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 SAINT'S PROGRESS
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 VILLA RUBEIN, and other StorI„ 
 
 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 THE MAN OF PROPERTY 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE 
 
 FRATERNITY 
 
 THE PATRICIAN 
 
 THE DARK FLOWER 
 
 THE FREELAND8 
 
 BEYOND 
 
 five tales 
 saint's progress 
 
 a commentary 
 
 A MOTLEY 
 
 THE INN OP TRANQUILLITY 
 
 THE LITTLE MAN, „d o.hor Satire. 
 
 A SHEAF 
 
 ANOTHER SHEAP 
 
 plays: FIRST SERIES 
 
 «"rf SeparaMfi 
 THE SILVER BOX 
 JOY 
 STRIFE 
 
 plays: SECOND SERIES 
 
 and SepayaUlg 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 
 JUSTICE 
 
 plays: THIRD SERIES 
 
 and Separately 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 THE PIGEON 
 THE MOB 
 
 A BIT o' LOVE 
 
 MOODS, SONGS, AND DOGGERELS 
 MEMORIES. Illustrated
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 *'He hut usurp' d his life' 
 — Lear 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1919 
 
 '-' TN >-" .--;, ,-^
 
 Copyright, 1919, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1918, 1919, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CO. 
 
 
 (.It. € t ( C 
 
 ' « « « » .
 
 'VK. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 [y idAS^ 
 
 ^0 
 
 C. S. EVANS
 
 V 
 
 N 
 
 V*^ 
 
 PART I 
 
 (
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 hme- 
 trees were coming into flower. TaU white Hlies in 
 the garden beds already rivalled 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 ar- 
 rived at Kestrel, his brother Robert's home on the 
 bank of the Wye only that morning, having stayed 
 at Bath on the way down; and now he had got his 
 face burnt in that parti-coloured way peculiar to 
 the faces of those who have been too long in Lon- 
 don. As he came along the narrow, rather over- 
 grown avenue, the sound of a waltz thrummed out 
 on a piano feU on his ears and he smiled, for music 
 was the greatest passion he had. His dark griz- 
 zled 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 
 
 3
 
 4 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Httle 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 syca- 
 mores and birches. A man of fifty, with a sense of 
 beauty, born and bred in the country, suffers fear- 
 fully 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 op- 
 posite; 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,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 5 
 
 to his brother's home. He looked down at the 
 garden, and up at the trees of the avenue. Cer- 
 tainly 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 some- 
 what recalled a Bengal tiger; the kindest fellow 
 though that ever breathed, whose outbreaks of 
 temper were the greatest frauds ! 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 Haken after' her; Gratian was like his own 
 mother, and Noel, with her 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 Hving, in 
 South Africa. Ah ! What a pretty girl she had 
 been! 
 
 Dra^^m by that eternal waltz tune he reached the 
 doorway of the music-room. A chintz curtain hung 
 there, but the sound of feet slipping on polished 
 boards came out, and he saw his daughter Noel 
 waltzing slowly in the arms of a young officer in 
 khaki. Round and round they went, circling, back- 
 ing, 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
 
 6 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 ghding along 
 looked fiery hot; a handsome boy, with blue eyes 
 and a little golden down on the upper Hp of his 
 sunny red-cheeked face. Edward Pierson thought: 
 *Nice couple !' And had a moment's vision of him- 
 self and Leila, dancing at that long-ago Cambridge 
 May Week — on the very day of her seventeenth 
 birthday, he remembered, so that she must have 
 been a year younger than Nollie was now! Were 
 those two never going to stop ? This must be the 
 young man she had talked of in her letters during 
 the last three weeks. 
 
 Drawing the curtain aside, he passed into view 
 of those within, and said: 
 
 "Aren't you very hot, Nollie?" 
 
 She blew him a kiss, and shook her head; 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: 
 
 "Abet? 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!"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 7 
 
 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, to do 
 without his wife 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 imions were for ever, 
 even though the Church permitted remarriage. 
 
 He watched his young daughter now with a 
 quaint mixture of aesthetic pleasure and fatherly 
 perplexity. 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 un- 
 derstand, especially in Noel; so affectionate, and 
 dreamy, yet sometimes seeming possessed of a 
 little dei'il. Edward Pierson was naif; he attrib- 
 uted those outbursts of demonic possession to the 
 loss of her mother when she was such a mite; Gra- 
 tian, but two years older, had never taken a mother's 
 place — how could she? That had been left to him- 
 self, and he was always more or less conscious of 
 failure. 
 
 He sat there looking up at her with a sort of
 
 8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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.'* 
 
 "NoUie!" 
 
 "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; and it was Eve 
 who broke the silence. 
 
 "If you're going to have a bath before tea, Nol- 
 lie, you'd better hurry up." 
 
 "All right; I'm going. Was it jolly in the 
 Abbey, Daddy?" 
 
 "Lovely; like a great piece of music." 
 
 "Daddy always puts everything into music.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 9 
 
 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 yet? 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 awa}^, 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, losing himself 
 completely. It was his way out of perplexities, re- 
 grets, and longings; a way which never quite failed 
 him. 
 
 Once on a time, at Cambridge, he had intended 
 to take up music as a profession, and why he had 
 not done so he never to this day quite understood. 
 Family tradition had destined him for Holy Orders, 
 and a certain emotional Church revival of that day 
 had caught him in its stream. He had always had 
 private means, and those early years before he mar- 
 ried 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 him-
 
 lo SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 seK, the simple folk of his parish had taken hold of 
 his heart. When, however, he fell in love and mar- 
 ried Agnes Heriot, he was given a parish of his 
 own on the borders of East and West, and there he 
 had been ever since, even after her death had 
 nearly killed him. It was better to go on where 
 w^ork and all reminded him of one whom he had re- 
 solved never to forget in other ties. But he was 
 often conscious 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. Ever>'thing had become set, 
 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 — and one formula for the inex- 
 pressible is much the same as another; but 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, ever impinging 
 on even the most inspired dogmas, left little sense 
 of inconsistency or treason on his soul. Sensitive, 
 charitable, and only combative deep down, he in- 
 stinctively avoided discussion on matters where he 
 might hurt others or they hurt him. And, since 
 explanation was the last thing which could be ex- 
 pected of one who did not base himself on Reason,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS il 
 
 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 at all realising that he was 
 in one of his most religious moods. A voice sur- 
 prised him: 
 
 "Aren't you coming to tea, Edward?" 
 The woman standing just behind him, in a lUac- 
 coloured gown, had one of those faces which remain 
 innocent to the end of the chapter, in spite of the 
 complete knowledge of Ufe which appertains to 
 mothers. In days of suffering and anxiety, like 
 these of the great war, Thirza Pierscn was a valua- 
 ble 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 re- 
 mained such a thing as motherhood; that while 
 everybody was living for the future, the present 
 stiU existed, and was good. Her inexpugnable 
 tranquillity, unsentimental tenderness, matter-of- 
 fact busyness, together with 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
 
 12 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 Master, restored by Kate Greenaway. Slie never 
 went to meet life, but when it came, made the best 
 of iL This was her secret, and Pierson always felt 
 rested by his sister-in-law's presence. 
 
 He rose obediently, and moved by her side, among 
 flower-beds, over the lawn, towards the big tree 
 down at the bottom of the garden. 
 
 "How d'you think Noel is looking, Edward?" 
 
 "Very pretty, too pretty. That yoimg man, 
 Thirza?" 
 
 "Yes; I'm afraid he's over head and ears in love 
 with her." 
 
 At the dismayed somid he uttered, she slij^ed 
 her soft round arm within his. "He's going to che 
 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 char- 
 acter, 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 ail the raspberries. Eve, give him some jam ; 
 he must be dead ! Phew ! the heat ! Come on, my
 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 13 
 
 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 NoUie; she'll 
 swing, and keep the flies off you." 
 
 "If you'll 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 imder 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. She was 
 so composed, swaying there above that young man 
 at her feet, the impudence of whose sunny face 
 seemed smothered in adoration. "No longer a 
 chfld !" he thought. "Dear Nollie !"
 
 n 
 
 i§ 
 
 Awakened by that daily cruelty, the advent of 
 hot water, Edward Pierson lay in his chintz-cur- 
 tained room, fancying himself back in London. 
 The humming of a wild bee hunting honey from the 
 bowl of flowers on the window-sill, and the scent of 
 sweetbrier, shattered that illusion. He got up, drew 
 the curtain, and, kneeling on the window-seat in 
 the bay of the window, thrust his head out into 
 the morning and took a deep breath. The air was 
 intoxicatingly sweet. Haze clung about the river 
 and the woods beyond; the lawn sparkled with dew, 
 and two wagtails strutted there in the early sun- 
 shine. "Thank God for this earth!" he thought. 
 "It really is too lovely! 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 so far as he was able, 
 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; 
 
 14
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 15 
 
 God was in everything ! And he added to his usual 
 prayer this whisper: ''I give Thee thanks for my 
 senses, Lord. In all of us, keep them bright, and 
 grateful for loveliness." Then, raising his head, 
 he remained motionless, prey to a sort of happy 
 yearning which was 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 him- 
 self to death out there in France. One must not 
 take them too seriously. He plucked a bit of sweet- 
 brier and put it to his nose, which still retained the 
 shine of that bleaching ointment Noel had insisted 
 on his using. The sweet smeU of those little rough 
 leaves stirred up an acute aching. He dropped 
 them, and drew back. No longings, no melancholy; 
 one ought to be down and out, this beautiful morn- 
 ing! 
 
