strength and thickness of which he could not gauge; or, was it that

perhaps for the first time in his life he had been peeping into fairyland

of late, and this affair with Leila was by no means fairyland? He had

another reason, more unconscious, for uneasiness. His heart, for all his

wanderings, was soft, he had always found it difficult to hurt anyone,

especially anyone who did him the honour to love him. A sort of

presentiment weighed on him while he walked the moonlit streets at this

most empty hour, when even the late taxis had ceased to run. Would she

want him to marry her? Would it be his duty, if she did? And then he

found himself thinking of the concert, and that girl's face, listening to

the tales he was telling her. 'Deuced queer world,' he thought, 'the way

things go! I wonder what she would think of us, if she knew--and that

good padre! Phew!'

He made such very slow progress, for fear of giving way in his leg, and

having to spend the night on a door-step, that he had plenty of time for

rumination; but since it brought him no confidence whatever, he began at

last to feel: 'Well; it might be a lot worse. Take the goods the gods

send you and don't fuss!' And suddenly he remembered with extreme

vividness that night on the stoep at High Constantia, and thought with

dismay: 'I could have plunged in over head and ears then; and now--I

can't! That's life all over! Poor Leila! Me miserum, too, perhaps--who

knows!'

When Leila opened her door to Edward Pierson, her eyes were smiling, and

her lips were soft. She seemed to smile and be soft all over, and she

took both his hands. Everything was a pleasure to her that day, even the

sight of this sad face. She was in love and was loved again; had a

present and a future once more, not only her own full past; and she must

finish with Edward in half an hour, for Jimmy was coming. She sat down

on the divan, took his hand in a sisterly way, and said:

"Tell me, Edward; I can see you're in trouble. What is it?"

"Noel. The boy she was fond of has been killed."

She dropped his hand.

"Oh, no! Poor child! It's too cruel!" Tears started up in her grey

eyes, and she touched them with a tiny handkerchief. "Poor, poor little

Noel! Was she very fond of him?"

"A very sudden, short engagement; but I'm afraid she takes it desperately

to heart. I don't know how to comfort her; only a woman could. I came

to ask you: Do you think she ought to go on with her work? What do you

think, Leila? I feel lost!"

Leila, gazing at him, thought: 'Lost? Yes, you look lost, my poor

Edward!'

"I should let her go on," she said: "it helps; it's the only thing that

does help. I'll see if I can get them to let her come into the wards.

She ought to be in touch with suffering and the men; that kitchen work

will try her awfully just now: Was he very young?"

"Yes. They wanted to get married. I was opposed to it."

Leila's lip curled ever so little. 'You would be!' she thought.

"I couldn't bear to think of Nollie giving herself hastily, like that;

they had only known each other three weeks. It was very hard for me,

Leila. And then suddenly he was sent to the front."

Resentment welled up in Leila. The kill-Joys! As if life didn't kill

joy fast enough! Her cousin's face at that moment was almost abhorrent

to her, its gentle perplexed goodness darkened and warped by that monkish

look. She turned away, glanced at the clock over the hearth, and

thought: 'Yes, and he would stop Jimmy and me! He would say: "Oh, no!

dear Leila--you mustn't love--it's sin!" How I hate that word!'

"I think the most dreadful thing in life," she said abruptly, "is the way

people suppress their natural instincts; what they suppress in themselves

they make other people suppress too, if they can; and that's the cause of

half the misery in this world."

Then at the surprise on his face at this little outburst, whose cause he

could not know, she added hastily: "I hope Noel will get over it quickly,

and find someone else."

"Yes. If they had been married--how much worse it would have been. Thank

God, they weren't!"

"I don't know. They would have had an hour of bliss. Even an hour of

bliss is worth something in these days."

"To those who only believe in this 'life--perhaps."

'Ten minutes more!' she thought: 'Oh, why doesn't he go?' But at that

very moment he got up, and instantly her heart went out to him again.

"I'm so sorry, Edward. If I can help in any way--I'll try my best with

Noel to-morrow; and do come to me whenever you feel inclined."

She took his hand in hers; afraid that he would sit down again, she yet

could not help a soft glance into his eyes, and a little rush of pitying

warmth in the pressure of her hand.

Pierson smiled; the smile which always made her sorry for him.

"Good-bye, Leila; you're very good and kind to me. Good-bye."

Her bosom swelled with relief and compassion; and--she let him out.

Running upstairs again she thought: 'I've just time. What shall I put

on? Poor Edward, poor Noel! What colour does Jimmy like? Oh! Why

didn't I keep him those ten years ago--what utter waste!' And,

feverishly adorning herself, she came back to the window, and stood there

in the dark to watch, while some jasmine which grew below sent up its

scent to her. 'Would I marry him?' she thought, 'if he asked me? But he

won't ask me--why should he now? Besides, I couldn't bear him to feel I

wanted position or money from him. I only want love--love--love!' The

silent repetition of that word gave her a wonderful sense of solidity and

comfort. So long as she only wanted love, surely he would give it.

A tall figure turned down past the church, coming towards her. It was

he! And suddenly she bethought herself. She went to the little black

piano, sat down, and began to sing the song she had sung to him ten years

ago: "If I could be the falling dew and fall on thee all day!" She did

not even look round when he came in, but continued to croon out the

words, conscious of him just behind her shoulder in the dark. But when

she had finished, she got up and threw her arms round him, strained him

to her, and burst into tears on his shoulder; thinking of Noel and that

dead boy, thinking of the millions of other boys, thinking of her own

happiness, thinking of those ten years wasted, of how short was life, and

love; thinking--hardly knowing what she thought! And Jimmy Fort, very

moved by this emotion which he only half understood, pressed her tightly

in his arms, and kissed her wet cheeks and her neck, pale and warm in the

darkness.

Noel went on with her work for a month, and then, one morning, fainted

over a pile of dishes. The noise attracted attention, and Mrs. Lynch was

summoned.

The sight of her lying there so deadly white taxed Leila's nerves

severely. But the girl revived quickly, and a cab was sent for. Leila

went with her, and told the driver to stop at Camelot Mansions. Why take

her home in this state, why not save the jolting, and let her recover

properly? They went upstairs arm in arm. Leila made her lie down on the

divan, and put a hot-water bottle to her feet. Noel was still so passive

and pale that even to speak to her seemed a cruelty. And, going to her

little sideboard, Leila stealthily extracted a pint bottle of some

champagne which Jimmy Fort had sent in, and took it with two glasses and

a corkscrew into her bedroom. She drank a little herself, and came out

bearing a glass to the girl. Noel shook her head, and her eyes seemed to

say: "Do you really think I'm so easily mended?" But Leila had been

through too much in her time to despise earthly remedies, and she held it

to the girl's lips until she drank. It was excellent champagne, and,

since Noel had never yet touched alcohol, had an instantaneous effect.

Her eyes brightened; little red spots came up in her cheeks. And

suddenly she rolled over and buried her face deep in a cushion. With her

short hair, she looked so like a child lying there, that Leila knelt

down, stroking her head, and saying: "There, there; my love! There,

there!"

At last the girl raised herself; now that the pallid, masklike despair of

the last month was broken, she seemed on fire, and her face had a wild

look. She withdrew herself from Leila's touch, and, crossing her arms

tightly across her chest, said:

"I can't bear it; I can't sleep. I want him back; I hate life--I hate

the world. We hadn't done anything--only just loved each other. God

likes punishing; just because we loved each other; we had only one day to

love each other--only one day--only one!"

Leila could see the long white throat above those rigid arms straining

and swallowing; it gave her a choky feeling to watch it. The voice,

uncannily dainty for all the wildness of the words and face, went on:

"I won't--I don't want to live. If there's another life, I shall go to

him. And if there isn't--it's just sleep."

Leila put out her hand to ward of these wild wanderings. Like most women

who live simply the life of their senses and emotions, she was orthodox;

or rather never speculated on such things.

"Tell me about yourself and him," she said.

Noel fastened her great eyes on her cousin. "We loved each other; and

children are born, aren't they, after you've loved? But mine won't be!"

From the look on her face rather than from her words, the full reality of

her meaning came to Leila, vanished, came again. Nonsense! But--what an

awful thing, if true! That which had always seemed to her such an

exaggerated occurrence in the common walks of life--why! now, it was a

tragedy! Instinctively she raised herself and put her arms round the

girl.

"My poor dear!" she said; "you're fancying things!"

The colour had faded out of Noel's face, and, with her head thrown back

and her eyelids half-closed, she looked like a scornful young ghost.

"If it is--I shan't live. I don't mean to--it's easy to die. I don't

mean Daddy to know."

"Oh! my dear, my dear!" was all Leila could stammer.

"Was it wrong, Leila?"

"Wrong? I don't know--wrong? If it really is so--it was--unfortunate.

But surely, surely--you're mistaken?"

Noel shook her head. "I did it so that we should belong to each other.

Nothing could have taken him from me."

Leila caught at the girl's words.

"Then, my dear--he hasn't quite gone from you, you see?"

Noel's lips formed a "No" which was inaudible. "But Daddy!" she

whispered.

Edward's face came before Leila so vividly that she could hardly see the

girl for the tortured shape of it. Then the hedonist in her revolted

against that ascetic vision. Her worldly judgment condemned and deplored

this calamity, her instinct could not help applauding that hour of life

and love, snatched out of the jaws of death. "Need he ever know?" she

said.

"I could never lie to Daddy. But it doesn't matter. Why should one go

on living, when life is rotten?"

Outside the sun was shining brightly, though it was late October. Leila

got up from her knees. She stood at the window thinking hard.

"My dear," she said at last, "you mustn't get morbid. Look at me! I've

had two husbands, and--and--well, a pretty stormy up and down time of it;

and I daresay I've got lots of trouble before me. But I'm not going to

cave in. Nor must you. The Piersons have plenty of pluck; you mustn't

be a traitor to your blood. That's the last thing. Your boy would have

told you to stick it. These are your 'trenches,' and you're not going to

be downed, are you?"

After she had spoken there was a long silence, before Noel said:

"Give me a cigarette, Leila."

Leila produced the little flat case she carried.

"That's brave," she said. "Nothing's incurable at your age. Only one

thing's incurable--getting old."

Noel laughed. "That's curable too, isn't it?"

"Not without surrender."

Again there was a silence, while the blue fume from two cigarettes

fast-smoked, rose towards the low ceiling. Then Noel got up from the

divan, and went over to the piano. She was still in her hospital dress

of lilac-coloured linen, and while she stood there touching the keys,

playing a chord now, and then, Leila's heart felt hollow from compassion;

she was so happy herself just now, and this child so very wretched!

"Play to me," she said; "no--don't; I'll play to you." And sitting down,

she began to play and sing a little French song, whose first line ran:

"Si on est jolie, jolie comme vous." It was soft, gay, charming. If the

girl cried, so much the better. But Noel did not cry. She seemed

suddenly to have recovered all her self-possession. She spoke calmly,

answered Leila's questions without emotion, and said she would go home.

Leila went out with her, and walked some way in the direction of her

home; distressed, but frankly at a loss. At the bottom of Portland Place

Noel stopped and said: "I'm quite all right now, Leila; thank you

awfully. I shall just go home and lie down. And I shall come to-morrow,

the same as usual. Goodbye!" Leila could only grasp the girl's hand, and

say: "My dear, that's splendid. There's many a slip--besides, it's

war-time."

With that saying, enigmatic even to herself, she watched the girl moving

slowly away; and turned back herself towards her hospital, with a

disturbed and compassionate heart.

But Noel did not go east; she walked down Regent Street. She had

received a certain measure of comfort, been steadied by her experienced

cousin's vitality, and the new thoughts suggested by those words: "He

hasn't quite gone from you, has he?" "Besides, it's war-time." Leila

had spoken freely, too, and the physical ignorance in which the girl had

been groping these last weeks was now removed. Like most proud natures,

she did not naturally think much about the opinion of other people;

besides, she knew nothing of the world, its feelings and judgments. Her

nightmare was the thought of her father's horror and grief. She tried to

lessen that nightmare by remembering his opposition to her marriage, and

the resentment she had felt. He had never realised, never understood,

how she and Cyril loved. Now, if she were really going to have a child,

it would be Cyril's--Cyril's son--Cyril over again. The instinct

stronger than reason, refinement, tradition, upbringing, which had pushed

her on in such haste to make sure of union--the irrepressible pulse of

life faced with annihilation--seemed to revive within her, and make her

terrible secret almost precious. She had read about "War babies" in the

papers, read with a dull curiosity; but now the atmosphere, as it were,

of those writings was illumined for her. These babies were wrong, were a

"problem," and yet, behind all that, she seemed now to know that people

were glad of them; they made up, they filled the gaps. Perhaps, when she

had one, she would be proud, secretly proud, in spite of everyone, in

spite of her father! They had tried to kill Cyril--God and everyone; but

they hadn't been able, he was alive within her! A glow came into her

face, walking among the busy shopping crowd, and people turned to look at

her; she had that appearance of seeing no one, nothing, which is strange

and attractive to those who have a moment to spare from contemplation of

their own affairs. Fully two hours she wandered thus, before going in,

and only lost that exalted feeling when, in her own little room, she had

taken up his photograph, and was sitting on her bed gazing at it. She had

a bad breakdown then. Locked in there, she lay on her bed, crying,

dreadfully lonely, till she fell asleep exhausted, with the tear-stained

photograph clutched in her twitching fingers. She woke with a start. It

was dark, and someone was knocking on her door.

"Miss Noel!"

Childish perversity kept her silent. Why couldn't they leave her alone?

They would leave her alone if they knew. Then she heard another kind of

knocking, and her father's voice:

"Nollie! Nollie!"

She scrambled up, and opened. He looked scared, and her heart smote her.

"It's all right, Daddy; I was asleep."

"My dear, I'm sorry, but dinner's ready."

"I don't want any dinner; I think I'll go to bed."

The frown between his brows deepened.

"You shouldn't lock your door, Nollie: I was quite frightened. I went

round to the hospital to bring you home, and they told me about your

fainting. I want you to see a doctor."

Noel shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no! It's nothing!"

"Nothing? To faint like that? Come, my child. To please me." He took

her face in his hands. Noel shrank away.

"No, Daddy. I won't see a doctor. Extravagance in wartime! I won't.

It's no good trying to make me. I'll come down if you like; I shall be

all right to-morrow."

With this Pierson had to be content; but, often that evening, she saw him

looking at her anxiously. And when she went up, he came out of his

study, followed to her room, and insisted on lighting her fire. Kissing

her at the door, he said very quietly:

"I wish I could be a mother to you, my child!"

For a moment it flashed through Noel: 'He knows!' then, by the puzzled

look on his face, she knew that he did not. If only he did know; what a

weight it would be off her mind! But she answered quietly too; "Good

night, Daddy dear!" kissed him, and shut the door.

She sat down before the little new fire, and spread her hands out to it;

all was so cold and wintry in her heart. And the firelight flickered on

her face, where shadows lay thick under her eyes, for all the roundness

of her cheeks, and on her slim pale hands, and the supple grace of her

young body. And out in the night, clouds raced over the moon, which had

come full once more.

Pierson went back to his study, and wrote to Gratian.

"If you can get leave for a few days, my dear, I want you at home. I am

troubled about Nollie. Ever since that disaster happened to her she has

been getting paler; and to-day she fainted. She won't see a doctor, but

perhaps you could get her to see George. If you come up, he will surely

be able to run up to us for a day or two. If not, you must take her down

to him at the sea. I have just seen the news of your second cousin

Charlie Pierson's death; he was killed in one of the last attacks on the

Somme; he was nephew of my cousin Leila whom, as you know, Noel sees

every day at her hospital. Bertram has the D. S. O. I have been less

hard-pressed lately; Lauder has been home on leave and has taken some

Services for me. And now the colder weather has come, I am feeling much

fresher. Try your best to come. I am seriously concerned for our beloved

child. "Your affectionate father "EDWARD PIERSON."

Gratian answered that she could get week-end leave, and would come on

Friday. He met her at the station, and they drove thence straight to the

hospital, to pick up Noel. Leila came to them in the waiting-room, and

Pierson, thinking they would talk more freely about Noel's health if he

left them alone, went into the recreation room, and stood watching a game

of bagatelle between two convalescents. When he returned to the little

sitting-room they were still standing by the hearth, talking in low

voices. Gratian must surely have been stooping over the fire, for her

face was red, almost swollen, and her eyes looked as if she had scorched

them.

Leila said lightly:

"Well, Edward, aren't the men delightful? When are we going to another

concert together?"

She, too, was flushed and looking almost young.

"Ah! If we could do the things we want to.

"That's very pretty, Edward; but you should, you know--for a tonic." He

shook his head and smiled.

"You're a temptress, Leila. Will you let Nollie know, please, that we

can take her back with us? Can you let her off to-morrow?"

"For as long as you like; she wants a rest. I've been talking to

Gratian. We oughtn't to have let her go on after a shock like that--my

fault, I'm afraid. I thought that work might be best."

Pierson was conscious of Gratian walking past him out of the room. He

held out his hand to Leila, and followed. A small noise occurred behind

him such as a woman makes when she has put a foot through her own skirt,

or has other powerful cause for dismay. Then he saw Noel in the hall,

and was vaguely aware of being the centre of a triangle of women whose

eyes were playing catch-glance. His daughters kissed each other; and he

became seated between them in the taxi. The most unobservant of men, he

parted from them in the hall without having perceived anything except

that they were rather silent; and, going to his study, he took up a Life

of Sir Thomas More. There was a passage therein which he itched to show

George Laird, who was coming up that evening.

Gratian and Noel had mounted the stairs with lips tight set, and eyes

averted; both were very pale. When they reached the door of Gratian's

room the room which had been their mother's--Noel was for passing on, but

Gratian caught her by the arm, and said: "Come in." The fire was burning

brightly in there, and the two sisters stood in front of it, one on each

side, their hands clutching the mantel-shelf, staring at the flames. At

last Noel put one hand in front of her eyes, and said:

"I asked her to tell you."

Gratian made the movement of one who is gripped by two strong emotions,

and longs to surrender to one or to the other.

"It's too horrible," was all she said.

Noel turned towards the door.

"Stop, Nollie!"

Noel stopped with her hand on the door knob. "I don't want to be

forgiven and sympathised with. I just want to be let alone."

"How can you be let alone?"

The tide of misery surged up in Noel, and she cried out passionately:

"I hate sympathy from people who can't understand. I don't want

anyone's. I can always go away, and lose myself."

The words "can't understand" gave Gratian a shock.

"I can understand," she said.

"You can't; you never saw him. You never saw--" her lips quivered so

that she had to stop and bite them, to keep back a rush of tears.

"Besides you would never have done it yourself."

Gratian went towards her, but stopped, and sat down on the bed. It was

true. She would never have done it herself; it was just that which, for

all her longing to help her sister, iced her love and sympathy. How

terrible, wretched, humiliating! Her own sister, her only sister, in the

position of all those poor, badly brought up girls, who forgot

themselves! And her father--their father! Till that moment she had

hardly thought of him, too preoccupied by the shock to her own pride.

The word: "Dad!" was forced from her.

Noel shuddered.

"That boy!" said Gratian suddenly; "I can't forgive him. If you didn't

know--he did. It was--it was--" She stopped at the sight of Noel's face.

"I did know," she said. "It was I. He was my husband, as much as yours

is. If you say a word against him, I'll never speak to you again: I'm

glad, and you would be, if you were going to have one. What's the

difference, except that you've had luck, and I--haven't." Her lips

quivered again, and she was silent.

Gratian stared up at her. She had a longing for George--to know what he

thought and felt.

"Do you mind if I tell George?" she said.

Noel shook her head. "No! not now. Tell anybody." And suddenly the

misery behind the mask of her face went straight to Gratian's heart. She

got up and put her arms round her sister.

"Nollie dear, don't look like that!"

Noel suffered the embrace without response, but when it was over, went to

her own room.

Gratian stayed, sorry, sore and vexed, uncertain, anxious. Her pride was

deeply wounded, her heart torn; she was angry with herself. Why couldn't

she have been more sympathetic? And yet, now that Noel was no longer

there, she again condemned the dead. What he had done was unpardonable.

Nollie was such--a child! He had committed sacrilege. If only George

would come, and she could talk it all out with him! She, who had married

for love and known passion, had insight enough to feel that Noel's love

had been deep--so far as anything, of course, could be deep in such a

child. Gratian was at the mature age of twenty. But to have forgotten

herself like that! And this boy! If she had known him, that feeling

might have been mitigated by the personal element, so important to all

human judgment; but never having seen him, she thought of his conduct as

"caddish." And she knew that this was, and would be, the trouble between

her and her sister. However she might disguise it, Noel would feel that

judgment underneath.

She stripped off her nurse's garb, put on an evening frock, and fidgeted

about the room. Anything rather than go down and see her father again

before she must. This, which had happened, was beyond words terrible for

him; she dreaded the talk with him about Noel's health which would have

to come. She could say nothing, of course, until Noel wished; and, very

truthful by nature, the idea, of having to act a lie distressed her.

She went down at last, and found them both in the drawing-room already;

Noel in a frilly evening frock, sitting by the fire with her chin on her

hand, while her father was reading out the war news from the evening

paper. At sight of that cool, dainty, girlish figure brooding over the

fire, and of her father's worn face, the tragedy of this business thrust

itself on her with redoubled force. Poor Dad! Poor Nollie! Awful!

Then Noel turned, and gave a little shake of her head, and her eyes said,

almost as plainly as lips could have said it: 'Silence!' Gratian nodded,

and came forward to the fire. And so began one of those calm, domestic

evenings, which cover sometimes such depths of heartache.

Noel stayed up until her father went to bed, then went upstairs at once.

She had evidently determined that they should not talk about her.

Gratian sat on alone, waiting for her husband! It was nearly midnight

when he came, and she did not tell him the family news till next morning.

He received it with a curious little grunt. Gratian saw his eyes

contract, as they might have, perhaps, looking at some bad and

complicated wound, and then stare steadily at the ceiling. Though they

had been married over a year, she did not yet know what he thought about

many things, and she waited with a queer sinking at her heart. This

skeleton in the family cupboard was a test of his affection for herself,

a test of the quality of the man she had married. He did not speak for a

little, and her anxiety grew. Then his hand sought hers, and gave it a

hard squeeze.

"Poor little Nollie! This is a case for Mark Tapleyism. But cheer up,

Gracie! We'll get her through somehow."

"But father! It's impossible to keep it from him, and impossible to tell

him! Oh George! I never knew what family pride was till now. It's

incredible. That wretched boy!"

"'De mortuis.' Come, Gracie! In the midst of death we are in life!

Nollie was a plumb little idiot. But it's the war--the war! Your father

must get used to it; it's a rare chance for his Christianity."

"Dad will be as sweet as anything--that's what makes it so horrible!"

George Laird redoubled his squeeze. "Quite right! The old-fashioned

father could let himself go. But need he know? We can get her away from

London, and later on, we must manage somehow. If he does hear, we must

make him feel that Nollie was 'doing her bit.'"

Gratian withdrew her hand. "Don't!" she said in a muffled voice.

George Laird turned and looked at her. He was greatly upset himself,

realising perhaps more truly than his young wife the violence of this

disaster; he was quite capable, too, of feeling how deeply she was

stirred and hurt; but, a born pragmatist, confronting life always in the

experimental spirit, he was impatient of the: "How awful!" attitude. And

this streak of her father's ascetic traditionalism in Gratian always

roused in him a wish to break it up. If she had not been his wife he

would have admitted at once that he might just as well try and alter the

bone-formation of her head, as break down such a fundamental trait of

character, but, being his wife, he naturally considered alteration as

possible as putting a new staircase in a house, or throwing two rooms

into one. And, taking her in his arms, he said: "I know; but it'll all

come right, if we put a good face on it. Shall I talk to Nollie?"

Gratian assented, from the desire to be able to say to her father:

"George is seeing her!" and so stay the need for a discussion. But the

whole thing seemed to her more and more a calamity which nothing could

lessen or smooth away.

George Laird had plenty of cool courage, invaluable in men who have to

inflict as well as to alleviate pain, but he did not like his mission "a

little bit" as he would have said; and he proposed a walk because he

dreaded a scene. Noel accepted for the same reason. She liked George,

and with the disinterested detachment of a sister-in-law, and the

shrewdness of extreme youth, knew him perhaps better than did his wife.

She was sure, at all events, of being neither condemned nor sympathised

with.

They might have gone, of course, in any direction, but chose to make for

the City. Such deep decisions are subconscious. They sought, no doubt,

a dry, unemotional region; or perhaps one where George, who was in

uniform, might rest his arm from the automatic-toy game which the

military play. They had reached Cheapside before he was conscious to the

full of the bizarre nature of this walk with his pretty young

sister-in-law among all the bustling, black-coated mob of money-makers.

'I wish the devil we hadn't come out!' he thought; 'it would have been

easier indoors, after all.'

He cleared his throat, however, and squeezing her arm gently, began:

"Gratian's told me, Nollie. The great thing is to keep your spirit up,

and not worry."

"I suppose you couldn't cure me."

The words, in that delicate spurning voice, absolutely staggered George;

but he said quickly:

"Out of the question, Nollie; impossible! What are you thinking of?"

"Daddy."

The words: "D--n Daddy!" rose to his teeth; he bit them off, and said:

"Bless him! We shall have to see to all that. Do you really want to

keep it from him? It must be one way or the other; no use concealing it,

if it's to come out later."

"No."

He stole a look at her. She was gazing straight before her. How

damnably young she was, how pretty! A lump came up in his throat.

"I shouldn't do anything yet," he said; "too early. Later on, if you'd

like me to tell him. But that's entirely up to you, my dear; he need

never know."

"No."

He could not follow her thought. Then she said:

"Gratian condemns Cyril. Don't let her. I won't have him badly thought

of. It was my doing. I wanted to make sure of him."

George answered stoutly:

"Gracie's upset, of course, but she'll soon be all right. You mustn't

let it come between you. The thing you've got to keep steadily before

you is that life's a huge wide adaptable thing. Look at all these

people! There's hardly one of them who hasn't got now, or hasn't had,

some personal difficulty or trouble before them as big as yours almost;

bigger perhaps. And here they are as lively as fleas. That's what makes

the fascination of life--the jolly irony of it all. It would do you good

to have a turn in France, and see yourself in proportion to the whole."

He felt her fingers suddenly slip under his arm, and went on with greater

confidence:

"Life's going to be the important thing in the future, Nollie; not

comfort and cloistered virtue and security; but living, and pressure to

the square inch. Do you twig? All the old hard-and-fast traditions and

drags on life are in the melting-pot. Death's boiling their bones, and

they'll make excellent stock for the new soup. When you prune and dock

things, the sap flows quicker. Regrets and repinings and repressions are

going out of fashion; we shall have no time or use for them in the

future. You're going to make life--well, that's something to be thankful

for, anyway. You've kept Cyril Morland alive. And--well, you know,

we've all been born; some of us properly, and some improperly, and there

isn't a ha'porth of difference in the value of the article, or the

trouble of bringing it into the world. The cheerier you are the better

your child will be, and that's all you've got to think about. You

needn't begin to trouble at all for another couple of months, at least;

after that, just let us know where you'd like to go, and I'll arrange it

somehow."

She looked round at him, and under that young, clear, brooding gaze he

had the sudden uncomfortable feeling of having spoken like a charlatan.

Had he really touched the heart of the matter? What good were his

generalities to this young, fastidiously nurtured girl, brought up to

tell the truth, by a father so old-fashioned and devoted, whom she loved?

It was George's nature, too, to despise words; and the conditions of his

life these last two years had given him a sort of horror of those who act

by talking. He felt inclined to say: 'Don't pay the slightest attention

to me; it's all humbug; what will be will be, and there's an end of it:

Then she said quietly:

"Shall I tell Daddy or not?"

He wanted to say: "No," but somehow couldn't. After all, the

straightforward course was probably the best. For this would have to be

a lifelong concealment. It was impossible to conceal a thing for ever;

sooner or later he would find out. But the doctor rose up in him, and he

said:

"Don't go to meet trouble, Nollie; it'll be time enough in two months.

Then tell him, or let me."

She shook her head. "No; I will, if it is to be done."

He put his hand on hers, within his arm, and gave it a squeeze.

"What shall I do till then?" she asked.

"Take a week's complete rest, and then go on where you are."

Noel was silent a minute, then said: "Yes; I will."

They spoke no more on the subject, and George exerted himself to talk

about hospital experiences, and that phenomenon, the British soldier. But

just before they reached home he said:

"Look here, Nollie! If you're not ashamed of yourself, no one will be

ashamed of you. If you put ashes on your own head, your fellow-beings

will, assist you; for of such is their charity."

And, receiving another of those clear, brooding looks, he left her with

the thought: 'A lonely child!'

VII

Noel went back to her hospital after a week's rest. George had done more

for her than he suspected, for his saying: "Life's a huge wide adaptable

thing!" had stuck in her mind. Did it matter what happened to her? And

she used to look into the faces of the people she met, and wonder what

was absorbing them. What secret griefs and joys were they carrying about

with them? The loneliness of her own life now forced her to this

speculation concerning others, for she was extraordinarily lonely;

Gratian and George were back at work, her father must be kept at bay;

with Leila she felt ill at ease, for the confession had hurt her pride;

and family friends and acquaintances of all sorts she shunned like the

plague. The only person she did not succeed in avoiding was Jimmy Fort,

who came in one evening after dinner, bringing her a large bunch of

hothouse violets. But then, he did not seem to matter--too new an

acquaintance, too detached. Something he said made her aware that he had

heard of her loss, and that the violets were a token of sympathy. He

seemed awfully kind that evening, telling her "tales of Araby," and

saying nothing which would shock her father. It was wonderful to be a

man and roll about the world as he had, and see all life, and queer

places, and people--Chinamen, and Gauchos, and Boers, and Mexicans. It

gave her a kind of thirst. And she liked to watch his brown, humorous

face; which seemed made of dried leather. It gave her the feeling that

life and experience were all that mattered, doing and seeing things; it

made her own trouble seem smaller; less important. She squeezed his hand

when she said good night: "Thank you for my violets and for coming; it

was awfully kind of you! I wish I could have adventures!" And he

answered: "You will, my dear fairy princess!" He said it queerly and very

kindly.

Fairy Princess! What a funny thing to call her! If he had only known!

There were not many adventures to be had in those regions where she

washed up. Not much "wide and adaptable life" to take her thoughts off

herself. But on her journeys to and from the hospital she had more than

one odd little experience. One morning she noticed a poorly dressed

woman with a red and swollen face, flapping along Regent Street like a

wounded bird, and biting strangely at her hand. Hearing her groan, Noel

asked her what the matter was. The woman held out the hand. "Oh!" she

moaned, "I was scrubbin' the floor and I got this great needle stuck

through my 'and, and it's broke off, and I can't get it out. Oh! Oh!"

She bit at the needle-end, not quite visible, but almost within reach of

teeth, and suddenly went very white. In dismay, Noel put an arm round

her, and turned her into a fine chemist's shop. Several ladies were in

there, buying perfumes, and they looked with acerbity at this disordered

dirty female entering among them. Noel went up to a man behind the

counter. "Please give me something quick, for this poor woman, I think

she's going to faint. She's run a needle through her hand, and can't get

it out." The man gave her "something quick," and Noel pushed past two of

the dames back to where the woman was sitting. She was still obstinately

biting at her hand, and suddenly her chin flew up, and there, between her

teeth, was the needle. She took it from them with her other hand, stuck

it proudly in the front of her dress, and out tumbled the words: "Oh!

there--I've got it!"

When she had swallowed the draught, she looked round her, bewildered, and

said:

"Thank you kindly, miss!" and shuffled out. Noel paid for the draught,

and followed; and, behind her, the shining shop seemed to exhale a

perfumed breath of relief.

"You can't go back to work," she said to the woman. "Where do you live?"

"'Ornsey, miss."

"You must take a 'bus and go straight home, and put your hand at once

into weak Condy's fluid and water. It's swelling. Here's five

shillings."

"Yes, miss; thank you, miss, I'm sure. It's very kind of you. It does

ache cruel."

"If it's not better this afternoon, you must go to a doctor. Promise!"

"Oh, dear, yes. 'Ere's my 'bus. Thank you kindly, miss."

Noel saw her borne away, still sucking at her dirty swollen hand. She

walked on in a glow of love for the poor woman, and hate for the ladies

in the chemist's shop, and forgot her own trouble till she had almost

reached the hospital.

Another November day, a Saturday, leaving early, she walked to Hyde Park.

The plane-trees were just at the height of their spotted beauty.

Few--very few-yellow leaves still hung; and the slender pretty trees

seemed rejoicing in their freedom from summer foliage. All their delicate

boughs and twigs were shaking and dancing in the wind; and their

rain-washed leopard-like bodies had a lithe un-English gaiety. Noel

passed down their line, and seated herself on a bench. Close by, an

artist was painting. His easel was only some three yards away from her,

and she could see the picture; a vista of the Park Lane houses through,

the gay plane-tree screen. He was a tall man, about forty, evidently

foreign, with a thin, long, oval, beardless face, high brow, large grey

eyes which looked as if he suffered from headaches and lived much within

himself. He cast many glances at her, and, pursuant of her new interest

in "life" she watched him discreetly; a little startled however, when,

taking off his broad-brimmed squash hat, he said in a broken accent:

"Forgive me the liberty I take, mademoiselle, but would you so very

kindly allow me to make a sketch of you sitting there? I work very

quick. I beg you will let me. I am Belgian, and have no manners, you

see." And he smiled.

"If you like," said Noel.

"I thank you very much:"

He shifted his easel, and began to draw. She felt flattered, and a

little fluttered. He was so pale, and had a curious, half-fed look,

which moved her.

"Have you been long in England?" she said presently.

"Ever since the first months of the war."

"Do you like it?"

"I was very homesick at first. But I live in my pictures; there are

wonderful things in London."

"Why did you want to sketch me?"

The painter smiled again. "Mademoiselle, youth is so mysterious. Those

young trees I have been painting mean so much more than the old big

trees. Your eyes are seeing things that have not yet happened. There is

Fate in them, and a look of defending us others from seeing it. We have

not such faces in my country; we are simpler; we do not defend our

expressions. The English are very mysterious. We are like children to

them. Yet in some ways you are like children to us. You are not people

of the world at all. You English have been good to us, but you do not

like us."

"And I suppose you do not like us, either?"

He smiled again, and she noticed how white his teeth were.

"Well, not very much. The English do things from duty, but their hearts

they keep to themselves. And their Art--well, that is really amusing!"

"I don't know much about Art," Noel murmured.

"It is the world to me," said the painter, and was silent, drawing with

increased pace and passion.

"It is so difficult to get subjects," he remarked abruptly. "I cannot

afford to pay models, and they are not fond of me painting out of doors.

If I had always a subject like you! You--you have a grief, have you

not?"

At that startling little question, Noel looked up, frowning.

"Everybody has, now."

The painter grasped his chin; his eyes had suddenly become tragical.

"Yes," he said, "everybody. Tragedy is daily bread. I have lost my

family; they are in Belgium. How they live I do not know."

"I'm sorry; very sorry, too, if we aren't nice to you, here. We ought to

be."

He shrugged his shoulders. "What would you have? We are different. That

is unpardonable. An artist is always lonely, too; he has a skin fewer

than other people, and he sees things that they do not. People do not

like you to be different. If ever in your life you act differently from

others, you will find it so, mademoiselle."

Noel felt herself flushing. Was he reading her secret? His eyes had

such a peculiar, secondsighted look.

"Have you nearly finished?" she asked.

"No, mademoiselle; I could go on for hours; but I do not wish to keep

you. It is cold for you, sitting there."

Noel got up. "May I look?"

"Certainly."

She did not quite recognise herself--who does?--but she saw a face which

affected her oddly, of a girl looking at something which was, and yet was

not, in front of her.

"My name is Lavendie," the painter said; "my wife and I live here," and

he gave her a card.

Noel could not help answering: "My name is Noel Pierson; I live with my

father; here's the address"--she found her case, and fished out a card.

"My father is a clergyman; would you care to come and see him? He loves

music and painting."

"It would be a great pleasure; and perhaps I might be allowed to paint

you. Alas! I have no studio."

Noel drew back. "I'm afraid that I work in a hospital all day, and--and

I don't want to be painted, thank you. But, Daddy would like to meet

you, I'm sure."

The painter bowed again; she saw that he was hurt.

"Of course I can see that you're a very fine painter," she said quickly;

"only--only--I don't want to, you see. Perhaps you'd like to paint

Daddy; he's got a most interesting face."

The painter smiled. "He is your father, mademoiselle. May I ask you one

question? Why do you not want to be painted?"

"Because--because I don't, I'm afraid." She held out her hand. The

painter bowed over it. "Au revoir, mademoiselle."

"Thank you," said Noel; "it was awfully interesting." And she walked

away. The sky had become full of clouds round the westerly sun; and the

foreign crinkled tracery of the plane-tree branches against that

French-grey, golden-edged mass, was very lovely. Beauty, and the

troubles of others, soothed her. She felt sorry for the painter, but his

eyes saw too much! And his words: "If ever you act differently from

others," made her feel him uncanny. Was it true that people always

disliked and condemned those who acted differently? If her old

school-fellows now knew what was before her, how would they treat her?