 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 do\\Ti. He dressed with extraor-
 
 i6 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 dinary 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 seepied to her father a perfect vision of fresh- 
 ness. 
 
 "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 Hght-brown hair, the 
 nose short and indeterminate; cheeks still round 
 from youth, almost waxen-pale, and faintly hol- 
 lowed 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 17 
 
 
 ^This is new, isn't it, NolHe?" 
 'Cyril Moriand'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 col- 
 our 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 trans- 
 ferred 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, 
 or coughed them, as it were, in the high steamy 
 voice, his breathing never adjusted to the length 
 of any period. The congregation, accustomed, 
 heard nothing pecuHar; he was the necessary gen-
 
 i8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 try 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 Mor- 
 land 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 ! how 
 nice for him to be having a complete rest ! I must 
 make him eat — he's so thin ! ' And Eve was think- 
 ing: '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 sing- 
 ing and the prayers. At last, in the reverential rus- 
 tle of the settling congregation, a surpHced 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 
 J^xt; 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 
 
 /
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 19 
 
 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 breth- 
 ren," 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 
 aU ages has cleaved its way through the fetters 
 imposed on men themselves by their own desires, im- 
 posed 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 neigh- 
 bouring country which had done them no harm. 
 Dear brethren, we may aU 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 flash- 
 ing among the carnal desires of this mortal life, 
 car\dng a path for us towards that heavenly king- 
 dom 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
 
 20 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 hand and his right hung at their sides. Thcj prayed 
 a little longer than any others and, on rising, sang 
 the hymn a little louder. 
 
 3§ 
 
 No paper came on Sundays — ^not even the local 
 paper, which had so long and so nobly done its bit 
 with head-lines 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 yoxmg 
 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 with short hair sitting 
 in a httle 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 establish- 
 ments where, in spite of the healthy curriculum, 
 perhaps because of it, there is ever an undercurrent
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 2i 
 
 of interest in the opposing sex; and not even the 
 gravest e£forts to eUminate instinct are quite suc- 
 cessful. And did not the disappearance of every 
 young male thing into the maw of the military ma- 
 chine put a premium on instinct? The thoughts 
 of Noel and her school companions were turned, 
 perforce, to that which, in pre-war freedom of op- 
 portunity they could afford to regard as of secon- 
 dary interest. Love and Marriage and Motherhood, 
 fixed as the lot of women by the countless ages, 
 were threatened for these young creatures. Little 
 wonder that they talked of them, pursued what they 
 instinctively felt to be receding. 
 
 When yoimg Morland showed, by following her 
 about with his eyes, what was happening to him, 
 she was pleased. From being pleased, she became 
 a Uttle 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 
 Uttle 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 des- 
 perate- During those three days the little demon 
 her father dreaded certainly possessed her. And 
 then, one evening, while they walked back together 
 from the hay-fields, she had given him a sidelong 
 glance; and he had gasped out: "Oh! Noel, what 
 have I done?" She caught his limp hand, and 
 gave it a quick squeeze. What a change! What 
 bUssful alteration ever since ! . . .
 
 22 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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. Sunlight 
 poured down through every chink in the foHage; 
 made the greenness of the steep wood marvellously 
 vivid and aHve; flashed on beech leaves, ash leaves, 
 birch leaves; fell on the ground in httle 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 another, 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 Hps. The moment in hfe, which no words 
 can render, had come for them. They had found
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 23 
 
 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 be- 
 fore I go out." 
 
 Noel tightened her clutch on his hand. 
 
 "How long does it take?" 
 
 "No time, if we hurry up. I've got six days be- 
 fore 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, darHng; but I shan't be 
 able." 
 
 "No, of course not; I know." 
 
 Young Morland clutched his hair. "Everyone's
 
 24 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Hcence or whatever it is. And then !" 
 
 "Daddy won't like us 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 m heaven !' 
 
 Another short hour passed before she freed her- 
 self. 
 
 "We must go, Cyril. Kiss me once more; ever 
 such a long one!" 
 
 It was nearly dinner-time, and they ran down. 
 
 4§ 
 
 Edward Pierson, returning from the Evening 
 Service, where he had read the Lessons, saw them 
 in the distance, and compressed his lips. Their long 
 absence had vexed him. What ought he to do? 
 In the presence of Love's young dream, he felt 
 strange and helpless. That night, when he opened 
 the door of his room, he saw Noel on the window- 
 seat, in her dressing-gown, with the moonlight 
 streaming in on her. 
 
 "Don't hght 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 
 tliis week."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 25 
 
 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 ad- 
 mitted a kind of reason in her words. But he said : 
 
 "My dear, you're only a child. Marriage is the 
 most serious thing in Hfe; 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 feehngs, 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 ! 
 1 Be an angel ! Mother would have understood, and 
 let me, I know!"
 
 26 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Httle time, you may regret it dread- 
 fully; 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 I" 
 
 He bit his lips, and said sharply: "You can't, 
 NoUie!" 
 
 She got up, and before he could stop her, was 
 gone. With the closing of the door, his anger evap- 
 orated, 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 steaUng up laid his hand on 
 her head. She did not move; and, stroking her 
 hair, he said gently:
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 27 
 
 "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, scrambUng 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 aimt. 
 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 Ups 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.
 
 Ill 
 
 i. 
 
 PiEESON 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 hght; tense, enig- 
 matic, almost Chinese; kept feehng the feverish 
 touch of her lips. A good girlish burst of tears 
 would have done her good, and been a guarantee. 
 He had the imcomfortable conviction that his re- 
 fusal 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 
 
 28
 
 ''I 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 29 
 
 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 dis- 
 may, but her cheeks grew a httle pinker, and her 
 eyes a httle rounder. She took up a sprig of mi 
 gnonette, and said placidly: 
 Oh, my dear!" 
 
 '■ Thmk 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 hfe 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 that 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 from her.
 
 30 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "I think they're dreadful," he said, staring fix- 
 edly before him. "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 Httle Nollie 
 giving herself for a moment which may come to 
 nothing, or may turn out the beginning of an un- 
 happy 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 NoUie. She can't know the nature of 
 marriage, and she can't reahse 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 to- 
 gether to the avenue. 
 
 The girl began at once:
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 31 
 
 "It isn't any use talking to me, Auntie; Cyril 
 is going to get a licence." 
 
 "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 ought- 
 n'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 ex- 
 tinction, stirred in her. Noel's teeth were clenched, 
 her lips drawn back, and she was staring in front 
 of her, wide-eyed. 
 
 "Daddy oughtn't to mind. Old people haven't 
 to fight, and get kiUed; they oughtn't to mind us 
 taking what we can. They've had their good time." 
 
 It was such a just Httle speech that Thirza an- 
 swered:
 
 32 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 per- 
 haps I'll never have any more of him again." 
 
 Thirza sUpped her hand through the girl's arm. 
 
 "I understand," she said. "Only, NoUie, sup- 
 pose, when all this is over, and we breathe and live 
 naturally once more, you found you'd made a mis- 
 take?" 
 
 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 darhng; but I don't always beHeve 
 what he beheves, you know. Besides, I'm not mak- 
 ing 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 33 
 
 realise. I know he's awfully good, but — ^he*s for- 
 gotten." 
 
 "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 un- 
 derstand. There he is; only, don't keep him long, 
 because I want him. Oh! Auntie, I want him so 
 badly r' 
 
 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 evi- 
 dently 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
 
 34 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Uves 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 wiU begin 
 doing things much earher. What's the use of pre- 
 tending 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, 
 CyrU." 
 
 "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?"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 35 
 
 At that shrewd remark, Thirza put her hand on 
 the hand which still clasped her waist, and pressed 
 it closer. 
 
 "Well, my dear," she said softly, "we must see 
 what can be done." 
 
 Cyril Morland kissed her cheek. "I will bless 
 you for ever," he said. "I haven't got any people, 
 you know, except my two sisters." 
 
 And something like tears started up on Thirza's 
 eyelashes. They seemed to her like the babes in 
 the wood — those two !
 
 IV 
 
 In the dining-room of her father's house in that 
 old London Square between East and West, Gra- 
 tian Laird, in the outdoor garb of a nurse, was 
 writing a telegram: "Reverend Edward Pierson, 
 Kestrel, Tintem, 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 hfe 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 ex- 
 pression of her face was earnest, with a sort of con- 
 stant 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 
 
 36
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 37 
 
 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 fore- 
 head. The lips were just open and showed strong 
 white teeth. He had a Httle 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 Hfe for the individual; she had main- 
 tained there was. They had grown hot and im- 
 patient. 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 
 beHef at this, of all moments. 
 
 Q ;;> - ^.^ Q 
 «*> .'-i* tJ c; tj
 
 38 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 She laid her hand on his. It was warm, felt 
 strong, although so motionless and helpless. George 
 was so vigorous, so aHve, 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 shpped 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 Hght and colour and move- 
 ment and meaning. 
 
 A bumblebee from the Square Garden boomed in 
 and buzzed idly round the room. She caught her 
 breath in a Httle sob. . . . 
 
 Pierson received that telegram at midday, re- 
 turning 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 39 
 
 wire to-morrow morning early. I leave you in your aunt's 
 hands, my dear. Be reasonable and patient. God bless 
 
 ^ * "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 Uved in an age surely not so sad as this. 
 They must have had peaceful Hves, 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 wUl 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.
 
 40 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "Sit dahn; don't 'ang out o' there." 
 