In her father's study hung a little reproduction of a tiny picture in the

Louvre, a "Rape of Europa," by an unknown painter--a humorous delicate

thing, of an enraptured; fair-haired girl mounted on a prancing white

bull, crossing a shallow stream, while on the bank all her white

girl-companions were gathered, turning half-sour, half-envious faces away

from that too-fearful spectacle, while one of them tried with timid

desperation to mount astride of a sitting cow, and follow. The face of

the girl on the bull had once been compared by someone with her own. She

thought of this picture now, and saw her school fellows-a throng of

shocked and wondering girls. Suppose one of them had been in her

position! 'Should I have been turning my face away, like the rest? I

wouldn't no, I wouldn't,' she thought; 'I should have understood!' But

she knew there was a kind of false emphasis in her thought.

Instinctively she felt the painter right. One who acted differently from

others, was lost.

She told her father of the encounter, adding:

"I expect he'll come, Daddy."

Pierson answered dreamily: "Poor fellow, I shall be glad to see him if he

does."

"And you'll sit to him, won't you?"

"My dear--I?"

"He's lonely, you know, and people aren't nice to him. Isn't it hateful

that people should hurt others, because they're foreign or different?"

She saw his eyes open with mild surprise, and went on: "I know you think

people are charitable, Daddy, but they aren't, of course."

"That's not exactly charitable, Nollie."

"You know they're not. I think sin often just means doing things

differently. It's not real sin when it only hurts yourself; but that

doesn't prevent people condemning you, does it?"

"I don't know what you mean, Nollie."

Noel bit her lips, and murmured: "Are you sure we're really Christians,

Daddy?"

The question was so startling, from his own daughter, that Pierson took

refuge in an attempt at wit. "I should like notice of that question,

Nollie, as they say in Parliament."

"That means you don't."

Pierson flushed. "We're fallible enough; but, don't get such ideas into

your head, my child. There's a lot of rebellious talk and writing in

these days...."

Noel clasped her hands behind her head. "I think," she said, looking

straight before her, and speaking to the air, "that Christianity is what

you do, not what you think or say. And I don't believe people can be

Christians when they act like others--I mean, when they join together to

judge and hurt people."

Pierson rose and paced the room. "You have not seen enough of life to

talk like that," he said. But Noel went on:

"One of the men in her hospital told Gratian about the treatment of

conscientious objectors--it was horrible. Why do they treat them like

that, just because they disagree? Captain Fort says it's fear which

makes people bullies. But how can it be fear when they're hundreds to

one? He says man has domesticated his animals but has never succeeded in

domesticating himself. Man must be a wild beast, you know, or the world

couldn't be so awfully brutal. I don't see much difference between being

brutal for good reasons, and being brutal for bad ones."

Pierson looked down at her with a troubled smile. There was something

fantastic to him in this sudden philosophising by one whom he had watched

grow up from a tiny thing. Out of the mouths of babes and

sucklings--sometimes! But then the young generation was always something

of a sealed book to him; his sensitive shyness, and, still more, his

cloth, placed a sort of invisible barrier between him and the hearts of

others, especially the young. There were so many things of which he was

compelled to disapprove, or which at least he couldn't discuss. And they

knew it too well. Until these last few months he had never realised that

his own daughters had remained as undiscovered by him as the interior of

Brazil. And now that he perceived this, he was bewildered, yet could not

imagine how to get on terms with them.

And he stood looking at Noel, intensely puzzled, suspecting nothing of

the hard fact which was altering her--vaguely jealous, anxious, pained.

And when she had gone up to bed, he roamed up and down the room a long

time, thinking. He longed for a friend to confide in, and consult; but

he knew no one. He shrank from them all, as too downright, bluff, and

active; too worldly and unaesthetic; or too stiff and narrow. Amongst

the younger men in his profession he was often aware of faces which

attracted him, but one could not confide deep personal questions to men

half one's age. But of his own generation, or his elders, he knew not

one to whom he could have gone.

VIII

Leila was deep in her new draught of life. When she fell in love it had

always been over head and ears, and so far her passion had always burnt

itself out before that of her partner. This had been, of course, a great

advantage to her. Not that Leila had ever expected her passions to burn

themselves out. When she fell in love she had always thought it was for

always. This time she was sure it was, surer than she had ever been.

Jimmy Fort seemed to her the man she had been looking for all her life.

He was not so good-looking as either Farie or Lynch, but beside him these

others seemed to her now almost ridiculous. Indeed they did not figure

at all, they shrank, they withered, they were husks, together with the

others for whom she had known passing weaknesses. There was only one man

in the world for her now, and would be for evermore. She did not

idealise him either, it was more serious than that; she was thrilled by

his voice, and his touch, she dreamed of him, longed for him when he was

not with her. She worried, too, for she was perfectly aware that he was

not half as fond of her as she was of him. Such a new experience puzzled

her, kept her instincts painfully on the alert. It was perhaps just this

uncertainty about his affection which made him seem more precious than

any of the others. But there was ever the other reason,

too-consciousness that Time was after her, and this her last grand

passion. She watched him as a mother-cat watches her kitten, without

seeming to, of course, for she had much experience. She had begun to

have a curious secret jealousy of Noel though why she could not have

said. It was perhaps merely incidental to her age, or sprang from that

vague resemblance between her and one who outrivalled even what she had

been as a girl; or from the occasional allusions Fort made to what he

called "that little fairy princess." Something intangible, instinctive,

gave her that jealousy. Until the death of her young cousin's lover she

had felt safe, for she knew that Jimmy Fort would not hanker after

another man's property; had he not proved that in old days, with herself,

by running away from her? And she had often regretted having told him of

Cyril Morland's death. One day she determined to repair that error. It

was at the Zoo, where they often went on Sunday afternoons. They were

standing before a creature called the meercat, which reminded them both

of old days on the veldt. Without turning her head she said, as if to

the little animal: "Do you know that your fairy princess, as you call

her, is going to have what is known as a war-baby?"

The sound of his "What!" gave her quite a stab. It was so utterly

horrified.

She said stubbornly: "She came and told me all about it. The boy is

dead, as you know. Yes, terrible, isn't it?" And she looked at him. His

face was almost comic, so wrinkled up with incredulity.

"That lovely child! But it's impossible!"

"The impossible is sometimes true, Jimmy."

"I refuse to believe it."

"I tell you it is so," she said angrily.

"What a ghastly shame!"

"It was her own doing; she said so, herself."

"And her father--the padre! My God!"

Leila was suddenly smitten with a horrible doubt. She had thought it

would disgust him, cure him of any little tendency to romanticise that

child; and now she perceived that it was rousing in him, instead, a

dangerous compassion. She could have bitten her tongue out for having

spoken. When he got on the high horse of some championship, he was not

to be trusted, she had found that out; was even finding it out bitterly

in her own relations with him, constantly aware that half her hold on

him, at least, lay in his sense of chivalry, aware that he knew her

lurking dread of being flung on the beach, by age. Only ten minutes ago

he had uttered a tirade before the cage of a monkey which seemed unhappy.

And now she had roused that dangerous side of him in favour of Noel.

What an idiot she had been!

"Don't look like that, Jimmy. I'm sorry I told you."

His hand did not answer her pressure in the least, but he muttered:

"Well, I do think that's the limit. What's to be done for her?"

Leila answered softly: "Nothing, I'm afraid. Do you love me?" And she

pressed his hand hard.

"Of course."

But Leila thought: 'If I were that meercat he'd have taken more notice of

my paw!' Her heart began suddenly to ache, and she walked on to the next

cage with head up, and her mouth hard set.

Jimmy Fort walked away from Camelot Mansions that evening in extreme

discomfort of mind. Leila had been so queer that he had taken leave

immediately after supper. She had refused to talk about Noel; had even

seemed angry when he had tried to. How extraordinary some women were!

Did they think that a man could hear of a thing like that about such a

dainty young creature without being upset! It was the most perfectly

damnable news! What on earth would she do--poor little fairy princess!

Down had come her house of cards with a vengeance! The whole of her

life--the whole of her life! With her bringing-up and her father and

all--it seemed inconceivable that she could ever survive it. And Leila

had been almost callous about the monstrous business. Women were hard to

each other! Bad enough, these things, when it was a simple working girl,

but this dainty, sheltered, beautiful child! No, it was altogether too

strong--too painful! And following an impulse which he could not resist,

he made his way to the old Square. But having reached the house, he

nearly went away again. While he stood hesitating with his hand on the

bell, a girl and a soldier passed, appearing as if by magic out of the

moonlit November mist, blurred and solid shapes embraced, then vanished

into it again, leaving the sound of footsteps. Fort jerked the bell. He

was shown into what seemed, to one coming out of that mist, to be a

brilliant, crowded room, though in truth there were but two lamps and

five people in it. They were sitting round the fire, talking, and paused

when he came in. When he had shaken hands with Pierson and been

introduced to "my daughter Gratian" and a man in khaki "my son-in-law

George Laird," to a tall thin-faced, foreign-looking man in a black stock

and seemingly no collar, he went up to Noel, who had risen from a chair

before the fire. 'No!' he thought, 'I've dreamed it, or Leila has lied!'

She was so perfectly the self-possessed, dainty maiden he remembered.

Even the feel of her hand was the same-warm and confident; and sinking

into a chair, he said: "Please go on, and let me chip in."

"We were quarrelling about the Universe, Captain Fort," said the man in

khaki; "delighted to have your help. I was just saying that this

particular world has no particular importance, no more than a

newspaper-seller would accord to it if it were completely destroyed

tomorrow--''Orrible catastrophe, total destruction of the world--six

o'clock edition-pyper!' I say that it will become again the nebula out

of which it was formed, and by friction with other nebula re-form into a

fresh shape and so on ad infinitum--but I can't explain why. My wife

wonders if it exists at all except in the human mind--but she can't

explain what the human mind is. My father-in-law thinks that it is God's

hobby--but he can't explain who or what God is. Nollie is silent. And

Monsieur Lavendie hasn't yet told us what he thinks. What do you think,

monsieur?" The thin-faced, big-eyed man put up his hand to his high,

veined brow as if he had a headache, reddened, and began to speak in

French, which Fort followed with difficulty.

"For me the Universe is a limitless artist, monsieur, who from all time

and to all time is ever expressing himself in differing forms--always

trying to make a masterpiece, and generally failing. For me this world,

and all the worlds, are like ourselves, and the flowers and trees--little

separate works of art, more or less perfect, whose little lives run their

course, and are spilled or powdered back into this Creative Artist,

whence issue ever fresh attempts at art. I agree with Monsieur Laird, if

I understand him right; but I agree also with Madame Laird, if I

understand her. You see, I think mind and matter are one, or perhaps

there is no such thing as either mind or matter, only growth and decay

and growth again, for ever and ever; but always conscious growth--an

artist expressing himself in millions of ever-changing forms; decay and

death as we call them, being but rest and sleep, the ebbing of the tide,

which must ever come between two rising tides, or the night which comes

between two days. But the next day is never the same as the day before,

nor the tide as the last tide; so the little shapes of the world and of

ourselves, these works of art by the Eternal Artist, are never renewed in

the same form, are never twice alike, but always fresh-fresh worlds,

fresh individuals, fresh flowers, fresh everything. I do not see

anything depressing in that. To me it would be depressing to think that

I would go on living after death, or live again in a new body, myself yet

not myself. How stale that would be! When I finish a picture it is

inconceivable to me that this picture should ever become another picture,

or that one can divide the expression from the mind-stuff it has

expressed. The Great Artist who is the whole of Everything, is ever in

fresh effort to achieve new things. He is as a fountain who throws up

new drops, no two ever alike, which fall back into the water, flow into

the pipe, and so are thrown up again in fresh-shaped drops. But I cannot

explain why there should be this Eternal Energy, ever expressing itself

in fresh individual shapes, this Eternal Working Artist, instead of

nothing at all--just empty dark for always; except indeed that it must be

one thing or the other, either all or nothing; and it happens to be this

and not that, the all and not the nothing."

He stopped speaking, and his big eyes, which had fixed themselves on

Fort's face, seemed to the latter not to be seeing him at all, but to

rest on something beyond. The man in khaki, who had risen and was

standing with his hand on his wife's shoulder, said:

"Bravo, monsieur; Jolly well put from the artist's point of view. The

idea is pretty, anyway; but is there any need for an idea at all? Things

are; and we have just to take them." Fort had the impression of

something dark and writhing; the thin black form of his host, who had

risen and come close to the fire.

"I cannot admit," he was saying, "the identity of the Creator with the

created. God exists outside ourselves. Nor can I admit that there is no

defnite purpose and fulfilment. All is shaped to His great ends. I

think we are too given to spiritual pride. The world has lost reverence;

I regret it, I bitterly regret it."

"I rejoice at it," said the man in khaki. "Now, Captain Fort, your turn

to bat!"

Fort, who had been looking at Noel, gave himself a shake, and said: "I

think what monsieur calls expression, I call fighting. I suspect the

Universe of being simply a long fight, a sum of conquests and defeats.

Conquests leading to defeats, defeats to conquests. I want to win while

I'm alive, and because I want to win, I want to live on after death.

Death is a defeat. I don't want to admit it. While I have that

instinct, I don't think I shall really die; when I lose it, I think I

shall." He was conscious of Noel's face turning towards him, but had the

feeling that she wasn't really listening. "I suspect that what we call

spirit is just the fighting instinct; that what we call matter is the

mood of lying down. Whether, as Mr. Pierson says, God is outside us, or,

as monsieur thinks, we are all part of God, I don't know, I'm sure."

"Ah! There we are!" said the man in khaki. "We all speak after our

temperaments, and none of us know. The religions of the world are just

the poetic expressions of certain strongly marked temperaments. Monsieur

was a poet just now, and his is the only temperament which has never yet

been rammed down the world's throat in the form of religion. Go out and

proclaim your views from the housetops, monsieur, and see what happens."

The painter shook his head with a smile which seemed to Fort very bright

on the surface, and very sad underneath.

"Non, monsieur," he said; "the artist does not wish to impose his

temperament. Difference of temperament is the very essence of his joy,

and his belief in life. Without difference there would be no life for

him. 'Tout casse, tout lasse,' but change goes on for ever: We artists

reverence change, monsieur; we reverence the newness of each morning, of

each night, of each person, of each expression of energy. Nothing is

final for us; we are eager for all and always for more. We are in love,

you see, even with-death."

There was a silence; then Fort heard Pierson murmur:

"That is beautiful, monsieur; but oh! how wrong!" "And what do you

think, Nollie?" said the man in khaki suddenly. The girl had been

sitting very still in her low chair, with her hands crossed in her lap,

her eyes on the fire, and the lamplight shining down on her fair hair;

she looked up, startled, and her eyes met Fort's.

"I don't know; I wasn't listening." Something moved in him, a kind of

burning pity, a rage of protection. He said quickly:

"These are times of action. Philosophy seems to mean nothing nowadays.

The one thing is to hate tyranny and cruelty, and protect everything

that's weak and lonely. It's all that's left to make life worth living,

when all the packs of all the world are out for blood."

Noel was listening now, and he went on fervently: "Why! Even we who

started out to fight this Prussian pack, have caught the pack feeling--so

that it's hunting all over the country, on every sort of scent. It's a

most infectious thing."

"I cannot see that we are being infected, Captain Fort."

"I'm afraid we are, Mr. Pierson. The great majority of people are

always inclined to run with the hounds; the pressure's great just now;

the pack spirit's in the air."

Pierson shook his head. "No, I cannot see it," he repeated; "it seems to

me that we are all more brotherly, and more tolerant."

"Ah! monsieur le cure," Fort heard the painter say very gently, "it is

difficult for a good man to see the evil round him. There are those whom

the world's march leaves apart, and reality cannot touch. They walk with

God, and the bestialities of us animals are fantastic to them. The

spirit of the pack, as monsieur says, is in the air. I see all human

nature now, running with gaping mouths and red tongues lolling out, their

breath and their cries spouting thick before them. On whom they will fall

next--one never knows; the innocent with the guilty. Perhaps if you were

to see some one dear to you devoured before your eyes, monsieur le cure,

you would feel it too; and yet I do not know."

Fort saw Noel turn her face towards her father; her expression at that

moment was very strange, searching, half frightened. No! Leila had not

lied, and he had not dreamed! That thing was true!

When presently he took his leave, and was out again in the Square, he

could see nothing but her face and form before him in the moonlight: its

soft outline, fair colouring, slender delicacy, and the brooding of the

big grey eyes. He had already crossed New Oxford Street and was some way

down towards the Strand, when a voice behind him murmured: "Ah! c'est

vous, monsieur!" and the painter loomed up at his elbow.

"Are you going my way?" said Fort. "I go slowly, I'm afraid."

"The slower the better, monsieur. London is so beautiful in the dark.

It is the despair of the painter--these moonlit nights. There are

moments when one feels that reality does not exist. All is in

dreams--like the face of that young lady."

Fort stared sharply round at him. "Oh! She strikes you like that, does

she?"

"Ah! What a charming figure! What an atmosphere of the past and future

round her! And she will not let me paint her! Well, perhaps only

Mathieu Maris." He raised his broad Bohemian hat, and ran his fingers

through his hair.

"Yes," said Fort, "she'd make a wonderful picture. I'm not a judge of

Art, but I can see that."

The painter smiled, and went on in his rapid French:

"She has youth and age all at once--that is rare. Her father is an

interesting man, too; I am trying to paint him; he is very difficult. He

sits lost in some kind of vacancy of his own; a man whose soul has gone

before him somewhere, like that of his Church, escaped from this age of

machines, leaving its body behind--is it not? He is so kind; a saint, I

think. The other clergymen I see passing in the street are not at all

like him; they look buttoned-up and busy, with faces of men who might be

schoolmasters or lawyers, or even soldiers--men of this world. Do you

know this, monsieur--it is ironical, but it is true, I think a man cannot

be a successful priest unless he is a man of this world. I do not see

any with that look of Monsieur Pierson, a little tortured within, and not

quite present. He is half an artist, really a lover of music, that man.

I am painting him at the piano; when he is playing his face is alive, but

even then, so far away. To me, monsieur, he is exactly like a beautiful

church which knows it is being deserted. I find him pathetic. Je suis

socialiste, but I have always an aesthetic admiration for that old

Church, which held its children by simple emotion. The times have

changed; it can no longer hold them so; it stands in the dusk, with its

spire to a heaven which exists no more, its bells, still beautiful but

out of tune with the music of the streets. It is something of that which

I wish to get into my picture of Monsieur Pierson; and sapristi! it is

difficult!" Fort grunted assent. So far as he could make out the

painter's words, it seemed to him a large order.

"To do it, you see," went on the painter, "one should have the proper

background--these currents of modern life and modern types, passing him

and leaving him untouched. There is no illusion, and no dreaming, in

modern life. Look at this street. La, la!"

In the darkened Strand, hundreds of khaki-clad figures and girls were

streaming by, and all their voices had a hard, half-jovial vulgarity. The

motor-cabs and buses pushed along remorselessly; newspaper-sellers

muttered their ceaseless invitations. Again the painter made his gesture

of despair: "How am I to get into my picture this modern life, which

washes round him as round that church, there, standing in the middle of

the street? See how the currents sweep round it, as if to wash it away;

yet it stands, seeming not to see them. If I were a phantasist, it would

be easy enough: but to be a phantasist is too simple for me--those

romantic gentlemen bring what they like from anywhere, to serve their

ends. Moi, je suis realiste. And so, monsieur, I have invented an idea.

I am painting over his head while he sits there at the piano a picture

hanging on the wall--of one of these young town girls who have no

mysteriousness at all, no youth; nothing but a cheap knowledge and

defiance, and good humour. He is looking up at it, but he does not see

it. I will make the face of that girl the face of modern life, and he

shall sit staring at it, seeing nothing. What do you think of my idea?"

But Fort had begun to feel something of the revolt which the man of

action so soon experiences when he listens to an artist talking.

"It sounds all right," he said abruptly; "all the same, monsieur, all my

sympathy is with modern life. Take these young girls, and these Tommies.

For all their feather-pated vulgarity and they are damned vulgar, I must

say--they're marvellous people; they do take the rough with the smooth;

they're all 'doing their bit,' you know, and facing this particularly

beastly world. Aesthetically, I daresay, they're deplorable, but can you

say that on the whole their philosophy isn't an advance on anything we've

had up till now? They worship nothing, it's true; but they keep their

ends up marvellously."

The painter, who seemed to feel the wind blowing cold on his ideas,

shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not concerned with that, monsieur; I set down what I see; better or

worse, I do not know. But look at this!" And he pointed down the

darkened and moonlit street. It was all jewelled and enamelled with

little spots and splashes of subdued red and green-blue light, and the

downward orange glow of the high lamps--like an enchanted dream-street

peopled by countless moving shapes, which only came to earth-reality when

seen close to. The painter drew his breath in with a hiss.

"Ah!" he said, "what beauty! And they don't see it--not one in a

thousand! Pity, isn't it? Beauty is the holy thing!"

Fort, in his turn, shrugged his shoulders. "Every man to his vision!"

he said. "My leg's beginning to bother me; I'm afraid I must take a cab.

Here's my address; any time you like to come. I'm often in about seven.

I can't take you anywhere, I suppose?"

"A thousand thanks, monsieur; but I go north. I loved your words about

the pack. I often wake at night and hear the howling of all the packs of

the world. Those who are by nature gentle nowadays feel they are

strangers in a far land. Good night, monsieur!"

He took off his queer hat, bowed low, and crossed out into the Strand,

like one who had come in a dream, and faded out with the waking. Fort

hailed a cab, and went home, still seeing Noel's face. There was one, if

you liked, waiting to be thrown to the wolves, waiting for the world's

pack to begin howling round her--that lovely child; and the first, the

loudest of all the pack, perhaps, must be her own father, the lean, dark

figure with the gentle face, and the burnt bright eyes. What a ghastly

business! His dreams that night were not such as Leila would have

approved.

When in the cupboard there is a real and very bony skeleton, carefully

kept from the sight of a single member of the family, the position of

that member is liable to become lonely. But Pierson, who had been lonely

fifteen years, did not feel it so much, perhaps, as most men would have.

In his dreamy nature there was a curious self-sufficiency, which only

violent shocks disturbed, and he went on with his routine of duty, which

had become for him as set as the pavements he trod on his way to and from

it. It was not exactly true, as the painter had said, that this routine

did not bring him into touch with life. After all he saw people when

they were born, when they married, when they died. He helped them when

they wanted money, and when they were ill; he told their children Bible

stories on Sunday afternoons; he served those who were in need with soup

and bread from his soup kitchen. He never spared himself in any way, and

his ears were always at the service of their woes. And yet he did not

understand them, and they knew that. It was as though he, or they, were

colour-blind. The values were all different. He was seeing one set of

objects, they another.

One street of his parish touched a main line of thoroughfare, and formed

a little part of the new hunting-grounds of women, who, chased forth from

their usual haunts by the Authorities under pressure of the country's

danger, now pursued their calling in the dark. This particular evil had

always been a sort of nightmare to Pierson. The starvation which ruled

his own existence inclined him to a particularly severe view and severity

was not his strong point. In consequence there was ever within him a

sort of very personal and poignant struggle going on beneath that seeming

attitude of rigid disapproval. He joined the hunters, as it were,

because he was afraid-not, of course, of his own instincts, for he was

fastidious, a gentleman, and a priest, but of being lenient to a sin, to

something which God abhorred: He was, as it were, bound to take a

professional view of this particular offence. When in his walks abroad

he passed one of these women, he would unconsciously purse his lips, and

frown. The darkness of the streets seemed to lend them such power, such

unholy sovereignty over the night. They were such a danger to the

soldiers, too; and in turn, the soldiers were such a danger to the lambs

of his flock. Domestic disasters in his parish came to his ears from

time to time; cases of young girls whose heads were turned by soldiers,

so that they were about to become mothers. They seemed to him pitiful

indeed; but he could not forgive them for their giddiness, for putting

temptation in the way of brave young men, fighting, or about to fight.

The glamour which surrounded soldiers was not excuse enough. When the

babies were born, and came to his notice, he consulted a Committee he had

formed, of three married and two maiden ladies, who visited the mothers,

and if necessary took the babies into a creche; for those babies had a

new value to the country, and were not--poor little things!--to be held

responsible for their mothers' faults. He himself saw little of the

young mothers; shy of them, secretly afraid, perhaps, of not being

censorious enough. But once in a way Life set him face to face with one.

On New Year's Eve he was sitting in his study after tea, at that hour

which he tried to keep for his parishioners, when a Mrs. Mitchett was

announced, a small bookseller's wife, whom he knew for an occasional

Communicant. She came in, accompanied by a young dark-eyed girl in a

loose mouse-coloured coat. At his invitation they sat down in front of

the long bookcase on the two green leather chairs which had grown worn in

the service of the parish; and, screwed round in his chair at the bureau,

with his long musician's fingers pressed together, he looked at them and

waited. The woman had taken out her handkerchief, and was wiping her

eyes; but the girl sat quiet, as the mouse she somewhat resembled in that

coat.

"Yes, Mrs. Mitchett?" He said gently, at last.

The woman put away her handkerchief, sniffed resolutely, and began:

"It's 'Ilda, sir. Such a thing Mitchett and me never could 'ave

expected, comin' on us so sudden. I thought it best to bring 'er round,

poor girl. Of course, it's all the war. I've warned 'er a dozen times;

but there it is, comin' next month, and the man in France." Pierson

instinctively averted his gaze from the girl, who had not moved her eyes

from his face, which she scanned with a seeming absence of interest, as

if she had long given up thinking over her lot, and left it now to

others.

"That is sad," he said; "very, very sad."

"Yes," murmured Mrs. Mitchett; "that's what I tell 'Ilda."

The girl's glance, lowered for a second, resumed its impersonal scrutiny

of Pierson's face.

"What is the man's name and regiment? Perhaps we can get leave for him

to come home and marry Hilda at once."

Mrs. Mitchett sniffed. "She won't give it, sir. Now, 'Ilda, give it to

Mr. Pierson." And her voice had a real note of entreaty. The girl

shook her head. Mrs. Mitchett murmured dolefully: "That's 'ow she is,

sir; not a word will she say. And as I tell her, we can only think there

must 'ave been more than one. And that does put us to shame so!"

But still the girl made no sign.

"You speak to her, sir; I'm really at my wit's end."

"Why won't you tell us?" said Pierson. "The man will want to do the

right thing, 'I'm sure."

The girl shook her head, and spoke for the first time.

"I don't know his name."

Mrs. Mitchett's face twitched.

"Oh, dear!" she said: "Think of that! She's never said as much to us."

"Not know his name?" Pierson murmured. "But how--how could you--" he

stopped, but his face had darkened. "Surely you would never have done

such a thing without affection? Come, tell me!"

"I don't know it," the girl repeated.

"It's these Parks," said Mrs. Mitchett, from behind her handkerchief.

"And to think that this'll be our first grandchild and all! 'Ilda is

difficult; as quiet, as quiet; but that stubborn--"

Pierson looked at the girl, who seemed, if anything, less interested than

ever. This impenetrability and something mulish in her attitude annoyed

him. "I can't think," he said, "how you could so have forgotten

yourself. It's truly grievous."

Mrs. Mitchett murmured: "Yes, sir; the girls gets it into their heads

that there's going to be no young men for them."

"That's right," said the girl sullenly.

Pierson's lips grew tighter. "Well, what can I do for you, Mrs.

Mitchett?" he said. "Does your daughter come to church?"

Mrs. Mitchett shook her head mournfully. "Never since she had her

byke."

Pierson rose from his chair. The old story! Control and discipline

undermined, and these bitter apples the result!

"Well," he said, "if you need our creche, you have only to come to me,"

and he turned to the girl. "And you--won't you let this dreadful

experience move your heart? My dear girl, we must all master ourselves,

our passions, and our foolish wilfulness, especially in these times when

our country needs us strong, and self-disciplined, not thinking of

ourselves. I'm sure you're a good girl at heart."

The girl's dark eyes, unmoved from his face, roused in him a spasm of

nervous irritation. "Your soul is in great danger, and you're very

unhappy, I can see. Turn to God for help, and in His mercy everything

will be made so different for you--so very different! Come!"

The girl said with a sort of surprising quietness: "I don't want the

baby!"

The remark staggered him, almost as if she had uttered a hideous oath.

"'Ilda was in munitions," said her mother in an explanatory voice:

"earnin' a matter of four pound a week. Oh! dear, it is a waste an'

all!" A queer, rather terrible little smile curled Pierson's lips.

"A judgment!" he said. "Good evening, Mrs. Mitchett. Good evening,

Hilda. If you want me when the time comes, send for me."

They stood up; he shook hands with them; and was suddenly aware that the

door was open, and Noel standing there. He had heard no sound; and how

long she had been there he could not tell. There was a singular fixity

in her face and attitude. She was staring at the girl, who, as she

passed, lifted her face, so that the dark eyes and the grey eyes met.

The door was shut, and Noel stood there alone with him.

"Aren't you early, my child?" said Pierson. "You came in very quietly."

"Yes; I heard."

A slight shock went through him at the tone of her voice; her face had

that possessed look which he always dreaded. "What did you hear?" he

said.

"I heard you say: 'A judgment!' You'll say the same to me, won't you?

Only, I do want my baby."

She was standing with her back to the door, over which a dark curtain

hung; her face looked young and small against its stuff, her eyes very

large. With one hand she plucked at her blouse, just over her heart.

Pierson stared at her, and gripped the back of the chair he had been

sitting in. A lifetime of repression served him in the half-realised

horror of that moment. He stammered out the single word--

"Nollie!"

"It's quite true," she said, turned round, and went out.

Pierson had a sort of vertigo; if he had moved, he must have fallen down.

Nollie! He slid round and sank into his chair, and by some horrible

cruel fiction of his nerves, he seemed to feel Noel on his knee, as, when

a little girl, she had been wont to sit, with her fair hair fluffing

against his cheek. He seemed to feel that hair tickling his skin; it

used to be the greatest comfort he had known since her mother died. At

that moment his pride shrivelled like a flower held to a flame; all that

abundant secret pride of a father who loves and admires, who worships

still a dead wife in the children she has left him; who, humble by

nature, yet never knows how proud he is till the bitter thing happens;

all the long pride of the priest who, by dint of exhortation and

remonstrance has coated himself in a superiority he hardly suspects--all

this pride shrivelled in him. Then something writhed and cried within, as

a tortured beast cries, at loss to know why it is being tortured. How

many times has not a man used those words: "My God! My God! Why hast

Thou forsaken me!" He sprang up and tried to pace his way out of this

cage of confusion: His thoughts and feelings made the strangest medley,

spiritual and worldly--Social ostracism--her soul in peril--a trial sent

by God! The future! Imagination failed him. He went to his little

piano, opened it, closed it again; took his hat, and stole out. He

walked fast, without knowing where. It was very cold--a clear, bitter

evening. Silent rapid motion in the frosty air was some relief. As Noel

had fled from him, having uttered her news, so did he fly from her. The

afflicted walk fast. He was soon down by the river, and turned West

along its wall. The moon was up, bright and nearly full, and the

steel-like shimmer of its light burnished the ebbing water. A cruel

night! He came to the Obelisk, and leaned against it, overcome by a

spasm of realisation. He seemed to see his dead wife's face staring at

him out of the past, like an accusation. "How have you cared for Nollie,

that she should have come to this?" It became the face of the moonlit

sphinx, staring straight at him, the broad dark face with wide nostrils,

cruel lips, full eyes blank of pupils, all livened and whitened by the

moonlight--an embodiment of the marvellous unseeing energy of Life,

twisting and turning hearts without mercy. He gazed into those eyes with

a sort of scared defiance. The great clawed paws of the beast, the

strength and remorseless serenity of that crouching creature with human

head, made living by his imagination and the moonlight, seemed to him

like a temptation to deny God, like a refutation of human virtue.

Then, the sense of beauty stirred in him; he moved where he could see its

flanks coated in silver by the moonlight, the ribs and the great muscles,

and the tail with tip coiled over the haunch, like the head of a serpent.

It was weirdly living; fine and cruel, that great man-made thing. It

expressed something in the soul of man, pitiless and remote from love--or

rather, the remorselessness which man had seen, lurking within man's

fate. Pierson recoiled from it, and resumed his march along the

Embankment, almost deserted in the bitter cold. He came to where, in the

opening of the Underground railway, he could see the little forms of

people moving, little orange and red lights glowing. The sight arrested

him by its warmth and motion. Was it not all a dream? That woman and

her daughter, had they really come? Had not Noel been but an apparition,

her words a trick which his nerves had played him? Then, too vividly

again, he saw her face against the dark stuff of the curtain, the curve

of her hand plucking at her blouse, heard the sound of his own horrified:

"Nollie!" No illusion, no deception! The edifice of his life was in the

dust. And a queer and ghastly company of faces came about him; faces he

had thought friendly, of good men and women whom he knew, yet at that

moment did not know, all gathered round Noel, with fingers pointing at

her. He staggered back from that vision, could not bear it, could not

recognise this calamity. With a sort of comfort, yet an aching sense of

unreality, his mind flew to all those summer holidays spent in Scotland,

Ireland, Cornwall, Wales, by mountain and lake, with his two girls; what

sunsets, and turning leaves, birds, beasts, and insects they had watched

together! From their youthful companionship, their eagerness, their

confidence in him, he had known so much warmth and pleasure. If all

those memories were true, surely this could not be true. He felt

suddenly that he must hurry back, go straight to Noel, tell her that she

had been cruel to him, or assure himself that, for the moment, she had

been insane: His temper rose suddenly, took fire. He felt anger against

her, against every one he knew, against life itself. Thrusting his hands

deep into the pockets of his thin black overcoat, he plunged into that

narrow glowing tunnel of the station booking-office, which led back to

the crowded streets. But by the time he reached home his anger had

evaporated; he felt nothing but utter lassitude. It was nine o'clock,

and the maids had cleared the dining table. In despair Noel had gone up

to her room. He had no courage left, and sat down supperless at his

little piano, letting his fingers find soft painful harmonies, so that

Noel perhaps heard the faint far thrumming of that music through uneasy

dreams. And there he stayed, till it became time for him to go forth to

the Old Year's Midnight Service.

When he returned, Pierson wrapped himself in a rug and lay down on the

old sofa in his study. The maid, coming in next morning to "do" the

grate, found him still asleep. She stood contemplating him in awe; a

broad-faced, kindly, fresh-coloured girl. He lay with his face resting

on his hand, his dark, just grizzling hair unruffled, as if he had not

stirred all night; his other hand clutched the rug to his chest, and his

booted feet protruded beyond it. To her young eyes he looked rather

appallingly neglected. She gazed with interest at the hollows in his

cheeks, and the furrows in his brow, and the lips, dark-moustached and

bearded, so tightly compressed, even in. sleep. Being holy didn't make a

man happy, it seemed! What fascinated her were the cindery eyelashes

resting on the cheeks, the faint movement of face and body as he

breathed, the gentle hiss of breath escaping through the twitching

nostrils. She moved nearer, bending down over him, with the childlike

notion of counting those lashes. Her lips parted in readiness to say:

"Oh!" if he waked. Something in his face, and the little twitches which

passed over it, made her feel "that sorry" for him. He was a gentleman,

had money, preached to her every Sunday, and was not so very old--what

more could a man want? And yet--he looked so tired, with those cheeks.

She pitied him; helpless and lonely he seemed to her, asleep there

instead of going to bed properly. And sighing, she tiptoed towards the

door.

"Is that you, Bessie?"

The girl turned: "Yes, sir. I'm sorry I woke you, sir. 'Appy New Year,

sir!"

"Ah, yes. A Happy New Year, Bessie."

She saw his usual smile, saw it die, and a fixed look come on his face;

it scared her, and she hurried away. Pierson had remembered. For full

five minutes he lay there staring at nothing. Then he rose, folded the

rug mechanically, and looked at the clock. Eight! He went upstairs,

knocked on Noel's door, and entered.

The blinds were drawn up, but she was still in bed. He stood looking

down at her. "A Happy New Year, my child!" he said; and he trembled all

over, shivering visibly. She looked so young and innocent, so

round-faced and fresh, after her night's sleep, that the thought sprang

up in him again: 'It must have been a dream!' She did not move, but a

slow flush came up in her cheeks. No dream--dream! He said tremulously:

"I can't realise. I--I hoped I had heard wrong. Didn't I, Nollie?

Didn't I?"

She just shook her head.

"Tell me--everything," he said; "for God's sake!"

He saw her lips moving, and caught the murmur: "There 's nothing more.

Gratian and George know, and Leila. It can't be undone, Daddy. Perhaps I

wouldn't have wanted to make sure, if you hadn't tried to stop Cyril and

me--and I'm glad sometimes, because I shall have something of his--" She

looked up at him. "After all, it's the same, really; only, there's no

ring. It's no good talking to me now, as if I hadn't been thinking of

this for ages. I'm used to anything you can say; I've said it to myself,

you see. There's nothing but to make the best of it."

Her hot hand came out from under the bedclothes, and clutched his very

tight. Her flush had deepened, and her eyes seemed to him to glitter.

"Oh, Daddy! You do look tired! Haven't you been to bed? Poor Daddy!"

That hot clutch, and the words: "Poor Daddy!" brought tears into his

eyes. They rolled slowly down to his beard, and he covered his face with

the other hand. Her grip tightened convulsively; suddenly she dragged it

to her lips, kissed it, and let it drop.

"Don't!" she said, and turned away her face.

Pierson effaced his emotion, and said quite calmly:

"Shall you wish to be at home, my dear, or to go elsewhere?"

Noel had begun to toss her head on her pillow, like a feverish child

whose hair gets in its eyes and mouth.

"Oh! I don't know; what does it matter?"

"Kestrel; would you like to go there? Your aunt--I could write to her."

Noel stared at him a moment; a struggle seemed going on within her.

"Yes," she said, "I would. Only, not Uncle Bob."

"Perhaps your uncle would come up here, and keep me company."

She turned her face away, and that tossing movement of the limbs beneath

the clothes began again. "I don't care," she said; "anywhere--it doesn't

matter."

Pierson put his chilly hand on her forehead. "Gently!" he said, and

knelt down by the bed. "Merciful Father," he murmured, "give us strength

to bear this dreadful trial. Keep my beloved child safe, and bring her

peace; and give me to understand how I have done wrong, how I have failed

towards Thee, and her. In all things chasten and strengthen her, my

child, and me."

His thoughts moved on in the confused, inarticulate suspense of prayer,

till he heard her say: "You haven't failed; why do you talk of

failing--it isn't true; and don't pray for me, Daddy."

Pierson raised himself, and moved back from the bed. Her words

confounded him, yet he was afraid to answer. She pushed her head deep

into the pillow, and lay looking up at the ceiling.

"I shall have a son; Cyril won't quite have died. And I don't want to be

forgiven."

He dimly perceived what long dumb processes of thought and feeling had

gone on in her to produce this hardened state of mind, which to him

seemed almost blasphemous. And in the very midst of this turmoil in his

heart, he could not help thinking how lovely her face looked, lying back

so that the curve of her throat was bared, with the short tendrils of

hair coiling about it. That flung-back head, moving restlessly from side

to side in the heat of the soft pillow, had such a passion of protesting

life in it! And he kept silence.

"I want you to know it was all me. But I can't pretend. Of course I'll

try and not let it hurt you more than I possibly can. I'm sorry for you,

poor Daddy; oh! I'm sorry for you!" With a movement incredibly lithe

and swift, she turned and pressed her face down in the pillow, so that

all he could see was her tumbled hair and the bedclothes trembling above

her shoulders. He tried to stroke that hair, but she shook her head

free, and he stole out.

She did not come to breakfast; and when his own wretched meal was over,

the mechanism of his professional life caught him again at once. New

Year's Day! He had much to do. He had, before all, to be of a cheerful

countenance before his flock, to greet all and any with an air of hope

and courage.

Thirza Pierson, seeing her brother-in-law's handwriting, naturally said:

"Here's a letter from Ted."

Bob Pierson, with a mouth full of sausage, as naturally responded:

"What does he say?"

In reading on, she found that to answer that question was one of the most

difficult tasks ever set her. Its news moved and disturbed her deeply.

Under her wing this disaster had happened! Down here had been wrought

this most deplorable miracle, fraught with such dislocation of lives!

Noel's face, absorbed and passionate, outside the door of her room on the

night when Cyril Morland went away--her instinct had been right!

"He wants you to go up and stay with him, Bob."

"Why not both of us?"

"He wants Nollie to come down to me; she's not well."

"Not well? What's the matter?"

To tell him seemed disloyalty to her sex; not to tell him, disloyalty to

her husband. A simple consideration of fact and not of principle,

decided her. He would certainly say in a moment: 'Here! Pitch it over!'

and she would have to. She said tranquilly:

"You remember that night when Cyril Morland went away, and Noel behaved

so strangely. Well, my dear; she is going to have a child at the

beginning of April. The poor boy is dead, Bob; he died for the Country."

She saw the red tide flow up into his face.

"What!"

"Poor Edward is dreadfully upset. We must do what we can. I blame

myself." By instinct she used those words.

"Blame yourself? Stuff! That young--!" He stopped.

Thirza said quietly: "No, Bob; of the two, I'm sure it was Noel; she was

desperate that day. Don't you remember her face? Oh! this war! It's

turned the whole world upside down. That's the only comfort; nothing's

normal"

Bob Pierson possessed beyond most men the secret of happiness, for he was

always absorbed in the moment, to the point of unself-consciousness.

Eating an egg, cutting down a tree, sitting on a Tribunal, making up his

accounts, planting potatoes, looking at the moon, riding his cob, reading

the Lessons--no part of him stood aside to see how he was doing it, or

wonder why he was doing it, or not doing it better. He grew like a

cork-tree, and acted like a sturdy and well-natured dog. His griefs,

angers, and enjoyments were simple as a child's, or as his somewhat noisy

slumbers. They were notably well-suited, for Thirza had the same secret

of happiness, though her, absorption in the moment did not--as became a

woman--prevent her being conscious of others; indeed, such formed the

chief subject of her absorptions. One might say that they neither of

them had philosophy yet were as philosophic a couple as one could meet on

this earth of the self-conscious. Daily life to these two was still of

simple savour. To be absorbed in life--the queer endless tissue of

moments and things felt and done and said and made, the odd inspiriting

conjunctions of countless people--was natural to them; but they never

thought whether they were absorbed or not, or had any particular attitude

to Life or Death--a great blessing at the epoch in which they were

living.

Bob Pierson, then, paced the room, so absorbed in his dismay and concern,

that he was almost happy.

"By Jove!" he said, "what a ghastly thing!

"Nollie, of all people! I feel perfectly wretched, Thirza; wretched

beyond words." But with each repetition his voice grew cheerier, and

Thirza felt that he was already over the worst.

"Your coffee's getting cold!" she said.

"What do you advise? Shall I go up, heh?"

"I think you'll be a godsend to poor Ted; you'll keep his spirits up. Eve

won't get any leave till Easter; and I can be quite alone, and see to

Nollie here. The servants can have a holiday--, Nurse and I will run the

house together. I shall enjoy it."

"You're a good woman, Thirza!" Taking his wife's hand, he put it to his

lips. "There isn't another woman like you in the world."

Thirza's eyes smiled. "Pass me your cup; I'll give you some fresh

coffee."

It was decided to put the plan into operation at mid-month, and she bent

all her wits to instilling into her husband the thought that a baby more

or less was no great matter in a world which already contained twelve

hundred million people. With a man's keener sense of family propriety,

he could not see that this baby would be the same as any other baby. "By

heaven!" he would say, "I simply can't get used to it; in our family!

And Ted a parson! What the devil shall we do with it?"

"If Nollie will let us, why shouldn't we adopt it? It'll be something to

take my thoughts off the boys."

"That's an idea! But Ted's a funny fellow. He'll have some doctrine of

atonement, or other in his bonnet."

"Oh, bother!" said Thirza with asperity.

The thought of sojourning in town for a spell was not unpleasant to Bob

Pierson. His Tribunal work was over, his early, potatoes in, and he had

visions of working for the Country, of being a special constable, and

dining at his Club. The nearer he was to the front, and the more he

could talk about the war, the greater the service he felt he would be

doing. He would ask for a job where his brains would be of use. He

regretted keenly that Thirza wouldn't be with him; a long separation like

this would be a great trial. And he would sigh and run his fingers

through his whiskers. Still for the Country, and for Nollie, one must

put up with it!

When Thirza finally saw him into the train, tears stood in the eyes of

both, for they were honestly attached, and knew well enough that this

job, once taken in hand, would have to be seen through; a three months'

separation at least.

"I shall write every day."

"So shall I, Bob."

"You won't fret, old girl?"

"Only if you do."

"I shall be up at 5.5, and she'll be down at 4.50. Give us a kiss--damn

the porters. God bless you! I suppose she'd mind if--I--were to come

down now and then?"

"I'm afraid she would. It's--it's--well, you know."

"Yes, Yes; I do." And he really did; for underneath, he had true

delicacy.

Her last words: "You're very sweet, Bob," remained in his ears all the

way to Severn Junction.

She went back to the house, emptied of her husband, daughter, boys, and

maids; only the dogs left and the old nurse whom she had taken into

confidence. Even in that sheltered, wooded valley it was very cold this

winter. The birds hid themselves, not one flower bloomed, and the

red-brown river was full and swift. The sound of trees being felled for

trench props, in the wood above the house resounded all day long in the

frosty air. She meant to do the cooking herself; and for the rest of the

morning and early afternoon she concocted nice things, and thought out

how she herself would feel if she were Noel and Noel she, so as to smooth

out of the way anything which would hurt the girl. In the afternoon she

went down to the station in the village car, the same which had borne

Cyril Morland away that July night, for their coachman had been taken for

the army, and the horses were turned out.

Noel looked tired and white, but calm--too calm. Her face seemed to

Thirza to have fined down, and with those brooding eyes, to be more

beautiful. In the car she possessed herself of the girl's hand, and

squeezed it hard; their only allusion to the situation, except Noel's

formal:

"Thank you so much, Auntie, for having me; it's most awfully sweet of you

and Uncle Bob."

"There's no one in the house, my dear, except old Nurse. It'll be very

dull for you; but I thought I'd teach you to cook; it's rather useful."

The smile which slipped on to Noel's face gave Thirza quite a turn.

She had assigned the girl a different room, and had made it

extraordinarily cheerful with a log fire, chrysanthemums, bright copper

candlesticks, warming-pans, and such like.

She went up with her at bedtime, and standing before the fire, said:

"You know, Nollie, I absolutely refuse to regard this as any sort of

tragedy. To bring life into the worlds in these days, no matter how,

ought to make anyone happy. I only wish I could do it again, then I

should feel some use. Good night dear; and if you want anything, knock

on the wall. I'm next door. Bless you!" She saw that the girl was

greatly moved, underneath her pale mask; and went out astonished at her

niece's powers of self-control.

But she did not sleep at all well; for in imagination, she kept on seeing

Noel turning from side to side in the big bed, and those great eyes of

hers staring at the dark.

The meeting of the brothers Pierson took place at the dinner-hour, and

was characterised by a truly English lack of display. They were so

extremely different, and had been together so little since early days in

their old Buckinghamshire home, that they were practically strangers,

with just the potent link of far-distant memories in common. It was of

these they talked, and about the war. On this subject they agreed in the

large, and differed in the narrow. For instance, both thought they knew

about Germany and other countries, and neither of course had any real

knowledge of any country outside their own; for, though both had passed

through considerable tracts of foreign ground at one time or another,

they had never remarked anything except its surface,--its churches, and

its sunsets. Again, both assumed that they were democrats, but neither

knew the meaning of the word, nor felt that the working man could be

really trusted; and both revered Church and, King: Both disliked

conscription, but considered it necessary. Both favoured Home Rule for

Ireland, but neither thought it possible to grant it. Both wished for

the war to end, but were for prosecuting it to Victory, and neither knew

what they meant by that word. So much for the large. On the narrower

issues, such as strategy, and the personality of their country's leaders,

they were opposed. Edward was a Westerner, Robert an Easterner, as was

natural in one who had lived twenty-five years in Ceylon. Edward

favoured the fallen government, Robert the risen. Neither had any

particular reasons for their partisanship except what he had read in the

journals. After all--what other reasons could they have had? Edward

disliked the Harmsworth Press; Robert thought it was doing good. Robert

was explosive, and rather vague; Edward dreamy, and a little didactic.

Robert thought poor Ted looking like a ghost; Edward thought poor Bob

looking like the setting sun. Their faces were indeed as curiously

contrasted as their views and voices; the pale-dark, hollowed, narrow

face of Edward, with its short, pointed beard, and the red-skinned,

broad, full, whiskered face of Robert. They parted for the night with an

affectionate hand-clasp. So began a queer partnership which consisted, as

the days went on, of half an hour's companionship at breakfast, each

reading the paper; and of dinner together perhaps three times a week.

Each thought his brother very odd, but continued to hold the highest

opinion of him. And, behind it all, the deep tribal sense that they stood

together in trouble, grew. But of that trouble they never spoke, though

not seldom Robert would lower his journal, and above the glasses perched

on his well-shaped nose, contemplate his brother, and a little frown of

sympathy would ridge his forehead between his bushy eyebrows. And once

in a way he would catch Edward's eyes coming off duty from his journal,

to look, not at his brother, but at--the skeleton; when that happened,

Robert would adjust his glasses hastily, damn the newspaper type, and

apologise to Edward for swearing. And he would think: 'Poor Ted! He

ought to drink port, and--and enjoy himself, and forget it. What a pity

he's a parson!'

In his letters to Thirza he would deplore Edward's asceticism. "He eats

nothing, he drinks nothing, he smokes a miserable cigarette once in a

blue moon. He's as lonely as a coot; it's a thousand pities he ever lost

his wife. I expect to see his wings sprout any day; but--dash it all

I--I don't believe he's got the flesh to grow them on. Send him up some

clotted cream; I'll see if I can get him to eat it." When the cream came,

he got Edward to eat some the first morning, and at tea time found that

he had finished it himself. "We never talk about Nollie," he wrote, "I'm

always meaning to have it out with him and tell him to buck up, but when

it comes to the point I dry up; because, after all, I feel it too; it

sticks in my gizzard horribly. We Piersons are pretty old, and we've

always been respectable, ever since St. Bartholomew, when that Huguenot

chap came over and founded us. The only black sheep I ever heard of is

Cousin Leila. By the way, I saw her the other day; she came round here

to see Ted. I remember going to stay with her and her first husband;

young Fane, at Simla, when I was coming home, just before we were

married. Phew! That was a queer menage; all the young chaps fluttering

round her, and young Fane looking like a cynical ghost. Even now she

can't help setting her cap a little at Ted, and he swallows her whole;

thinks her a devoted creature reformed to the nines with her hospital and

all that. Poor old Ted; he is the most dreamy chap that ever was."

"We have had Gratian and her husband up for the week-end," he wrote a

little later; "I don't like her so well as Nollie; too serious and

downright for me. Her husband seems a sensible fellow, though; but the

devil of a free-thinker. He and poor Ted are like cat and dog. We had

Leila in to dinner again on Saturday, and a man called Fort came too.

She's sweet on him, I could see with half an eye, but poor old Ted can't.

The doctor and Ted talked up hill and down dale. The doctor said a thing

which struck me. 'What divides us from the beasts? Will power: nothing

else. What's this war, really, but a death carnival of proof that man's

will is invincible?' I stuck it down to tell you, when I got upstairs.

He's a clever fellow. I believe in God, as you know, but I must say when

it comes to an argument, poor old Ted does seem a bit weak, with his:

'We're told this,' and 'We're told that: Nobody mentioned Nollie. I must

have the whole thing out with Ted; we must know how to act when it's all

over."

But not till the middle of March, when the brothers had been sitting

opposite each other at meals for two months, was the subject broached

between them, and then not by Robert. Edward, standing by the hearth

after dinner, in his familiar attitude, one foot on the fender, one hand

grasping the mantel-shelf, and his eyes fixed on the flames, said: "I've

never asked your forgiveness, Bob."

Robert, lingering at the table over his glass of port, started, looked at

Edward's back in its parson's coat, and answered:

"My dear old chap!"

"It has been very difficult to speak of this."

"Of course, of course!" And there was a silence, while Robert's eyes

travelled round the walls for inspiration. They encountered only the

effigies of past Piersons very oily works, and fell back on the

dining-table. Edward went on speaking to the fire:

"It still seems to me incredible. Day and night I think of what it's my

duty to do."

"Nothing!" ejaculated Robert. "Leave the baby with Thirza; we'll take

care of it, and when Nollie's fit, let her go back to work in a hospital

again. She'll soon get over it." He saw his brother shake his head, and

thought: 'Ah! yes; now there's going to be some d--d conscientious

complication.'

Edward turned round on him: "That is very sweet of you both, but it would

be wrong and cowardly for me to allow it."

The resentment which springs up in fathers when other fathers dispose of

young lives, rose in Robert.

"Dash it all, my dear Ted, that's for Nollie to say. She's a woman now,

remember."

A smile went straying about in the shadows of his brother's face. "A

woman? Little Nollie! Bob, I've made a terrible mess of it with my

girls." He hid his lips with his hand, and turned again to the flames.

Robert felt a lump in his throat. "Oh! Hang it, old boy, I don't think

that. What else could you have done? You take too much on yourself.

After all, they're fine girls. I'm sure Nollie's a darling. It's these

modern notions, and this war. Cheer up! It'll all dry straight." He

went up to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. Edward seemed to

stiffen under that touch.

"Nothing comes straight," he said, "unless it's faced; you know that,

Bob."

Robert's face was a study at that moment. His cheeks filled and

collapsed again like a dog's when it has been rebuked. His colour

deepened, and he rattled some money in a trouser pocket.

"Something in that, of course," he said gruffly. "All the same, the

decision's with Nollie. We'll see what Thirza says. Anyway, there's no

hurry. It's a thousand pities you're a parson; the trouble's enough

without that:"

Edward shook his head. "My position is nothing; it's the thought of my

child, my wife's child. It's sheer pride; and I can't subdue it. I can't

fight it down. God forgive me, I rebel."

And Robert thought: 'By George, he does take it to heart! Well, so

should I! I do, as it is!' He took out his pipe, and filled it, pushing

the tobacco down and down.

"I'm not a man of the world," he heard his brother say; "I'm out of touch

with many things. It's almost unbearable to me to feel that I'm joining

with the world to condemn my own daughter; not for their reasons,

perhaps--I don't know; I hope not, but still, I'm against her."

Robert lit his pipe.

"Steady, old man!" he said. "It's a misfortune. But if I were you I

should feel: 'She's done a wild, silly thing, but, hang it, if anybody

says a word against her, I'll wring his neck.' And what's more, you'll

feel much the same, when it comes to the point." He emitted a huge puff

of smoke, which obscured his brother's face, and the blood, buzzing in

his temples, seemed to thicken the sound of Edward's voice.

"I don't know; I've tried to see clearly. I have prayed to be shown what

her duty is, and mine. It seems to me there can be no peace for her

until she has atoned, by open suffering; that the world's judgment is her

cross, and she must bear it; especially in these days, when all the world

is facing suffering so nobly. And then it seems so hard-so bitter; my

poor little Nollie!"

There was a silence, broken only by the gurgling of Robert's pipe, till

he said abruptly:

"I don't follow you, Ted; no, I don't. I think a man should screen his

children all he can. Talk to her as you like, but don't let the world do

it. Dash it, the world's a rotten gabbling place. I call myself a man

of the world, but when it comes to private matters--well, then I draw the

line. It seems to me it seems to me inhuman. What does George Laird

think about it? He's a knowing chap. I suppose you've--no, I suppose

you haven't--" For a peculiar smile had come on Edward's face.

"No," he said, "I should hardly ask George Laird's opinion."

And Robert realised suddenly the stubborn loneliness of that thin black

figure, whose fingers were playing with a little gold cross. 'By Jove!'

he thought, 'I believe old Ted's like one of those Eastern chaps who go

into lonely places. He's got himself surrounded by visions of things

that aren't there. He lives in unreality--something we can't understand.

I shouldn't be surprised if he heard voices, like--'who was it? Tt, tt!

What a pity!' Ted was deceptive. He was gentle and--all that, a

gentleman of course, and that disguised him; but underneath; what was

there--a regular ascetic, a fakir! And a sense of bewilderment, of

dealing with something which he could not grasp, beset Bob Pierson, so

that he went back to the table, and sat down again beside his port.

"It seems to me," he said rather gruffly, "that the chicken had better be

hatched before we count it." And then, sorry for his brusqueness,

emptied his glass. As the fluid passed over his palate, he thought:

'Poor old Ted! He doesn't even drink--hasn't a pleasure in life, so far

as I can see, except doing his duty, and doesn't even seem to know what

that is. There aren't many like him--luckily! And yet I love

him--pathetic chap!'

The "pathetic chap" was still staring at the flames.

And at this very hour, when the brothers were talking--for thought and

feeling do pass mysteriously over the invisible wires of space Cyril

Morland's son was being born of Noel, a little before his time.

PART III

Down by the River Wye, among plum-trees in blossom, Noel had laid her

baby in a hammock, and stood reading a letter:

"MY DEAREST NOLLIE, "Now that you are strong again, I feel that I must

put before you my feeling as to your duty in this crisis of your life.

Your aunt and uncle have made the most kind and generous offer to adopt

your little boy. I have known that this was in their minds for some

time, and have thought it over day and night for weeks. In the worldly

sense it would be the best thing, no doubt. But this is a spiritual

matter. The future of our souls depends on how we meet the consequences

of our conduct. And painful, dreadful, indeed, as they must be, I am

driven to feel that you can only reach true peace by facing them in a

spirit of brave humility. I want you to think and think--till you arrive

at a certainty which satisfies your conscience. If you decide, as I

trust you will, to come back to me here with your boy, I shall do all in

my power to make you happy while we face the future together. To do as

your aunt and uncle in their kindness wish, would, I am sore afraid, end

in depriving you of the inner strength and happiness which God only gives

to those who do their duty and try courageously to repair their errors.

I have confidence in you, my dear child. "Ever your most loving father,

"EDWARD PIERSON."

She read it through a second time, and looked at her baby. Daddy seemed

to think that she might be willing to part from this wonderful creature!

Sunlight fell through the plum blossom, in an extra patchwork quilt over

the bundle lying there, touched the baby's nose and mouth, so that he

sneezed. Noel laughed, and put her lips close to his face. 'Give you

up!' she thought: 'Oh, no! And I'm going to be happy too. They shan't

stop me:

In answer to the letter she said simply that she was coming up; and a

week later she went, to the dismay of her uncle and aunt. The old nurse

went too. Everything had hitherto been so carefully watched and guarded

against by Thirza, that Noel did not really come face to face with her

position till she reached home.

Gratian, who had managed to get transferred to a London Hospital, was now

living at home. She had provided the house with new maids against her

sister's return; and though Noel was relieved not to meet her old

familiars, she encountered with difficulty the stolid curiosity of new

faces. That morning before she left Kestrel, her aunt had come into her

room while she was dressing, taken her left hand and slipped a little

gold band on to its third finger. "To please me, Nollie, now that you're

going, just for the foolish, who know nothing about you."

Noel had suffered it with the thought: 'It's all very silly!' But now,

when the new maid was pouring out her hot water, she was suddenly aware

of the girl's round blue eyes wandering, as it were, mechanically to her

hand. This little hoop of gold, then, had an awful power! A rush of

disgust came over her. All life seemed suddenly a thing of forms and

sham. Everybody then would look at that little ring; and she was a

coward, saving herself from them! When she was alone again, she slipped

it off, and laid it on the washstand, where the sunlight fell. Only this

little shining band of metal, this little yellow ring, stood between her

and the world's hostile scorn! Her lips trembled. She took up the ring,

and went to the open window; to throw it out. But she did not, uncertain

and unhappy--half realising the cruelty of life. A knock at the door

sent her flying back to the washstand. The visitor was Gratian.

"I've been looking at him," she said softly; "he's like you, Nollie,

except for his nose."

"He's hardly got one yet. But aren't his eyes intelligent? I think

they're wonderful." She held up the ring: "What shall I do about this,

Gratian?"

Gratian flushed. "Wear it. I don't see why outsiders should know. For

the sake of Dad I think you ought. There's the parish."

Noel slipped the ring back on to her finger. "Would you?"

"I can't tell. I think I would."

Noel laughed suddenly. "I'm going to get cynical; I can feel it in my

bones. How is Daddy looking?"

"Very thin; Mr. Lauder is back again from the Front for a bit, and taking

some of the work now."

"Do I hurt him very much still?"

"He's awfully pleased that you've come. He's as sweet as he can be about

you."

"Yes," murmured Noel, "that's what's dreadful. I'm glad he wasn't in

when I came. Has he told anyone?"

Gratian shook her head. "I don't think anybody knows; unless--perhaps

Captain Fort. He came in again the other night; and somehow--"

Noel flushed. "Leila!" she said enigmatically. "Have you seen her?"

"I went to her flat last week with Dad--he likes her."

"Delilah is her real name, you know. All men like her. And Captain Fort

is her lover."

Gratian gasped. Noel would say things sometimes which made her feel the

younger of the two.

"Of course he is," went on Noel in a hard voice. "She has no men

friends; her sort never have, only lovers. Why do you think he knows

about me?"

"When he asked after you he looked--"

"Yes; I've seen him look like that when he's sorry for anything. I don't

care. Has Monsieur Lavendie been in lately?"

"Yes; he looks awfully unhappy."

"His wife drugs."

"Oh, Nollie! How do you know?"

"I saw her once; I'm sure she does; there was a smell; and she's got

wandering eyes that go all glassy. He can paint me now, if he likes. I

wouldn't let him before. Does he know?"

"Of course not."

"He knows there was something; he's got second sight, I think. But I

mind him less than anybody. Is his picture of Daddy good?"

"Powerful, but it hurts, somehow."

"Let's go down and see it."

The picture was hung in the drawing-room, and its intense modernity made

that old-fashioned room seem lifeless and strange. The black figure,

with long pale fingers touching the paler piano keys, had a frightening

actuality. The face, three-quarters full, was raised as if for

inspiration, and the eyes rested, dreamy and unseeing, on the face of a

girl painted and hung on a background of wall above the piano.

"It's the face of that girl," said Gratian, when they had looked at the

picture for some time in silence:

"No," said Noel, "it's the look in his eyes."

"But why did he choose such a horrid, common girl? Isn't she fearfully

alive, though? She looks as if she were saying: 'Cheerio!'"

"She is; it's awfully pathetic, I think. Poor Daddy!"

"It's a libel," said Gratian stubbornly.

"No. That's what hurts. He isn't quite--quite all there. Will he be

coming in soon?"

Gratian took her arm, and pressed it hard. "Would you like me at dinner

or not; I can easily be out?"

Noel shook her head. "It's no good to funk it. He wanted me, and now

he's got me. Oh! why did he? It'll be awful for him."

Gratian sighed. "I've tried my best, but he always said: 'I've thought

so long about it all that I can't think any longer. I can only feel the

braver course is the best. When things are bravely and humbly met, there

will be charity and forgiveness.'"

"There won't," said Noel, "Daddy's a saint, and he doesn't see."

"Yes, he is a saint. But one must think for oneself--one simply must. I

can't believe as he does, any more; can you, Nollie?"

"I don't know. When I was going through it, I prayed; but I don't know

whether I really believed. I don't think I mind much about that, one way

or the other."

"I mind terribly," said Gratian, "I want the truth."

"I don't know what I want," said Noel slowly, "except that sometimes I

want--life; awfully."

And the two sisters were silent, looking at each other with a sort of

wonder.

Noel had a fancy to put on a bright-coloured blue frock that evening, and

at her neck she hung a Breton cross of old paste, which had belonged to

her mother. When she had finished dressing she went into the nursery and

stood by the baby's cot. The old nurse who was sitting there beside him,

got up at once and said:

"He's sleeping beautiful--the lamb. I'll go down and get a cup o' tea,

and come up, ma'am, when the gong goes." In the way peculiar to those

who have never to initiate, but only to support positions in which they

are placed by others, she had adopted for herself the theory that Noel

was a real war-widow. She knew the truth perfectly; for she had watched

that hurried little romance at Kestrel, but by dint of charity and

blurred meditations it was easy for her to imagine the marriage ceremony

which would and should have taken place; and she was zealous that other

people should imagine it too. It was so much more regular and natural

like that, and "her" baby invested with his proper dignity. She went

downstairs to get a "cup o' tea," thinking: 'A picture they make--that

they do, bless his little heart; and his pretty little mother--no more

than a child, all said and done.'

Noel had been standing there some minutes in the failing light, absorbed

in the face of the sleeping baby, when, raising her eyes, she saw in a

mirror the refection of her father's dark figure by the door. She could

hear him breathing as if the ascent of the stairs had tired him; and

moving to the head of the cot, she rested her hand on it, and turned her

face towards him. He came up and stood beside her, looking silently down

at the baby. She saw him make the sign of the Cross above it, and the

movement of his lips in prayer. Love for her father, and rebellion

against this intercession for her perfect baby fought so hard in the

girl's heart that she felt suffocated, and glad of the dark, so that he

could not see her eyes. Then he took her hand and put it to his lips, but

still without a word; and for the life of her she could not speak either.

In silence, he kissed her forehead; and there mounted in Noel a sudden

passion of longing to show him her pride and love for her baby. She put

her finger down and touched one of his hands. The tiny sleeping fingers

uncurled and, like some little sea anemone, clutched round it. She heard

her father draw his breath in; saw him turn away quickly, silently, and

go out. And she stayed, hardly breathing, with the hand of her baby

squeezing her finger.

When Edward Pierson, afraid of his own emotion, left the twilit nursery,

he slipped into his own room, and fell on his knees beside his bed,

absorbed in the vision he had seen. That young figure in Madonna blue,

with the halo of bright hair; the sleeping babe in the fine dusk; the

silence, the adoration in that white room! He saw, too; a vision of the

past, when Noel herself had been the sleeping babe within her mother's

arm, and he had stood beside them, wondering and giving praise. It

passed with its other-worldliness and the fine holiness which belongs to

beauty, passed and left the tormenting realism of life. Ah! to live with

only the inner meaning, spiritual and beautifed, in a rare wonderment

such as he had experienced just now!

His alarum clock, while he knelt in his narrow, monkish little

room--ticked the evening hour away into darkness. And still he knelt,

dreading to come back into it all, to face the world's eyes, and the

sound of the world's tongue, and the touch of the rough, the gross, the

unseemly. How could he guard his child? How preserve that vision in her

life, in her spirit, about to enter such cold, rough waters? But the

gong sounded; he got up, and went downstairs.

But this first family moment, which all had dreaded, was relieved, as

dreaded moments so often are, by the unexpected appearance of the Belgian

painter. He had a general invitation, of which he often availed himself;

but he was so silent, and his thin, beardless face, which seemed all eyes

and brow, so mournful, that all three felt in the presence of a sorrow

deeper even than their own family grief. During the meal he gazed

silently at Noel. Once he said: "You will let me paint you now,

mademoiselle, I hope?" and his face brightened a little when she nodded.

There was never much talk when he came, for any depth of discussion, even

of art, brought out at once too wide a difference. And Pierson could

never avoid a vague irritation with one who clearly had spirituality, but

of a sort which he could not understand. After dinner he excused

himself, and went off to his study. Monsieur would be happier alone with

the two girls! Gratian, too, got up. She had remembered Noel's words:

"I mind him less than anybody." It was a chance for Nollie to break the

ice.

"I have not seen you for a long time, mademoiselle," said the painter,

when they were alone.

Noel was sitting in front of the empty drawing-room hearth, with her arms

stretched out as if there had been a fire there.

"I've been away. How are you going to paint me, monsieur?"

"In that dress, mademoiselle; Just as you are now, warming yourself at

the fire of life."

"But it isn't there."

"Yes, fires soon go out. Mademoiselle, will you come and see my wife?

She is ill."

"Now?" asked Noel, startled.

"Yes, now. She is really ill, and I have no one there. That is what I

came to ask of your sister; but--now you are here, it's even better. She

likes you."

Noel got up. "Wait one minute!" she said, and ran upstairs. Her baby

was asleep, and the old nurse dozing. Putting on a cloak and cap of grey

rabbit's fur, she ran down again to the hall where the painter was

waiting; and they went out together.

"I do not know if I am to blame," he said, "my wife has been no real wife

to me since she knew I had a mistress and was no real husband to her."

Noel stared round at his face lighted by a queer, smile.

"Yes," he went on, "from that has come her tragedy. But she should have

known before I married her. Nothing was concealed. Bon Dieu! she should

have known! Why cannot a woman see things as they are? My mistress,

mademoiselle, is not a thing of flesh. It is my art. It has always been

first with me, and always will. She has never accepted that, she is

incapable of accepting it. I am sorry for her. But what would you? I

was a fool to marry her. Chere mademoiselle, no troubles are anything

beside the trouble which goes on day and night, meal after meal, year,

after year, between two people who should never have married, because one

loves too much and requires all, and the other loves not at all--no, not

at all, now, it is long dead--and can give but little."

"Can't you separate?" asked Noel, wondering.

"It is hard to separate from one who craves for you as she craves her

drugs--yes, she takes drugs now, mademoiselle. It is impossible for one

who has any compassion in his soul. Besides, what would she do? We live

from hand to mouth, in a strange land. She has no friends here, not one.

How could I leave her while this war lasts? As well could two persons on

a desert island separate. She is killing herself, too, with these drugs,

and I cannot stop her."

"Poor madame!" murmured Noel. "Poor monsieur!"

The painter drew his hand across his eyes.

"I cannot change my nature," he said in a stifled voice, "nor she hers.

So we go on. But life will stop suddenly some day for one of us. After

all, it is much worse for her than for me. Enter, mademoiselle. Do not

tell her I am going to paint you; she likes you, because you refused to

let me."

Noel went up the stairs, shuddering; she had been there once before, and

remembered that sickly scent of drugs. On the third floor they entered a

small sitting-room whose walls were covered with paintings and drawings;

from one corner a triangular stack of canvases jutted out. There was

little furniture save an old red sofa, and on this was seated a stoutish

man in the garb of a Belgian soldier, with his elbows on his knees and

his bearded cheeks resting on his doubled fists. Beside him on the sofa,

nursing a doll, was a little girl, who looked up at Noel. She had a most

strange, attractive, pale little face, with pointed chin and large eyes,

which never moved from this apparition in grey rabbits' skins.

"Ah, Barra! You here!" said the painter:

"Mademoiselle, this is Monsieur Barra, a friend of ours from the front;

and this is our landlady's little girl. A little refugee, too, aren't

you, Chica?"

The child gave him a sudden brilliant smile and resumed her grave

scrutiny of the visitor. The soldier, who had risen heavily, offered

Noel one of his podgy hands, with a sad and heavy giggle.

"Sit down, mademoiselle," said Lavendie, placing a chair for her: "I will

bring my wife in," and he went out through some double doors.

Noel sat down. The soldier had resumed his old attitude, and the little

girl her nursing of the doll, though her big eyes still watched the

visitor. Overcome by strangeness, Noel made no attempt to talk. And

presently through the double doors the painter and his wife came in. She

was a thin woman in a red wrapper, with hollow cheeks, high cheek-bones,

and hungry eyes; her dark hair hung loose, and one hand played restlessly

with a fold of her gown. She took Noel's hand; and her uplifted eyes

seemed to dig into the girl's face, to let go suddenly, and flutter.

"How do you do?" she said in English. "So Pierre brought you, to see me

again. I remember you so well. You would not let him paint you. Ah!

que c'est drole! You are so pretty, too. Hein, Monsieur Barra, is not

mademoiselle pretty?"

The soldier gave his heavy giggle, and resumed his scrutiny of the floor.

"Henriette," said Lavendie, "sit down beside Chica--you must not stand.

Sit down, mademoiselle, I beg."

"I'm so sorry you're not well," said Noel, and sat down again.

The painter stood leaning against the wall, and his wife looked up at his

tall, thin figure, with eyes which had in them anger, and a sort of

cunning.

"A great painter, my husband, is he not?" she said to Noel. "You would

not imagine what that man can do. And how he paints--all day long; and

all night in his head. And so you would not let him paint you, after

all?"

Lavendie said impatiently: "Voyons, Henriette, causez d'autre chose."

His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him the

look of a dog that has been rebuked.

"I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave the house. Here I

live day after day--my husband is always painting. Who would go out

alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every

face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face he

sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a

prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first visitor for a long time."

The soldier raised his face from his fists. "Prisonnier, madame! What

would you say if you were out there?" And he gave his thick giggle. "We

are the prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment by

explosion day and night; never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! les

tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there."

"Every one has his own prison," said Lavendie bitterly. "Mademoiselle

even, has her prison--and little Chica, and her doll. Every one has his

prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle."

"Moi!" said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. "I paint puddles,

star-bombs, horses' ribs--I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and

wire and wire, and water--long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and

men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare--nightmare--all

day and all night--I paint them in my head." He suddenly ceased speaking

and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks

resting on his fists. "And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,"

he added suddenly and loudly, "millions of Belgians, English, French,

even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!"

A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at Lavendie.

"Barra," he said, as if the soldier were not there, "is a great painter,

but the Front has turned his head a little. What he says is true,

though. There is no hatred out there. It is here that we are prisoners

of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds--they are poison!"

His wife put out her hand and touched the child's shoulder.

"Why should we not hate?" she said. "Who killed Chica's father, and

blew her home to-rags? Who threw her out into this horrible

England--pardon, mademoiselle, but it is horrible. Ah! les Boches! If

my hatred could destroy them there would not be one left. Even my

husband was not so mad about his painting when we lived at home. But

here--!" Her eyes darted at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked.