 The soldier flung himseK 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, feeHng 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 reconcihation — 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 41 
 
 "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 d3dng; and one remorseless fellowship 
 with death. Death! The commonest thing in 
 the world, now — commoner than hfe ! 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 be- 
 lieve anything! I've lost the power, Dad; I don't 
 even beheve in a future hfe. If George dies, we 
 shall never meet again."
 
 42 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 beHef, I feel that he 
 was right." 
 
 Pierson said tremulously: 
 
 "No, no, my dear; it's only that you're over- 
 wrought. God in His mercy will give you back be- 
 lief." 
 
 "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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 43 
 
 Pierson pressed her face down to his shoulder; 
 and, sitting rigid, said in a dull voice: 
 
 "What do you think would have happened to 
 me, Gracie, if I had lost behef when your mother 
 died ? I have never lost behef. Pray God I never 
 shaU!" 
 
 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 Hve. I don't be- 
 Heve, and I can't pray." 
 
 "My darhng, you're overtired." 
 
 "No, Dad." She raised her head from his shoul- 
 der 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 trembhng lips, feeUng 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 Httle, 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 loneHness. 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
 
 44 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 confused, helpless, bewildered. Surely if Gratian 
 loved George, she had not left God's side, whatever 
 she might say. Then, conscious of the profound 
 heresy of this thought, he stood still at the open 
 window. 
 
 Earthly love — ^heavenly love; was there any 
 analogy between them? 
 
 From the Square Gardens the indifferent whisper 
 of the leaves answered; and a newsvendor at the 
 far end, bawling his nightly tale of murder. 
 
 3§ 
 
 George Laird passed the crisis of his illness that 
 night, and in the morning was pronounced out of 
 danger. He had a splendid constitution, and — • 
 Scotsman on his father's side — a fighting character. 
 He came back to life very weak, but avid of recov- 
 ery; and his first words were: "I've been hanging 
 over the edge, Gracie!" 
 
 A very high cliff, and his body half over, balanc- 
 ing; one inch, the merest fraction of an inch more, 
 and over he would have gone. Deuced rum sensa- 
 tion ! But not so horrible as it would have been 
 in real life. With the sHp of that last inch he felt 
 he would have passed at once into oblivion, with- 
 out 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 45 
 
 been able to take in the presence of his young wife, 
 able to reahse that he was looking at her face, 
 touching her for the last time — it would have been 
 hell; if he had been up to reahsing sunlight, moon- 
 light, the sound of the world's Hfe outside, the soft- 
 ness 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 man ! 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 
 haK-emancipated breed of apes, the human race. 
 Well, now he would get a few days off from this 
 death-carnival! And he lay, feasting his return- 
 ing 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 volun- 
 teered 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.
 
 46 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 For his father-in-law he had respect and Hking, 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 inter- 
 ested, but often irritated wonder. He saw things 
 so differently himself, and had Httle of the humor- 
 ous curiosity which enjoys what is strange simply 
 because it is strange. They could never talk to- 
 gether 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 
 teU 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 acri- 
 mony, he had expounded himseh at length. 
 
 "I grant," he had said, "that there's a great 
 ultimate Mystery, that we shall never know any- 
 thing for certain about the origin of hfe and the 
 principle of the Universe; but why should we sud- 
 denly 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 hfe, 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 httle twist which is not in mine, or the lack of a
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 47 
 
 little twist which is in mine. Nothing more than 
 that divides us into the two main species of man- 
 kind, one of whom worships, and one of whom 
 doesn't. Oh, yes ! I know — I know, you won't 
 admit that, because it makes your religions natural 
 instead of 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 Uttle 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."
 
 48 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 pecuHar 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 trust- 
 worthy 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 aU 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, Gra- 
 tian 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 49 
 
 He squeezed her hand, and said: "I also want to 
 teU him." 
 ''Dad will say the motive for Hfe is gone." 
 "I say it leaps out all the more, Gracie. What 
 a mess we make of it — we angel-apes 1 When shall 
 we be men, I wonder? You and I, Gracie, will 
 fight for a decent Hfe 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. . . ." 
 
 4§ 
 
 After the rehef 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 burn- 
 ing 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."
 
 so SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 un- 
 disciplined, 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 mar- 
 riage. 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 unfa- 
 vourable, 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 much 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.
 
 I§ 
 
 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 to-night. 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 Hfe 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. IVe 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 good-bye 
 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 
 
 li-
 
 52 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 stem 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 atten- 
 tion to a fish, a bird, a dragon-fly. Wliat use making 
 plans — ^for lovers the chief theme? Longing para- 
 lysed 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 — ex- 
 pecting ! 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: "WTien she's over those trees, Cyril, 
 let's go. It'U be half dark." 
 
 They waited, watching the moon, which crept 
 with infinite slowoiess up and up, brightening ever 
 so Httle every minute. 
 
 ''Now!" said Noel. And IMorland 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 53 
 
 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 do^vn, and brightened till the lichen and the 
 grasses up there were visible; then crept on, silver- 
 ing 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 Hght, 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 !
 
 54 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 efSigy. 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. Goodnight!" 
 
 "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. Rehef at their 
 niece's safe return was confused by other emotions. 
 Bob Pierson expressed his first: 
 
 "Phew! I was beginning to think we should 
 have to drag the river. What girls are coming to !"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 55 
 
 "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 NoUie!" said Bob Pierson suddenly. 
 "She's an affectionate creature. D — n it, I'm 
 sorry about this. It's not so bad for young Mor- 
 land; he's got the excitement — though I shouldn't 
 like to be leaving NoUie, if I were young again. 
 Thank God, neither of our boys are engaged. By 
 George ! when I think of them out there, and my- 
 self here, I feel as if the top of my head would 
 come off. And those pohtician 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 eve- 
 ning. Get to bed, old girl. You'll be fit for noth- 
 ing." 
 
 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, pos- 
 sessed by memory.
 
 VI 
 
 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 head- 
 ache 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 bim, which 
 those in love would always take if Society did not 
 
 56
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 57 
 
 forcibly feed them on other things. Eating was 
 ridiculous to her. She sat there in the midst of a 
 perfect hive of creatures eating hideously. The 
 place was shaped like a modem prison, having tiers 
 of gallery round an open space, and in the air was 
 the smell of food and the clatter of plates and the 
 music of a band. There were men in khaki every- 
 where, 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 aston- 
 ished 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 whisk- 
 ers, and a ghostly thin resemblance to her uncle 
 Bob, which perhaps had been the reason why she 
 had chosen him. 
 
 "Brother goin' out, miss?" 
 
 Noel nodded. 
 
 "Ah ! It's a crool war. I shan't be sorry when 
 it's over. Coin' 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
 
 58 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 to the day the boys come back ! ' When I puts a bag 
 in: 'Another for 'ell,' I thmks. 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' w^hat a lot o' brothers go. 
 Wot oh ! Poor little missy ! A httle lady, too. 
 Wonderful collected she is. It's 'ard ! ' And try- 
 ing to find something consoling to sa}", he mumbled 
 out: ''You couldn't be in a better place for seein' 
 '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 tur- 
 moil of its noise, she felt neither lonely nor con- 
 scious 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 httle clattering bangs, 
 backed on again, and subsided to rest. Noel turned 
 her eyes towards the station archways. Already 
 she felt tremulous, as though the regiment were 
 sending before it the vibration of its march.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 59 
 
 She had not as yet seen a troop-tram 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 remem- 
 bering 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
 
 6o SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 httle 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 httle 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, feehng that she 
 might swoon and fall over among the cans, she with- 
 drew 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 I.'* 
 
 A long whistle sounded. Morland grasped her 
 hands convulsively:
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 6i 
 
 "Good-bye, my little wife! Don't fret. Good- 
 bye ! 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 
 iihe did not know. Tears had formed a mist be- 
 tween her and all that seething, summer-evening 
 crowd. Her eyes mechanically followed the wan- 
 dering search-lights, those new milky ways, quar- 
 tering 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 blocked-out 
 buildings with dream-hfe. Even the hons had come 
 to Ufe, 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
 
 62 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 dreadfully, as if the longing of every bereaved heart 
 in aU the town had settled in her. She felt it to- 
 night a thousand times worse; for, last night she 
 had been drugged on the new sensation of love tri- 
 umphantly fulfilled. Now she felt as if life had 
 placed her in the comer of a huge silent room, 
 blown out the flame of joy, and locked the door. 
 A little dry sob came from her. Oh ! 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. Oh ! 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 swirhng 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 them- 
 selves into her eyes. Cyril was lost, she could not 
 single him out, aU 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 imag- 
 ine me. It's all in the past, only the past — for 
 both of us. Is there anybody so unhappy?' And
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 63 
 
 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 green- 
 ishly imprinted there. She got up in dismay. 
 They would think she was lost, or run over, or some- 
 thing silly ! She could not iind 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 
 poUceman 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 sol- 
 diers, 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."
 
 64 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ii' 
 
 '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 meseh, 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 or- 
 derly, with one of those perfectly decent faces so 
 often seen in the London poHce. 
 
 "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' Eng- 
 lish sometimes — ^it does, straight. And the women 
 are the worst. I said to my wife only last night, I 
 said: 'They caU 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! 'WeU, 
 why do they drop bombs?' she says. 'Wliat!' I
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 65 
 
 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 Ufe!' 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 knock-out. D'you find much hatred in your 
 household, miss?" 
 
 Noel shook her head. "No; my father's a clergy- 
 man, 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' bhghted 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
 
 66 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 poHceman reflec- 
 tively. "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 ahens' 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 poUce. 
 So far as I can see, there's only one good result of 
 the war — burglaries are off. But there again, you 
 wait a bit and see if we don't have a prize crop of 
 'em, or my name's not 'Arris." 
 