Noel saw the painter's lips move. The sick woman's whole figure writhed.

"It is mania, your painting!" She looked at Noel with a smile. "Will you

have some tea, mademoiselle? Monsieur Barra, some tea?"

The soldier said thickly: "No, madame; in the trenches we have tea

enough. It consoles us. But when we get away--give us wine, le bon vin;

le bon petit vin!"

"Get some wine, Pierre!"

Noel saw from the painter's face that there was no wine, and perhaps no

money to get any; but he went quickly out. She rose and said:

"I must be going, madame."

Madame Lavendie leaned forward and clutched her wrist. "Wait a little,

mademoiselle. We shall have some wine, and Pierre shall take you back

presently. You cannot go home alone--you are too pretty. Is she not,

Monsieur Barra?"

The soldier looked up: "What would you say," he said, "to bottles of wine

bursting in the air, bursting red and bursting white, all day long, all

night long? Great steel bottles, large as Chica: bits of bottles,

carrying off men's heads? Bsum, garra-a-a, and a house comes down, and

little bits of people ever so small, ever so small, tiny bits in the air

and all over the ground. Great souls out there, madame. But I will tell

you a secret," and again he gave his heavy giggle, "all a little, little

mad; nothing to speak of--just a little bit mad; like a watch, you know,

that you can wind for ever. That is the discovery of this war,

mademoiselle," he said, addressing Noel for the first time, "you cannot

gain a great soul till you are a little mad." And lowering his piggy

grey eyes at once, he resumed his former attitude. "It is that madness I

shall paint some day," he announced to the carpet; "lurking in one tiny

corner of each soul of all those millions, as it creeps, as it peeps,

ever so sudden, ever so little when we all think it has been put to bed,

here--there, now--then, when you least think; in and out like a mouse

with bright eyes. Millions of men with white souls, all a little mad. A

great subject, I think," he added heavily. Involuntarily Noel put her

hand to her heart, which was beating fast. She felt quite sick.

"How long have you been at the Front, monsieur?"

"Two years, mademoiselle. Time to go home and paint, is it not? But

art--!" he shrugged his heavy round shoulders, his whole bear-like body.

"A little mad," he muttered once more. "I will tell you a story. Once

in winter after I had rested a fortnight, I go back to the trenches at

night, and I want some earth to fill up a hole in the ground where I was

sleeping; when one has slept in a bed one becomes particular. Well, I

scratch it from my parapet, and I come to something funny. I strike my

briquet, and there is a Boche's face all frozen and earthy and dead and

greeny-white in the flame from my briquet."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh! but yes, mademoiselle; true as I sit here. Very useful in the

parapet--dead Boche. Once a man like me. But in the morning I could not

stand him; we dug him out and buried him, and filled the hole up with

other things. But there I stood in the night, and my face as close to

his as this"--and he held his thick hand a foot before his face. "We

talked of our homes; he had a soul, that man. 'Il me disait des choses',

how he had suffered; and I, too, told him my sufferings. Dear God, we

know all; we shall never know more than we know out there, we others, for

we are mad--nothing to speak of, but just a little, little mad. When you

see us, mademoiselle, walking the streets, remember that." And he

dropped his face on to his fists again.

A silence had fallen in the room-very queer and complete. The little

girl nursed her doll, the soldier gazed at the floor, the woman's mouth

moved stealthily, and in Noel the thought rushed continually to the verge

of action: 'Couldn't I get up and run downstairs?' But she sat on,

hypnotised by that silence, till Lavendie reappeared with a bottle and

four glasses.

"To drink our health, and wish us luck, mademoiselle," he said.

Noel raised the glass he had given her. "I wish you all happiness."

"And you, mademoiselle," the two men murmured.

She drank a little, and rose.

"And now, mademoiselle," said Lavendie, "if you must go, I will see you

home."

Noel took Madame Lavendie's hand; it was cold, and returned no pressure;

her eyes had the glazed look that she remembered. The soldier had put

his empty glass down on the floor, and was regarding it unconscious of

her. Noel turned quickly to the door; the last thing she saw was the

little girl nursing her doll.

In the street the painter began at once in his rapid French:

'I ought not to have asked you to come, mademoiselle; I did not know our

friend Barra was there. Besides, my wife is not fit to receive a lady;

vous voyez qu'il y a de la manie dans cette pauvre tote. I should not

have asked you; but I was so miserable."

"Oh!" murmured Noel, "I know."

"In our home over there she had interests. In this great town she can

only nurse her grief against me. Ah! this war! It seems to me we are

all in the stomach of a great coiling serpent. We lie there, being

digested. In a way it is better out there in the trenches; they are

beyond hate, they have attained a height that we have not. It is

wonderful how they still can be for going on till they have beaten the

Boche; that is curious and it is very great. Did Barra tell you how,

when they come back--all these fighters--they are going to rule, and

manage the future of the world? But it will not be so. They will mix in

with life, separate--be scattered, and they will be ruled as they were

before. The tongue and the pen will rule them: those who have not seen

the war will rule them."

"Oh!"' cried Noel, "surely they will be the bravest and strongest in the

future."

The painter smiled.

"War makes men simple," he said, "elemental; life in peace is neither

simple nor elemental, it is subtle, full of changing environments, to

which man must adapt himself; the cunning, the astute, the adaptable,

will ever rule in times of peace. It is pathetic, the belief of those

brave soldiers that the-future is theirs."

"He said, a strange thing," murmured Noel; "that they were all a little

mad."

"He is a man of queer genius--Barra; you should see some of his earlier

pictures. Mad is not quite the word, but something is loosened, is

rattling round in them, they have lost proportion, they are being forced

in one direction. I tell you, mademoiselle, this war is one great

forcing-house; every living plant is being made to grow too fast, each

quality, each passion; hate and love, intolerance and lust and avarice,

courage and energy; yes, and self-sacrifice--all are being forced and

forced beyond their strength, beyond the natural flow of the sap, forced

till there has come a great wild luxuriant crop, and then--Psum! Presto!

The change comes, and these plants will wither and rot and stink. But we

who see Life in forms of Art are the only ones who feel that; and we are

so few. The natural shape of things is lost. There is a mist of blood

before all eyes. Men are afraid of being fair. See how we all hate not

only our enemies, but those who differ from us. Look at the streets

too--see how men and women rush together, how Venus reigns in this

forcing-house. Is it not natural that Youth about to die should yearn

for pleasure, for love, for union, before death?"

Noel stared up at him. 'Now!' she thought: I will.'

"Yes," she said, "I know that's true, because I rushed, myself. I'd like

you to know. We couldn't be married--there wasn't time. And--he was

killed. But his son is alive. That's why I've been away so long. I

want every one to know." She spoke very calmly, but her cheeks felt

burning hot.

The painter had made an upward movement of his hands, as if they had been

jerked by an electric current, then he said quite quietly:

"My profound respect, mademoiselle, and my great sympathy. And your

father?"

"It's awful for him."

The painter said gently: "Ah! mademoiselle, I am not so sure. Perhaps he

does not suffer so greatly. Perhaps not even your trouble can hurt him

very much. He lives in a world apart. That, I think, is his true

tragedy to be alive, and yet not living enough to feel reality. Do you

know Anatole France's description of an old woman: 'Elle vivait, mais si

peu.' Would that not be well said of the Church in these days: 'Elle

vivait, mais si peu.' I see him always like a rather beautiful dark

spire in the night-time when you cannot see how it is attached to the

earth. He does not know, he never will know, Life."

Noel looked round at him. "What do you mean by Life, monsieur? I'm

always reading about Life, and people talk of seeing Life! What is

it--where is it? I never see anything that you could call Life."

The painter smiled.

"To 'see life'!" he said. "Ah! that is different. To enjoy yourself!

Well, it is my experience that when people are 'seeing life' as they call

it, they are not enjoying themselves. You know when one is very thirsty

one drinks and drinks, but the thirst remains all the same. There are

places where one can see life as it is called, but the only persons you

will see enjoying themselves at such places are a few humdrums like

myself, who go there for a talk over a cup of coffee. Perhaps at your

age, though, it is different."

Noel clasped her hands, and her eyes seemed to shine in the gloom. "I

want music and dancing and light, and beautiful things and faces; but I

never get them."

"No, there does not exist in this town, or in any other, a place which

will give you that. Fox-trots and ragtime and paint and powder and glare

and half-drunken young men, and women with red lips you can get them in

plenty. But rhythm and beauty and charm never. In Brussels when I was

younger I saw much 'life' as they call it, but not one lovely thing

unspoiled; it was all as ashes in the mouth. Ah! you may smile, but I

know what I am talking of. Happiness never comes when you are looking

for it, mademoiselle; beauty is in Nature and in real art, never in these

false silly make believes. There is a place just here where we Belgians

go; would you like to see how true my words are?

"Oh, yes!"

"Tres-bien! Let us go in?"

They passed into a revolving doorway with little glass compartments which

shot them out into a shining corridor. At the end of this the painter

looked at Noel and seemed to hesitate, then he turned off from the room

they were about to enter into a room on the right. It was large, full of

gilt and plush and marble tables, where couples were seated; young men in

khaki and older men in plain clothes, together or with young women. At

these last Noel looked, face after face, while they were passing down a

long way to an empty table. She saw that some were pretty, and some only

trying to be, that nearly all were powdered and had their eyes darkened

and their lips reddened, till she felt her own face to be dreadfully

ungarnished: Up in a gallery a small band was playing an attractive

jingling hollow little tune; and the buzz of talk and laughter was almost

deafening.

"What will you have, mademoiselle?" said the painter. "It is just nine

o'clock; we must order quickly."

"May I have one of those green things?"

"Deux cremes de menthe," said Lavendie to the waiter.

Noel was too absorbed to see the queer, bitter little smile hovering

about his face. She was busy looking at the faces of women whose eyes,

furtively cold and enquiring, were fixed on her; and at the faces of men

with eyes that were furtively warm and wondering.

"I wonder if Daddy was ever in a place like this?" she said, putting the

glass of green stuff to her lips. "Is it nice? It smells of

peppermint."

"A beautiful colour. Good luck, mademoiselle!" and he chinked his glass

with hers.

Noel sipped, held it away, and sipped again.

"It's nice; but awfully sticky. May I have a cigarette?"

"Des cigarettes," said Lavendie to the waiter, "Et deux cafes noirs. Now,

mademoiselle," he murmured when they were brought, "if we imagine that we

have drunk a bottle of wine each, we shall have exhausted all the

preliminaries of what is called Vice. Amusing, isn't it?" He shrugged

his shoulders.

His face struck Noel suddenly as tarnished and almost sullen.

"Don't be angry, monsieur, it's all new to me, you see."

The painter smiled, his bright, skin-deep smile.

"Pardon! I forget myself. Only, it hurts me to see beauty in a place

like this. It does not go well with that tune, and these voices, and

these faces. Enjoy yourself, mademoiselle; drink it all in! See the way

these people look at each other; what love shines in their eyes! A pity,

too, we cannot hear what they are saying. Believe me, their talk is most

subtle, tres-spirituel. These young women are 'doing their bit,' as you

call it; bringing le plaisir to all these who are serving their country.

Eat, drink, love, for tomorrow we die. Who cares for the world simple or

the world beautiful, in days like these? The house of the spirit is

empty."

He was looking at her sidelong as if he would enter her very soul.

Noel got up. "I'm ready to go, monsieur."

He put her cloak on her shoulders, paid the bill, and they went out,

threading again through the little tables, through the buzz of talk and

laughter and the fumes of tobacco, while another hollow little tune

jingled away behind them.

"Through there," said the painter, pointing to another door, "they dance.

So it goes. London in war-time! Well, after all, it is never very

different; no great town is. Did you enjoy your sight of 'life,'

mademoiselle?"

"I think one must dance, to be happy. Is that where your friends go?"

"Oh, no! To a room much rougher, and play dominoes, and drink coffee and

beer, and talk. They have no money to throw away."

"Why didn't you show me?"

"Mademoiselle, in that room you might see someone perhaps whom one day

you would meet again; in the place we visited you were safe enough at

least I hope so."

Noel shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter now, what I do."

And a rush of emotion caught at her throat--a wave from the past--the

moonlit night, the dark old Abbey, the woods and the river. Two tears

rolled down her cheeks.

"I was thinking of--something," she said in a muffled voice. "It's all

right."

"Chere mademoiselle!" Lavendie murmured; and all the way home he was

timid and distressed. Shaking his hand at the door, she murmured:

"I'm sorry I was such a fool; and thank you awfully, monsieur. Good

night."

"Good night; and better dreams. There is a good time coming--Peace and

Happiness once more in the world. It will not always be this

Forcing-House. Good night, chere mademoiselle!"

Noel went up to the nursery, and stole in. A night-light was burning,

Nurse and baby were fast asleep. She tiptoed through into her own room.

Once there, she felt suddenly so tired that she could hardly undress; and

yet curiously rested, as if with that rush of emotion, Cyril and the past

had slipped from her for ever.

III

Noel's first encounter with Opinion took place the following day. The

baby had just come in from its airing; she had seen it comfortably

snoozing, and was on her way downstairs, when a voice from the hall said:

"How do you do?" and she saw the khaki-clad figure of Adrian Lauder, her

father's curate! Hesitating just a moment, she finished her descent, and

put her fingers in his. He was a rather heavy, dough-coloured young man

of nearly thirty, unsuited by khaki, with a round white collar buttoned

behind; but his aspiring eyes redeemed him, proclaiming the best

intentions in the world, and an inclination towards sentiment in the

presence of beauty.

"I haven't seen you for ages," he said rather fatuously, following her

into her father's study.

"No," said Noel. "How--do you like being at the Front?"

"Ah!" he said, "they're wonderful!" And his eyes shone. "It's so nice

to see you again."

"Is it?"

He seemed puzzled by that answer; stammered, and said:

"I didn't know your sister had a baby. A jolly baby."

"She hasn't."

Lauder's mouth opened. 'A silly mouth,' she thought.

"Oh!" he said. "Is it a protegee--Belgian or something?"

"No, it's mine; my own." And, turning round, she slipped the little ring

off her finger. When she turned back to him, his face had not recovered

from her words. It had a hapless look, as of one to whom such a thing

ought not to have happened.

"Don't look like that," said Noel. "Didn't you understand? It's

mine-mine." She put out her left hand. "Look! There's no ring."

He stammered: "I say, you oughtn't to--you oughtn't to--!"

"What?"

"Joke about--about such things; ought you?"

"One doesn't joke if one's had a baby without being married, you know."

Lauder went suddenly slack. A shell might have burst a few paces from

him. And then, just as one would in such a case, he made an effort,

braced himself, and said in a curious voice, both stiff and heavy: "I

can't--one doesn't--it's not--"

"It is," said Noel. "If you don't believe me, ask Daddy."

He put his hand up to his round collar; and with the wild thought that he

was going to tear it off, she cried: "Don't!"

"You!" he said. "You! But--"

Noel turned away from him to the window: She stood looking out, but saw

nothing whatever.

"I don't want it hidden," she said without turning round, "I want every

one to know. It's stupid as it is--stupid!" and she stamped her foot.

"Can't you see how stupid it is--everybody's mouth falling open!"

He uttered a little sound which had pain in it, and she felt a real pang

of compunction. He had gripped the back of a chair; his face had lost

its heaviness. A dull flush coloured his cheeks. Noel had a feeling, as

if she had been convicted of treachery. It was his silence, the curious

look of an impersonal pain beyond power of words; she felt in him

something much deeper than mere disapproval--something which echoed

within herself. She walked quickly past him and escaped. She ran

upstairs and threw herself on her bed. He was nothing: it was not that!

It was in herself, the awful feeling, for the first time developed and

poignant, that she had betrayed her caste, forfeited the right to be

thought a lady, betrayed her secret reserve and refinement, repaid with

black ingratitude the love lavished on her up bringing, by behaving like

any uncared-for common girl. She had never felt this before--not even

when Gratian first heard of it, and they had stood one at each end of the

hearth, unable to speak. Then she still had her passion, and her grief

for the dead. That was gone now as if it had never been; and she had no

defence, nothing between her and this crushing humiliation and chagrin.

She had been mad! She must have been mad! The Belgian Barra was right:

"All a little mad" in this "forcing-house" of a war! She buried her face

deep in the pillow, till it almost stopped her power of breathing; her

head and cheeks and ears seemed to be on fire. If only he had shown

disgust, done something which roused her temper, her sense of justice,

her feeling that Fate had been too cruel to her; but he had just stood

there, bewilderment incarnate, like a creature with some very deep

illusion shattered. It was horrible! Then, feeling that she could not

stay still, must walk, run, get away somehow from this feeling of

treachery and betrayal, she sprang up. All was quiet below, and she

slipped downstairs and out, speeding along with no knowledge of

direction, taking the way she had taken day after day to her hospital.

It was the last of April, trees and shrubs were luscious with blossom and

leaf; the dogs ran gaily; people had almost happy faces in the sunshine.

'If I could get away from myself, I wouldn't care,' she thought. Easy to

get away from people, from London, even from England perhaps; but from

oneself--impossible! She passed her hospital; and looked at it dully, at

the Red Cross flag against its stucco wall, and a soldier in his blue

slops and red tie, coming out. She had spent many miserable hours there,

but none quite so miserable as this. She passed the church opposite to

the flats where Leila lived, and running suddenly into a tall man coming

round the corner, saw Fort. She bent her head, and tried to hurry past.

But his hand was held out, she could not help putting hers into it; and

looking up hardily, she said:

"You know about me, don't you?"

His face, naturally so frank, seemed to clench up, as if he were riding

at a fence. 'He'll tell a lie,' she thought bitterly. But he did not.

"Yes, Leila told me."

And she thought: 'I suppose he'll try and pretend that I've not been a

beast!'

"I admire your pluck," he said.

"I haven't any."

"We never know ourselves, do we? I suppose you wouldn't walk my pace a

minute or two, would you? I'm going the same way."

"I don't know which way I'm going."

"That is my case, too."

They walked on in silence.

"I wish to God I were back in France," said Fort abruptly. "One doesn't

feel clean here."

Noel's heart applauded.

Ah! to get away--away from oneself! But at the thought of her baby, her

heart fell again. "Is your leg quite hopeless?" she said.

"Quite."

"That must be horrid."

"Hundreds of thousands would look on it as splendid luck; and so it is if

you count it better to be alive than dead, which I do, in spite of the

blues."

"How is Cousin Leila?"

"Very well. She goes on pegging away at the hospital; she's a brick."

But he did not look at her, and again there was silence, till he stopped

by Lord's Cricket-ground.

"I mustn't keep you crawling along at this pace."

"Oh, I don't mind!"

"I only wanted to say that if I can be of any service to you at any time

in any way whatever, please command me."

He gave her hand a squeeze, took his hat off; and Noel walked slowly on.

The little interview, with its suppressions, and its implications, had

but exasperated her restlessness, and yet, in a way, it had soothed the

soreness of her heart. Captain Fort at all events did not despise her;

and he was in trouble like herself. She felt that somehow by the look of

his face, and the tone of his voice when he spoke of Leila. She

quickened her pace. George's words came back to her: "If you're not

ashamed of yourself, no one will be of you!" How easy to say! The old

days, her school, the little half grown-up dances she used to go to, when

everything was happy. Gone! All gone!

But her meetings with Opinion were not over for the day, for turning

again at last into the home Square, tired out by her three hours' ramble,

she met an old lady whom she and Gratian had known from babyhood--a

handsome dame, the widow of an official, who spent her days, which showed

no symptom of declining, in admirable works. Her daughter, the widow of

an officer killed at the Marne, was with her, and the two greeted Noel

with a shower of cordial questions: So she was back from the country, and

was she quite well again? And working at her hospital? And how was her

dear father? They had thought him looking very thin and worn. But now

Gratian was at home--How dreadfully the war kept husbands and wives

apart! And whose was the dear little baby they had in the house?

"Mine," said Noel, walking straight past them with her head up. In every

fibre of her being she could feel the hurt, startled, utterly bewildered

looks of those firm friendly persons left there on the pavement behind

her; could feel the way they would gather themselves together, and walk

on, perhaps without a word, and then round the corner begin: "What has

come to Noel? What did she mean?" And taking the little gold hoop out

of her pocket, she flung it with all her might into the Square Garden.

The action saved her from a breakdown; and she went in calmly. Lunch was

long over, but her father had not gone out, for he met her in the hall

and drew her into the dining-room.

"You must eat, my child," he said. And while she was swallowing down

what he had caused to be kept back for her, he stood by the hearth in

that favourite attitude of his, one foot on the fender, and one hand

gripping the mantel-shelf.

"You've got your wish, Daddy," she said dully: "Everybody knows now. I've

told Mr. Lauder, and Monsieur, and the Dinnafords."

She saw his fingers uncrisp, then grip the shelf again. "I'm glad," he

said.

"Aunt Thirza gave me a ring to wear, but I've thrown it away."

"My dearest child," he began, but could not go on, for the quivering of

his lips.

"I wanted to say once more, Daddy, that I'm fearfully sorry about you.

And I am ashamed of myself; I thought I wasn't, but I am--only, I think

it was cruel, and I'm not penitent to God; and it's no good trying to

make me."

Pierson turned and looked at her. For a long time after, she could not

get that look out of her memory.

Jimmy Fort had turned away from Noel feeling particularly wretched. Ever

since the day when Leila had told him of the girl's misfortune he had

been aware that his liaison had no decent foundation, save a sort of

pity. One day, in a queer access of compunction, he had made Leila an

offer of marriage. She had refused; and he had respected her the more,

realising by the quiver in her voice and the look in her eyes that she

refused him, not because she did not love him well enough, but because

she was afraid of losing any of his affection. She was a woman of great

experience.

To-day he had taken advantage of the luncheon interval to bring her some

flowers, with a note to say that he could not come that evening. Letting

himself in with his latchkey, he had carefully put those Japanese azaleas

in the bowl "Famille Rose," taking water from her bedroom. Then he had

sat down on the divan with his head in his hands.

Though he had rolled so much about the world, he had never had much to do

with women. And there was nothing in him of the Frenchman, who takes

what life puts in his way as so much enjoyment on the credit side, and

accepts the ends of such affairs as they naturally and rather rapidly

arrive. It had been a pleasure, and was no longer a pleasure; but this

apparently did not dissolve it, or absolve him. He felt himself bound by

an obscure but deep instinct to go on pretending that he was not tired of

her, so long as she was not tired of him. And he sat there trying to

remember any sign, however small, of such a consummation, quite without

success. On the contrary, he had even the wretched feeling that if only

he had loved her, she would have been much more likely to have tired of

him by now. For her he was still the unconquered, in spite of his loyal

endeavour to seem conquered. He had made a fatal mistake, that evening

after the concert at Queen's Hall, to let himself go, on a mixed tide of

desire and pity!

His folly came to him with increased poignancy after he had parted from

Noel. How could he have been such a base fool, as to have committed

himself to Leila on an evening when he had actually been in the company

of that child? Was it the vague, unseizable likeness between them which

had pushed him over the edge? 'I've been an ass,' he thought; 'a

horrible ass.' I would always have given every hour I've ever spent with

Leila, for one real smile from that girl.'

This sudden sight of Noel after months during which he had tried loyally

to forget her existence, and not succeeded at all, made him realise as he

never had yet that he was in love with her; so very much in love with her

that the thought of Leila was become nauseating. And yet the instincts

of a gentleman seemed to forbid him to betray that secret to either of

them. It was an accursed coil! He hailed a cab, for he was late; and

all the way back to the War Office he continued to see the girl's figure

and her face with its short hair. And a fearful temptation rose within

him. Was it not she who was now the real object for chivalry and pity?

Had he not the right to consecrate himself to championship of one in such

a deplorable position? Leila had lived her life; but this child's

life--pretty well wrecked--was all before her. And then he grinned from

sheer disgust. For he knew that this was Jesuitry. Not chivalry was

moving him, but love! Love! Love of the unattainable! And with a heavy

heart, indeed, he entered the great building, where, in a small room,

companioned by the telephone, and surrounded by sheets of paper covered

with figures, he passed his days. The war made everything seem dreary,

hopeless. No wonder he had caught at any distraction which came

along--caught at it, till it had caught him!

To find out the worst is, for human nature, only a question of time. But

where the "worst" is attached to a family haloed, as it were, by the

authority and reputation of an institution like the Church, the process

of discovery has to break through many a little hedge. Sheer

unlikelihood, genuine respect, the defensive instinct in those identified

with an institution, who will themselves feel weaker if its strength be

diminished, the feeling that the scandal is too good to be true--all

these little hedges, and more, had to be broken through. To the

Dinnafords, the unholy importance of what Noel had said to them would

have continued to keep them dumb, out of self-protection; but its

monstrosity had given them the feeling that there must be some mistake,

that the girl had been overtaken by a wild desire to "pull their legs" as

dear Charlie would say. With the hope of getting this view confirmed,

they lay in wait for the old nurse who took the baby out, and obtained

the information, shortly imparted: "Oh, yes; Miss Noel's. Her 'usband

was killed--poor lamb!" And they felt rewarded. They had been sure there

was some mistake. The relief of hearing that word "'usband" was intense.

One of these hasty war marriages, of which the dear Vicar had not

approved, and so it had been kept dark. Quite intelligible, but so sad!

Enough misgiving however remained in their minds, to prevent their going

to condole with the dear Vicar; but not enough to prevent their roundly

contradicting the rumours and gossip already coming to their ears. And

then one day, when their friend Mrs. Curtis had said too positively:

"Well, she doesn't wear a wedding-ring, that I'll swear, because I took

very good care to look!" they determined to ask Mr. Lauder. He

would--indeed must--know; and, of course, would not tell a story. When

they asked him it was so manifest that he did know, that they almost

withdrew the question. The poor young man had gone the colour of a

tomato.

"I prefer not to answer," he said. The rest of a very short interview

was passed in exquisite discomfort. Indeed discomfort, exquisite and

otherwise, within a few weeks of Noel's return, had begun to pervade all

the habitual congregation of Pierson's church. It was noticed that

neither of the two sisters attended Service now. Certain people who went

in the sincere hope of seeing Noel, only fell off again when she did not

appear. After all, she would not have the face! And Gratian was too

ashamed, no doubt. It was constantly remarked that the Vicar looked very

grave and thin, even for him. As the rumours hardened into certainty,

the feeling towards him became a curious medley of sympathy and

condemnation. There was about the whole business that which English

people especially resent. By the very fact of his presence before them

every Sunday, and his public ministrations, he was exhibiting to them, as

it were, the seamed and blushing face of his daughter's private life,

besides affording one long and glaring demonstration of the failure of

the Church to guide its flock: If a man could not keep his own daughter

in the straight path--whom could he? Resign! The word began to be

thought about, but not yet spoken. He had been there so long; he had

spent so much money on the church and the parish; his gentle dreamy

manner was greatly liked. He was a gentleman; and had helped many

people; and, though his love of music and vestments had always caused

heart-burnings, yet it had given a certain cachet to the church. The

women, at any rate, were always glad to know that the church they went to

was capable of drawing their fellow women away from other churches.

Besides, it was war-time, and moral delinquency which in time of peace

would have bulked too large to neglect, was now less insistently dwelt

on, by minds preoccupied by food and air-raids. Things, of course, could

not go on as they were; but as yet they did go on.

The talked-about is always the last to hear the talk; and nothing

concrete or tangible came Pierson's way. He went about his usual routine

without seeming change. And yet there was a change, secret and creeping.

Wounded almost to death himself, he felt as though surrounded by one

great wound in others; but it was some weeks before anything occurred to

rouse within him the weapon of anger or the protective impulse.

And then one day a little swift brutality shook him to the very soul. He

was coming home from a long parish round, and had turned into the Square,

when a low voice behind him said:

"Wot price the little barstard?"

A cold, sick feeling stifled his very breathing; he gasped, and spun

round, to see two big loutish boys walking fast away. With swift and

stealthy passion he sprang after them, and putting his hands on their two

neighbouring shoulders, wrenched them round so that they faced him, with

mouths fallen open in alarm. Shaking them with all his force, he said:

"How dare you--how dare you use that word?" His face and voice must have

been rather terrible, for the scare in their faces brought him to sudden

consciousness of his own violence, and he dropped his hands. In two

seconds they were at the corner. They stopped there for a second; one of

them shouted "Gran'pa"; then they vanished. He was left with lips and

hands quivering, and a feeling that he had not known for years--the weak

white empty feeling one has after yielding utterly to sudden murderous

rage. He crossed over, and stood leaning against the Garden railings,

with the thought: 'God forgive me! I could have killed them--I could

have killed them!' There had been a devil in him. If he had had

something in his hand, he might now have been a murderer: How awful!

Only one had spoken; but he could have killed them both! And the word

was true, and was in all mouths--all low common mouths, day after day, of

his own daughter's child! The ghastliness of this thought, brought home

so utterly, made him writhe, and grasp the railings as if he would have

bent them.

From that day on, a creeping sensation of being rejected of men, never

left him; the sense of identification with Noel and her tiny outcast

became ever more poignant, more real; the desire to protect them ever

more passionate; and the feeling that round about there were whispering

voices, pointing fingers, and a growing malevolence was ever more

sickening. He was beginning too to realise the deep and hidden truth:

How easily the breath of scandal destroys the influence and sanctity of

those endowed therewith by vocation; how invaluable it is to feel

untarnished, and how difficult to feel that when others think you

tarnished.

He tried to be with Noel as much as possible; and in the evenings they

sometimes went walks together, without ever talking of what was always in

their minds. Between six and eight the girl was giving sittings to

Lavendie in the drawing-room, and sometimes Pierson would come there and

play to them. He was always possessed now by a sense of the danger Noel

ran from companionship with any man. On three occasions, Jimmy Fort made

his appearance after dinner. He had so little to say that it was

difficult to understand why he came; but, sharpened by this new dread for

his daughter, Pierson noticed his eyes always following her. 'He admires

her,' he thought; and often he would try his utmost to grasp the

character of this man, who had lived such a roving life. 'Is he--can he

be the sort of man I would trust Nollie to?' he would think. 'Oh, that I

should have to hope like this that some good man would marry her--my

little Nollie, a child only the other day!'

In these sad, painful, lonely weeks he found a spot of something like

refuge in Leila's sitting-room, and would go there often for half an hour

when she was back from her hospital. That little black-walled room with

its Japanese prints and its flowers, soothed him. And Leila soothed him,

innocent as he was of any knowledge of her latest aberration, and perhaps

conscious that she herself was not too happy. To watch her arranging

flowers, singing her little French songs, or to find her beside him,

listening to his confidences, was the only real pleasure he knew in these

days. And Leila, in turn, would watch him and think: 'Poor Edward! He

has never lived; and never will; now!' But sometimes the thought would

shoot through her: 'Perhaps he's to be envied. He doesn't feel what I

feel, anyway. Why did I fall in love again?'

They did not speak of Noel as a rule, but one evening she expressed her

views roundly.

"It was a great mistake to make Noel come back. Edward. It was

Quixotic. You'll be lucky if real mischief doesn't come of it. She's not

a patient character; one day she'll do something rash. And, mind you,

she'll be much more likely to break out if she sees the world treating

you badly than if it happens to herself. I should send her back to the

country, before she makes bad worse."

"I can't do that, Leila. We must live it down together."

"Wrong, Edward. You should take things as they are."

With a heavy sigh Pierson answered:

"I wish I could see her future. She's so attractive. And her defences

are gone. She's lost faith, and belief in all that a good woman should

be. The day after she came back she told me she was ashamed of herself.

But since--she's not given a sign. She's so proud--my poor little

Nollie. I see how men admire her, too. Our Belgian friend is painting

her. He's a good man; but he finds her beautiful, and who can wonder.

And your friend Captain Fort. Fathers are supposed to be blind, but they

see very clear sometimes."

Leila rose and drew down a blind.

"This sun," she said. "Does Jimmy Fort come to you--often?"

"Oh! no; very seldom. But still--I can see."

'You bat--you blunderer!' thought Leila: 'See! You can't even see this

beside you!'

"I expect he's sorry for her," she said in a queer voice.

"Why should he be sorry? He doesn't know:"

"Oh, yes! He knows; I told him."

"You told him!"

"Yes," Leila repeated stubbornly; "and he's sorry for her."

And even then "this monk" beside her did not see, and went blundering on.

"No, no; it's not merely that he's sorry. By the way he looks at her, I

know I'm not mistaken. I've wondered--what do you think, Leila. He's

too old for her; but he seems an honourable, kind man."

"Oh! a most honourable, kind man." But only by pressing her hand against

her lips had she smothered a burst of bitter laughter. He, who saw

nothing, could yet notice Fort's eyes when he looked at Noel, and be

positive that he was in love with her! How plainly those eyes must

speak! Her control gave way.

"All this is very interesting," she said, spurning her words like Noel,

"considering that he's more than my friend, Edward." It gave her a sort

of pleasure to see him wince. 'These blind bats!' she thought, terribly

stung that he should so clearly assume her out of the running. Then she

was sorry, his face had become so still and wistful. And turning away,

she said:

"Oh! I shan't break my heart; I'm a good loser. And I'm a good fighter,

too; perhaps I shan't lose." And snapping off a sprig of geranium, she

pressed it to her lips.

"Forgive me," said Pierson slowly; "I didn't know. I'm stupid. I

thought your love for your poor soldiers had left no room for other

feelings."

Leila uttered a shrill laugh. "What have they to do with each other?

Did you never hear of passion, Edward? Oh! Don't look at me like that.

Do you think a woman can't feel passion at my age? As much as ever, more

than ever, because it's all slipping away."

She took her hand from her lips, but a geranium petal was left clinging

there, like a bloodstain. "What has your life been all these years," she

went on vehemently--"suppression of passion, nothing else! You monks

twist Nature up with holy words, and try to disguise what the eeriest

simpleton can see. Well, I haven't suppressed passion, Edward. That's

all."

"And are you happier for that?"

"I was; and I shall be again."

A little smile curled Pierson's lips. "Shall be?" he said. "I hope so.

It's just two ways of looking at things, Leila."

"Oh, Edward! Don't be so gentle! I suppose you don't think a person

like me can ever really love?"

He was standing before her with his head down, and a sense that, naive

and bat-like as he was, there was something in him she could not reach or

understand, made her cry out:

"I've not been nice to you. Forgive me, Edward! I'm so unhappy."

"There was a Greek who used to say: 'God is the helping of man by man.'

It isn't true, but it's beautiful. Good-bye, dear Leila, and don't be

sorrowful"

She squeezed his hand, and turned to the window.

She stood there watching his black figure cross the road in the sunshine,

and pass round the corner by the railings of the church. He walked

quickly, very upright; there was something unseeing even about that back

view of him; or was it that he saw-another world? She had never lost the

mental habits of her orthodox girlhood, and in spite of all impatience,

recognised his sanctity. When he had disappeared she went into her

bedroom. What he had said, indeed, was no discovery. She had known.

Oh! She had known. 'Why didn't I accept Jimmy's offer? Why didn't I

marry him? Is it too late?' she thought. 'Could I? Would he--even

now?' But then she started away from her own thought. Marry him! knowing

his heart was with this girl?

She looked long at her face in the mirror, studying with a fearful

interest the little hard lines and markings there beneath their light

coating of powder. She examined the cunning touches of colouring matter

here and there in her front hair. Were they cunning enough? Did they

deceive? They seemed to her suddenly to stare out. She fingered and

smoothed the slight looseness and fulness of the skin below her chin.

She stretched herself, and passed her hands down over her whole form,

searching as it were for slackness, or thickness. And she had the bitter

thought: 'I'm all out. I'm doing all I can.' The lines of a little poem

Fort had showed her went thrumming through her head:

"Time, you old gipsy man

Will you not stay

Put up your caravan

Just for a day?"

What more could she do? He did not like to see her lips reddened. She

had marked his disapprovals, watched him wipe his mouth after a kiss,

when he thought she couldn't see him. 'I need'nt!' she thought. 'Noel's

lips are no redder, really. What has she better than I? Youth--dew on

the grass!' That didn't last long! But long enough to "do her in" as

her soldier-men would say. And, suddenly she revolted against herself,

against Fort, against this chilled and foggy country; felt a fierce

nostalgia for African sun, and the African flowers; the happy-go-lucky,

hand-to-mouth existence of those five years before the war began. High

Constantia at grape harvest! How many years ago--ten years, eleven

years! Ah! To have before her those ten years, with him! Ten years in

the sun! He would have loved her then, and gone on loving her! And she

would not have tired of him, as she had tired of those others. 'In half

an hour,' she thought, 'he'll be here, sit opposite me; I shall see him

struggling forcing himself to seem affectionate! It's too humbling! But

I don't care; I want him!'

She searched her wardrobe, for some garment or touch of colour, novelty

of any sort, to help her. But she had tried them all--those little

tricks--was bankrupt. And such a discouraged, heavy mood came on her,

that she did not even "change," but went back in her nurse's dress and

lay down on the divan, pretending to sleep, while the maid set out the

supper. She lay there moody and motionless, trying to summon courage,

feeling that if she showed herself beaten she was beaten; knowing that

she only held him by pity. But when she heard his footstep on the stairs

she swiftly passed her hands over her cheeks, as if to press the blood

out of them, and lay absolutely still. She hoped that she was white, and

indeed she was, with finger-marks under the eyes, for she had suffered

greatly this last hour. Through her lashes she saw him halt, and look at

her in surprise. Asleep, or-ill, which? She did not move. She wanted

to watch him. He tiptoed across the room and stood looking down at her.