 "You must have an awfully exciting life!" said 
 Noel. 
 
 The policeman looked down at her sideways, with- 
 out lowering his face, as only a poHceman can, and 
 said indulgently: 
 
 "We're used to it, you see; there's no excite- 
 ment in what you're used to. They find that in 
 the trenches, I'm told. Take our seamen — there's 
 lota of 'em been blown up over and over again, and
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 67 
 
 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 Httle shopman, one o* 
 those fellows who's had his house bombed; you 
 watch the way he looks at the mess — sort of dis- 
 gusted. 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 fore- 
 head 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 
 againsL 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 tumin' 
 to the right. Good night, and thank you for your 
 conversation." 
 
 Noel held out her hand. " Good night !" she said. 
 
 The pohceman took her hand with a queer, flat- 
 tered 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."
 
 68 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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. 
 
 '' Nolhe ! " he said. "Thank God ! " In his voice 
 was an infinite rehef. "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 sHpped his arm round her. They entered 
 the house without speaking. . . . 
 
 3§ 
 
 By the rail of his transport, as far — about two 
 feet — as he could get from anyone, Cyril Morland 
 stood watching Calais, a dream city, brighten out 
 of the heat and grow soHd. 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 moonUt grass, un- 
 der 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 Pier- 
 son woke with the feeling a ship must have when 
 it makes landfall. Such rehefs 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 hoHday 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 con- 
 tinued to progress, one might go off with Noel some- 
 where for one's last week. In the meantime the old 
 house, w^herein was gathered so much remembrance 
 of happiness and pain, was just as restful as any- 
 where else, and the companionship of his girls 
 would be as sweet as on any of their past ram- 
 bling 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 stiU a barrier between 
 
 69
 
 70 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 him and them came but slowly in the next two daj-s. 
 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 aw^ay, lest he should restrain or 
 alter what was very dear to them. When people 
 are very fond of each other, this is what happens so 
 soon as their natures have set foot on definitely 
 diverging paths. The closer the affection, the more 
 watchful they are against interference by that affec- 
 tion. 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, 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. There he knew 
 what an encounter was before him; a struggle be- 
 tween 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 for- 
 ward to this encounter. It came on the third day, 
 when Laird was up, lying on that very sofa where
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 71 
 
 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 jaw and those heavy cheek-bones 
 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 httle squeeze. 
 
 "Well, George," he said, "you gave us a dread- 
 ful fright! I thank God's mercy." With that 
 haK-mechanical phrase he had flung an uncon- 
 scious challenge, and 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 teUs 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, v,ho 
 came to him, and stood clasping it with her own. 
 
 "WeU, /'w going to argue," he said; "I'm simply 
 bursting with it. I chaUenge you, sir, to show me 
 where there's any sign of altruistic pity, except in
 
 72 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 quahty 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 udll stretch for as long again, before 
 the earth bumps into something, and becomes 
 nebula once more. God's hands haven't been par- 
 ticularly 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 fasliion of talking. Man's 
 highest quahty is the sense of proportion, for that's 
 what keeps him alive; and mercy, logically pur- 
 sued, 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. 

 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 73 
 
 "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 beUeve in His supematurahiess 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 wiKully blind to 
 all that I believe in. For what do you imagine we 
 are fighting this great war, if it is not to re-estab- 
 lish the beHef in love as the guiding principle of 
 Hfe?" 
 
 Laird shook his head. "We are fighting to re- 
 dress the 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- 
 truths, 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 soHd for punish-
 
 74 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ment of the evil-doer. Where's mercy there? 
 Either its God is not merciful, or else it doesn't 
 beheve 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, 1 am aU 
 for it." 
 
 Once more Pierson looked at his daughter. Some- 
 thing 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 modem 
 spirit ? '
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 75 
 
 Down in his study, the words went through his 
 mind: "Holy, holy, holy, Merciful and Mighty!" 
 And going to the little piano in the comer, 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 
 liim look up. Gratian had come in. She put her 
 riand 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 ac- 
 cord. 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 dif- 
 fering 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. Elnowledge was all smoke! Emotional 
 faith alone was truth — reality ! 
 
 "Ah, Gracie!" he said, "search if you must, but
 
 76 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 where will you find bottom? The well is too deep 
 for us. You will come back to Gk)d, my child, when 
 you're tired out; the only rest is there." 
 
 "I don't want to rest. Some people search all 
 their Hves, 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 
 imhappy. I don't beheve it ought to be; I thint 
 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 tci 
 happiness." 
 
 "Are you happy. Dad?" 
 
 "As happy as my nature will let me be. I mis! 
 your mother. If I lose you and Noel " 
 
 "Oh, but we won't let you !" 
 
 Pierson smiled. "My dear," he said, "I think 
 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 hps into a sort of smile. 
 He was one of those rolling-stone EngUshmen, 
 whose early Uves are spent in all parts of the world, 
 and in all kinds of physical conflict — a man like a 
 hickory stick, taU, 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 Enghshman. Though he was nearly forty, 
 there was stiU 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 
 stiU 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 Ofi&ce in connec- 
 tion with horses, about which he knew. He did 
 not Uke it, having Hved too long with all sorts and 
 
 77
 
 78 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 conditions of men who were neither English nor 
 ofi&cial, 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 excep- 
 tionally tantalising. 
 
 Reaching his rooms, he threw off his tunic, to 
 whose stiff regularity he still had a rooted aver- 
 sion; 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 morahty, would cer- 
 tainly have the best of it to-night, for no more dew 
 was faUing 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 j 
 grey houses, in huge caravanserais, and the man- 
 sions of the great, in villas, and high slum tene- 
 ments; 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 barracks, work- , 
 houses, palaces — ^no head, sleeping or waking, would I 
 be free of that thought : ' The cursed war ! ' A spire 
 
 I
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 79 
 
 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 wouldn't 
 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 strug- 
 gling 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 joumahsts sleepmg 
 the sleep of the just. And over them all, in the 
 moonhght that thought ' The cursed war ! ' would 
 flap 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 httle red eyes of them. And pulling a 
 letter out of his pocket, he read it again by the Hght 
 of the moon:
 
 So SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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, j&ve 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 Hke that. Listerine ! Oh ! This war I 
 
 "With all good remembrances, 
 
 "Leila Lynch." 
 
 A terrific time! If he did not mistake, Leila 
 L3aich 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 let- 
 ter. 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 re- 
 mounts, and a dull job it is ! ' Leila Lynch ! Women 
 didn't get younger, and he suspected her of being
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 8i 
 
 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 dis- 
 mal 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 ! ' Ajid he gazed 
 at the moon. She was dipping already, reeUng 
 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 Hght, shuttered 
 and deserted as Babylon. Jimmy Fort tapped out! 
 his pipe, sighed, and got into bed.
 
 82 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 j 
 as a rule took the day watches; but some shght 
 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 Httle too rigidified by stays. In this 
 desert of the dawn she let her long blue overcoat 
 flap loose, and swung her hat on a linger, so that 
 her Ught-brown, touched-up hair took the morning 
 breeze with fluffy freedom. Though she could not 
 see herseff, 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 83 
 
 besides Cousin Edward Pierson, and at eighteen 
 had made a passionate love match with a good- 
 looking young Indian ci\inan, named Fane. They 
 had loved each other to a standstill in twelve months. 
 Then had begim 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 foUowed remarriage ; 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 Hfe 
 with hun 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, hke 
 most soldiers of the old Army, had been most care- 
 fully divested of an aesthetic sense. And it was 
 Leila's misfortune to have moments when an aes- 
 thetic sense seemed necessary. She had struggled 
 to overcome this weakness, and that other weak- 
 ness of hers — a liking for man'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 in- 
 tervals, and when he went back to England so 
 abruptly, she had been feehng 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
 
 «4 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 the invalided man to whom she had joined her hfe 
 imder 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 hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds a year. Faced by the pros- 
 pect 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 ac- 
 tress; but, after much effort, found that only her 
 voice and the perfect preservation of her legs were 
 appreciated by the discerning managers and pubhc 
 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 
 many more respectable ladies would have done, in 
 her shoes. At least she never bemoaned her 're- 
 duced 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 sym- 
 pathy with the hardships of others. But she be- 
 came deadly tired. When the war broke out, re- 
 membering 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 Ufa 
 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 85 
 
 But in a hard school she had learned perfect self- 
 control; and though the sour and puritanical per- 
 ceived 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 di- 
 rect 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 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 'Hfe,' for pleasure, for 
 something more than the mere negative admiration 
 bestowed on her by her 'Tommies.' Those old let- 
 ters — to look them through 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 so long 
 out of England, and so hard-worked since she came 
 back; 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 awak- 
 ened within her certain sentimental longings. 
 
 "Dear Lady of the Starry Flowers, 
 
 " Exiturus (sic) te saluto ! The tender carries you this 
 message of good-bye. Simply speaking, I hate leaving
 
 86 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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, 
 
 ''Jimmy 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, de- 
 voted, absent-minded, so 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 limatic, in my dress 
 clothes. Dear Leila, you were so pretty last night, and I 
 did love our dances. I hope you're not tired, and that 1 
 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 87 
 
 eft for South Africa, at that period of disgrace when 
 ihe had so shocked her family by her divorce. 
 Poor Edward — quite the nicest of her cousins ! The 
 )nly one she would care to see again. He would be 
 /ery old and terribly good and proper, by now ! 
 
 Her wheel of Regent's Park was coming full 
 :ircle, and the sun was up behind the houses, but 
 ;till no sound of traffic stirred. She stopped be- 
 ore a flower-bed where was some heliotrope, and 
 ;ook a long, luxurious sniff. She could not resist 
 3lucking a sprig, too, and holding it to her nose. 
 \ sudden want of love had run through every nerve 
 md fibre of her; she shivered, standing there with 
 ler eyes half closed, above the pale violet blossom, 
 rhen, noting by her wrist-watch that it was four 
 )'clock, she hurried on, to get to her bed, for she 
 Nonld have to be on duty again at noon. Oh ! the 
 ivar ! She was tired I If only it were over, and 
 Dne could live ! . . . 
 
 Somewhere by Twickennam the moon had floated 
 lown; somewhere up from Kentish Town the sun 
 :ame soaring; wheels rolled again, and the seven 
 nilhon sleepers in their million houses woke from 
 Horning sleep to that same thought. . . ,
 
 DC 
 
 Edward Pterson, 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 mio 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 shovild 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 Uttle letter you once wrote me; 
 it brought back old days." 
 
 No ! He had not forgotten. There was a re- 
 minder 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 Hke to see her. I will 
 
 88
 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 89 
 
 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 Hve 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, 
 NolHe," 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 mov- 
 ing 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
 
 90 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 chan- 
 cel. 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 waUs, under high vaulted roof, where Ught was 
 toned to a perpetual twilight, broken here and there 
 by a httle 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 stag- 
 gered on the paved street, and the driver shouted 
 to his horses; some distant guns boomed out in 
 practice, and the roUing 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, stand- 
 ing there, a Httle black figure in a great empty 
 space.
 
 u 
 It 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 91 
 
 When he left the church, it was still rather early 
 to go to Leila's hospital; and, having ordered the 
 new h}^Tnn-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. 
 T 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-bum; 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 excite- 
 ment 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
 
 92 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 on. We must all look forward to meeting our be- 
 loved 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 no- 
 tice 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 Pier- 
 son!" 
 
 He looked into her face, which he had not yet 
 observed.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 93 
 
 "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 Httle like you." But he thought: 'My 
 NoUie ! So much more dewy; poor Leila !' 
 
 They walked on, talking of his daughters, till they 
 reached the hospital. 
 
 "If you'll wait here just 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 back, and a little warmth 
 crept about his heart. How works of mercy suited 
 women ! She looked so different, so much softer, 
 with those big grey eyes beneath the white coif, and 
 that white apron over the bluish frock. 
 
 At the change in his face, a httle warmth crept 
 about Leila, too, just where the bib of her apron 
 stopped; and her eyes shd 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
 
 94 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 signifi- 
 cance. 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 famihar 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 rever- 
 ently, Pierson said: 
 
 ''Well, my dear feUow— stiU 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 'angs a bit 'eavy; it's just 'orspital fife. 
 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'U get my discharge."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 95 
 
 "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 bhnd had been 
 drawn up a Httle. 
 
 "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
 
 96 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 smothered myseK. Just managed to keep me nose 
 
 up." 
 
 Pierson shuddered. "Thank God you did!" 
 
 "Yes; I didn't Hke 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 gram- 
 ophone 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 recov- 
 ered." 
 
 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 uncon- 
 trollable impulse made him move into it, so that 
 it warmed him up to the waist. The mud ! How 
 ugly hfe 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,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 97 
 
 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 sup- 
 per 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 beHeve 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.
 
 X 
 
 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 taU child whom he met there did not 
 drink it, and her father seemed but to wet his Hps, 
 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 dayHght, 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 
 
 98
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 99 
 
 glasses with hock cup in them; on his left, Leila 
 in a low lilac frock, her neck and shoulders very 
 white, her face a httle powdered, her eyes large, her 
 lips smiling; opposite him a black-clothed padre 
 with a Httle 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 m 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 Httle tumbled; her big grey 
 eyes grave; her full Hps shaping with a strange 
 daintiness round every word — and they not many; 
 briUiant red shades over golden Hghts dotting the 
 black walls; a blue divan; a Httle black piano flush 
 with the waU; a dark polished floor; four Japanese 
 prints; a white ceiHng. 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 weU 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, Hke a child Hstening to 
 a fairy-tale, never moved her eyes from his face. 
 He remembered that after supper they all smoked 
 cigarettes, even the taU child, after the padre had 
 said to her mildly, "My dear!" and she had an- 
 swered: "I simply must, Daddy, just one." He re- 
 membered Leila brewing Turkish coffee — very good,
 
 loo SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 and how beautiful her white anns 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 
 Ukeness 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 re- 
 membered 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 hngering 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 pubHc 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 tail 
 child and himself stood in the open doorway, where 
 the hall beyond was dark. Very exactly he remem- 
 bered the Uttle 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.'*
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS loi 
 
 "Is it dangerous all the time?" 
 
 *Tretty 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 
 httle 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 
 Httle 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.
 
 102 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 tc. 
 
 Good night," she murmured; "thank you aw- 
 fully." 
 
 And, in the dark cab again, he remembered think- 
 ing : ' Fancy that child ! A jolly lucky boy, out 
 there ! Too bad ! Poor little fairy princess ! '
 
 PART II
 
 I§ 
 
 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 nurs- 
 ing, had very httle leisure, and in the evenings 
 would often fall asleep in the drawing-room 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 hne; 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 httle 
 word of the longing within them. 
 
 It was towards the end of August that 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' with- 
 
 los
 
 io6 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 out understanding a word. While she was so en- 
 gaged 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, and thought: 'He was out there, 
 too, and he's ahve; he's only got a Httle 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. WiH you?" 
 
 "I want one awfully." 
 
 Fort made a funny little sound. 
 
 "I think sitting still and waiting is more dreadful 
 than anything else in the world," said Noel sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "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 crudest thing 
 in this 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
 
 SAINT'S.. PROGRESS 107 
 
 mother old ? " But of course she was old — ^why he 
 was old himself! 
 
 "She died last Christmas." 
 
 He said it in a matter-of-fact voice, but his face 
 went all wrinkled; and Noel murmured: 
 
 "Oh! I'm so sorry!" 
 
 "One doesn't know how fond one is till one loses. 
 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 pas- 
 tel, very faint in colouring, as though faded, of a 
 young woman, with an eager, sweet face, and dark 
 eyes, who was leaning a httle forward, as if ques- 
 tioning her painter. Fort went up to it. 
 
 "It's not a bit like you. But she must have been 
 a very sweet woman." 
 
 "I think 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." 
 
 Noel shook her head. " She was good." 
 And aren't you?" 
 Oh ! no. I get a devil." 
 
 He looked down at her quizzically. "You! 
 Why, you're out of a fairy-tale !" 
 
 "It comes from Daddy — only he doesn't know 
 that; and nobody else does, either, because he's a 
 perfect saint; but I know he's had a devil some- 
 where, or he couldn't be the saint he is." 

 
 io8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 devU." 
 
 Vividly there had come before her the dark Ab- 
 bey, 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 joUy thing to have." 
 
 Noel shook her head. "Oh! no, I think it's like 
 drinking, and then being sorry. 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 !
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 109 
 
 In September, 191 6, 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 stiU 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 Ufe idle and sheltered and 
 useless. Even in times of peace he had been sensi- 
 tive 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 some- 
 thing of a parasite, with no real work in the world. 
 And since he was nothing if not conscientious, he 
 alv/ays 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, when 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.
 
 no SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 From ten to eleven he had gone back to his ser- 
 mon, and had spent from eleven to one at his church, 
 attending to small matters, writing notices, fixing 
 hymns, holding the daily half-hour Service insti- 
 tuted during war-time, to which but few ever came. 
 He had hurried back to limch, scamping it so that 
 he might get to his piano for an hour of forget- 
 fulness. 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 hah-past 
 nine he had spent in choir practice, because the 
 organist was on his hohday. 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS ill 
 
 — 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 NoUie still tb'nk 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 Httle 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 cos- 
 tumed, 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 raihngs. 
 
 "You must come back in, NoUie." 
 
 "Oh, no! Cyril has this ever>' day.'*
 
 112 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Pier- 
 son'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 up- 
 stairs. 
 
 Again he followed, mounting by a ladder, through 
 a trap-door 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 terri- 
 ble!' 
 
 Over the wide, dark, star-strewn sky travelling 
 search-lights were Hghting up the few Httle 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 rum- 
 bled out. 
 
 "A bomb! Oh! If we could only get one of 
 the Zeps!" 
 
 A furious outburst of firing followed, lasting per- 
 haps a minute, then ceased as if by magic. They 
 saw two search-lights converge and meet right over- 
 head. 
 
 "It's above us!" murmured Noel. 
 
 Pierson put his arm round her waist. * She feels
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 113 
 
 no fear!' he thought. The search-lights switched 
 apart; and suddenly, from far away, came a con- 
 fusion 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 sud- 
 denly the heavens flared, as if some huge jug of 
 crimson light had been flung out on them. Some- 
 thing 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 pitfless: 
 "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, NolHe!" he whispered. "O God, 
 Who in Thy great mercy has deHvered 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
 
 114 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 hap- 
 pened to it. There it stood in the sunlight; tall, 
 grey, quiet, imharmed, with bell ringing gently. 
 
 3§ 
 
 And at that hour Cyril Morland, under the para- 
 pet of his trench, tightening his belt, was looking 
 at his wrist-watch for the hundredth time, cal- 
 culating 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 hne 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 put-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 115 
 
 tees- 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 
 outHne 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 
 aU his breath — this rifle, and kit was 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 sheU from close over his head 
 burst sixty yards ahead; he stumbled, fell flat,
 
 ii6 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 dechvity. 
 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 stumbhng in. The 
 roar of the guns was louder than ever again, bar- 
 raging the second line. So far, good! And here 
 was his captain ! 
 