There was a furrow between his eyes. 'Ah!' she thought, 'it would suit

you, if I were dead, my kind friend.' He bent a little towards her; and

she wondered suddenly whether she looked graceful lying there, sorry now

that she had not changed her dress. She saw him shrug his shoulders ever

so faintly with a puzzled little movement. He had not seen that she was

shamming. How nice his face was--not mean, secret, callous! She opened

her eyes, which against her will had in them the despair she was feeling.

He went on his knees, and lifting her hand to his lips, hid them with it.

"Jimmy," she said gently, "I'm an awful bore to you. Poor Jimmy! No!

Don't pretend! I know what I know!" 'Oh, God! What am I saying?' she

thought. 'It's fatal-fatal. I ought never!' And drawing his head to

her, she put it to her heart. Then, instinctively aware that this moment

had been pressed to its uttermost, she scrambled up, kissed his forehead,

stretched herself, and laughed.

"I was asleep, dreaming; dreaming you loved me. Wasn't it funny? Come

along. There are oysters, for the last time this season."

All that evening, as if both knew they had been looking over a precipice,

they seemed to be treading warily, desperately anxious not to rouse

emotion in each other, or touch on things which must bring a scene. And

Leila talked incessantly of Africa.

"Don't you long for the sun, Jimmy? Couldn't we--couldn't you go? Oh!

why doesn't this wretched war end? All that we've got here at home every

scrap of wealth, and comfort, and age, and art, and music, I'd give it

all for the light and the sun out there. Wouldn't you?"

And Fort said he would, knowing well of one thing which he would not

give. And she knew that, as well as he.

They were both gayer than they had been for a long time; so that when he

had gone, she fell back once more on to the divan, and burying her face

in a cushion, wept bitterly.

It was not quite disillusionment that Pierson felt while he walked away.

Perhaps he had not really believed in Leila's regeneration. It was more

an acute discomfort, an increasing loneliness. A soft and restful spot

was now denied him; a certain warmth and allurement had gone out of his

life. He had not even the feeling that it was his duty to try and save

Leila by persuading her to marry Fort. He had always been too sensitive,

too much as it were of a gentleman, for the robuster sorts of evangelism.

Such delicacy had been a stumbling-block to him all through professional

life. In the eight years when his wife was with him, all had been more

certain, more direct and simple, with the help of her sympathy, judgment;

and companionship. At her death a sort of mist had gathered in his soul.

No one had ever spoken plainly to him. To a clergyman, who does? No one

had told him in so many words that he should have married again--that to

stay unmarried was bad for him, physically and spiritually, fogging and

perverting life; not driving him, indeed, as it drove many, to

intolerance and cruelty, but to that half-living dreaminess, and the

vague unhappy yearnings which so constantly beset him. All these

celibate years he had really only been happy in his music, or in far-away

country places, taking strong exercise, and losing himself in the

beauties of Nature; and since the war began he had only once, for those

three days at Kestrel, been out of London.

He walked home, going over in his mind very anxiously all the evidence he

had of Fort's feeling for Noel. How many times had he been to them since

she came back? Only three times--three evening visits! And he had not

been alone with her a single minute! Before this calamity befell his

daughter, he would never have observed anything in Fort's demeanour; but,

in his new watchfulness, he had seen the almost reverential way he looked

at her, noticed the extra softness of his voice when he spoke to her, and

once a look of sudden pain, a sort of dulling of his whole self, when

Noel had got up and gone out of the room. And the girl herself? Twice

he had surprised her gazing at Fort when he was not looking, with a sort

of brooding interest. He remembered how, as a little girl, she would

watch a grown-up, and then suddenly one day attach herself to him, and be

quite devoted. Yes, he must warn her, before she could possibly become

entangled. In his fastidious chastity, the opinion he had held of Fort

was suddenly lowered. He, already a free-thinker, was now revealed as a

free-liver. Poor little Nollie! Endangered again already! Every man a

kind of wolf waiting to pounce on her!

He found Lavendie and Noel in the drawing-room, standing before the

portrait which was nearing completion. He looked at it for a long

minute, and turned away:

"Don't you think it's like me, Daddy?"

"It's like you; but it hurts me. I can't tell why."

He saw the smile of a painter whose picture is being criticised come on

Lavendie's face.

"It is perhaps the colouring which does not please you, monsieur?"

"No, no; deeper. The expression; what is she waiting for?"

The defensive smile died on Lavendie's lips.

"It is as I see her, monsieur le cure."

Pierson turned again to the picture, and suddenly covered his eyes. "She

looks 'fey,"' he said, and went out of the room.

Lavendie and Noel remained staring at the picture. "Fey? What does that

mean, mademoiselle?"

"Possessed, or something."

And they continued to stare at the picture, till Lavendie said:

"I think there is still a little too much light on that ear."

The same evening, at bedtime, Pierson called Noel back.

"Nollie, I want you to know something. In all but the name, Captain Fort

is a married man."

He saw her flush, and felt his own face darkening with colour.

She said calmly: "I know; to Leila."

"Do you mean she has told you?"

Noel shook her head.

"Then how?"

"I guessed. Daddy, don't treat me as a child any more. What's the use,

now?"

He sat down in the chair before the hearth, and covered his face with his

hands. By the quivering of those hands, and the movement of his

shoulders, she could tell that he was stifling emotion, perhaps even

crying; and sinking down on his knees she pressed his hands and face to

her, murmuring: "Oh, Daddy dear! Oh, Daddy dear!"

He put his arms round her, and they sat a long time with their cheeks

pressed together, not speaking a word.

The day after that silent outburst of emotion in the drawing-room was a

Sunday. And, obeying the longing awakened overnight to be as good as she

could to her father; Noel said to him:

"Would you like me to come to Church?"

"Of course, Nollie."

How could he have answered otherwise? To him Church was the home of

comfort and absolution, where people must bring their sins and

troubles--a haven of sinners, the fount of charity, of forgiveness, and

love. Not to have believed that, after all these years, would have been

to deny all his usefulness in life, and to cast a slur on the House of

God.

And so Noel walked there with him, for Gratian had gone down to George,

for the week-end. She slipped quietly up the side aisle to their empty

pew, under the pulpit. Never turning her eyes from the chancel, she

remained unconscious of the stir her presence made, during that hour and

twenty minutes. Behind her, the dumb currents of wonder, disapproval,

and resentment ran a stealthy course. On her all eyes were fixed sooner

or later, and every mind became the play ground of judgments. From every

soul, kneeling, standing, or sitting, while the voice of the Service

droned, sang, or spoke, a kind of glare radiated on to that one small

devoted head, which seemed so ludicrously devout. She disturbed their

devotions, this girl who had betrayed her father, her faith, her class.

She ought to repent, of course, and Church was the right place; yet there

was something brazen in her repenting there before their very eyes; she

was too palpable a flaw in the crystal of the Church's authority, too

visible a rent in the raiment of their priest. Her figure focused all

the uneasy amazement and heart searchings of these last weeks. Mothers

quivered with the knowledge that their daughters could see her; wives

with the idea that their husbands were seeing her. Men experienced

sensations varying from condemnation to a sort of covetousness. Young

folk wondered, and felt inclined to giggle. Old maids could hardly bear

to look. Here and there a man or woman who had seen life face to face,

was simply sorry! The consciousness of all who knew her personally was

at stretch how to behave if they came within reach of her in going out.

For, though only half a dozen would actually rub shoulders with her, all

knew that they might be, and many felt it their duty to be, of that

half-dozen, so as to establish their attitude once for all. It was, in

fact, too severe a test for human nature and the feelings which Church

ought to arouse. The stillness of that young figure, the impossibility of

seeing her face and judging of her state of mind thereby; finally, a

faint lurking shame that they should be so intrigued and disturbed by

something which had to do with sex, in this House of Worship--all

combined to produce in every mind that herd-feeling of defence, which so

soon becomes, offensive. And, half unconscious, half aware of it all,

Noel stood, and sat, and knelt. Once or twice she saw her father's eyes

fixed on her; and, still in the glow of last night's pity and remorse,

felt a kind of worship for his thin grave face. But for the most part,

her own wore the expression Lavendie had translated to his canvas--the

look of one ever waiting for the extreme moments of life, for those few

and fleeting poignancies which existence holds for the human heart. A

look neither hungry nor dissatisfied, but dreamy and expectant, which

might blaze into warmth and depth at any moment, and then go back to its

dream.

When the last notes of the organ died away she continued to sit very

still, without looking round.

There was no second Service, and the congregation melted out behind her,

and had dispersed into the streets and squares long before she came

forth. After hesitating whether or no to go to the vestry door, she

turned away and walked home alone.

It was this deliberate evasion of all contact which probably clinched the

business. The absence of vent, of any escape-pipe for the feelings, is

always dangerous. They felt cheated. If Noel had come out amongst all

those whose devotions her presence had disturbed, if in that exit, some

had shown and others had witnessed one knows not what of a manifested

ostracism, the outraged sense of social decency might have been appeased

and sleeping dogs allowed to lie, for we soon get used to things; and,

after all, the war took precedence in every mind even over social

decency. But none of this had occurred, and a sense that Sunday after

Sunday the same little outrage would happen to them, moved more than a

dozen quite unrelated persons, and caused the posting that evening of as

many letters, signed and unsigned, to a certain quarter. London is no

place for parish conspiracy, and a situation which in the country would

have provoked meetings more or less public, and possibly a resolution,

could perhaps only thus be dealt with. Besides, in certain folk there is

ever a mysterious itch to write an unsigned letter--such missives satisfy

some obscure sense of justice, some uncontrollable longing to get even

with those who have hurt or disturbed them, without affording the

offenders chance for further hurt or disturbance.

Letters which are posted often reach their destination.

On Wednesday morning Pierson was sitting in his study at the hour devoted

to the calls of his parishioners, when the maid announced, "Canon

Rushbourne, sir," and he saw before him an old College friend whom he had

met but seldom in recent years. His visitor was a short, grey-haired man

of rather portly figure, whose round, rosy, good-humoured face had a look

of sober goodness, and whose light-blue eyes shone a little. He grasped

Pierson's hand, and said in a voice to whose natural heavy resonance

professional duty had added a certain unction:

"My dear Edward, how many years it is since we met! Do you remember dear

old Blakeway? I saw him only yesterday. He's just the same. I'm

delighted to see you again," and he laughed a little soft nervous laugh.

Then for a few moments he talked of the war and old College days, and

Pierson looked at him and thought: 'What has he come for?'

"You've something to say to me, Alec," he said, at last.

Canon Rushbourne leaned forward in his chair, and answered with evident

effort: "Yes; I wanted to have a little talk with you, Edward. I hope

you won't mind. I do hope you won't."

"Why should I mind?"

Canon Rushbourne's eyes shone more than ever, there was real friendliness

in his face.

"I know you've every right to say to me: 'Mind your own business.' But I

made up my mind to come as a friend, hoping to save you from--er" he

stammered, and began again: "I think you ought to know of the feeling in

your parish that--er--that--er--your position is very delicate. Without

breach of confidence I may tell you that letters have been sent to

headquarters; you can imagine perhaps what I mean. Do believe, my dear

friend, that I'm actuated by my old affection for you; nothing else, I do

assure you."

In the silence, his breathing could be heard, as of a man a little

touched with asthma, while he continually smoothed his thick black knees,

his whole face radiating an anxious kindliness. The sun shone brightly

on those two black figures, so very different, and drew out of their

well-worn garments the faint latent green mossiness which. underlies the

clothes of clergymen.

At last Pierson said: "Thank you, Alec; I understand."

The Canon uttered a resounding sigh. "You didn't realise how very easily

people misinterpret her being here with you; it seems to them a kind--a

kind of challenge. They were bound, I think, to feel that; and I'm

afraid, in consequence--" He stopped, moved by the fact that Pierson had

closed his eyes.

"I am to choose, you mean, between my daughter and my parish?"

The Canon seemed, with a stammer of words, to try and blunt the edge of

that clear question.

"My visit is quite informal, my dear fellow; I can't say at all. But

there is evidently much feeling; that is what I wanted you to know. You

haven't quite seen, I think, that--"

Pierson raised his hand. "I can't talk of this."

The Canon rose. "Believe me, Edward, I sympathise deeply. I felt I had

to warn you." He held out his hand. "Good-bye, my dear friend, do

forgive me"; and he went out. In the hall an adventure befell him so

plump, and awkward, that he could barely recite it to Mrs. Rushbourne

that night.

"Coming out from my poor friend," he said, "I ran into a baby's

perambulator and that young mother, whom I remember as a little

thing"--he held his hand at the level of his thigh--"arranging it for

going out. It startled me; and I fear I asked quite foolishly: 'Is it a

boy?' The poor young thing looked up at me. She has very large eyes,

quite beautiful, strange eyes. 'Have you been speaking to Daddy about

me?' 'My dear young lady,' I said, 'I'm such an old friend, you see.

You must forgive me.' And then she said: 'Are they going to ask him to

resign?' 'That depends on you,' I said. Why do I say these things,

Charlotte? I ought simply to have held my tongue. Poor young thing; so

very young! And the little baby!" "She has brought it on herself, Alec,"

Mrs, Rushbourne replied.

VII

The moment his visitor had vanished, Pierson paced up and down the study,

with anger rising in his, heart. His daughter or his parish! The old

saw, "An Englishman's house is his castle!" was being attacked within

him. Must he not then harbour his own daughter, and help her by candid

atonement to regain her inward strength and peace? Was he not thereby

acting as a true Christian, in by far the hardest course he and she could

pursue? To go back on that decision and imperil his daughter's spirit,

or else resign his parish--the alternatives were brutal! This was the

centre of his world, the only spot where so lonely a man could hope to

feel even the semblance of home; a thousand little threads tethered him

to his church, his parishioners, and this house--for, to live on here if

he gave up his church was out of the question. But his chief feeling was

a bewildered anger that for doing what seemed to him his duty, he should

be attacked by his parishioners.

A passion of desire to know what they really thought and felt--these

parishioners of his, whom he had befriended, and for whom he had worked

so long--beset him now, and he went out. But the absurdity of his quest

struck him before he had gone the length of the Square. One could not go

to people and say: "Stand and deliver me your inmost judgments." And

suddenly he was aware of how far away he really was from them. Through

all his ministrations had he ever come to know their hearts? And now, in

this dire necessity for knowledge, there seemed no way of getting it. He

went at random into a stationer's shop; the shopman sang bass in his

choir. They had met Sunday after Sunday for the last seven years. But

when, with this itch for intimate knowledge on him, he saw the man behind

the counter, it was as if he were looking on him for the first time. The

Russian proverb, "The heart of another is a dark forest," gashed into his

mind, while he said:

"Well, Hodson, what news of your son?"

"Nothing more, Mr. Pierson, thank you, sir, nothing more at present."

And it seemed to Pierson, gazing at the man's face clothed in a short,

grizzling beard cut rather like his own, that he must be thinking: 'Ah!

sir, but what news of your daughter?' No one would ever tell him to his

face what he was thinking. And buying two pencils, he went out. On the

other side of the road was a bird-fancier's shop, kept by a woman whose

husband had been taken for the Army. She was not friendly towards him,

for it was known to her that he had expostulated with her husband for

keeping larks, and other wild birds. And quite deliberately he crossed

the road, and stood looking in at the window, with the morbid hope that

from this unfriendly one he might hear truth. She was in her shop, and

came to the door.

"Have you any news of your husband, Mrs. Cherry?"

"No, Mr. Pierson, I 'ave not; not this week."

"He hasn't gone out yet?"

"No, Mr. Pierson; 'e 'as not."

There was no expression on her face, perfectly blank it was--Pierson had

a mad longing to say 'For God's sake, woman, speak out what's in your

mind; tell me what you think of me and my daughter. Never mind my

cloth!' But he could no more say it than the woman could tell him what

was in her mind. And with a "Good morning" he passed on. No man or

woman would tell him anything, unless, perhaps, they were drunk. He came

to a public house, and for a moment even hesitated before it, but the

thought of insult aimed at Noel stopped him, and he passed that too. And

then reality made itself known to him. Though he had come out to hear

what they were thinking, he did not really want to hear it, could not

endure it if he did. He had been too long immune from criticism, too

long in the position of one who may tell others what he thinks of them.

And standing there in the crowded street, he was attacked by that longing

for the country which had always come on him when he was hard pressed.

He looked at his memoranda. By stupendous luck it was almost a blank

day. An omnibus passed close by which would take him far out. He

climbed on to it, and travelled as far as Hendon; then getting down, set

forth on foot. It was bright and hot, and the May blossom in full foam.

He walked fast along the perfectly straight road till he came to the top

of Elstree Hill. There for a few moments he stood gazing at the school

chapel, the cricket-field, the wide land beyond. All was very quiet, for

it was lunch-time. A horse was tethered there, and a strolling cat, as

though struck by the tall black incongruity of his figure, paused in her

progress, then, slithering under the wicket gate, arched her back and

rubbed herself against his leg, crinkling and waving the tip of her tail.

Pierson bent down and stroked the creature's head; but uttering a faint

miaou, the cat stepped daintily across the road, Pierson too stepped on,

past the village, and down over the stile, into a field path. At the

edge of the young clover, under a bank of hawthorn, he lay down on his

back, with his hat beside him and his arms crossed over his chest, like

the effigy of some crusader one may see carved on an old tomb. Though he

lay quiet as that old knight, his eyes were not closed, but fixed on the

blue, where a lark was singing. Its song refreshed his spirit; its

passionate light-heartedness stirred all the love of beauty in him, awoke

revolt against a world so murderous and uncharitable. Oh! to pass up

with that song into a land of bright spirits, where was nothing ugly,

hard, merciless, and the gentle face of the Saviour radiated everlasting

love! The scent of the mayflowers, borne down by the sun shine, drenched

his senses; he closed his eyes, and, at once, as if resenting that

momentary escape, his mind resumed debate with startling intensity. This

matter went to the very well-springs, had a terrible and secret

significance. If to act as conscience bade him rendered him unfit to

keep his parish, all was built on sand, had no deep reality, was but

rooted in convention. Charity, and the forgiveness of sins honestly

atoned for--what became of them? Either he was wrong to have espoused

straightforward confession and atonement for her, or they were wrong in

chasing him from that espousal. There could be no making those extremes

to meet. But if he were wrong, having done the hardest thing

already--where could he turn? His Church stood bankrupt of ideals. He

felt as if pushed over the edge of the world, with feet on space, and

head in some blinding cloud. 'I cannot have been wrong,' he thought;

'any other course was so much easier. I sacrificed my pride, and my poor

girl's pride; I would have loved to let her run away. If for this we are

to be stoned and cast forth, what living force is there in the religion I

have loved; what does it all come to? Have I served a sham? I cannot

and will not believe it. Something is wrong with me, something is

wrong--but where--what?' He rolled over, lay on his face, and prayed.

He prayed for guidance and deliverance from the gusts of anger which kept

sweeping over him; even more for relief from the feeling of personal

outrage, and the unfairness of this thing. He had striven to be loyal to

what he thought the right, had sacrificed all his sensitiveness, all his

secret fastidious pride in his child and himself. For that he was to be

thrown out! Whether through prayer, or in the scent and feel of the

clover, he found presently a certain rest. Away in the distance he could

see the spire of Harrow Church.

The Church! No! She was not, could not be, at fault. The fault was in

himself. 'I am unpractical,' he thought. 'It is so, I know. Agnes used

to say so, Bob and Thirza think so. They all think me unpractical and

dreamy. Is it a sin--I wonder?' There were lambs in the next field; he

watched their gambollings and his heart relaxed; brushing the clover dust

off his black clothes, he began to retrace his steps. The boys were

playing cricket now, and he stood a few minutes watching them. He had

not seen cricket played since the war began; it seemed almost

otherworldly, with the click of the bats, and the shrill young 'voices,

under the distant drone of that sky-hornet threshing along to Hendon. A

boy made a good leg hit. "Well played!" he called. Then, suddenly

conscious of his own incongruity and strangeness in that green spot, he

turned away on the road back to London. To resign; to await events; to

send Noel away--of those three courses, the last alone seemed impossible.

'Am I really so far from them,' he thought, 'that they can wish me to go,

for this? If so, I had better go. It will be just another failure. But

I won't believe it yet; I can't believe it.'

The heat was sweltering, and he became very tired before at last he

reached his omnibus, and could sit with the breeze cooling his hot face.

He did not reach home till six, having eaten nothing since breakfast.

Intending to have a bath and lie down till dinner, he went upstairs.

Unwonted silence reigned. He tapped on the nursery door. It was

deserted; he passed through to Noel's room; but that too was empty. The

wardrobe stood open as if it had been hastily ransacked, and her

dressing-table was bare. In alarm he went to the bell and pulled it

sharply. The old-fashioned ring of it jingled out far below. The

parlour-maid came up.

"Where are Miss Noel and Nurse, Susan?"

"I didn't know you were in, sir. Miss Noel left me this note to give

you. They--I--"

Pierson stopped her with his hand. "Thank you, Susan; get me some tea,

please." With the note unopened in his hand, he waited till she was

gone. His head was going round, and he sat down on the side of Noel's

bed to read:

"DARLING DADDY,

"The man who came this morning told me of what is going to happen. I

simply won't have it. I'm sending Nurse and baby down to Kestrel at

once, and going to Leila's for the night, until I've made up my mind what

to do. I knew it was a mistake my coming back. I don't care what

happens to me, but I won't have you hurt. I think it's hateful of people

to try and injure you for my fault. I've had to borrow money from

Susan--six pounds. Oh! Daddy dear, forgive me.

"Your loving

"NOLLIE."

He read it with unutterable relief; at all events he knew where she

was--poor, wilful, rushing, loving-hearted child; knew where she was, and

could get at her. After his bath and some tea, he would go to Leila's

and bring her back. Poor little Nollie, thinking that by just leaving

his house she could settle this deep matter! He did not hurry, feeling

decidedly exhausted, and it was nearly eight before he set out, leaving a

message for Gratian, who did not as a rule come in from her hospital till

past nine.

The day was still glowing, and now, in the cool of evening, his refreshed

senses soaked up its beauty. 'God has so made this world,' he thought,

'that, no matter what our struggles and sufferings, it's ever a joy to

live when the sun shines, or the moon is bright, or the night starry.

Even we can't spoil it.' In Regent's Park the lilacs and laburnums were

still in bloom though June had come, and he gazed at them in passing, as

a lover might at his lady. His conscience pricked him suddenly. Mrs.

Mitchett and the dark-eyed girl she had brought to him on New Year's Eve,

the very night he had learned of his own daughter's tragedy--had he ever

thought of them since? How had that poor girl fared? He had been too

impatient of her impenetrable mood. What did he know of the hearts of

others, when he did not even know his own, could not rule his feelings of

anger and revolt, had not guided his own daughter into the waters of

safety! And Leila! Had he not been too censorious in thought? How

powerful, how strange was this instinct of sex, which hovered and swooped

on lives, seized them, bore them away, then dropped them exhausted and

defenceless! Some munition-wagons, painted a dull grey, lumbered past,

driven by sunburned youths in drab. Life-force, Death-force--was it all

one; the great unknowable momentum from which there was but the one

escape, in the arms of their Heavenly Father? Blake's little old stanzas

came into his mind:

"And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love;

And these black bodies and this sunburnt face

Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,

The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,

Saying: Come out from the grove, my love and care,

And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice!"

Learned the heat to bear! Those lambs he had watched in a field that

afternoon, their sudden little leaps and rushes, their funny quivering

wriggling tails, their tiny nuzzling black snouts--what little miracles

of careless joy among the meadow flowers! Lambs, and flowers, and

sunlight! Famine, lust, and the great grey guns! A maze, a wilderness;

and but for faith, what issue, what path for man to take which did not

keep him wandering hopeless, in its thicket? 'God preserve our faith in

love, in charity, and the life to come!' he thought. And a blind man

with a dog, to whose neck was tied a little deep dish for pennies, ground

a hurdy-gurdy as he passed. Pierson put a shilling in the dish. The man

stopped playing, his whitish eyes looked up. "Thank you kindly, sir;

I'll go home now. Come on, Dick!" He tapped his way round the corner,

with his dog straining in front. A blackbird hidden among the blossoms

of an acacia, burst into evening song, and another great grey

munition-wagon rumbled out through the Park gate.

The Church-clock was striking nine when he reached Leila's flat, went up,

and knocked. Sounds from-a piano ceased; the door was opened by Noel.

She recoiled when she saw who it was, and said:

"Why did you come, Daddy? It was much better not."

"Are you alone here?"

"Yes; Leila gave me her key. She has to be at the hospital till ten

to-night"

"You must come home with me, my dear."

Noel closed the piano, and sat down on the divan. Her face had the same

expression as when he had told her that she could not marry Cyril

Morland.

"Come, Nollie," he said; "don't be unreasonable. We must see this

through together."

"No."

"My dear, that's childish. Do you think the mere accident of your being

or not being at home can affect my decision as to what my duty is?"

"Yes; it's my being there that matters. Those people don't care, so long

as it isn't an open scandal"

"Nollie!"

"But it is so, Daddy. Of course it's so, and you know it. If I'm away

they'll just pity you for having a bad daughter. And quite right too. I

am a bad daughter."

Pierson smiled. "Just like when you were a tiny."

"I wish I were a tiny again, or ten years older. It's this half age--But

I'm not coming back with you, Daddy; so it's no good."

Pierson sat down beside her.

"I've been thinking this over all day," he said quietly. "Perhaps in my

pride I made a mistake when I first knew of your trouble. Perhaps I

ought to have accepted the consequences of my failure, then, and have

given up, and taken you away at once. After all, if a man is not fit to

have the care of souls, he should have the grace to know it."

"But you are fit," cried Noel passionately; "Daddy, you are fit!"

"I'm afraid not. There is something wanting in me, I don't know exactly

what; but something very wanting."

"There isn't. It's only that you're too good--that's why!"

Pierson shook his head. "Don't, Nollie!"

"I will," cried Noel. "You're too gentle, and you're too good. You're

charitable, and you're simple, and you believe in another world; that's

what's the matter with you, Daddy. Do you think they do, those people

who want to chase us out? They don't even begin to believe, whatever

they say or think. I hate them, and sometimes I hate the Church; either

it's hard and narrow, or else it's worldly." She stopped at the

expression on her father's face, the most strange look of pain, and

horror, as if an unspoken treachery of his own had been dragged forth for

his inspection.

"You're talking wildly," he said, but his lips were trembling. "You

mustn't say things like that; they're blasphemous and wicked."

Noel bit her lips, sitting very stiff and still, against a high blue

cushion. Then she burst out again:

"You've slaved for those people years and years, and you've had no

pleasure and you've had no love; and they wouldn't care that if you broke

your heart. They don't care for anything, so long as it all seems

proper. Daddy, if you let them hurt you, I won't forgive you!"

"And what if you hurt me now, Nollie?"

Noel pressed his hand against her warm cheek.

"Oh, no! Oh, no! I don't--I won't. Not again. I've done that

already."

"Very well, my dear! then come home with me, and we'll see what's best to

be done. It can't be settled by running away."

Noel dropped his hand. "No. Twice I've done what you wanted, and it's

been a mistake. If I hadn't gone to Church on Sunday to please you,

perhaps it would never have come to this. You don't see things, Daddy.

I could tell, though I was sitting right in front. I knew what their

faces were like, and what they were thinking."

"One must do right, Nollie, and not mind."

"Yes; but what is right? It's not right for me to hurt you, and I'm not

going to."

Pierson understood all at once that it was useless to try and move her.

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I suppose I shall go to Kestrel to-morrow. Auntie will have me, I know;

I shall talk to Leila."

"Whatever you do, promise to let me know."

Noel nodded.

"Daddy, you--look awfully, awfully tired. I'm going to give you some

medicine." She went to a little three-cornered cupboard, and bent down.

Medicine! The medicine he wanted was not for the body; knowledge of what

his duty was--that alone could heal him!

The loud popping of a cork roused him. "What are you doing, Nollie?"

Noel rose with a flushed face, holding in one hand a glass of champagne,

in the other a biscuit.

"You're to take this; and I'm going to have some myself."

"My dear," said Pierson bewildered; "it's not yours."

"Drink it; Daddy! Don't you know that Leila would never forgive me if I

let you go home looking like that. Besides, she told me I was to eat.

Drink it. You can send her a nice present. Drink it!" And she stamped

her foot.

Pierson took the glass, and sat there nibbling and sipping. It was nice,

very! He had not quite realised how much he needed food and drink. Noel

returned from the cupboard a second time; she too had a glass and a

biscuit.

"There, you look better already. Now you're to go home at once, in a cab

if you can get one; and tell Gratian to make you feed up, or you won't

have a body at all; you can't do your duty if you haven't one, you know."

Pierson smiled, and finished the champagne.

Noel took the glass from him. "You're my child to-night, and I'm going

to send you to bed. Don't worry, Daddy; it'll all come right." And,

taking his arm, she went downstairs with him, and blew him a kiss from

the doorway.

He walked away in a sort of dream. Daylight was not quite gone, but the

moon was up, just past its full, and the search-lights had begun their

nightly wanderings. It was a sky of ghosts and shadows, fitting to the

thought which came to him. The finger of Providence was in all this,

perhaps! Why should he not go out to France! At last; why not? Some

better man, who understood men's hearts, who knew the world, would take

his place; and he could go where death made all things simple, and he

could not fail. He walked faster and faster, full of an intoxicating

relief. Thirza and Gratian would take care of Nollie far better than he.

Yes, surely it was ordained! Moonlight had the town now; and all was

steel blue, the very air steel-blue; a dream-city of marvellous beauty,

through which he passed, exalted. Soon he would be where that poor boy,

and a million others, had given their lives; with the mud and the shells

and the scarred grey ground, and the jagged trees, where Christ was daily

crucified--there where he had so often longed to be these three years

past. It was ordained!

And two women whom he met looked at each other when he had gone by, and

those words 'the blighted crow' which they had been about to speak, died

on their lips.

VIII

Noel felt light-hearted too, as if she had won a victory. She found some

potted meat, spread it on another biscuit, ate it greedily, and finished

the pint bottle of champagne. Then she hunted for the cigarettes, and

sat down at the piano. She played old tunes--"There is a Tavern in the

Town," "Once I Loved a Maiden Fair," "Mowing the Barley," "Clementine,"

"Lowlands," and sang to them such words as she remembered. There was a

delicious running in her veins, and once she got up and danced. She was

kneeling at the window, looking out, when she heard the door open, and

without getting up, cried out:

"Isn't it a gorgeous night! I've had Daddy here. I gave him some of

your champagne, and drank the rest--" then was conscious of a figure far

too tall for Leila, and a man's voice saying:

"I'm awfully sorry. It's only I, Jimmy Fort."

Noel scrambled up. "Leila isn't in; but she will be directly--it's past

ten."

He was standing stock-still in the middle of the room.

"Won't you sit down? Oh! and won't you have a cigarette?"

"Thanks."

By the flash of his briquette she saw his face clearly; the look on it

filled her with a sort of malicious glee.

"I'm going now," she said. "Would you mind telling Leila that I found I

couldn't stop?" She made towards the divan to get her hat. When she had

put it on, she found him standing just in front of her.

"Noel-if you don't mind me calling you that?"

"Not a bit."

"Don't go; I'm going myself."

"Oh, no! Not for worlds." She tried to slip past, but he took hold of

her wrist.

"Please; just one minute!"

Noel stayed motionless, looking at him, while his hand still held her

wrist. He said quietly:

"Do you mind telling me why you came here?"

"Oh, just to see Leila."

"Things have come to a head at home, haven't they?"

Noel shrugged her shoulders.

"You came for refuge, didn't you?"

"From whom?"

"Don't be angry; from the need of hurting your father."

She nodded.

"I knew it would come to that. What are you going to do?"

"Enjoy myself." She was saying something fatuous, yet she meant it.

"That's absurd. Don't be angry! You're quite right. Only, you must

begin at the right end, mustn't you? Sit down!"

Noel tried to free her wrist.

"No; sit down, please."

Noel sat down; but as he loosed her wrist, she laughed. This was where

he sat with Leila, where they would sit when she was gone. "It's awfully

funny, isn't it?" she said.

"Funny?" he muttered savagely. "Most things are, in this funny world."

The sound of a taxi stopping not far off had come to her ears, and she

gathered her feet under her, planting them firmly. If she sprang up,

could she slip by him before he caught her arm again, and get that taxi?

"If I go now," he said, "will you promise me to stop till you've seen

Leila?"

"No."

"That's foolish. Come, promise!"

Noel shook her head. She felt a perverse pleasure at his embarrassment.

"Leila's lucky, isn't she? No children, no husband, no father, no

anything. Lovely!"

She saw his arm go up as if to ward off a blow. "Poor Leila!" he said.

"Why are you sorry for her? She has freedom! And she has you!"

She knew it would hurt; but she wanted to hurt him.

"You needn't envy her for that."

He had just spoken, when Noel saw a figure over by the door.

She jumped up, and said breathlessly:

"Oh, here you are, Leila! Father's been here, and we've had some of your

champagne!"

"Capital! You are in the dark!"

Noel felt the blood rush into her cheeks. The light leaped up, and Leila

came forward. She looked extremely pale, calm, and self-contained, in

her nurse's dress; her full lips were tightly pressed together, but Noel

could see her breast heaving violently. A turmoil of shame and wounded

pride began raging in the girl. Why had she not flown long ago? Why had

she let herself be trapped like this? Leila would think she had been

making up to him! Horrible! Disgusting! Why didn't he--why didn't some

one, speak? Then Leila said:

"I didn't expect you, Jimmy; I'm glad you haven't been dull. Noel is

staying here to-night. Give me a cigarette. Sit down, both of you. I'm

awfully tired!"

She sank into a chair, leaning back, with her knees crossed; and at that

moment Noel admired her. She had said it beautifully; she looked so

calm. Fort was lighting her cigarette; his hand was shaking, his face

all sorry and mortified.

"Give Noel one, too, and draw the curtains, Jimmy. Quick! Not that it

makes any difference; it's as light as day. Sit down, dear."

But Noel remained standing.

"What have you been talking of? Love and Chinese lanterns, or only me?"

At those words Fort, who was drawing the last curtain, turned round; his

tall figure was poised awkwardly against the wall, his face, unsuited to

diplomacy, had a look as of flesh being beaten. If weals had started up

across it, Noel would not have been surprised.

He said with painful slowness:

"I don't exactly know; we had hardly begun, had we?"

"The night is young," said Leila. "Go on while I just take off my

things."

She rose with the cigarette between her lips, and went into the inner

room. In passing, she gave Noel a look. What there was in that look,

the girl could never make clear even to herself. Perhaps a creature shot

would gaze like that, with a sort of profound and distant questioning,

reproach, and anger, with a sort of pride, and the quiver of death. As

the door closed, Fort came right across the room.

"Go to her;" cried Noel; "she wants you. Can't you see, she wants you?"

And before he could move, she was at the door. She flew downstairs, and

out into the moonlight. The taxi, a little way off, was just beginning

to move away; she ran towards it, calling out:

"Anywhere! Piccadilly!" and jumping in, blotted herself against the

cushions in the far corner.

She did not come to herself, as it were, for several minutes, and then

feeling she 'could no longer bear the cab, stopped it, and got out.

Where was she? Bond Street! She began, idly, wandering down its narrow

length; the fullest street by day, the emptiest by night. Oh! it had been

horrible! Nothing said by any of them--nothing, and yet everything

dragged out--of him, of Leila, of herself! She seemed to have no pride

or decency left, as if she had been caught stealing. All her happy

exhilaration was gone, leaving a miserable recklessness. Nothing she did

was right, nothing turned out well, so what did it all matter? The

moonlight flooding down between the tall houses gave her a peculiar heady

feeling. "Fey" her father had called her. She laughed. 'But I'm not

going home,' she thought. Bored with the street's length; she turned off,

and was suddenly in Hanover Square. There was the Church, grey-white,

where she had been bridesmaid to a second cousin, when she was fifteen.

She seemed to see it all again--her frock, the lilies in her hand, the

surplices of the choir, the bride's dress, all moonlight-coloured, and

unreal. 'I wonder what's become of her!' she thought. 'He's dead, I

expect, like Cyril!' She saw her father's face as he was marrying them,

heard his voice: "For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in

sickness and in health, till death do you part." And the moonlight on

the Church seemed to shift and quiver-some pigeons perhaps had been

disturbed up there. Then instead of that wedding vision, she saw

Monsieur Barra, sitting on his chair, gazing at the floor, and Chica

nursing her doll. "All mad, mademoiselle, a little mad. Millions of men

with white souls, but all a little tiny bit mad, you know." Then Leila's

face came before her, with that look in her eyes. She felt again the hot

clasp of Fort's fingers on her wrist, and walked on, rubbing it with the

other hand. She turned into Regent Street. The wide curve of the

Quadrant swept into a sky of unreal blue, and the orange-shaded lamps

merely added to the unreality. 'Love and Chinese lanterns! I should

like some coffee,' she thought suddenly. She was quite close to the

place where Lavendie had taken her. Should she go in there? Why not?