 ''Ready, boys? On, then!" 
 
 This time he moved more slowly still, over ter- 
 rible going, all holes and hummocks. Half con- 
 sciously he took cover all he could. The air was 
 alive with the whistle from machine-gun fire storm- 
 ing 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 see the men 
 faUing, 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! 
 NoAv I shall go home. Thank God! Oh, Noel!*
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 117 
 
 The passing bullets whirled above him; he could 
 hear them even through the screech and thunder of 
 the shell-lire. 'The beastly thhigs!' he thought. 
 A voice beside him gasped out: 
 
 "It's Hfted, 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 spin- 
 ning up his arm. 'Luck agam ! ' he tliought. 'Now 
 for it ! I haven't seen a German yet ! ' He leaped 
 forward, spun round, flung up his arms, and feU on 
 his back, shot through and through. . . . 
 
 4§ 
 
 The position was consolidated, as they say, and 
 in the darkness stretcher-bearers were out over the 
 half-mile. Like wiU-o'-the-wisps, with their shaded 
 lanterns, they moved, hour after hour, slowly quar- 
 tering the black honeycomb which lay behind the 
 new British hne. Now and then in the Hght 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 feU on face and breast. 
 The hands of the searcher moved in that little pool
 
 ii8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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; wrist- 
 watch; 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, 
 immoved, 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.
 
 n 
 
 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, obhvious of his surroundings. He re- 
 mained 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 stand- 
 ing 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 comer of Leila's lips. 
 She was thinking: *Ah! Your Church is out of 
 date, my dear, and so are j^ou ! Your Church, with 
 its smell of mould and incense, its stained-glass, and 
 narrowed length, and droning organ. Poor Edward, 
 
 119
 
 I20 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 flushed, 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 remem- 
 ber that May Week, Edward? We were very 
 young then; even you were young. That was 
 such a pretty Httle 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 vioHnist 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 de- 
 vout stars were shining in a sunHt noon, above 
 ecstatic trees and waters where ecstatic swans were 
 swimming. 
 
 "Queer world, Mr. Pierson! Fancy those boys 
 having to go back to barrack Hfe 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!"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 121 
 
 "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, Httle bits of the back- 
 woods, 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 Hke 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 him- 
 self, 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 Pier- 
 son 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 con- 
 cert, parting from the other two at the door. He 
 sHpped his hand through her arm; and, following 
 out those thoughts of his in the concert-hall, asked : 
 Do you hke Captain Fort, NoUie?" 
 Yes; he's a nice man." 
 
 He seems a nice man, certainly; he has a nice 
 smile, but strange views, I'm afraid.'* 

 
 122 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 poHceman 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, NoUie; 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 danger- 
 
 ous." 
 
 "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 Ufe." 
 
 "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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 123 
 
 Noel went to the dining-room to drink her hot 
 milk. The curtains were not drawn, and bright 
 moonUght 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 sum- 
 mon 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 Usts, with the superstitious feeling that 
 to do so would keep him out of them. She took i > 
 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 aU, 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
 
 124 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Kttle NoUie! 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 readi- 
 ness 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 him- 
 self, and, putting back the hair from her forehead, 
 said: 
 
 "Come in here a moment, my darHng !" 
 
 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 outburst. 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 125 
 
 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.
 
 Ill 
 
 On leaving the concert Leila and Jimmy Fort 
 had secured a taxi; a vehicle which, at night, in 
 war-time, 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 Con- 
 stantia had smelled so much sweeter than petrol. 
 
 When Leila found herseK with Fort in that lone- 
 liness 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, cUng to beauty; take all you can get, before 
 your face gets lined and your hair grey; it is impos- 
 sible 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 ad- 
 
 126
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 127 
 
 mire 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 
 yotmg 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 feel- 
 ings known, in sudden shyness she found it very 
 difi&cult. Love, to which for quite three years she 
 had been a stranger, was come to hfe within her. 
 The knowledge was at once so sweet, and so dis- 
 turbing, that she sat with face averted, unable to 
 turn the precious minutes to account. They ar- 
 rived 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; smiHng a Httle, recalling the 
 nose of the fairy princess, and the dainty way her 
 lips shaped the words she spoke. If she had not
 
 128 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 fairy-tales. 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 ofif-fore ! No fairy princesses for him I 
 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 gannent 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 won- 
 dered 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 Hved for two years. Oh, Jimmy! 
 Help me to live a little 1 Life's so short, now." 
 
 Her eyes disturbed him, strained and pathetic; 
 the sight of her arms; the scent of the flower dis- 
 turbed him; he felt his cheeks growing warm, and 
 looked down.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 129 
 
 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 pen- 
 sive. She was a good sort, a pretty creature, a 
 sportswoman, an enchantress; but — she was de- 
 cidedly mature. And here he was— mvolved in 
 helping her to 'live'; involved almost alarmingly, 
 for there had been no mistaking the fact that she 
 had reaUy 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 hfe he had been peeping into fairy- 
 land 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
 
 I30 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 wanderings, was soft, he had always found it diffi- 
 cult 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, Hhe 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 giv- 
 ing way in his leg, and having to spend the night 
 on a door-step, that he had plenty of time for rumi- 
 nation; 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 hfe all over! Poor 
 Leila! Me miserum, too, perhaps — ^who knows!'
 
 IV 
 
 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 
 kiUed." 
 
 She dropped his hand, and her eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 "Oh, no! Poor child! It's too cruel!" The 
 tears rolled down her cheeks, clearing Httle runlets 
 through the fight film of powder there, and, con- 
 sciously, she rubbed them over with a tiny hand- 
 kerchief. "Poor, poor fittle 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 
 
 131
 
 132 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 op- 
 posed to it." 
 
 Leila's Hp curled ever so little. *You would be !' 
 she thought. 
 
 "I couldn't bear to think of Nollie giving herself 
 hastily, Uke 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 133 
 
 Then at the surprise on his face at this little out- 
 burst, 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 their hour 
 of bhss. Even an hour of bliss is worth something 
 in these days." 
 
 "To those who only believe in this Hfe — ^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 both of hers; and though 
 she was afraid he would sit down again, she could 
 not for the Hfe of her help a soft glance into his 
 eyes, and a Httle rush of pitying warmth in the pres- 
 sure 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 up the stairs 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
 
 134 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 soUdity 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 be- 
 thought herself. She went to the Httle 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 didn't 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, think- 
 ing 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 jolt- 
 ing, and let her recover properly? They went up- 
 stairs 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 Uttle side- 
 board, 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 
 
 135
 
 136 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 drank. It was excellent champagne, and, since 
 Noel had never yet touched alcohol, had an instan- 
 taneous 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 say- 
 ing: "There, there; my love! There, there ! '* 
 
 At last the girl raised herself; now that the pallid, 
 mask-like 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, cross- 
 ing 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 any- 
 thing — only just loved each other. God likes pun- 
 ishing; 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 Hve. 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 off these wild 
 wanderings. Like most women who live simply 
 the life of their senses and emotions, she was or- 
 thodox, or rather never speculated on such things.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 137 
 
 "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 com- 
 mon walks of Hfe — why! now, it was a tragedy! 
 Instinctively she raised herseK 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?"
 
 138 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 con- 
 demned 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 Hfe 
 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 139 
 
 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 ceiHng. Then Noel got up from the divan, and 
 went over to the piano. She was still in her hos- 
 pital 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 Httle French song, whose first line ran : ''Si on 
 estjolie,jolie comme vous." It was soft, gay, charm- 
 ing. 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. Good-bye!" Leila 
 could only grasp the girl's hand, and say: "My dear, 
 that's splendid. There's many a sHp — ^besides, it's 
 war-time."
 
 I40 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Re- 
 gent Street. She had received a certain measure 
 of comfort, been steadied by her experienced cousin's 
 vitahty, 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; be- 
 sides, she knew nothing of the world, its feeHngs 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, refine- 
 ment, tradition, upbringing, which had pushed her 
 on in such haste to make sure of union — the irrepres- 
 sible pulse of life faced with annihilation — seemed 
 to revive within her, and make her terrible secret 
 almost precious. She had read about " War babies' *
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 141 
 
 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 ahve within her ! A glow 
 came into her face, walking among the busy shop- 
 ping 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, be- 
 fore going in, and only lost that exalted feeling when, 
 in her own httle room, she had taken up his photo- 
 graph, 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 
 feU asleep exhausted, with the little tear-stained 
 photo clutched in her twitching fingers. She woke 
 with a start. It was dark, and someone was knock- 
 ing 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: 
 
 "NoUie! NoUie!" ^'
 
 142 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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, NolUe. I was 
 quite frightened. I went round to the hospital to 
 bring you home, and they told me about your faint- 
 ing. 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. Extrava- 
 gance in war-time ! 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 hghting 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 an- 
 swered quietly too; "Good night, Daddy dear!" 
 kissed him, and shut the door.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 143 
 
 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 fireUght 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.
 
 VI 
 
 I§ 
 
 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 dis- 
 aster 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 be- 
 loved 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 
 
 144
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 145 
 
 ^lone, went into the recreation room, and stood 
 watching a game of bagatelle between two con- 
 valescents. When he returned to the little sitting- 
 room they were still standing by the hearth, talking 
 in low voices. Gratian must surely have been stoop- 
 ing over the fire, for her face was red, almost swollen, 
 and her eyes looked as if she had scorched them. 
 
 Leila said Hghtly: 
 
 " Well, Edward, aren't the men dehghtful ? 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 Nolhe 
 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 Vv^hen 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
 
 146 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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, NoUie!" 
 
 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 any- 
 one's. I can always go away, and lose myself."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 147 
 
 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 Hps quivered so that she had to stop 
 and bite them, to keep back a rush of tears. "Be- 
 sides 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, humihating! 
 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 dijBFerence, 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.
 
 148 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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. 
 
 "NoUie 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. 
 NoUie was such a child ! He had committed sac- 
 rilege. 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 for- 
 gotten herself hke that! And this boy! If she 
 had known him, that feeling might have been miti- 
 gated 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 be- 
 tween her and her sister. However she might dis- 
 guise it, Noel would feel that judgment under- 
 neath. 
 
 She stripped off her nurse's garb, put on an 
 evening frock, and fidgeted about the room. Any-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 149 
 
 thing 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, 
 girHsh 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 Nolhe! Awful! Then Noel turned, 
 and gave a Httle 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 deter- 
 mined that they should not talk about her. Gra- 
 tian 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 Httle grunt. Gratian saw his eyes
 
 I50 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 contract, as they might have, perhaps, looking at 
 some bad and compHcated 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 her- 
 self, a test of the quality of the man she had mar- 
 ried. He did not speak for a little, and her anxiety 
 grew. Then his hand sought hers, and gave it a 
 hard squeeze. 
 
 "Poor httle NoUie! 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 ! " 
 
 "'Z>e mortuis.' Come, Gracie! In the midst of 
 death we are in life! NoUie 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 Chris- 
 tianity." 
 
 "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 some- 
 how. If he does hear, we must make him feel that 
 NoUie was 'doing her bit.'"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 151 
 
 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 deeply 
 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, con- 
 fronting Ufe always in the experimental spirit, he 
 was impatient of the : "How awful ! " attitude. And 
 this streak of her father's ascetic traditionahsm 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 pos- 
 sible as putting a new staircase in a house, or throw- 
 ing two rooms into one. And, taking her in his 
 arms, he said: "I know; but it'U all come right, if 
 we put a good face on it. Shall I talk to NoUie?" 
 
 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, invalua- 
 ble in men who have to inflict as well as to alleviate 
 pain, but he did not like his mission "a Uttle bit" 
 as he would have said; and he proposed a walk be- 
 cause he dreaded a scene. Noel accepted for the 
 same reason. She liked George, and with the dis-
 
 152 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 j 
 
 interested detachment of a sister-in-law, and the 
 shrewdness of 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 direc- 
 tion, 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 liis arm 
 from the automatic-toy game which the mihtary 
 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 aU.' 
 
 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 spuming voice, ab- 
 solutely 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 153 
 
 "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 Hke 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: 
 
 "Grade'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 diffi- 
 culty 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: 
 
 "Lifers going to be the important thing in the 
 future, Nolhe; not comfort and cloistered virtue 
 and security; but living, and pressure to the square 
 inch. Do you twig? All the old hard-and-fast
 
 154 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 traditions and drags on life are in the melting-pot. 
 Death's boiling their bones, and they'll make excel- 
 lent 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 improp- 
 erly, 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 Hke to go, and I'll arrange 
 it somehow." 
 
 She looked round at him, and under that young, 
 clear, brooding gaze he had the sudden uncom- 
 fortable feeling of having spoken like a charlatan. 
 Had he really touched the heart of the matter? 
 What good were his generahties to this young, fas- 
 tidiously 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 155 
 
 Then she said quietly: 
 
 ''ShaU I teU Daddy or not?" 
 
 He wanted to say: "No," but somehow couldn't. 
 After aU, the straightforward course was probably 
 the best. For this would have to be a lifelong con- 
 cealment. 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, NolHe; it'll be time 
 enough in two months. Then tell him, or let me." 
 
 She shook her head. "No; I wiU, if it is to be 
 done." 
 
 He put his hand on hers, mthin his arm, and 
 gave it a squeeze. 
 
 "What shaU 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 
 wiU." 
 
 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, NoUie! 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 sus- 
 pected, 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 mth them? The loneli- 
 ness of her own hfe now forced her to this specula- 
 tion 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 de- 
 tached. 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 Ufe, and queer places, and peo- 
 
 156
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 157 
 
 pie — 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 feel- 
 ing that hfe and experience was 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 Hfe' to take her thoughts off 
 herself. But on her journeys to and from the hos- 
 pital she had more than one odd Httle 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
 
 158 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 
 stiU 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, be- 
 hind her, the shining shop seemed to exhale a per- 
 fumed breath of rehef. 
 
 "You can't go back to work," she said to the 
 woman. "Where do you live?" 
 
 "'Omsey, 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!"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 159 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes. 'Ere's my Tdus. Thank you 
 kindly, miss." 
 
 Noel saw her borne awav, 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 o\mi trouble till 
 she had almost reached the hospital. 
 
 Another November day, a Saturday, lea\-ing 
 early, she walked to H}'de Park. The plane-trees 
 were just at the height of their spotted beauty. 
 Few — ver}' few — yellow leaves still hung ; and the 
 slender pretty trees seemed rejoicing in their free- 
 dom from summer foliage. All their dehcate boughs 
 and twigs were shaking and dancing in the wind; 
 and their rain-washed leopard-like bodies had a 
 hthe un-English gaiety. Noel passed do^n their 
 Hne, 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 \'ista of the Park Lane houses through the gay 
 plane-tree screen. He was a tall man, about forty, 
 e\ddently foreign, \\ith a thin, long, oval beardless 
 face, high brow, large grey eyes which looked as if 
 he suffered from headaches and hved much within 
 himself. He cast many glances at her, and, pur- 
 suant of her new interest iu 'hfe' she watched him 
 discreetly; a httle 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 ver}- kindly allow me to make a
 
 i6o" SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 httle 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 snuled 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 hap- 
 pened. There is Fate in them, and a look of de- 
 fending us others from seeing it. We have not 
 such faces in my country; we are simpler; we do 
 not defend our expressions. The EngHsh 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 Enghsh 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 Enghsh do things
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS i6i 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly become tragical. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "everybody. Tragedy is daily 
 bread. I have lost my family; they are in Bel- 
 gium. 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, second- 
 sighted look. 
 
 "Have you nearly finished?" she asked.
 
 i62 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 paint- 
 
 ing." 
 
 "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, made-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 163 
 
 aoiselle. May I ask you one question? Why do 
 
 ou not want to be painted?" 
 j "Because — because I don't, I'm afraid." She 
 'leld out her hand. The painter bowed over it. 
 ^Au revoir, mademoiselle.'^ 
 
 "Thank you," said Noel; "it was awfully inter- 
 ;sting." And she walked away. The sky had be- 
 ;ome full of clouds round the westerly sun; and the 
 oreign crinkled tracery of the plane-tree branches 
 igainst that French-grey, golden-edged mass, was 
 /ery lovely. Beauty, and the troubles of others, 
 >oothed her. She felt sorry for the painter, but his 
 lyes saw too much! And his words: "If ever you 
 ict differently from others," made her feel him un- 
 :anny. Was it true that people always disliked 
 md condemned those who acted differently? If 
 ler old schoolfellows now knew what was before 
 ler, how would they treat her? In her father's 
 jtudy hung a little reproduction of a tiny picture 
 n the Louvre, a * Rape of Europa,' by an unknown 
 painter — a humorous deHcate thing, of an enrap- 
 :ured, fair-haired girl mounted on a prancing white 
 Dull, crossing a shallow stream, while on the bank 
 ill her white girl-companions were gathered, tuni- 
 ng half-sour, half-envious faces away from that 
 Loo-fearful spectacle, while one of them tried with 
 timid desperation to mount astride of a sitting cow, 
 md follow. The face of the girl on the bull had 
 Dnce 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.
 
 i64 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 Suppose one of them had been in her position 
 * Should I have been turning my face away, like th< i 
 rest? I wouldn't — ^no, I wouldn't,' she thought 
 *I should have understood!' But she knew then 
 was a kind of false emphasis in her thought. In 
 stinctively she felt the painter right. One whc 
 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 pre- 
 vent 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 daugh- 
 ter, that Pierson took refuge in an attempt at wit. 
 "I should like notice of that question, NoUie, as 
 they say in Parliament."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 165 
 
 ,>i. j> 
 
 "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 rebelUous 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 hfe 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 bulHes. 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 be- 
 tween 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
 
 i66 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 com- 
 pelled 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 alter- 
 ing 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 down- 
 right, 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 per- 
 sonal 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 it- 
 self 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 bum them- 
 selves 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 
 Fane 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 ideaHse 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 experi- 
 ence puzzled her, kept her instincts painfully on the 
 alert. It was perhaps just this uncertainty about 
 
 167
 
 i68 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 his afltection 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 hav- 
 ing told him of Cyril Morland's death. One day 
 fshe 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
 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 169 
 
 about it. The boy is dead, as you know. Yes, ter- 
 rible, 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, in- 
 stead, 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:
 
 lyo SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 Man- 
 sions 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 damty young creature as 
 that girl without being upset! Why, it was the 
 most perfectly damnable news he had ever heard ! 
 What on earth would she do — ^poor little fairy prin- 
 cess ! Down had come her house of cards with a 
 vengeance! The whole of her Hfe — the whole of 
 her hfe ! 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, beau-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 171 
 
 tiful 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 
 ha\dng reached the house, he nearly went away 
 again. WTiile he stood hesitating with his hand 
 on the bell, a girl and a soldier passed, appearing 
 as if by magic out of the moonht November mist, 
 blurred and soHd 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 briUiant, 
 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 intro- 
 duced 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, Cap- 
 tain Fort," said the man in khaki; "delighted to 
 have your help. I was just saying that this partic- 
 ular world has no particular importance, no more 
 than a newspaper-seller would accord to it if it were 
 completely destroyed to-morrow — ' 'Orrible catas-
 
 172 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 trophe, 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 fric- 
 tion 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, red- 
 dened, and began to speak in French, which Fort 
 followed with difficulty. 
 