She must go somewhere. She turned into the revolving cage of glass. But

no sooner was she imprisoned there than in a flash Lavendie's face of

disgust; and the red-lipped women, the green stuff that smelled of

peppermint came back, filling her with a rush of dismay. She made the

full circle in the revolving cage; and came out into the street again

with a laugh. A tall young man in khaki stood there: "Hallo!" he said.

"Come in and dance!" She started, recoiled from him and began to walk

away as fast as ever she could. She passed a woman whose eyes seemed to

scorch her. A woman like a swift vision of ruin with those eyes, and

thickly powdered cheeks, and loose red mouth. Noel shuddered and fled

along, feeling that her only safety lay in speed. But she could not walk

about all night. There would be no train for Kestrel till the

morning--and did she really want to go there, and eat her heart out?

Suddenly she thought of George. Why should she not go down to him? He

would know what was best for her to do. At the foot of the steps below

the Waterloo Column she stood still. All was quiet there and empty, the

great buildings whitened, the trees blurred and blue; and sweeter air was

coming across their flowering tops. The queer "fey" moony sensation was

still with her; so that she felt small and light, as if she could have

floated through a ring. Faint rims of light showed round the windows of

the Admiralty. The war! However lovely the night, however sweet the

lilac smelt-that never stopped! She turned away and passed out under the

arch, making for the station. The train of the wounded had just come in,

and she stood in the cheering crowd watching the ambulances run out.

Tears of excited emotion filled her eyes, and trickled down. Steady,

smooth, grey, one after the other they came gliding, with a little burst

of cheers greeting each one. All were gone now, and she could pass in.

She went to the buffet and got a large cup of coffee, and a bun. Then,

having noted the time of her early morning train, she sought the ladies'

waiting-room, and sitting down in a corner, took out her purse and

counted her money. Two pounds fifteen-enough to go to the hotel, if she

liked. But, without luggage--it was so conspicuous, and she could sleep

in this corner all right, if she wanted. What did girls do who had no

money, and no friends to go to? Tucked away in the corner of that empty,

heavy, varnished room, she seemed to see the cruelty and hardness of life

as she had never before seen it, not even when facing her confinement.

How lucky she had been, and was! Everyone was good to her. She had no

real want or dangers, to face. But, for women--yes, and men too--who had

no one to fall back on, nothing but their own hands and health and luck,

it must be awful. That girl whose eyes had scorched her--perhaps she had

no one--nothing. And people who were born ill, and the millions of poor

women, like those whom she had gone visiting with Gratian sometimes in

the poorer streets of her father's parish--for the first time she seemed

to really know and feel the sort of lives they led. And then, Leila's

face came back to her once more--Leila whom she had robbed. And the

worst of it was, that, alongside her remorseful sympathy, she felt a sort

of satisfaction. She could not help his not loving Leila, she could not

help it if he loved herself! And he did--she knew it! To feel that

anyone loved her was so comforting. But it was all awful! And she--the

cause of it! And yet--she had never done or said anything to attract

him. No! She could not have helped it.

She had begun to feel drowsy, and closed her eyes. And gradually there

came on her a cosey sensation, as if she were leaning up against someone

with her head tucked in against his shoulder, as she had so often leaned

as a child against her father, coming back from some long darkening drive

in Wales or Scotland. She seemed even to feel the wet soft Westerly air

on her face and eyelids, and to sniff the scent of a frieze coat; to hear

the jog of hoofs and the rolling of the wheels; to feel the closing in of

the darkness. Then, so dimly and drowsily, she seemed to know that it

was not her father, but someone--someone--then no more, no more at all.

She was awakened by the scream of an engine, and looked around her

amazed. Her neck had fallen sideways while she slept, and felt horridly

stiff; her head ached, and she was shivering. She saw by the clock that

it was past five. 'If only I could get some tea!' she thought. 'Anyway

I won't stay here any longer!' When she had washed, and rubbed some of

the stiffness out of her neck, the tea renewed her sense of adventure

wonderfully. Her train did not start for an hour; she had time for a

walk, to warm herself, and went down to the river. There was an early

haze, and all looked a little mysterious; but people were already passing

on their way to work. She walked along, looking at the water flowing up

under the bright mist to which the gulls gave a sort of hovering life.

She went as far as Blackfriars Bridge, and turning back, sat down on a

bench under a plane-tree, just as the sun broke through. A little pasty

woman with a pinched yellowish face was already sitting there, so still,

and seeming to see so little, that Noel wondered of what she could be

thinking. While she watched, the woman's face began puckering, and tears

rolled slowly, down, trickling from pucker to pucker, till, summoning up

her courage, Noel sidled nearer, and said:

"Oh! What's the matter?"

The tears seemed to stop from sheer surprise; little grey eyes gazed

round, patient little eyes from above an almost bridgeless nose.

"I'ad a baby. It's dead.... its father's dead in France.... I was

goin' in the water, but I didn't like the look of it, and now I never

will."

That "Now I never will," moved Noel terribly. She slid her arm along the

back of the bench and clasped the skinniest of shoulders.

"Don't cry!"

"It was my first. I'm thirty-eight. I'll never 'ave another. Oh! Why

didn't I go in the water?"

The face puckered again, and the squeezed-out tears ran down. 'Of course

she must cry,' thought Noel; 'cry and cry till it feels better.' And she

stroked the shoulder of the little woman, whose emotion was disengaging

the scent of old clothes.

"The father of my baby was killed in France, too," she said at last. The

little sad grey eyes looked curiously round.

"Was 'e? 'Ave you got your baby still?"

"Yes, oh, yes!"

"I'm glad of that. It 'urts so bad, it does. I'd rather lose me 'usband

than me baby, any day." The sun was shining now on a cheek of that

terribly patient face; its brightness seemed cruel perching there.

"Can I do anything to help you?" Noel murmured.

"No, thank you, miss. I'm goin' 'ome now. I don't live far. Thank you

kindly." And raising her eyes for one more of those half-bewildered

looks, she moved away along the Embankment wall. When she was out of

sight, Noel walked back to the station. The train was in, and she took

her seat. She had three fellow passengers, all in khaki; very silent and

moody, as men are when they have to get up early. One was tall, dark,

and perhaps thirty-five; the second small, and about fifty, with cropped,

scanty grey hair; the third was of medium height and quite sixty-five,

with a long row of little coloured patches on his tunic, and a bald,

narrow, well-shaped head, grey hair brushed back at the sides, and the

thin, collected features and drooping moustache of the old school. It

was at him that Noel looked. When he glanced out of the window, or

otherwise retired within himself, she liked his face; but when he turned

to the ticket-collector or spoke to the others, she did not like it half

so much. It was as if the old fellow had two selves, one of which he used

when alone, the other in which he dressed every morning to meet the

world. They had begun to talk about some Tribunal on which they had to

sit. Noel did not listen, but a word or two carried to her now and then.

"How many to-day?" she heard the old fellow ask, and the little cropped

man answering: "Hundred and fourteen."

Fresh from the sight of the poor little shabby woman and her grief, she

could not help a sort of shrinking from that trim old soldier, with his

thin, regular face, who held the fate of a "Hundred and fourteen" in his

firm, narrow grasp, perhaps every day. Would he understand their

troubles or wants? Of course he wouldn't! Then, she saw him looking at

her critically with his keen eyes. If he had known her secret, he would

be thinking: 'A lady and act like that! Oh, no! Quite-quite out of the

question!' And she felt as if she could, sink under the seat with shame.

But no doubt he was only thinking: 'Very young to be travelling by

herself at this hour of the morning. Pretty too!' If he knew the real

truth of her--how he would stare! But why should this utter stranger,

this old disciplinarian, by a casual glance, by the mere form of his

face, make her feel more guilty and ashamed than she had yet felt? That

puzzled her. He was, must be, a narrow, conventional old man; but he had

this power to make her feel ashamed, because she felt that he had faith

in his gods, and was true to them; because she knew he would die sooner

than depart from his creed of conduct. She turned to the window, biting

her lips-angry and despairing. She would never--never get used to her

position; it was no good! And again she had the longing of her dream, to

tuck her face away into that coat, smell the scent of the frieze, snuggle

in, be protected, and forget. 'If I had been that poor lonely little

woman,' she thought, 'and had lost everything, I should have gone into

the water. I should have rushed and jumped. It's only luck that I'm

alive. I won't look at that old man again: then I shan't feel so bad.'

She had bought some chocolate at the station, and nibbled it, gazing

steadily at the fields covered with daisies and the first of the

buttercups and cowslips. The three soldiers were talking now in

carefully lowered voices. The words: "women," "under control," "perfect

plague," came to her, making her ears burn. In the hypersensitive mood

caused by the strain of yesterday, her broken night, and the emotional

meeting with the little woman, she felt as if they were including her

among those "women." 'If we stop, I'll get out,' she thought. But when

the train did stop it was they who got out. She felt the old General's

keen veiled glance sum her up for the last time, and looked full at him

just for a moment. He touched his cap, and said: "Will you have the

window up or down?" and lingered to draw it half-way up.' His

punctiliousness made her feel worse than ever. When the train had

started again she roamed up and down her empty carriage; there was no

more a way out of her position than out of this rolling cushioned

carriage! And then she seemed to hear Fort's voice saying: 'Sit down,

please!' and to feel his fingers clasp her wrist, Oh! he was nice and

comforting; he would never reproach or remind her! And now, probably,

she would never see him again.

The train drew up at last. She did not know where George lodged, and

would have to go to his hospital. She planned to get there at half past

nine, and having eaten a sort of breakfast at the station, went forth

into the town. The seaside was still wrapped in the early glamour which

haunts chalk of a bright morning. But the streets were very much alive.

Here was real business of the war. She passed houses which had been

wrecked. Trucks clanged and shunted, great lorries rumbled smoothly by.

Sea--and Air-planes were moving like great birds far up in the bright

haze, and khaki was everywhere. But it was the sea Noel wanted. She

made her way westward to a little beach; and, sitting down on a stone,

opened her arms to catch the sun on her face and chest. The tide was

nearly up, with the wavelets of a blue bright sea. The great fact, the

greatest fact in the world, except the sun; vast and free, making

everything human seem small and transitory! It did her good, like a

tranquillising friend. The sea might be cruel and terrible, awful things

it could do, and awful things were being done on it; but its wide level

line, its never-ending song, its sane savour, were the best medicine she

could possibly have taken. She rubbed the Shelly sand between her

fingers in absurd ecstasy; took off her shoes and stockings, paddled, and

sat drying her legs in the sun.

When she left the little beach, she felt as if someone had said to her:

'Your troubles are very little. There's the sun, the sea, the air; enjoy

them. They can't take those from you.'

At the hospital she had to wait half an hour in a little bare room before

George came.

"Nollie! Splendid. I've got an hour. Let's get out of this cemetery.

We'll have time for a good stretch on the tops. Jolly of you to have

come to me. Tell us all about it."

When she had finished, he squeezed her arm. 348

"I knew it wouldn't do. Your Dad forgot that he's a public figure, and

must expect to be damned accordingly. But though you've cut and run,

he'll resign all the same, Nollie."

"Oh, no!" cried Noel.

George shook his head.

"Yes, he'll resign, you'll see, he's got no worldly sense; not a grain."

"Then I shall have spoiled his life, just as if--oh, no!"

"Let's sit down here. I must be back at eleven."

They sat down on a bench, where the green cliff stretched out before

them, over a sea quite clear of haze, far down and very blue.

"Why should he resign," cried Noel again, "now that I've gone? He'll be

lost without it all."

George smiled.

"Found, my dear. He'll be where he ought to be, Nollie, where the Church

is, and the Churchmen are not--in the air!"

"Don't!" cried Noel passionately.

"No, no, I'm not chaffing. There's no room on earth for saints in

authority. There's use for a saintly symbol, even if one doesn't hold

with it, but there's no mortal use for those who try to have things both

ways--to be saints and seers of visions, and yet to come the practical

and worldly and rule ordinary men's lives. Saintly example yes; but not

saintly governance. You've been his deliverance, Nollie."

"But Daddy loves his Church."

George frowned. "Of course, it'll be a wrench. A man's bound to have a

cosey feeling about a place where he's been boss so long; and there is

something about a Church--the drone, the scent, the half darkness;

there's beauty in it, it's a pleasant drug. But he's not being asked to

give up the drug habit; only to stop administering drugs to others.

Don't worry, Nollie; I don't believe that's ever suited him, it wants a

thicker skin than he's got."

"But all the people he helps?"

"No reason he shouldn't go on helping people, is there?"

"But to go on living there, without--Mother died there, you know!"

George grunted. "Dreams, Nollie, all round him; of the past and the

future, of what people are and what he can do with them. I never see him

without a skirmish, as you know, and yet I'm fond of him. But I should

be twice as fond, and half as likely to skirmish, if he'd drop the habits

of authority. Then I believe he'd have some real influence over me;

there's something beautiful about him, I know that quite well."

"Yes," murmured Noel fervently.

"He's such a queer mixture," mused George. "Clean out of his age; chalks

above most of the parsons in a spiritual sense and chalks below most of

them in the worldly. And yet I believe he's in the right of it. The

Church ought to be a forlorn hope, Nollie; then we should believe in it.

Instead of that, it's a sort of business that no one can take too

seriously. You see, the Church spiritual can't make good in this

age--has no chance of making good, and so in the main it's given it up

for vested interests and social influence. Your father is a symbol of

what the Church is not. But what about you, my dear? There's a room at

my boarding-house, and only one old lady besides myself, who knits all

the time. If Grace can get shifted we'll find a house, and you can have

the baby. They'll send your luggage on from Paddington if you write; and

in the meantime Gracie's got some things here that you can have."

"I'll have to send a wire to Daddy."

"I'll do that. You come to my diggings at half past one, and I'll settle

you in. Until then, you'd better stay up here."

When he had gone she roamed a little farther, and lay down on the short

grass, where the chalk broke through in patches. She could hear a

distant rumbling, very low, travelling in that grass, the long mutter of

the Flanders guns. 'I wonder if it's as beautiful a day there,' she

thought. 'How dreadful to see no green, no butterflies, no flowers-not

even sky-for the dust of the shells. Oh! won't it ever, ever end?' And

a sort of passion for the earth welled up in her, the warm grassy earth

along which she lay, pressed so close that she could feel it with every

inch of her body, and the soft spikes of the grass against her nose and

lips. An aching sweetness tortured her, she wanted the earth to close

its arms about her, she wanted the answer to her embrace of it. She was

alive, and wanted love. Not death--not loneliness--not death! And out

there, where the guns muttered, millions of men would be thinking that

same thought!

Pierson had passed nearly the whole night with the relics of his past,

the records of his stewardship, the tokens of his short married life.

The idea which had possessed him walking home in the moonlight sustained

him in that melancholy task of docketing and destruction. There was not

nearly so much to do as one would have supposed, for, with all his

dreaminess, he had been oddly neat and businesslike in all parish

matters. But a hundred times that night he stopped, overcome by

memories. Every corner, drawer, photograph, paper was a thread in the

long-spun web of his life in this house. Some phase of his work, some

vision of his wife or daughters started forth from each bit of furniture,

picture, doorway. Noiseless, in his slippers, he stole up and down

between the study, diningroom, drawing-room, and anyone seeing him at his

work in the dim light which visited the staircase from above the front

door and the upper-passage window, would have thought: 'A ghost, a ghost

gone into mourning for the condition of the world.' He had to make this

reckoning to-night, while the exaltation of his new idea was on him; had

to rummage out the very depths of old association, so that once for all

he might know whether he had strength to close the door on the past.

Five o'clock struck before he had finished, and, almost dropping from

fatigue, sat down at his little piano in bright daylight. The last

memory to beset him was the first of all; his honeymoon, before they came

back to live in this house, already chosen, furnished, and waiting for

them. They had spent it in Germany--the first days in Baden-baden, and

each morning had been awakened by a Chorale played down in the gardens of

the Kurhaus, a gentle, beautiful tune, to remind them that they were in

heaven. And softly, so softly that the tunes seemed to be but dreams he

began playing those old Chorales, one after another, so that the stilly

sounds floated out, through the opened window, puzzling the early birds

and cats and those few humans who were abroad as yet.....

He received the telegram from Noel in the afternoon of the same day, just

as he was about to set out for Leila's to get news of her; and close on

the top of it came Lavendie. He found the painter standing disconsolate

in front of his picture.

"Mademoiselle has deserted me?"

"I'm afraid we shall all desert you soon, monsieur."

"You are going?"

"Yes, I am leaving here. I hope to go to France."

"And mademoiselle?"

"She is at the sea with my son-in-law."

The painter ran his hands through his hair, but stopped them half-way, as

if aware that he was being guilty of ill-breeding.

"Mon dieu!" he said: "Is this not a calamity for you, monsieur le cure?"

But his sense of the calamity was so patently limited to his unfinished

picture that Pierson could not help a smile.

"Ah, monsieur!" said the painter, on whom nothing was lost. "Comme je

suis egoiste! I show my feelings; it is deplorable. My disappointment

must seem a bagatelle to you, who will be so distressed at leaving your

old home. This must be a time of great trouble. Believe me; I

understand. But to sympathise with a grief which is not shown would be

an impertinence, would it not? You English gentlefolk do not let us

share your griefs; you keep them to yourselves."

Pierson stared. "True," he said. "Quite true!"

"I am no judge of Christianity, monsieur, but for us artists the doors of

the human heart stand open, our own and others. I suppose we have no

pride--c'est tres-indelicat. Tell me, monsieur, you would not think it

worthy of you to speak to me of your troubles, would you, as I have

spoken of mine?"

Pierson bowed his head, abashed.

"You preach of universal charity and love," went on Lavendie; "but how

can there be that when you teach also secretly the keeping of your

troubles to yourselves? Man responds to example, not to teaching; you

set the example of the stranger, not the brother. You expect from others

what you do not give. Frankly, monsieur, do you not feel that with every

revelation of your soul and feelings, virtue goes out of you? And I will

tell you why, if you will not think it an offence. In opening your

hearts you feel that you lose authority. You are officers, and must never

forget that. Is it not so?"

Pierson grew red. "I hope there is another feeling too. I think we feel

that to speak of our sufferings or, deeper feelings is to obtrude

oneself, to make a fuss, to be self-concerned, when we might be concerned

with others."

"Monsieur, au fond we are all concerned with self. To seem selfless is

but your particular way of cultivating the perfection of self. You admit

that not to obtrude self is the way to perfect yourself. Eh bien! What

is that but a deeper concern with self? To be free of this, there is no

way but to forget all about oneself in what one is doing, as I forget

everything when I am painting. But," he added, with a sudden smile, "you

would not wish to forget the perfecting of self--it would not be right in

your profession. So I must take away this picture, must I not? It is

one of my best works: I regret much not to have finished it."

"Some day, perhaps--"

"Some day! The picture will stand still, but mademoiselle will not. She

will rush at something, and behold! this face will be gone. No; I prefer

to keep it as it is. It has truth now." And lifting down the canvas, he

stood it against the wall and folded up the easel. "Bon soir, monsieur,

you have been very good to me." He wrung Pierson's hand; and his face

for a moment seemed all eyes and spirit. "Adieu!"

"Good-bye," Pierson murmured. "God bless you!"

"I don't know if I have great confidence in Him," replied Lavendie, "but

I shall ever remember that so good a man as you has wished it. To

mademoiselle my distinguished salutations, if you please. If you will

permit me, I will come back for my other things to-morrow." And carrying

easel and canvas, he departed.

Pierson stayed in the old drawing-room, waiting for Gratian to come in,

and thinking over the painter's words. Had his education and position

really made it impossible for him to be brotherly? Was this the secret

of the impotence which he sometimes felt; the reason why charity and love

were not more alive in the hearts of his congregation? 'God knows I've

no consciousness of having felt myself superior,' he thought; 'and yet I

would be truly ashamed to tell people of my troubles and of my struggles.

Can it be that Christ, if he were on earth, would count us Pharisees,

believing ourselves not as other men? But surely it is not as Christians

but rather as gentlemen that we keep ourselves to ourselves. Officers,

he called us. I fear--I fear it is true.' Ah, well! There would not be

many more days now. He would learn out there how to open the hearts of

others, and his own. Suffering and death levelled all barriers, made all

men brothers. He was still sitting there when Gratian came in; and

taking her hand, he said:

"Noel has gone down to George, and I want you to get transferred and go

to them, Gracie. I'm giving up the parish and asking for a chaplaincy."

"Giving up? After all this time? Is it because of Nollie?"

"No, I think not; I think the time has come. I feel my work here is

barren."

"Oh, no! And even if it is, it's only because--"

Pierson smiled. "Because of what, Gracie?"

"Dad, it's what I've felt in myself. We want to think and decide things

for ourselves, we want to own our consciences, we can't take things at

second-hand any longer."

Pierson's face darkened. "Ah!" he said, "to have lost faith is a

grievous thing."

"We're gaining charity," cried Gratian.

"The two things are not opposed, my dear."

"Not in theory; but in practice I think they often are. Oh, Dad! you

look so tired. Have you really made up your mind? Won't you feel lost?"

"For a little. I shall find myself, out there."

But the look on his face was too much for Gratian's composure, and she

turned away.

Pierson went down to his study to write his letter of resignation.

Sitting before that blank sheet of paper, he realised to the full how

strongly he had resented the public condemnation passed on his own flesh

and blood, how much his action was the expression of a purely mundane

championship of his daughter; of a mundane mortification. 'Pride,' he

thought. 'Ought I to stay and conquer it?' Twice he set his pen down,

twice took it up again. He could not conquer it. To stay where he was

not wanted, on a sort of sufferance--never! And while he sat before that

empty sheet of paper he tried to do the hardest thing a man can do--to

see himself as others see him; and met with such success as one might

expect--harking at once to the verdicts, not of others at all, but of his

own conscience; and coming soon to that perpetual gnawing sense which had

possessed him ever since the war began, that it was his duty to be dead.

This feeling that to be alive was unworthy of him when so many of his

flock had made the last sacrifice, was reinforced by his domestic tragedy

and the bitter disillusionment it had brought. A sense of having lost

caste weighed on him, while he sat there with his past receding from him,

dusty and unreal. He had the queerest feeling of his old life falling

from him, dropping round his feet like the outworn scales of a serpent,

rung after rung of tasks and duties performed day after day, year after

year. Had they ever been quite real? Well, he had shed them now, and

was to move out into life illumined by the great reality-death! And

taking up his pen, he wrote his resignation.

The last Sunday, sunny and bright! Though he did not ask her to go,

Gratian went to every Service that day. And the sight of her, after this

long interval, in their old pew, where once he had been wont to see his

wife's face, and draw refreshment therefrom, affected Pierson more than

anything else. He had told no one of his coming departure, shrinking

from the falsity and suppression which must underlie every allusion and

expression of regret. In the last minute of his last sermon he would

tell them! He went through the day in a sort of dream. Truly proud and

sensitive, under this social blight, he shrank from all alike, made no

attempt to single out supporters or adherents from those who had fallen

away. He knew there would be some, perhaps many, seriously grieved that

he was going; but to try and realise who they were, to weigh them in the

scales against the rest and so forth, was quite against his nature. It

was all or nothing. But when for the last time of all those hundreds, he

mounted the steps of his dark pulpit, he showed no trace of finality, did

not perhaps even feel it yet. For so beautiful a summer evening the

congregation was large. In spite of all reticence, rumour was busy and

curiosity still rife. The writers of the letters, anonymous and

otherwise, had spent a week, not indeed in proclaiming what they had

done, but in justifying to themselves the secret fact that they had done

it. And this was best achieved by speaking to their neighbours of the

serious and awkward situation of the poor Vicar. The result was visible

in a better attendance than had been seen since summer-time began.

Pierson had never been a great preacher, his voice lacked resonance and

pliancy, his thought breadth and buoyancy, and he was not free from, the

sing-song which mars the utterance of many who have to speak

professionally. But he always made an impression of goodness and

sincerity. On this last Sunday evening he preached again the first

sermon he had ever preached from that pulpit, fresh from the honeymoon

with his young wife. "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one

of these." It lacked now the happy fervour of that most happy of all his

days, yet gained poignancy, coming from so worn a face and voice.

Gratian, who knew that he was going to end with his farewell, was in a

choke of emotion long before he came to it. She sat winking away her

tears, and not till he paused, for so long that she thought his strength

had failed, did she look up. He was leaning a little forward, seeming to

see nothing; but his hands, grasping the pulpit's edge, were quivering.

There was deep silence in the Church, for the look of his face and figure

was strange, even to Gratian. When his lips parted again to speak, a

mist covered her eyes, and she lost sight of him.

"Friends, I am leaving you; these are the last words I shall ever speak

in this place. I go to other work. You have been very good to me. God

has been very good to me. I pray with my whole heart that He may bless

you all. Amen! Amen!"

The mist cleared into tears, and she could see him again gazing down at

her. Was it at her? He was surely seeing something--some vision sweeter

than reality, something he loved more dearly. She fell on her knees, and

buried her face in her hand. All through the hymn she knelt, and through

his clear slow Benediction: "The peace of God, which passeth all

understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of

God, and of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord; and the blessing of God

Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and

remain with you always." And still she knelt on; till she was alone in

the Church. Then she rose and stole home. He did not come in; she did

not expect him. 'It's over,' she kept thinking; 'all over. My beloved

Daddy! Now he has no home; Nollie and I have pulled him down. And yet I

couldn't help it, and perhaps she couldn't. Poor Nollie!...'

Pierson had stayed in the vestry, talking with his choir and wardens;

there was no hitch, for his resignation had been accepted, and he had

arranged with a friend to carry on till the new Vicar was appointed. When

they were gone he went back into the empty Church, and mounted to the

organ-loft. A little window up there was open, and he stood leaning

against the stone, looking out, resting his whole being. Only now that it

was over did he know what stress he had been through. Sparrows were

chirping, but sound of traffic had almost ceased, in that quiet Sunday

hour of the evening meal. Finished! Incredible that he would never come

up here again, never see those roof-lines, that corner of Square Garden,

and hear this familiar chirping of the sparrows. He sat down at the

organ and began to play. The last time the sound would roll out and echo

'round the emptied House of God. For a long time he played, while the

building darkened slowly down there below him. Of all that he would

leave, he would miss this most--the right to come and play here in the

darkening Church, to release emotional sound in this dim empty space

growing ever more beautiful. From chord to chord he let himself go

deeper and deeper into the surge and swell of those sound waves, losing

all sense of actuality, till the music and the whole dark building were

fused in one rapturous solemnity. Away down there the darkness crept

over the Church, till the pews, the altar-all was invisible, save the

columns; and the walls. He began playing his favourite slow movement

from Beethoven's Seventh Symphony--kept to the end, for the visions it

ever brought him. And a cat, which had been stalking the sparrows, crept

in through the little window, and crouched, startled, staring at him with

her green eyes. He closed the organ, went quickly down, and locked up

his Church for the last time. It was warmer outside than in, and

lighter, for daylight was not quite gone. He moved away a few yards, and

stood looking up. Walls, buttresses, and spire were clothed in milky

shadowy grey. The top of the spire seemed to touch a star. 'Goodbye, my

Church!' he thought. 'Good-bye, good-bye!' He felt his face quiver;

clenched his teeth, and turned away.

XII

When Noel fled, Fort had started forward to stop her; then, realising

that with his lameness he could never catch her, he went back and entered

Leila's bedroom.

She had taken off her dress, and was standing in front of her glass, with

the cigarette still in her mouth; and the only movement was the curling

of its blue smoke. He could see her face reflected, pale, with a little

spot of red in each cheek, and burning red ears. She had not seemed to

hear him coming in, but he saw her eyes change when they caught his

reflection in the mirror. From lost and blank, they became alive and

smouldering.

"Noel's gone!" he said.

She answered, as if to his reflection in the glass

"And you haven't gone too? Ah, no! Of course--your leg! She fled, I

suppose? It was rather a jar, my coming in, I'm afraid."

"No; it was my coming in that was the jar."

Leila turned round. "Jimmy! I wonder you could discuss me. The rest--"

She shrugged her shoulders--"But that!"

"I was not discussing you. I merely said you were not to be envied for

having me. Are you?"

The moment he had spoken, he was sorry. The anger in her eyes changed

instantly, first to searching, then to misery. She cried out:

"I was to be envied. Oh! Jimmy; I was!" and flung herself face down on

the bed.

Through Fort's mind went the thought: 'Atrocious!' How could he

soothe--make her feel that he loved her, when he didn't--that he wanted

her, when he wanted Noel. He went up to the bedside and touched her

timidly:

"Leila, what is it? You're overtired. What's the matter? I couldn't

help the child's being here. Why do you let it upset you? She's gone.

It's all right. Things are just as they were."

"Yes!" came the strangled echo; "just!"

He knelt down and stroked her arm. It shivered under the touch, seemed

to stop shivering and wait for the next touch, as if hoping it might be

warmer; shivered again.

"Look at me!" he said. "What is it you want? I'm ready to do anything."

She turned and drew herself up on the bed, screwing herself back against

the pillow as if for support, with her knees drawn under her. He was

astonished at the strength of her face and figure, thus entrenched.

"My dear Jimmy!" she said, "I want you to do nothing but get me another

cigarette. At my age one expects no more than one gets!" She held out

her thumb and finger: "Do you mind?"

Fort turned away to get the cigarette. With what bitter restraint and

curious little smile she had said that! But no sooner was he out of the

room and hunting blindly for the cigarettes, than his mind was filled

with an aching concern for Noel, fleeing like that, reckless and hurt,

with nowhere to go. He found the polished birch-wood box which held the

cigarettes, and made a desperate effort to dismiss the image of the girl

before he again reached Leila. She was still sitting there, with her

arms crossed, in the stillness of one whose every nerve and fibre was

stretched taut.

"Have one yourself," she said. "The pipe of peace."

Fort lit the cigarettes, and sat down on the edge of the bed; and his

mind at once went back to Noel.

"Yes," she said suddenly; "I wonder where she's gone. Can you see her?

She might do something reckless a second time. Poor Jimmy! It would be

a pity. And so that monk's been here, and drunk champagne. Good idea!

Get me some, Jimmy!"

Again Fort went, and with him the image of the girl. When he came back

the second time; she had put on that dark silk garment in which she had

appeared suddenly radiant the fatal night after the Queen's Hall concert.

She took the wineglass, and passed him, going into the sitting-room.

"Come and sit down," she said. "Is your leg hurting you?"

"Not more than usual," and he sat down beside her.

"Won't you have some? 'In vino veritas;' my friend."

He shook his head, and said humbly: "I admire you, Leila."

"That's lucky. I don't know anyone else who, would." And she drank her

champagne at a draught.

"Don't you wish," she said suddenly, "that I had been one of those

wonderful New Women, all brain and good works. How I should have talked

the Universe up and down, and the war, and Causes, drinking tea, and

never boring you to try and love me. What a pity!"

But to Fort there had come Noel's words: "It's awfully funny, isn't it?"

"Leila," he said suddenly, "something's got to be done. So long as you

don't wish me to, I'll promise never to see that child again."

"My dear boy, she's not a child. She's ripe for love; and--I'm too ripe

for love. That's what's the matter, and I've got to lump it." She

wrenched her hand out of his and, dropping the empty glass, covered her

face. The awful sensation which visits the true Englishman when a scene

stares him in the face spun in Fort's brain. Should he seize her hands,

drag them down, and kiss her? Should he get up and leave her alone?

Speak, or keep silent; try to console; try to pretend? And he did

absolutely nothing. So far as a man can understand that moment in a

woman's life when she accepts the defeat of Youth and Beauty, he

understood perhaps; but it was only a glimmering. He understood much

better how she was recognising once for all that she loved where she was

not loved.

'And I can't help that,' he thought dumbly; 'simply can't help that!'

Nothing he could say or do would alter it. No words can convince a woman

when kisses have lost reality. Then, to his infinite relief, she took

her hands from her face, and said:

"This is very dull. I think you'd better go, Jimmy."

He made an effort to speak, but was too afraid of falsity in his voice.

"Very nearly a scene!" said Leila. "My God!

"How men hate them! So do I. I've had too many in my time; nothing

comes of them but a headache next morning. I've spared you that, Jimmy.

Give me a kiss for it."

He bent down and put his lips to hers. With all his heart he tried to

answer the passion in her kiss. She pushed him away suddenly, and said

faintly:

"Thank you; you did try!"

Fort dashed his hand across his eyes. The sight of her face just then

moved him horribly. What a brute he felt! He took her limp hand, put it

to his lips, and murmured:

"I shall come in to-morrow. We'll go to the theatre, shall we? Good

night, Leila!"

But, in opening the door, he caught sight of her face, staring at him,

evidently waiting for him to turn; the eyes had a frightened look. They

went suddenly soft, so soft as to give his heart a squeeze.

She lifted her hand, blew him a kiss, and he saw her smiling. Without

knowing what his own lips answered, he went out. He could not make up

his mind to go away, but, crossing to the railings, stood leaning against

them, looking up at her windows. She had been very good to him. He felt

like a man who has won at cards, and sneaked away without giving the

loser his revenge. If only she hadn't loved him; and it had been a

soulless companionship, a quite sordid business. Anything rather than

this! English to the backbone, he could not divest himself of a sense of

guilt. To see no way of making up to her, of straightening it out, made

him feel intensely mean. 'Shall I go up again?' he thought. The

window-curtain moved. Then the shreds of light up there vanished. 'She's

gone to bed,' he thought. 'I should only upset her worse. Where is

Noel, now, I wonder? I shall never see her again, I suppose. Altogether

a bad business. My God, yes! A bad-bad business!'

And, painfully, for his leg was hurting him, he walked away.

Leila was only too well aware of a truth that feelings are no less real,

poignant, and important to those outside morality's ring fence than to

those within. Her feelings were, indeed, probably even more real and

poignant, just as a wild fruit's flavour is sharper than that of the tame

product. Opinion--she knew--would say, that having wilfully chosen a

position outside morality she had not half the case for brokenheartedness

she would have had if Fort had been her husband: Opinion--she knew--would

say she had no claim on him, and the sooner an illegal tie was broken,

the better! But she felt fully as wretched as if she had been married.

She had not wanted to be outside morality; never in her life wanted to be

that. She was like those who by confession shed their sins and start

again with a clear conscience. She never meant to sin, only to love, and

when she was in love, nothing else mattered for the moment. But, though

a gambler, she had always so far paid up. Only, this time the stakes

were the heaviest a woman can put down. It was her last throw; and she

knew it. So long as a woman believed in her attraction, there was hope,

even when the curtain fell on a love-affair! But for Leila the lamp of

belief had suddenly gone out, and when this next curtain dropped she felt

that she must sit in the dark until old age made her indifferent. And

between forty-four and real old age a gulf is fixed. This was the first

time a man had tired of her. Why! he had been tired before he began, or

so she felt. In one swift moment as of a drowning person, she saw again

all the passages of their companionship, knew with certainty that it had

never been a genuine flame. Shame ran, consuming, in her veins. She

buried her face in the cushions. This girl had possessed his real heart

all the time. With a laugh she thought: 'I put my money on the wrong

horse; I ought to have backed Edward. I could have turned that poor

monk's head. If only I had never seen Jimmy again; if I had torn his

letter up, I could have made poor Edward love me!' Ifs! What folly!

Things happened as they must!

And, starting up, she began to roam the little room. Without Jimmy she

would be wretched, with him she would be wretched too! 'I can't bear to

see his face,' she thought; 'and I can't live here without him! It's

really funny!' The thought of her hospital filled her with loathing. To

go there day after day with this despair eating at her heart--she simply

could not. She went over her resources. She had more money than she

thought; Jimmy had given her a Christmas present of five hundred pounds.

She had wanted to tear up the cheque, or force him to take it back; but

the realities of the previous five years had prevailed with her, and she

had banked it. She was glad now. She had not to consider money. Her

mind sought to escape in the past. She thought of her first husband,

Ronny Fane; of their mosquito-curtained rooms in that ghastly Madras

heat. Poor Ronny! What a pale, cynical young ghost started up under

that name. She thought of Lynch, his horsey, matter-of-fact solidity.

She had loved them both--for a time. She thought of the veldt, of

Constantia, and the loom of Table Mountain under the stars; and the first

sight of Jimmy, his straight look, the curve of his crisp head, the kind,

fighting-schoolboy frankness of his face. Even now, after all those

months of their companionship, that long-ago evening at grape harvest,

when she sang to him under the scented creepers, was the memory of him

most charged with real feeling. That one evening at any rate he had

longed for her, eleven: years ago, when she was in her prime. She could

have held her own then; Noel would have come in vain. To think that this

girl had still fifteen years before she would be even in her prime.

Fifteen years of witchery; and then another ten before she was on the

shelf. Why! if Noel married Jimmy, he would be an old man doting on her

still, by the time she had reached this fatal age of forty-four: She felt

as if she must scream, and; stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth,

turned out the light. Darkness cooled her, a little. She pulled aside

the curtains, and let in the moon light. Jimmy and that girl were out in

it some where, seeking each other, if not in body, then in thought. And

soon, somehow, somewhere, they would come together--come together because

Fate meant them to! Fate which had given her young cousin a likeness to

herself; placed her, too, in just such a hopeless position as appealed to

Jimmy, and gave him a chance against younger men. She saw it with bitter

surety. Good gamblers cut their losses! Yes, and proud women did not

keep unwilling lovers! If she had even an outside chance, she would

trail her pride, drag it through the mud, through thorns! But she had

not. And she clenched her fist, and struck out at the night, as though

at the face of that Fate which one could never reach--impalpable,

remorseless, surrounding Fate with its faint mocking smile, devoid of all

human warmth. Nothing could set back the clock, and give her what this

girl had. Time had "done her in," as it "did in" every woman, one by

one. And she saw herself going down the years, powdering a little more,

painting a little more, touching up her hair, till it was all artifice,

holding on by every little device--and all, to what end? To see his face

get colder and colder, hear his voice more and more constrained to

gentleness; and know that underneath, aversion was growing with the

thought 'You are keeping me from life, and love!' till one evening, in

sheer nerve-break, she would say or do some fearful thing, and he would

come no more. 'No, Jimmy!' she thought; 'find her, and stay with her.

You're not worth all that!' And puffing to the curtains, as though with

that gesture she could shut out her creeping fate, she turned up the

light and sat down at her writing table. She stayed some minutes

motionless, her chin resting on her hands, the dark silk fallen down from

her arms. A little mirror, framed in curiously carved ivory, picked up

by her in an Indian bazaar twenty-five years ago, hung on a level with

her face and gave that face back to her. 'I'm not ugly,' she thought

passionately, 'I'm not. I still have some looks left. If only that girl

hadn't come. And it was all my doing. Oh, what made me write to both of

them, Edward and Jimmy?' She turned the mirror aside, and took up a pen.

"MY DEAR JIMMY," she wrote: "It will be better for us both if you take a

holiday from here. Don't come again till I write for you. I'm sorry I

made you so much disturbance to-night. Have a good time, and a good

rest; and don't worry. "Your--"

So far she had written when a tear dropped on the page, and she had to

tear it up and begin again. This time she wrote to the end--"Your

Leila." 'I must post it now,' she thought, 'or he may not get it before

to-morrow evening. I couldn't go through with this again.' She hurried

out with it and slipped it in a pillar box. The night smelled of

flowers; and, hastening back, she lay down, and stayed awake for hours,

tossing, and staring at the dark.

XIII

Leila had pluck, but little patience. Her one thought was to get away

and she at once began settling up her affairs and getting a permit to

return to South Africa. The excitements of purchase and preparation were

as good an anodyne as she could have taken. The perils of the sea were

at full just then, and the prospect of danger gave her a sort of

pleasure. 'If I go down,' she thought, 'all the better; brisk, instead

of long and dreary.' But when she had the permit and her cabin was

booked, the irrevocability of her step came to her with full force.

Should she see him again or no? Her boat started in three days, and she

must decide. If in compunction he were to be affectionate, she knew she

would never keep to her decision, and then the horror would begin again,

till again she was forced to this same action. She let the hours go and

go till the very day before, when the ache to see him and the dread of it

had become so unbearable that she could not keep quiet. Late that

afternoon--everything, to the last label, ready--she went out, still

undecided. An itch to turn the dagger in her wound, to know what had

become of Noel, took her to Edward's house. Almost unconsciously she had

put on her prettiest frock, and spent an hour before the glass. A

feverishness of soul, more than of body, which had hung about her ever

since that night, gave her colour. She looked her prettiest; and she

bought a gardenia at a shop in Baker Street and fastened it in her dress.

Reaching the old Square, she was astonished to see a board up with the

words: "To let," though the house still looked inhabited. She rang, and

was shown into the drawing-room. She had only twice been in this house

before; and for some reason, perhaps because of her own unhappiness, the

old, rather shabby room struck her as pathetic, as if inhabited by the

past. 'I wonder what his wife was like,' she thought: And then she saw,

hanging against a strip of black velvet on the wall, that faded colour

sketch of the slender young woman leaning forward, with her hands crossed

in her lap. The colouring was lavender and old ivory, with faint touches

of rose. The eyes, so living, were a little like Gratian's; the whole

face delicate, eager, good. 'Yes,' she thought, 'he must have loved you

very much. To say good-bye must have been hard.' She was still standing

before it when Pierson came in.

"That's a dear face, Edward. I've come to say good-bye. I'm leaving for

South Africa to-morrow." And, as her hand touched his, she thought: 'I

must have been mad to think I could ever have made him love me.'

"Are you--are you leaving him?"

Leila nodded:

"That's very brave, and wonderful."

"Oh! no. Needs must when the devil drives--that's all. I don't give up

happiness of my own accord. That's not within a hundred miles of the

truth. What I shall become, I don't know, but nothing better, you may be

sure. I give up because I can't keep, and you know why. Where is Noel?"

"Down at the sea, with George and Gratian."

He was looking at her in wonder; and the pained, puzzled expression on

his face angered her.

"I see the house is to let. Who'd have thought a child like that could

root up two fossils like us? Never mind, Edward, there's the same blood

in us. We'll keep our ends up in our own ways. Where are you going?"

"They'll give me a chaplaincy in the East, I think."

For a wild moment Leila thought: 'Shall I offer to go with him--the two

lost dogs together?'

"What would have happened, Edward, if you had proposed to me that May

week, when we were--a little bit in love? Which would it have been,

worst for, you or me?"

"You wouldn't have taken me, Leila."

"Oh, one never knows. But you'd never have been a priest then, and you'd

never have become a saint."

"Don't use that silly word. If you knew--"

"I do; I can see that you've been half burned alive; half burned and half

buried! Well, you have your reward, whatever it is, and I mine.

Good-bye, Edward!" She took his hand. "You might give me your blessing;

I want it."

Pierson put his other hand on her shoulder and, bending forward, kissed

her forehead.

The tears rushed up in Leila's eyes. "Ah me!" she said, "it's a sad

world!" And wiping the quivering off her lips with the back of her

gloved hand, she went quickly past him to the door. She looked back from

there. He had not stirred, but his lips were moving. 'He's praying for

me!' she thought. 'How funny!'

The moment she was outside, she forgot him; the dreadful ache for Fort

seemed to have been whipped up within her, as if that figure of lifelong

repression had infuriated the love of life and pleasure in her. She must

and would see Jimmy again, if she had to wait and seek for him all night!

It was nearly seven, he would surely have finished at the War Office; he

might be at his Club or at his rooms. She made for the latter.

The little street near Buckingham Gate, where no wag had chalked "Peace"

on the doors for nearly a year now, had an arid look after a hot day's

sun. The hair-dresser's shop below his rooms was still open, and the

private door ajar: 'I won't ring,' she thought; 'I'll go straight up.'

While she was mounting the two flights of stairs, she stopped twice,

breathless, from a pain in her side. She often had that pain now, as if

the longing in her heart strained it physically. On the modest landing

at the top, outside his rooms, she waited, leaning against the wall,

which was covered with a red paper. A window at the back was open and the

confused sound of singing came in--a chorus "Vive-la, vive-la, vive-la

ve. Vive la compagnie." So it came to her. 'O God!' she thought: 'Let

him be in, let him be nice to me. It's the last time.' And, sick from

anxiety, she opened the door. He was in--lying on a wicker-couch against

the wall in the far corner, with his arms crossed behind his head, and a

pipe in his mouth; his eyes were closed, and he neither moved, nor opened

them, perhaps supposing her to be the servant. Noiseless as a cat, Leila

crossed the room till she stood above him. And waiting for him to come

out of that defiant lethargy, she took her fill of his thin, bony face,

healthy and hollow at the same time. With teeth clenched on the pipe it

had a look of hard resistance, as of a man with his head back, his arms

pinioned to his sides, stiffened against some creature, clinging and

climbing and trying to drag him down. The pipe was alive, and dribbled

smoke; and his leg, the injured one, wriggled restlessly, as if worrying

him; but the rest of him was as utterly and obstinately still as though

he were asleep. His hair grew thick and crisp, not a thread of grey in

it, the teeth which held the pipe glinted white and strong. His face was

young; so much younger than hers. Why did she love it--the face of a man

who couldn't love her? For a second she felt as if she could seize the

cushion which had slipped down off the couch, and smother him as he lay

there, refusing, so it seemed to her, to come to consciousness. Love

despised! Humiliation! She nearly turned and stole away. Then through

the door, left open, behind her, the sound of that chorus: "Vive-la,

vive-la, vive-la ve!" came in and jolted her nerves unbearably. Tearing

the gardenia from her breast, she flung it on to his upturned face.

"Jimmy!"

Fort struggled up, and stared at her. His face was comic from

bewilderment, and she broke into a little nervous laugh.

"You weren't dreaming of me, dear Jimmy, that's certain. In what garden

were you wandering?"

"Leila! You! How--how jolly!"

"How--how jolly! I wanted to see you, so I came. And I have seen you,

as you are, when you aren't with me. I shall remember it; it was good

for me--awfully good for me."

"I didn't hear you."

"Far, far away, my dear. Put my gardenia in, your buttonhole. Stop,

I'll pin it in. Have you had a good rest all this week? Do you like my

dress? It's new. You wouldn't have noticed it, would you?"

"I should have noticed. I think it's charming.

"Jimmy, I believe that nothing--nothing will ever shake your chivalry."

"Chivalry? I have none."

"I am going to shut the door, do you mind?" But he went to the door

himself, shut it, and came back to her. Leila looked up at him.

"Jimmy, if ever you loved me a little bit, be nice to me today. And if I

say things--if I'm bitter--don't mind; don't notice it. Promise!"

"I promise."

She took off her hat and sat leaning against him on the couch, so that

she could not see his face. And with his arm round her, she let herself

go, deep into the waters of illusion; down-down, trying to forget there

was a surface to which she must return; like a little girl she played

that game of make-believe. 'He loves me-he loves me--he loves me!' To

lose herself like that for, just an hour, only an hour; she felt that she

would give the rest of the time vouchsafed to her; give it all and

willingly. Her hand clasped his against her heart, she turned her face

backward, up to his, closing her eyes so as still not to see his face;

the scent of the gardenia in his coat hurt her, so sweet and strong it

was.

When with her hat on she stood ready to go, it was getting dark. She had

come out of her dream now, was playing at make-believe no more. And she

stood with a stony smile, in the half-dark, looking between her lashes at

the mortified expression on his unconscious face.

"Poor Jimmy!" she said; "I'm not going to keep you from dinner any

longer. No, don't come with me. I'm going alone; and don't light up,

for heaven's sake."

She put her hand on the lapel of his coat. "That flower's gone brown at

the edges. Throw it away; I can't bear faded flowers. Nor can you. Get

yourself a fresh one tomorrow."

She pulled the flower from his buttonhole and, crushing it in her hand,

held her face up.

"Well, kiss me once more; it won't hurt you."

For one moment her lips clung to his with all their might. She wrenched

them away, felt for the handle blindly, opened the door, and, shutting it

in his face, went slowly, swaying a little, down the stairs. She trailed

a gloved hand along the wall, as if its solidity could help her. At the

last half-landing, where a curtain hung, dividing off back premises, she

stopped and listened. There wasn't a sound. 'If I stand here behind

this curtain,' she thought, 'I shall see him again.' She slipped behind

the curtain, close drawn but for a little chink. It was so dark there

that she could not see her own hand. She heard the door open, and his

slow footsteps coming down the stairs. His feet, knees, whole figure

came into sight, his face just a dim blur. He passed, smoking a

cigarette. She crammed her hand against her mouth to stop herself from

speaking and the crushed gardenia filled her nostrils with its cold,

fragrant velvet. He was gone, the door below was shut. A wild,

half-stupid longing came on her to go up again, wait till he came in,

throw herself upon him, tell him she was going, beg him to keep her with

him. Ah! and he would! He would look at her with that haggard pity she

could not bear, and say, "Of course, Leila, of course." No! By God, no!

"I am going quietly home," she muttered; "just quietly home! Come along,

be brave; don't be a fool! Come along!" And she went down into the

street: At the entrance to the Park she saw him, fifty yards in front,

dawdling along. And, as if she had been his shadow lengthened out to

that far distance, she moved behind him. Slowly, always at that

distance, she followed him under the plane-trees, along the Park

railings, past St. James's Palace, into Pall Mall. He went up some

steps, and vanished into his Club. It was the end. She looked up at the

building; a monstrous granite tomb, all dark. An emptied cab was just

moving from the door. She got in. "Camelot Mansions, St. John's Wood."

And braced against the cushions, panting, and clenching her hands, she

thought: 'Well, I've seen him again. Hard crust's better than no bread.

Oh, God! All finished--not a crumb, not a crumb! Vive-la, vive-la,

vive-la ve. Vive-la compagnie!'

XIV

Fort had been lying there about an hour, sleeping and awake, before that

visit: He had dreamed a curious and wonderfully emotionalising dream. A

long grey line, in a dim light, neither of night nor morning, the whole

length of the battle-front in France, charging in short drives, which

carried the line a little forward, with just a tiny pause and suck-back;

then on again irresistibly, on and on; and at each rush, every voice, his

own among them, shouted "Hooray! the English! Hooray! the English!" The

sensation of that advancing tide of dim figures in grey light, the throb

and roar, the wonderful, rhythmic steady drive of it, no more to be

stopped than the waves of an incoming tide, was gloriously fascinating;

life was nothing, death nothing. "Hooray, the English!" In that dream,

he was his country, he was every one of that long charging line, driving

forward in. those great heaving pulsations, irresistible, on and on. Out

of the very centre of this intoxicating dream he had been dragged by some

street noise, and had closed his eyes again, in the vain hope that he

might dream it on to its end. But it came no more; and lighting his

pipe, he lay there wondering at its fervid, fantastic realism. Death was

nothing, if his country lived and won. In waking hours he never had

quite that single-hearted knowledge of himself. And what marvellously

real touches got mixed into the fantastic stuff of dreams, as if

something were at work to convince the dreamer in spite of

himself--"Hooray!" not "Hurrah!" Just common "Hooray!" And "the

English," not the literary "British." And then the soft flower had

struck his forehead, and Leila's voice cried: "Jimmy!"

When she left him, his thought was just a tired: 'Well, so it's begun

again!' What did it matter, since common loyalty and compassion cut him

off from what his heart desired; and that desire was absurd, as little

likely of attainment as the moon. What did it matter? If it gave her

any pleasure to love him, let it go on! Yet, all the time that he was

walking across under the plane trees, Noel seemed to walk in front of

him, just out of reach, so that he ached with the thought that he would

never catch her up, and walk beside her.

Two days later, on reaching his rooms in the evening, he found this

letter on ship's note-paper, with the Plymouth postmark--

"Fare thee well, and if for ever,

Then for ever fare thee well"

"Leila"

He read it with a really horrible feeling, for all the world as if he had

been accused of a crime and did not know whether he had committed it or

not. And, trying to collect his thoughts, he took a cab and drove to her

fiat. It was closed, but her address was given him; a bank in Cape Town.

He had received his release. In his remorse and relief, so confusing and

so poignant, he heard the driver of the cab asking where he wanted to go

now. "Oh, back again!" But before they had gone a mile he corrected the

address, in an impulse of which next moment he felt thoroughly ashamed.

What he was doing indeed, was as indecent as if he were driving from the

funeral of his wife to the boudoir of another woman. When he reached the

old Square, and the words "To let" stared him in the face, he felt a

curious relief, though it meant that he would not see her whom to see for

ten minutes he felt he would give a year of life. Dismissing his cab, he

stood debating whether to ring the bell. The sight of a maid's face at

the window decided him. Mr. Pierson was out, and the young ladies were

away. He asked for Mrs. Laird's address, and turned away, almost into

the arms of Pierson himself. The greeting was stiff and strange. 'Does

he know that Leila's gone?' he thought. 'If so, he must think me the

most awful skunk. And am I? Am I?' When he reached home, he sat down to

write to Leila. But having stared at the paper for an hour and written

these three lines--

"MY DEAR LEILA, "I cannot express to you the feelings with which I

received your letter--"

he tore it up. Nothing would be adequate, nothing would be decent. Let

the dead past bury its dead--the dead past which in his heart had never

been alive! Why pretend? He had done his best to keep his end up. Why

pretend?

PART IV

In the boarding-house, whence the Lairds had not yet removed, the old

lady who knitted, sat by the fireplace, and light from the setting sun

threw her shadow on the wall, moving spidery and grey, over the yellowish

distemper, in time to the tune of her needles. She was a very old

lady--the oldest lady in the world, Noel thought--and she knitted without

stopping, without breathing, so that the girl felt inclined to scream.

In the evening when George and Gratian were not in, Noel would often sit

watching the needles, brooding over her as yet undecided future. And now

and again the old lady would look up above her spectacles; move the

corners of her lips ever so slightly, and drop her gaze again. She had

pitted herself against Fate; so long as she knitted, the war could not

stop--such was the conclusion Noel had come to. This old lady knitted

the epic of acquiescence to the tune of her needles; it was she who kept

the war going such a thin old lady! 'If I were to hold her elbows from

behind,' the girl used to think, 'I believe she'd die. I expect I ought

to; then the war would stop. And if the war stopped, there'd be love and

life again.' Then the little silvery tune would click itself once more

into her brain, and stop her thinking. In her lap this evening lay a

letter from her father.

"MY DEAREST NOLLIE,

"I am glad to say I have my chaplaincy, and am to start for Egypt very

soon. I should have wished to go to France, but must take what I can

get, in view of my age, for they really don't want us who are getting on,

I fear. It is a great comfort to me to think that Gratian is with you,

and no doubt you will all soon be in a house where my little grandson can

join you. I have excellent accounts of him in a letter from your aunt,

just received: My child, you must never again think that my resignation

has been due to you. It is not so. You know, or perhaps you don't, that

ever since the war broke out, I have chafed over staying at home, my

heart has been with our boys out there, and sooner or later it must have

come to this, apart from anything else. Monsieur Lavendie has been round

in the evening, twice; he is a nice man, I like him very much, in spite

of our differences of view. He wanted to give me the sketch he made of

you in the Park, but what can I do with it now? And to tell you the

truth, I like it no better than the oil painting. It is not a likeness,

as I know you. I hope I didn't hurt his feelings, the feelings of an

artist are so very easily wounded. There is one thing I must tell you.

Leila has gone back to South Africa; she came round one evening about ten

days ago, to say goodbye. She was very brave, for I fear it means a

great wrench for her. I hope and pray she may find comfort and

tranquillity out there. And now, my dear, I want you to promise me not

to see Captain Fort. I know that he admires you. But, apart from the

question of his conduct in regard to Leila, he made the saddest

impression on me by coming to our house the very day after her departure.

There is something about that which makes me feel he cannot be the sort

of man in whom I could feel any confidence. I don't suppose for a moment

that he is in your thoughts, and yet before going so far from you, I feel

I must warn you. I should rejoice to see you married to a good man; but,

though I don't wish to think hardly of anyone, I cannot believe Captain

Fort is that.

"I shall come down to you before I start, which may be in quite a short

time now. My dear love to you and Gracie, and best wishes to George.

"Your ever loving father, "EDWARD PIERSON

Across this letter lying on her knees, Noel gazed at the spidery movement

on the wall. Was it acquiescence that the old lady knitted, or was it

resistance--a challenge to death itself, a challenge dancing to the tune

of the needles like the grey ghost of human resistance to Fate! She

wouldn't give in, this oldest lady in the world, she meant to knit till

she fell into the grave. And so Leila had gone! It hurt her to know

that; and yet it pleased her. Acquiescence--resistance! Why did Daddy

always want to choose the way she should go? So gentle he was, yet he

always wanted to! And why did he always make her feel that she must go

the other way? The sunlight ceased to stream in, the old lady's shadow

faded off the wall, but the needles still sang their little tune. And

the girl said:

"Do you enjoy knitting, Mrs. Adam?"

The old lady looked at her above the spectacles.

"Enjoy, my dear? It passes the time."

"But do you want the time to pass?"

There was no answer for a moment, and Noel thought: 'How dreadful of me

to have said that!'

"Eh?" said the old lady.

"I said: Isn't it very tiring?"

"Not when I don't think about it, my dear."

"What do you think about?"

The old lady cackled gently.

"Oh--well!" she said.

And Noel thought: 'It must be dreadful to grow old, and pass the time!'

She took up her father's letter, and bent it meditatively against her

chin. He wanted her to pass the time--not to live, not to enjoy! To

pass the time. What else had he been doing himself, all these years,

ever since she could remember, ever since her mother died, but just

passing the time? Passing the time because he did not believe in this

life; not living at all, just preparing for the life he did believe in.

Denying himself everything that was exciting and nice, so that when he

died he might pass pure and saintly to his other world. He could not

believe Captain Fort a good man, because he had not passed the time, and

resisted Leila; and Leila was gone! And now it was a sin for him to love

someone else; he must pass the time again. 'Daddy doesn't believe in

life,' she thought; 'it's monsieur's picture. Daddy's a saint; but I

don't want to be a saint, and pass the time. He doesn't mind making

people unhappy, because the more they're repressed, the saintlier they'll

be. But I can't bear to be unhappy, or to see others unhappy. I wonder

if I could bear to be unhappy to save someone else--as Leila is? I

admire her! Oh! I admire her! She's not doing it because she thinks it

good for her soul; only because she can't bear making him unhappy. She

must love him very much. Poor Leila! And she's done it all by herself,

of her own accord.' It was like what George said of the soldiers; they

didn't know why they were heroes, it was not because they'd been told to

be, or because they believed in a future life. They just had to be, from

inside somewhere, to save others. 'And they love life as much as I do,'

she thought. 'What a beast it makes one feel!' Those needles!

Resistance--acquiescence? Both perhaps. The oldest lady in the world,

with her lips moving at the corners, keeping things in, had lived her

life, and knew it. How dreadful to live on when you were of no more

interest to anyone, but must just "pass the time" and die. But how much

more dreadful to "pass the time" when you were strong, and life and love

were yours for the taking! 'I shan't answer Daddy,' she thought.

The maid, who one Saturday in July opened the door to Jimmy Fort, had

never heard the name of Laird, for she was but a unit in the ceaseless

procession which pass through the boarding-houses of places subject to

air-raids. Placing him in a sitting-room, she said she would find Miss

'Allow. There he waited, turning the leaves of an illustrated Journal,

wherein Society beauties; starving Servians, actresses with pretty legs,

prize dogs, sinking ships, Royalties, shells bursting, and padres reading

funeral services, testified to the catholicity of the public taste, but

did not assuage his nerves. What if their address were not known here?

Why, in his fear of putting things to the test, had he let this month go

by? An old lady was sitting by the hearth, knitting, the click of whose

needles blended with the buzzing of a large bee on the window-pane. 'She

may know,' he thought, 'she looks as if she'd been here for ever.' And

approaching her, he said:

"I can assure you those socks are very much appreciated, ma'am."

The old lady bridled over her spectacles.

"It passes the time," she said.

"Oh, more than that; it helps to win the war, ma'am."

The old lady's lips moved at the corners; she did not answer. 'Deaf!' he

thought.

"May I ask if you knew my friends, Doctor and Mrs. Laird, and Miss

Pierson?"

The old lady cackled gently.

"Oh, yes! A pretty young girl; as pretty as life. She used to sit with

me. Quite a pleasure to watch her; such large eyes she had."

"Where have they gone? Can you tell me?"

"Oh, I don't know at all."

It was a little cold douche on his heart. He longed to say: 'Stop

knitting a minute, please. It's my life, to know.' But the tune of the

needles answered: 'It's my life to knit.' And he turned away to the

window.

"She used to sit just there; quite still; quite still."

Fort looked down at the window-seat. So, she used to sit just here,

quite still.

"What a dreadful war this is!" said the old lady. "Have you been at the

front?"

"Yes."

"To think of the poor young girls who'll never have husbands! I'm sure I

think it's dreadful."

"Yes," said Fort; "it's dreadful--" And then a voice from the doorway

said:

"Did you want Doctor and Mrs. Laird, sir? East Bungalow their address

is; it's a little way out on the North Road. Anyone will tell you."

With a sigh of relief Fort looked gratefully at the old lady who had

called Noel as pretty as life. "Good afternoon, ma'am."

"Good afternoon." The needles clicked, and little movements occurred at

the corners of her mouth. Fort went out. He could not find a vehicle,

and was a long time walking. The Bungalow was ugly, of yellow brick

pointed with red. It lay about two-thirds up between the main road and

cliffs, and had a rock-garden and a glaring, brand-new look, in the

afternoon sunlight. He opened the gate, uttering one of those prayers

which come so glibly from unbelievers when they want anything. A baby's

crying answered it, and he thought with ecstasy: 'Heaven, she is here!'

Passing the rock-garden he could see a lawn at the back of the house and

a perambulator out there under a holm-oak tree, and Noel--surely Noel

herself! Hardening his heart, he went forward. In a lilac sunbonnet she

was bending over the perambulator. He trod softly on the grass, and was

quite close before she heard him. He had prepared no words, but just

held out his hand. The baby, interested in the shadow failing across its

pram, ceased crying. Noel took his hand. Under the sunbonnet, which hid

her hair, she seemed older and paler, as if she felt the heat. He had no

feeling that she was glad to see him.

"How do you do? Have you seen Gratian; she ought to be in."

"I didn't come to see her; I came to see you."

Noel turned to the baby.

"Here he is."

Fort stood at the end of the perambulator, and looked at that other

fellow's baby. In the shade of the hood, with the frilly clothes, it

seemed to him lying with its head downhill. It had scratched its snub

nose and bumpy forehead, and it stared up at its mother with blue eyes,

which seemed to have no underlids so fat were its cheeks.

"I wonder what they think about," he said.

Noel put her finger into the baby's fist.

"They only think when they want some thing."

"That's a deep saying: but his eyes are awfully interested in you."

Noel smiled; and very slowly the baby's curly mouth unclosed, and

discovered his toothlessness.

"He's a darling," she said in a whisper.

'And so are you,' he thought, 'if only I dared say it!'

"Daddy is here," she said suddenly, without looking up. "He's sailing

for Egypt the day after to-morrow. He doesn't like you."

Fort's heart gave a jump. Why did she tell him that, unless--unless she

was just a little on his side?

"I expected that," he said. "I'm a sinner, as you know."

Noel looked up at him. "Sin!" she said, and bent again over her baby.

The word, the tone in which she said it, crouching over her baby, gave

him the thought: 'If it weren't for that little creature, I shouldn't

have a dog's chance.' He said, "I'll go and see your father. Is he in?"

"I think so."

"May I come to-morrow?"

"It's Sunday; and Daddy's last day."

"Ah! Of course." He did not dare look back, to see if her gaze was

following him, but he thought: 'Chance or no chance, I'm going to fight

for her tooth and nail.'

In a room darkened against the evening sun Pierson was sitting on a sofa

reading. The sight of that figure in khaki disconcerted Fort, who had

not realised that there would be this metamorphosis. The narrow face,

clean-shaven now, with its deep-set eyes and compressed lips, looked more

priestly than ever, in spite of this brown garb. He felt his hope

suddenly to be very forlorn indeed. And rushing at the fence, he began

abruptly:

"I've come to ask you, sir, for your permission to marry Noel, if she

will have me."

He had thought Pierson's face gentle; it was not gentle now. "Did you

know I was here, then, Captain Fort?"

"I saw Noel in the garden. I've said nothing to her, of course. But she

told me you were starting to-morrow for Egypt, so I shall have no other

chance."

"I am sorry you have come. It is not for me to judge, but I don't think

you will make Noel happy."

"May I ask you why, sir?"

"Captain Fort, the world's judgment of these things is not mine; but

since you ask me. I will tell you frankly. My cousin Leila has a claim

on you. It is her you should ask to marry you."

"I did ask her; she refused."

"I know. She would not refuse you again if you went out to her."

"I am not free to go out to her; besides, she would refuse. She knows I

don't love her, and never have."

"Never have?"

"No."

"Then why--"

"Because I'm a man, I suppose, and a fool"

"If it was simply, 'because you are a man' as you call it, it is clear

that no principle or faith governs you. And yet you ask me to give you

Noel; my poor Noel, who wants the love and protection not of a 'man' but

of a good man. No, Captain Fort, no!"

Fort bit his lips. "I'm clearly not a good man in your sense of the

word; but I love her terribly, and I would protect her. I don't in the

least know whether she'll have me. I don't expect her to, naturally.

But I warn you that I mean to ask her, and to wait for her. I'm so much

in love that I can do nothing else."

"The man who is truly in love does what is best for the one he loves."

Fort bent his head; he felt as if he were at school again, confronting

his head-master. "That's true," he said. "And I shall never trade on

her position. If she can't feel anything for me now or in the future, I

shan't trouble her, you may be sure of that. But if by some wonderful

chance she should, I know I can make her happy, sir."

"She is a child."

"No, she's not a child," said Fort stubbornly.

Pierson touched the lapel of his new tunic. "Captain Fort, I am going

far away from her, and leaving her without protection. I trust to your

chivalry not to ask her, till I come back."

Fort threw back his head. "No, no, I won't accept that position. With or

without your presence the facts will be the same. Either she can love

me, or she can't. If she can, she'll be happier with me. If she can't,

there's an end of it."

Pierson came slowly up to him. "In my view," he said, "you are as bound

to Leila as if you were married to her."

"You can't, expect me to take the priest's view, sir."

Pierson's lips trembled.

"You call it a priest's view; I think it is only the view of a man of

honour."

Fort reddened. "That's for my conscience," he said stubbornly. "I can't

tell you, and I'm not going to, how things began. I was a fool. But I

did my best, and I know that Leila doesn't think I'm bound. If she had,

she would never have gone. When there's no feeling--there never was real

feeling on my side--and when there's this terribly real feeling for Noel,

which I never sought, which I tried to keep down, which I ran away

from--"

"Did you?"

"Yes. To go on with the other was foul. I should have thought you might

have seen that, sir; but I did go on with it. It was Leila who made an

end."

"Leila behaved nobly, I think."

"She was splendid; but that doesn't make me a brute.".

Pierson turned away to the window, whence he must see Noel.

"It is repugnant to me," he said. "Is there never to be any purity in

her life?"

"Is there never to be any life for her? At your rate, sir, there will be

none. I'm no worse than other men, and I love her more than they could."

For fully a minute Pierson stood silent, before he said: "Forgive me if

I've spoken harshly. I didn't mean to. I love her intensely; I wish for

nothing but her good. But all my life I have believed that for a man

there is only one woman--for a woman only one man."

"Then, Sir," Fort burst out, "you wish her--"

Pierson had put his hand up, as if to ward off a blow; and, angry though

he was, Fort stopped.

"We are all made of flesh and blood," he continued coldly, "and it seems

to me that you think we aren't."

"We have spirits too, Captain Fort." The voice was suddenly so gentle

that Fort's anger evaporated.

"I have a great respect for you, sir; but a greater love for Noel, and

nothing in this world will prevent me trying to give my life to her."

A smile quivered over Pierson's face. "If you try, then I can but pray

that you will fail."

Fort did not answer, and went out.

He walked slowly away from the bungalow, with his head down, sore, angry,

and yet-relieved. He knew where he stood; nor did he feel that he had

been worsted--those strictures had not touched him. Convicted of

immorality, he remained conscious of private justifications, in a way

that human beings have. Only one little corner of memory, unseen and

uncriticised by his opponent, troubled him. He pardoned himself the

rest; the one thing he did not pardon was the fact that he had known Noel

before his liaison with Leila commenced; had even let Leila sweep him

away on, an evening when he had been in Noel's company. For that he felt

a real disgust with himself. And all the way back to the station he kept

thinking: 'How could I? I deserve to lose her! Still, I shall try; but

not now--not yet!' And, wearily enough, he took the train back to town.

III

Both girls rose early that last day, and went with their father to

Communion. As Gratian had said to George: "It's nothing to me now, but

it will mean a lot to him out there, as a memory of us. So I must go."

And he had answered: "Quite right, my dear. Let him have all he can get

of you both to-day. I'll keep out of the way, and be back the last thing

at night." Their father's smile when he saw them waiting for him went

straight to both their hearts. It was a delicious day, and the early

freshness had not yet dried out of the air, when they were walking home

to breakfast. Each girl had slipped a hand under his arm. 'It's like

Moses or was it Aaron?' Noel thought absurdly Memory had complete hold of

her. All the old days! Nursery hours on Sundays after tea, stories out

of the huge Bible bound in mother-o'pearl, with photogravures of the Holy

Land--palms, and hills, and goats, and little Eastern figures, and funny

boats on the Sea of Galilee, and camels--always camels. The book would

be on his knee, and they one on each arm of his chair, waiting eagerly

for the pages to be turned so that a new picture came. And there would

be the feel of his cheek, prickly against theirs; and the old names with

the old glamour--to Gratian, Joshua, Daniel, Mordecai, Peter; to Noel

Absalom because of his hair, and Haman because she liked the sound, and

Ruth because she was pretty and John because he leaned on Jesus' breast.

Neither of them cared for Job or David, and Elijah and Elisha they

detested because they hated the name Eliza. And later days by firelight

in the drawing-room, roasting chestnuts just before evening church, and

telling ghost stories, and trying to make Daddy eat his share. And hours

beside him at the piano, each eager for her special hymns--for Gratian,

"Onward, Christian Soldiers," "Lead, Kindly Light," and "O God Our Help";

for Noel, "Nearer, My God, to Thee," the one with "The Hosts of Midian"

in it, and "For Those in Peril on the Sea." And carols! Ah! And

Choristers! Noel had loved one deeply--the word "chorister" was so

enchanting; and because of his whiteness, and hair which had no grease on

it, but stood up all bright; she had never spoken to him--a far worship,

like that for a star. And always, always Daddy had been gentle;

sometimes angry, but always gentle; and they sometimes not at all! And

mixed up with it all, the dogs they had had, and the cats they had had,

and the cockatoo, and the governesses, and their red cloaks, and the

curates, and the pantomimes, and "Peter Pan," and "Alice in

Wonderland"--Daddy sitting between them, so that one could snuggle up.

And later, the school-days, the hockey, the prizes, the holidays, the

rush into his arms; and the great and wonderful yearly exodus to far

places, fishing and bathing; walks and drives; rides and climbs, always

with him. And concerts and Shakespeare plays in the Christmas and Easter

holidays; and the walk home through the streets--all lighted in those

days--one on each side of him. And this was the end! They waited on him

at breakfast: they kept stealing glances at him, photographing him in

their minds. Gratian got her camera and did actually photograph him in

the morning sunlight with Noel, without Noel, with the baby; against all

regulations for the defence of the realm. It was Noel who suggested:

"Daddy, let's take lunch out and go for all day on the cliffs, us three,

and forget there's a war."

So easy to say, so difficult to do, with the boom of the guns travelling

to their ears along the grass, mingled with the buzz of insects. Yet

that hum of summer, the innumerable voices of tiny lives, gossamer things

all as alive as they, and as important to their frail selves; and the

white clouds, few and so slow-moving, and the remote strange purity which

clings to the chalky downs, all this white and green and blue of land and

sea had its peace, which crept into the spirits of those three alone with

Nature, this once more, the last time for--who could say how long? They

talked, by tacit agreement, of nothing but what had happened before the

war began, while the flock of the blown dandelions drifted past. Pierson

sat cross-legged on the grass, without his cap, suffering a little still

from the stiffness of his unwonted garments. And the girls lay one on

each side of him, half critical, and half admiring. Noel could not bear

his collar.

"If you had a soft collar you'd be lovely, Daddy. Perhaps out there

they'll let you take it off. It must be fearfully hot in Egypt. Oh! I

wish I were going. I wish I were going everywhere in the world. Some

day!" Presently he read to them, Murray's "Hippolytus" of Euripides.

And now and then Gratian and he discussed a passage. But Noel lay

silent, looking at the sky. Whenever his voice ceased, there was the

song of the larks, and very faint, the distant mutter of the guns.

They stayed up there till past six, and it was time to go and have tea

before Evening Service. Those hours in the baking sun had drawn virtue

out of them; they were silent and melancholy all the evening. Noel was

the first to go up to her bedroom. She went without saying good

night--she knew her father would come to her room that last evening.

George had not yet come in; and Gratian was left alone with Pierson in

the drawing-room, round whose single lamp, in spite of close-drawn

curtains, moths were circling: She moved over to him on the sofa.

"Dad, promise me not to worry about Nollie; we'll take care of her."

"She can only take care of herself, Gracie, and will she? Did you know

that Captain Fort was here yesterday?"

"She told me."

"What is her feeling about him?"

"I don't think she knows. Nollie dreams along, and then suddenly

rushes."

"I wish she were safe from that man."

"But, Dad, why? George likes him and so do I."

A big grey moth was fluttering against the lamp. Pierson got up and

caught it in the curve of his palm. "Poor thing! You're like my Nollie;

so soft, and dreamy, so feckless, so reckless." And going to the

curtains, he thrust his hand through, and released the moth.

"Dad!" said Gratian suddenly, "we can only find out for ourselves, even

if we do singe our wings in doing it. We've been reading James's

'Pragmatism.' George says the only chapter that's important is

missing--the one on ethics, to show that what we do is not wrong till

it's proved wrong by the result. I suppose he was afraid to deliver that

lecture."

Pierson's face wore the smile which always came on it when he had to deal

with George, the smile which said: "Ah, George, that's very clever; but I

know."

"My dear," he said, "that doctrine is the most dangerous in the world. I

am surprised at George."

"I don't think George is in danger, Dad."

"George is a man of wide experience and strong judgment and character;

but think how fatal it would be for Nollie, my poor Nollie, whom a little

gust can blow into the candle."

"All the same," said Gratian stubbornly, "I don't think anyone can be

good or worth anything unless they judge for themselves and take risks."

Pierson went close to her; his face was quivering.

"Don't let us differ on this last night; I must go up to Nollie for a

minute, and then to bed. I shan't see you to-morrow; you mustn't get up;

I can bear parting better like this. And my train goes at eight. God

bless you, Gracie; give George my love. I know, I have always known that

he's a good man, though we do fight so. Good-bye, my darling."

He went out with his cheeks wet from Gratian's tears, and stood in the

porch a minute to recover his composure. The shadow of the house

stretched velvet and blunt over the rock-garden. A night-jar was

spinning; the churring sound affected him oddly. The last English

night-bird he would hear. England! What a night-to say good-bye! 'My

country!' he thought; 'my beautiful country!' The dew was lying thick and

silvery already on the little patch of grass-the last dew, the last scent

of an English night. The call of a bugle floated out. "England!" he

prayed; "God be about you!" A little sound answered from across the

grass, like an old man's cough, and the scrape and rattle of a chain. A

face emerged at the edge of the house's shadow; bearded and horned like

that of Pan, it seemed to stare at him. And he saw the dim grey form of

the garden goat, heard it scuttle round the stake to which it was

tethered, as though alarmed at this visitor to its' domain.

He went up the half-flight of stairs to Noel's narrow little room, next

the nursery. No voice answered his tap. It was dark, but he could see

her at the window, leaning far out, with her chin on her hands.

"Nollie!"

She answered without turning: "Such a lovely night, Daddy. Come and

look! I'd like to set the goat free, only he'd eat the rock plants. But

it is his night, isn't it? He ought to be running and skipping in it:

it's such a shame to tie things up. Did you never, feel wild in your

heart, Daddy?"

"Always, I think, Nollie; too wild. It's been hard to tame oneself."

Noel slipped her hand through his arm. "Let's go and take the goat and

skip together on the hills. If only we had a penny whistle! Did you

hear the bugle? The bugle and the goat!"

Pierson pressed the hand against him.

"Nollie, be good while I'm away. You know what I don't want. I told you

in my letter." He looked at her cheek, and dared say no more. Her face

had its "fey" look again.

"Don't you feel," she said suddenly, "on a night like this, all the

things, all the things--the stars have lives, Daddy, and the moon has a

big life, and the shadows have, and the moths and the birds and the goats

and the trees, and the flowers, and all of us--escaped? Oh! Daddy, why

is there a war? And why are people so bound and so unhappy? Don't tell

me it's God--don't!"

Pierson could not answer, for there came into his mind the Greek song he

had been reading aloud that afternoon--

"O for a deep and dewy Spring,

With runlets cold to draw and drink,

And a great meadow blossoming,

Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring,

To rest me by the brink.

O take me to the mountain, O,

Past the great pines and through the wood,

Up where the lean hounds softly go,

A-whine for wild things' blood,

And madly flies the dappled roe,

O God, to shout and speed them there;

An arrow by my chestnut hair

Drawn tight and one keen glimmering spear

Ah! if I could!"

All that in life had been to him unknown, of venture and wild savour; all

the emotion he had stifled; the swift Pan he had denied; the sharp

fruits, the burning suns, the dark pools, the unearthly moonlight, which

were not of God--all came with the breath of that old song, and the look

on the girl's face. And he covered his eyes.

Noel's hand tugged at his arm. "Isn't beauty terribly alive," she

murmured, "like a lovely person? it makes you ache to kiss it."

His lips felt parched. "There is a beauty beyond all that," he said

stubbornly.

"Where?"

"Holiness, duty, faith. O Nollie, my love!" But Noel's hand tightened

on his arm.

"Shall I tell you what I should like?" she whispered. "To take God's

hand and show Him things. I'm certain He's not seen everything."

A shudder went through Pierson, one of those queer sudden shivers, which

come from a strange note in a voice, or a new sharp scent or sight.

"My dear, what things you say!"

"But He hasn't, and it's time He did. We'd creep, and peep, and see it

all for once, as He can't in His churches. Daddy, oh! Daddy! I can't

bear it any more; to think of them being killed on a night like this;

killed and killed so that they never see it all again--never see

it--never see it!" She sank down, and covered her face with her arms.

"I can't, I can't! Oh! take it all away, the cruelty! Why does it

come--why the stars and the flowers, if God doesn't care any more than

that?"

Horribly affected he stood bending over her, stroking her head. Then the

habit of a hundred death-beds helped him. "Come, Nollie! This life is

but a minute. We must all die."

"But not they--not so young!" She clung to his knees, and looked up.

"Daddy, I don't want you to go; promise me to come back!"

The childishness of those words brought back his balance.

"My dear sweetheart, of course! Come, Nollie, get up. The sun's been

too much for you."

Noel got up, and put her hands on her father's shoulders. "Forgive me

for all my badness, and all my badness to come, especially all my badness

to come!"

Pierson smiled. "I shall always forgive you, Nollie; but there won't

be--there mustn't be any badness to come. I pray God to keep you, and

make you like your mother."

"Mother never had a devil, like you and me."

He was silent from surprise. How did this child know the devil of wild

feeling he had fought against year after year; until with the many years

he had felt it weakening within him! She whispered on: "I don't hate my

devil.

"Why should I?--it's part of me. Every day when the sun sets, I'll think

of you, Daddy; and you might do the same--that'll keep me good. I shan't

come to the station tomorrow, I should only cry. And I shan't say

good-bye now. It's unlucky."

She flung her arms round him; and half smothered by that fervent embrace,

he kissed her cheeks and hair. Freed of each other at last, he stood for

a moment looking at her by the moonlight.

"There never was anyone more loving than you; Nollie!" he said quietly.

"Remember my letter. And good night, my love!" Then, afraid to stay

another second, he went quickly out of the dark little room....

George Laird, returning half an hour later, heard a voice saying softly:

"George, George!"

Looking up, he saw a little white blur at the window, and Noel's face

just visible.

"George, let the goat loose, just for to-night, to please me."

Something in that voice, and in the gesture of her stretched-out arm

moved George in a queer way, although, as Pierson had once said, he had

no music in his soul. He loosed the goat.

In the weeks which succeeded Pierson's departure, Gratian and George

often discussed Noel's conduct and position by the light of the Pragmatic

theory. George held a suitably scientific view. Just as he would point

out to his wife--in the physical world, creatures who diverged from the

normal had to justify their divergence in competition with their

environments, or else go under, so in the ethical world it was all a

question of whether Nollie could make good her vagary. If she could, and

grew in strength of character thereby, it was ipso facto all right, her

vagary would be proved an advantage, and the world enriched. If not, the

world by her failure to make good would be impoverished, and her vagary

proved wrong. The orthodox and academies--he insisted--were always

forgetting the adaptability of living organisms; how every action which

was out of the ordinary, unconsciously modified all the other actions

together with the outlook, and philosophy of the doer. "Of course Nollie

was crazy," he said, "but when she did what she did, she at once began to

think differently about life and morals. The deepest instinct we all

have is the instinct that we must do what we must, and think that what

we've done is really all right; in fact the--instinct of

self-preservation. We're all fighting animals; and we feel in our bones

that if we admit we're beaten--we are beaten; but that every fight we

win, especially against odds, hardens those bones. But personally I

don't think she can make good on her own."

Gratian, whose Pragmatism was not yet fully baked, responded doubtfully:

"No, I don't think she can. And if she could I'm not sure. But isn't

Pragmatism a perfectly beastly word, George? It has no sense of humour

in it at all."

"It is a bit thick, and in the hands of the young, deuced likely to

become Prigmatism; but not with Nollie."

They watched the victim of their discussions with real anxiety. The

knowledge that she would never be more sheltered than she was with them,

at all events until she married, gravely impeded the formation of any

judgment as to whether or no she could make good. Now and again there

would come to Gratian who after all knew her sister better than

George--the disquieting thought that whatever conclusion Noel led them to

form, she would almost certainly force them to abandon sooner or later.

Three days after her father's departure Noel had declared that she wanted

to work on the land. This George had promptly vetoed.

"You aren't strong enough yet, my dear: Wait till the harvest begins.

Then you can go and help on the farm here. If you can stand that without

damage, we'll think about it."

But the weather was wet and harvest late, and Noel had nothing much to do

but attend to her baby, already well attended to by Nurse, and dream and

brood, and now and then cook an omelette or do some housework for the

sake of a gnawing conscience. Since Gratian and George were away in

hospital all day, she was very much alone. Several times in the evenings

Gratian tried to come at the core of her thoughts, Twice she flew the

kite of Leila. The first time Noel only answered: "Yes, she's a brick."

The second time, she said: "I don't want to think about her."

But, hardening her heart, Gratian went on: "Don't you think it's queer

we've never heard from Captain Fort since he came down?"

In her calmest voice Noel answered: "Why should we, after being told that

he wasn't liked?"

"Who told him that?"

"I told him, that Daddy didn't; but I expect Daddy said much worse

things." She gave a little laugh, then softly added: "Daddy's wonderful,

isn't he?"

"How?"

"The way he drives one to do the other thing. If he hadn't opposed my

marriage to Cyril, you know, that wouldn't have happened, it just made

all the difference. It stirred me up so fearfully." Gratian stared at

her, astonished that she could see herself so clearly. Towards the end of

August she had a letter from Fort.

"DEAR MRS. LAIRD, "You know all about things, of course, except the one

thing which to me is all important. I can't go on without knowing

whether I have a chance with your sister. It is against your father's

expressed wish that she should have anything to do with me, but I told

him that I could not and would not promise not to ask her. I get my

holiday at the end of this month, and am coming down to put it to the

touch. It means more to me than you can possibly imagine. "I am, dear

Mrs. Laird, "Your very faithful servant, "JAMES FORT."

She discussed the letter with George, whose advice was: "Answer it

politely, but say nothing; and nothing to Nollie. I think it would be a

very good thing. Of course it's a bit of a make-shift--twice her age;

but he's a genuine man, if not exactly brilliant."

Gratian answered almost sullenly: "I've always wanted the very best for

Nollie."

George screwed up his steel-coloured eyes, as he might have looked at one

on whom he had to operate. "Quite so," he said. "But you must remember,

Gracie, that out of the swan she was, Nollie has made herself into a lame

duck. Fifty per cent at least is off her value, socially. We must look

at things as they are."

"Father is dead against it."

George smiled, on the point of saying: 'That makes me feel it must be a

good thing!' But he subdued the impulse.

"I agree that we're bound by his absence not to further it actively.

Still Nollie knows his wishes, and it's up to her and no one else. After

all, she's no longer a child."

His advice was followed. But to write that polite letter, which said

nothing, cost Gratian a sleepless night, and two or three hours'

penmanship. She was very conscientious. Knowledge of this impending

visit increased the anxiety with which she watched her sister, but the

only inkling she obtained of Noel's state of mind was when the girl

showed her a letter she had received from Thirza, asking her to come back

to Kestrel. A postscript, in Uncle Bob's handwriting, added these words:

"We're getting quite fossilised down here; Eve's gone and left us again.

We miss you and the youngster awfully. Come along down, Nollie there's a

dear!"

"They're darlings," Noel said, "but I shan't go. I'm too restless, ever

since Daddy went; you don't know how restless. This rain simply makes me

want to die."

The weather improved next day, and at the end of that week harvest began.

By what seemed to Noel a stroke of luck the farmer's binder was broken;

he could not get it repaired, and wanted all the human binders he could

get. That first day in the fields blistered her hands, burnt her face

and neck, made every nerve and bone in her body ache; but was the

happiest day she had spent for weeks, the happiest perhaps since Cyril

Morland left her, over a year ago. She had a bath and went to bed the

moment she got in.

Lying there nibbling chocolate and smoking a cigarette, she luxuriated in

the weariness which had stilled her dreadful restlessness. Watching the

smoke of her cigarette curl up against the sunset glow which filled her

window, she mused: If only she could be tired out like this every day!

She would be all right then, would lose the feeling of not knowing what

she wanted, of being in a sort o of large box, with the lid slammed down,

roaming round it like a dazed and homesick bee in an overturned tumbler;

the feeling of being only half alive, of having a wing maimed so that she

could only fly a little way, and must then drop.

She slept like a top that night. But the next day's work was real

torture, and the third not much better. By the end of the week, however,

she was no longer stiff.

Saturday was cloudless; a perfect day. The field she was working in lay

on a slope. It was the last field to be cut, and the best wheat yet,

with a glorious burnt shade in its gold and the ears blunt and full. She

had got used now to the feel of the great sheaves in her arms, and the

binding wisps drawn through her hand till she held them level, below the

ears, ready for the twist. There was no new sensation in it now; just

steady, rather dreamy work, to keep her place in the row, to the

swish-swish of the cutter and the call of the driver to his horses at the

turns; with continual little pauses, to straighten and rest her back a

moment, and shake her head free from the flies, or suck her finger, sore

from the constant pushing of the straw ends under. So the hours went on,

rather hot and wearisome, yet with a feeling of something good being

done, of a job getting surely to its end. And gradually the centre patch

narrowed, and the sun slowly slanted down.

When they stopped for tea, instead of running home as usual, she drank it

cold out of a flask she had brought, ate a bun and some chocolate, and

lay down on her back against the hedge. She always avoided that group of

her fellow workers round the tea-cans which the farmer's wife brought

out. To avoid people, if she could, had become habitual to her now.

They must know about her, or would soon if she gave them the chance. She

had never lost consciousness of her ring-finger, expecting every eye to

fall on it as a matter of course. Lying on her face, she puffed her

cigarette into the grass, and watched a beetle, till one of the

sheep-dogs, scouting for scraps, came up, and she fed him with her second

bun. Having finished the bun, he tried to eat the beetle, and, when she

rescued it, convinced that she had nothing more to give him, sneezed at

her, and went away. Pressing the end of her cigarette out against the

bank, she turned over. Already the driver was perched on his tiny seat,

and his companion, whose business it was to free the falling corn, was

getting up alongside. Swish-swish! It had begun again. She rose,

stretched herself, and went back to her place in the row. The field

would be finished to-night; she would have a lovely rest-all Sunday I

Towards seven o'clock a narrow strip, not twenty yards broad, alone was

left. This last half hour was what Noel dreaded. To-day it was worse,

for the farmer had no cartridges left, and the rabbits were dealt with by

hullabaloo and sticks and chasing dogs. Rabbits were vermin, of course,

and ate the crops, and must be killed; besides, they were good food, and

fetched two shillings apiece; all this she knew but to see the poor

frightened things stealing out, pounced on, turned, shouted at, chased,

rolled over by great swift dogs, fallen on by the boys and killed and

carried with their limp grey bodies upside down, so dead and soft and

helpless, always made her feel quite sick. She stood very still, trying

not to see or hear, and in the corn opposite to her a rabbit stole along,

crouched, and peeped. 'Oh!' she thought, 'come out here, bunny. I'll let

you away--can't you see I will? It's your only chance. Come out!' But

the rabbit crouched, and gazed, with its little cowed head poked forward,

and its ears laid flat; it seemed trying to understand whether this still

thing in front of it was the same as those others. With the thought, 'Of

course it won't while I look at it,' Noel turned her head away. Out of

the corner of her eye she could see a man standing a few yards off. The

rabbit bolted out. Now the man would shout and turn it. But he did not,

and the rabbit scuttled past him and away to the hedge. She heard a

shout from the end of the row, saw a dog galloping. Too late! Hurrah!

And clasping her hands, she looked at the man. It was Fort! With the

queerest feeling--amazement, pleasure, the thrill of conspiracy, she saw

him coming up to her.

"I did want that rabbit to get off," she sighed out; "I've been watching

it. Thank you!"

He looked at her. "My goodness!" was all he said.

Noel's hands flew up to her cheeks. "Yes, I know; is my nose very red?"

"No; you're as lovely as Ruth, if she was lovely."

Swish-swish! The cutter came by; Noel started forward to her place in

the row; but catching her arm, he said: "No, let me do this little bit.

I haven't had a day in the fields since the war began. Talk to me while

I'm binding."

She stood watching him. He made a different, stronger twist from hers,

and took larger sheaves, so that she felt a sort of jealousy.

"I didn't know you knew about this sort of thing."

"Oh, Lord, yes! I had a farm once out West. Nothing like field-work, to

make you feel good. I've been watching you; you bind jolly well."

Noel gave a sigh of pleasure.

"Where have you come from?" she asked.

"Straight from the station. I'm on my holiday." He looked up at her,

and they both fell silent.

Swish-swish! The cutter was coming again. Noel went to the beginning of

her portion of the falling corn, he to the end of it. They worked towards

each other, and met before the cutter was on them a third time.

"Will you come in to supper?"

"I'd love to."

"Then let's go now, please. I don't want to see any more rabbits

killed."

They spoke very little on the way to the bungalow, but she felt his eyes

on her all the time. She left him with George and Gratian who had just

come in, and went up for her bath.

Supper had been laid out in the verandah, and it was nearly dark before

they had finished. In rhyme with the failing of the light Noel became

more and more silent. When they went in, she ran up to her baby. She

did not go down again, but as on the night before her father went away,

stood at her window, leaning out. A dark night, no moon; in the

starlight she could only just see the dim garden, where no goat was

grazing. Now that her first excitement had worn off, this sudden

reappearance of Fort filled her with nervous melancholy: She knew

perfectly well what he had come for, she had always known. She had no

certain knowledge of her own mind; but she knew that all these weeks she

had been between his influence and her father's, listening to them, as it

were, pleading with her. And, curiously, the pleading of each, instead

of drawing her towards the pleader, had seemed dragging her away from

him, driving her into the arms of the other. To the protection of one or

the other she felt she must go; and it humiliated her to think that in

all the world there was no other place for her. The wildness of that one

night in the old Abbey seemed to have power to govern all her life to

come. Why should that one night, that one act, have this uncanny power

to drive her this way or that, to those arms or these? Must she, because

of it, always need protection? Standing there in the dark it was almost

as if they had come up behind her, with their pleadings; and a shiver ran

down her back. She longed to turn on them, and cry out: "Go away; oh; go

away! I don't want either of you; I just want to be left alone!" Then

something, a moth perhaps, touched her neck. She gasped and shook

herself. How silly!

She heard the back door round the corner of the house opening; a man's

low voice down in the dark said:

"Who's the young lady that comes out in the fields?"

Another voice--one of the maids--answered:

"The Missis's sister."

"They say she's got a baby."

"Never you mind what she's got."

Noel heard the man's laugh. It seemed to her the most odious laugh she

had ever heard. She thought swiftly and absurdly: 'I'll get away from

all this.' The window was only a few feet up. She got out on to the

ledge, let herself down, and dropped. There was a flower-bed below,

quite soft, with a scent of geranium-leaves and earth. She brushed

herself, and went tiptoeing across the gravel and the little front lawn,

to the gate. The house was quite dark, quite silent. She walked on, down

the road. 'Jolly!' she thought. 'Night after night we sleep, and never

see the nights: sleep until we're called, and never see anything. If

they want to catch me they'll have to run.' And she began running down

the road in her evening frock and shoes, with nothing on her head. She

stopped after going perhaps three hundred yards, by the edge of the wood.

It was splendidly dark in there, and she groped her way from trunk to

trunk, with a delicious, half-scared sense of adventure and novelty. She

stopped at last by a thin trunk whose bark glimmered faintly. She felt

it with her cheek, quite smooth--a birch tree; and, with her arms round

it, she stood perfectly still. Wonderfully, magically silent, fresh and

sweet-scented and dark! The little tree trembled suddenly within her

arms, and she heard the low distant rumble, to which she had grown so

accustomed--the guns, always at work, killing--killing men and killing

trees, little trees perhaps like this within her arms, little trembling

trees! Out there, in this dark night, there would not be a single

unscarred tree like this smooth quivering thing, no fields of corn, not

even a bush or a blade of grass, no leaves to rustle and smell sweet, not

a bird, no little soft-footed night beasts, except the rats; and she

shuddered, thinking of the Belgian soldier-painter. Holding the tree

tight, she squeezed its smooth body against her. A rush of the same

helpless, hopeless revolt and sorrow overtook her, which had wrung from

her that passionate little outburst to her father, the night before he

went away. Killed, torn, and bruised; burned, and killed, like Cyril!

All the young things, like this little tree.

Rumble! Rumble! Quiver! Quiver! And all else so still, so sweet and

still, and starry, up there through the leaves.... 'I can't bear it!'

she thought. She pressed her lips, which the sun had warmed all day,

against the satiny smooth bark. But the little tree stood within her

arms insentient, quivering only to the long rumbles. With each of those

dull mutterings, life and love were going out, like the flames of candles

on a Christmas-tree, blown, one by one. To her eyes, accustomed by now

to the darkness in there, the wood seemed slowly to be gathering a sort

of life, as though it were a great thing watching her; a great thing with

hundreds of limbs and eyes, and the power of breathing. The little tree,

which had seemed so individual and friendly, ceased to be a comfort and

became a part of the whole living wood, absorbed in itself, and coldly

watching her, this intruder of the mischievous breed, the fatal breed

which loosed those rumblings on the earth. Noel unlocked her arms, and

recoiled. A bough scraped her neck, some leaves flew against her eyes;

she stepped aside, tripped over a root, and fell. A bough had hit her

too, and she lay a little dazed, quivering at such dark unfriendliness.

She held her hands up to her face for the mere pleasure of seeing

something a little less dark; it was childish, and absurd, but she was

frightened. The wood seemed to have so many eyes, so many arms, and all

unfriendly; it seemed waiting to give her other blows, other falls, and

to guard her within its darkness until--! She got up, moved a few steps,

and stood still, she had forgotten from where she had come in. And

afraid of moving deeper into the unfriendly wood, she turned slowly

round, trying to tell which way to go. It was all just one dark watching

thing, of limbs on the ground and in the air. 'Any way,' she thought;

'any way of course will take me out!' And she groped forward, keeping her

hands up to guard her face. It was silly, but she could not help the

sinking, scattered feeling which comes to one bushed, or lost in a fog.

If the wood had not been so dark, so,--alive! And for a second she had

the senseless, terrifying thought of a child: 'What if I never get out!'

Then she laughed at it, and stood still again, listening. There was no

sound to guide her, no sound at all except that faint dull rumble, which

seemed to come from every side, now. And the trees watched her. 'Ugh!'

she thought; 'I hate this wood!' She saw it now, its snaky branches, its

darkness, and great forms, as an abode of giants and witches. She groped

and scrambled on again, tripped once more, and fell, hitting her forehead

against a trunk. The blow dazed and sobered her. 'It's idiotic,' she

thought; 'I'm a baby! I'll Just walk very slowly till I reach the edge.

I know it isn't a large wood!' She turned deliberately to face each

direction; solemnly selected that from which the muttering of the guns

seemed to come, and started again, moving very slowly with her hands

stretched out. Something rustled in the undergrowth, quite close; she

saw a pair of green eyes shining. Her heart jumped into her mouth. The

thing sprang--there was a swish of ferns and twigs, and silence. Noel

clasped her breast. A poaching cat! And again she moved forward. But

she had lost direction. 'I'm going round and round,' she thought. 'They

always do.' And the sinking scattered feeling of the "bushed" clutched at

her again. 'Shall I call?' she thought. 'I must be near the road. But

it's so babyish.' She moved on again. Her foot struck something soft. A

voice muttered a thick oath; a hand seized her ankle. She leaped, and

dragged and wrenched it free; and, utterly unnerved, she screamed, and

ran forward blindly.

No one could have so convinced a feeling as Jimmy Fort that he would be a

'bit of a makeshift' for Noel. He had spent the weeks after his

interview with her father obsessed by her image, often saying to himself

"It won't do. It's playing it too low down to try and get that child,

when I know that, but for her trouble, I shouldn't have a chance." He

had never had much opinion of his looks, but now he seemed to himself

absurdly old and dried-up in this desert of a London. He loathed the

Office job to which they had put him, and the whole atmosphere of

officialdom. Another year of it, and he would shrivel like an old apple!

He began to look at himself anxiously, taking stock of his physical

assets now that he had this dream of young beauty. He would be forty

next month, and she was nineteen! But there would be times too when he

would feel that, with her, he could be as much of a "three-year-old" as

the youngster she had loved. Having little hope of winning her, he took

her "past" but lightly. Was it not that past which gave him what chance

he had? On two things he was determined: He would not trade on her past.

And if by any chance she took him, he would never show her that he

remembered that she had one.

After writing to Gratian he had spent the week before his holiday began,

in an attempt to renew the youthfulness of his appearance, which made him

feel older, leaner, bonier and browner than ever. He got up early, rode

in the rain, took Turkish baths, and did all manner of exercises; neither

smoked nor drank, and went to bed early, exactly as if he had been going

to ride a steeplechase. On the afternoon, when at last he left on that

terrific pilgrimage, he gazed at his face with a sort of despair, it was

so lean, and leather-coloured, and he counted almost a dozen grey hairs.

When he reached the bungalow, and was told that she was working in the

corn-fields, he had for the first time a feeling that Fate was on his

side. Such a meeting would be easier than any other! He had been

watching her for several minutes before she saw him, with his heart

beating more violently than it had ever beaten in the trenches; and that

new feeling of hope stayed with him--all through the greeting, throughout

supper, and even after she had left them and gone upstairs. Then, with

the suddenness of a blind drawn down, it vanished, and he sat on, trying

to talk, and slowly getting more and more silent and restless.

"Nollie gets so tired, working," Gratian said: He knew she meant it

kindly but that she should say it at all was ominous. He got up at last,

having lost hope of seeing Noel again, conscious too that he had answered

the last three questions at random.

In the porch George said: "You'll come in to lunch tomorrow, won't you?"

"Oh, thanks, I'm afraid it'll bore you all."

"Not a bit. Nollie won't be so tired."

Again--so well meant. They were very kind. He looked up from the gate,

trying to make out which her window might be; but all was dark. A little

way down the road he stopped to light a cigarette; and, leaning against a

gate, drew the smoke of it deep into his lungs, trying to assuage the

ache in his heart. So it was hopeless! She had taken the first, the

very first chance, to get away from him! She knew that he loved her,

could not help knowing, for he had never been able to keep it out of his

eyes and voice. If she had felt ever so little for him, she would not

have avoided him this first evening. 'I'll go back to that desert,' he

thought; 'I'm not going to whine and crawl. I'll go back, and bite on

it; one must have some pride. Oh, why the hell am I crocked-up like this?

If only I could get out to France again!' And then Noel's figure bent

over the falling corn formed before him. 'I'll have one more try,' he

thought; 'one more--tomorrow somewhere, I'll get to know for certain.

And if I get what Leila's got I shall deserve it, I suppose. Poor Leila!

Where is she? Back at High Constantia?' What was that? A cry--of

terror--in that wood! Crossing to the edge, he called "Coo-ee!" and

stood peering into its darkness. He heard the sound of bushes being

brushed aside, and whistled. A figure came bursting out, almost into his

arms.

"Hallo!" he said; "what's up?"

A voice gasped: "Oh! It's--it's nothing!"

He saw Noel. She had swayed back, and stood about a yard away. He could

dimly see her covering her face with her arms. Feeling instinctively

that she wanted to hide her fright, he said quietly:

"What luck! I was just passing. It's awfully dark."

"I--I got lost; and a man--caught my foot, in there!"

Moved beyond control by the little gulps and gasps of her breathing, he

stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. He held her lightly,

without speaking, terrified lest he should wound her pride.

"I-I got in there," she gasped, "and the trees--and I stumbled over a

roan asleep, and he--"

"Yes, Yes, I know," he murmured, as if to a child. She had dropped her

arms now, and he could see her face, with eyes unnaturally dilated, and

lips quivering. Then moved again beyond control, he drew her so close

that he could feel the throbbing of her heart, and put his lips to her

forehead all wet with heat. She closed her eyes, gave a little choke,

and buried her face against his coat.

"There, there, my darling!" he kept on saying. "There, there, my

darling!" He could feel the snuggling of her cheek against his shoulder.

He had got her--had got her! He was somehow certain that she would not

draw back now. And in the wonder and ecstasy of that thought, all the

world above her head, the stars in their courses, the wood which had

frightened her, seemed miracles of beauty and fitness. By such fortune

as had never come to man, he had got her! And he murmured over and over

again:

"I love you!" She was resting perfectly quiet against him, while her

heart ceased gradually to beat so fast. He could feel her cheek rubbing

against his coat of Harris tweed. Suddenly she sniffed at it, and

whispered:

"It smells good."

When summer sun has burned all Egypt, the white man looks eagerly each

day for evening, whose rose-coloured veil melts opalescent into the dun

drift, of the hills, and iridescent above, into the slowly deepening

blue. Pierson stood gazing at the mystery of the desert from under the

little group of palms and bougainvillea which formed the garden of the

hospital. Even-song was in full voice: From the far wing a gramophone

was grinding out a music-hall ditty; two aeroplanes, wheeling exactly

like the buzzards of the desert, were letting drip the faint whir of

their flight; metallic voices drifted from the Arab village; the wheels

of the water-wells creaked; and every now and then a dry rustle was

stirred from the palm-leaves by puffs of desert wind. On either hand an

old road ran out, whose line could be marked by the little old

watch-towers of another age. For how many hundred years had human life

passed along it to East and West; the brown men and their camels,

threading that immemorial track over the desert, which ever filled him

with wonder, so still it was, so wide, so desolate, and every evening so

beautiful! He sometimes felt that he could sit for ever looking at it;

as though its cruel mysterious loveliness were--home; and yet he never

looked at it without a spasm of homesickness.

So far his new work had brought him no nearer to the hearts of men. Or at

least he did not feel it had. Both at the regimental base, and now in

this hospital--an intermediate stage--waiting for the draft with which he

would be going into Palestine, all had been very nice to him, friendly,

and as it were indulgent; so might schoolboys have treated some

well-intentioned dreamy master, or business men a harmless idealistic

inventor who came visiting their offices. He had even the feeling that

they were glad to have him about, just as they were glad to have their

mascots and their regimental colours; but of heart-to-heart simple

comradeship--it seemed they neither wanted it of him nor expected him to

give it, so that he had a feeling that he would be forward and

impertinent to offer it. Moreover, he no longer knew how. He was very

lonely. 'When I come face to face with death,' he would think, 'it will

be different. Death makes us all brothers. I may be of real use to them

then.'

They brought him a letter while he stood there listening to that

even-song, gazing at the old desert road.

"DARLING DAD,

"I do hope this will reach you before you move on to Palestine. You said

in your last--at the end of September, so I hope you'll just get it.

There is one great piece of news, which I'm afraid will hurt and trouble

you; Nollie is married to Jimmy Fort. They were married down here this

afternoon, and have just gone up to Town. They have to find a house of

course. She has been very restless, lonely, and unhappy ever since you

went, and I'm sure it is really for the best: She is quite another

creature, and simply devoted, headlong. It's just like Nollie. She says

she didn't know what she wanted, up to the last minute. But now she

seems as if she could never want anything else.

"Dad dear, Nollie could never have made good by herself. It isn't her

nature, and it's much better like this, I feel sure, and so does George.

Of course it isn't ideal--and one wanted that for her; but she did break

her wing, and he is so awfully good and devoted to her, though you didn't

believe it, and perhaps won't, even now. The great thing is to feel her

happy again, and know she's safe. Nollie is capable of great devotion;

only she must be anchored. She was drifting all about; and one doesn't

know what she might have done, in one of her moods. I do hope you won't

grieve about it. She's dreadfully anxious about how you'll feel. I know

it will be wretched for you, so far off; but do try and believe it's for

the best.... She's out of danger; and she was really in a horrible

position. It's so good for the baby, too, and only fair to him. I do

think one must take things as they are, Dad dear. It was impossible to

mend Nollie's wing. If she were a fighter, and gloried in it, or if she

were the sort who would 'take the veil'--but she isn't either. So it is

all right, Dad. She's writing to you herself. I'm sure Leila didn't

want Jimmy Fort to be unhappy because he couldn't love her; or she would

never have gone away. George sends you his love; we are both very well.

And Nollie is looking splendid still, after her harvest work. All, all

my love, Dad dear. Is there anything we can get, and send you? Do take

care of your blessed self, and don't grieve about Nollie.

"GRATIAN."

A half-sheet of paper fluttered down; he picked it up from among the

parched fibre of dead palm-leaves.

"DADDY DARLING,

"I've done it. Forgive me-I'm so happy.

"Your NOLLIE."

The desert shimmered, the palm-leaves rustled, and Pierson stood trying

to master the emotion roused in him by those two letters. He felt no

anger, not even vexation; he felt no sorrow, but a loneliness so utter

and complete that he did not know how to bear it. It seemed as if some

last link with life had' snapped. 'My girls are happy,' he thought. 'If

I am not--what does it matter? If my faith and my convictions mean

nothing to them--why should they follow? I must and will not feel

lonely. I ought to have the sense of God present, to feel His hand in

mine. If I cannot, what use am I--what use to the poor fellows in there,

what use in all the world?'

An old native on a donkey went by, piping a Soudanese melody on a little

wooden Arab flute. Pierson turned back into the hospital humming it. A

nurse met him there.

"The poor boy at the end of A ward is sinking fast, sir; I expect he'd

like to see you,"

He went into A ward, and walked down between the beds to the west window

end, where two screens had been put, to block off the cot. Another nurse,

who was sitting beside it, rose at once.

"He's quite conscious," she whispered; "he can still speak a little. He's

such a dear." A tear rolled down her cheek, and she passed out behind

the screens. Pierson looked down at the boy; perhaps he was twenty, but

the unshaven down on his cheeks was soft and almost colourless. His eyes

were closed. He breathed regularly, and did not seem in pain; but there

was about him that which told he was going; something resigned, already

of the grave. The window was wide open, covered by mosquito-netting, and

a tiny line of sunlight, slanting through across the foot of the cot,

crept slowly backwards over the sheets and the boy's body, shortening as

it crept. In the grey whiteness of the walls; the bed, the boy's face,

just that pale yellow bar of sunlight, and one splash of red and blue

from a little flag on the wall glowed out. At this cooler hour, the ward

behind the screens was almost empty, and few sounds broke the stillness;

but from without came that intermittent rustle of dry palm-leaves.

Pierson waited in silence, watching the sun sink. If the boy might pass

like this, it would be God's mercy. Then he saw the boy's eyes open,

wonderfully clear eyes of the lighted grey which has dark rims; his lips

moved, and Pierson bent down to hear.

"I'm goin' West, zurr." The whisper had a little soft burr; the lips

quivered; a pucker as of a child formed on his face, and passed.

Through Pierson's mind there flashed the thought: 'O God! Let me be some

help to him!'

"To God, my dear son!" he said.

A flicker of humour, of ironic question, passed over the boy's lips.

Terribly moved, Pierson knelt down, and began softly, fervently praying.

His whispering mingled with the rustle of the palm-leaves, while the bar

of sunlight crept up the body. In the boy's smile had been the whole of

stoic doubt, of stoic acquiescence. It had met him with an unconscious

challenge; had seemed to know so much. Pierson took his hand, which lay

outside the sheet. The boy's lips moved, as though in thanks; he drew a

long feeble breath, as if to suck in the thread of sunlight; and his eyes

closed. Pierson bent over the hand. When he looked up the boy was dead.

He kissed his forehead and went quietly out.

The sun had set, and he walked away from the hospital to a hillock beyond

the track on the desert's edge, and stood looking at the afterglow. The

sun and the boy--together they had gone West, into that wide glowing

nothingness.

The muezzin call to sunset prayer in the Arab village came to him clear

and sharp, while he sat there, unutterably lonely. Why had that smile so

moved him? Other death smiles had been like this evening smile on the

desert hills--a glowing peace, a promise of heaven. But the boy's smile

had said: 'Waste no breath on me--you cannot help. Who knows--who knows?

I have no hope, no faith; but I am adventuring. Good-bye!' Poor boy!

He had braved all things, and moved out uncertain, yet undaunted! Was

that, then, the uttermost truth, was faith a smaller thing? But from

that strange notion he. recoiled with horror. 'In faith I have lived, in

faith I will die!' he thought, 'God helping me!' And the breeze,

ruffling the desert sand, blew the grains against the palms of his hands,

outstretched above the warm earth.

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