 ''For me the Universe is a limitless artist, mon- 
 sieur , who from all time and to all time is ever ex- 
 pressing 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 Httle lives rim 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 under- 
 stand 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 173 
 
 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 be- 
 fore, 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 tmce alike, but always fresh — fresh 
 worlds, fresh individuals, fresh flowers, fresh every- 
 thing. I do not see anything depressing in that. 
 To me it would be depressing to think that I would 
 go on Hving after death, or Uve again in a new body, 
 myself yet not myseh. 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 tvv^o 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 Work- 
 ing 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 hap- 
 pens to be this and not that, the all and not the 
 nothing." 
 
 He stopped speaking, and his big eyes, which had
 
 174 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 ar- 
 tist'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 hre. 
 
 "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 definite 
 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 175 
 
 feeling that she wasn't really listening. "I suspect 
 I 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 tem- 
 peraments. 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 
 rehgion. 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 
 behef in life. Without difference there would be 
 no Hfe for him. ' Tout casse, tout lasse,' but change 
 goes on for ever. We artists reverence change, mon- 
 sieur; 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:
 
 176 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 Hstening." Something 
 moved in him, a kind of burning pity, a rage of pro- 
 tection. 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 Prus- 
 sian pack, have caught the pack feeling — ^have got 
 it hunting aU over the country, on every sort of 
 scent. It's a most infectious thing." 
 
 "I cannot see that we are being infected, Cap- 
 tain Fort." 
 
 "I'm afraid we are, Mr. Pierson. The great ma- 
 jority 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 177 
 
 "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 bestiaHties 
 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: '^Ahl 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."
 
 178 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 at- 
 mosphere of the past and future round her! And 
 she will not let me paint her! WeU, 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 pic- 
 ture. 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, leav- 
 ing 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 but- 
 toned-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,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 179 
 
 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 Hke 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 chil- 
 dren 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 modem Hfe and modem types, passing him and 
 leaving him untouched. There is no illusion, and 
 no dreaming, in modem 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; news- 
 paper-sellers muttered their ceaseless invitations. 
 Again the painter made his gesture of despair : "How 
 am I to get into my picture this modem life, which 
 washes round him as ro'ond that church, there, stand-
 
 i8o SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ing in the middle of the street? See how the cur- 
 rents sweep round it, as if to wash it away; yet it 
 stands, seeming not to see them. If I were a phan- 
 tasist, it would be easy enough: but to be a phan- 
 tasist 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 towTi girls who 
 have no mysteriousness at aU, no youth; nothing 
 but a cheap knowledge and defiance, and good hu- 
 mour. He is looking up at it, but he does not see- 
 it. I will make the face of that girl the face of modem 
 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 re- 
 volt 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. ^Esthetically, I 
 daresay, they're deplorable, but can you say that 
 on the whole their philosophy isn't an advance on 
 an3^hing we've had up till now? They worship 
 nothing, it's true; but they keep their ends up mar- 
 vellously."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS i8i 
 
 The painter, who seemed to feel the wind blow- 
 ing 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 dark- 
 ened and moonlit street. It was all jewelled and 
 enamelled with Httle spots and splashes of subdued 
 red and green-blue Hght, and the downward orange 
 glow of the high lamps — ^Hke 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 \dsion!" 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 sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 "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 ojff 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
 
 1 82 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 busi- 
 ness ! His dreams that night were not such as Leila 
 would have approved.
 
 DC 
 
 When in the cupboard there is a real and very 
 bony skeleton, carefuUy 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 Ufe. 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 
 
 183
 
 i84 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 hunting-grounds of women, who, chased forth from 
 their usual haunts by the Authorities under pres- 
 sure 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 starva- 
 tion which ruled his own existence incHned him to 
 a particularly severe view and severity was not his 
 strong point. In consequence there was ever with- 
 in him a sort of very personal and poignant struggle 
 going on beneath that seeming attitude of rigid dis- 
 approval. He joined the hunters, as it were, be- 
 cause he was afraid — not, of course, of his own in- 
 stincts, 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 sol- 
 diers, too; and in turn, the soldiers were such a 
 danger to the lambs of his flock. Domestic dis- 
 asters 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 be- 
 come 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 185 
 
 the babies were bom, 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 httle things ! — to be 
 held responsible for their mothers' faults. He him- 
 self saw Httle 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 an- 
 nounced, a small book-seller's wife, whom he knew 
 for an occasional Communicant. She came in, ac- 
 companied by a young dark-eyed girl in a loose 
 mouse-coloured coat. At his in\dtation 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.
 
 i86 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 mterest, as if she had long given up think- 
 ing 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? Per- 
 haps 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 reaUy 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 187 
 
 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 be- 
 hind 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 any- 
 thing, less interested than ever. This impenetrabil- 
 ity and something muhsh 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 ! Con- 
 trol and discipline undermined, and these bitter 
 apples the result ! 
 
 " WeU," he said, "if you need our creche, you have
 
 i88 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 our- 
 selves, our passions, and our fooHsh wilfulness, espe- 
 cially in these times when our country needs us 
 strong, and self-disciplined, not thinking of our- 
 selves. 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 every- 
 thing 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: "eamin' 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 189 
 
 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 shght 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'U say 
 the same to me, won't you? Only, / do want my 
 babyJ' 
 
 She was standing with her back to the door, over 
 which a dark curtain himg; 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 Hfetime of re- 
 pression served him in the half-realised horror of 
 that moment. He stammered out the single word: 
 "NoUie!" 
 
 "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. NoUie ! He sUd 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 httle girl, she had been 
 wont to sit, with her fair hair fluffing against his 
 cheek. He seemed to feel that hair tickling his skin;
 
 IQO SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 it used to be the greatest comfort he had known 
 since her mother died. At that moment his pride 
 shrivelled Uke 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 chil- 
 dren she has left him; who, humble by nature, yet 
 never knows how proud he is till the bitter thing 
 happens; all the bng 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 con- 
 fusion. 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 rehef. As Noel 
 had fled from him, having uttered her news, so did 
 he fly from her. The afflicted walk fast. He was 
 soon dowTi 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 191 
 
 of realisation. He seemed to see his dead wife's 
 face staring at him out of the past, Hke an accusa- 
 tion. '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 hvened and whitened by 
 the moonUght — 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, hke a refuta- 
 tion 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 hving, 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 httle forms of people moving, little 
 orange and red lights glowing. The sight arrested 
 him by its warmth and motion. Was it not all a
 
 192 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 dream? That woman and her daughter, had they 
 really come? Had not Noel been but an appari- 
 tion, 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 mo- 
 ment did not know, aU 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 unreaHty, his mind flew to all those summer 
 holidays spent in Scotland, Ireland, Cornwall, Wales, 
 by mountain and lake, mth his two girls; what 
 sunsets, and turning leaves, birds, beasts, and in- 
 sects they had watched together ! From their youth- 
 ful 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 himseK 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 Hfe itself. Thrusting his hands 
 deep into the pockets of his thin black overcoat, 
 he plunged into that narrow glowing tunnel of the
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS ip3 
 
 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 supper- 
 less at his httle 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 Ser- 
 vice. 
 
 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 stiU 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 appalHngly 
 neglected. She gazed with interest at the hollows 
 in his cheeks, and the furrows in his brow, and the 
 Hps, dark-moustached and bearded, so tightly com- 
 pressed, 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 twitch- 
 ing nostrils. She moved nearer, bending down over
 
 194 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 him, with the childhke notion of counting those 
 lashes. Her Hps parted in readiness to say: "Oh !" 
 if he waked. Something in his face, and the Httle 
 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 sigh- 
 ing, 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 bHnds 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 — no dream! He said tremulously: "I can't
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 195 
 
 realise. I — I hoped I had heard wrong. Didn't 
 I, NolKe? 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 shaU 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 deep- 
 ened, 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; sud- 
 denly she dragged it to her Hps, 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,
 
 196 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 like a feverish child whose hair gets in its eyes and 
 mouth. 
 
 ''Oh! I don't know; what does it matter?" 
 
 "Kestrel; would you Hke 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 move- 
 ment 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 under- 
 stand 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, inar- 
 ticulate 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 himscK, 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 197 ^ 
 
 "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 ten- 
 drils of hair coiling about it. That flung-back head, 
 moving restlessly from side to side in the heat of 
 the soft piUow, had such a passion of protesting 
 life in it ! And he kept silence. 
 
 "I want you to know it was aU me. But I can't 
 pretend. Of course I'll try and not let it hurt you 
 more than I possibly can. I'm soriy 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.
 
 I§ 
 
 Thtrza Pierson, seeing her brother-in-law's hand- 
 writing, 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 ques- 
 tion 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 iives ! Noel's face, 
 absorbed and passionate, outside the door of her 
 room on the night when Cyril Morland went away, 
 started up before her. So ! Her instinct had been 
 right — an instinct she had tried to smother! She 
 began backward: 
 
 "He wants you to go up and stay with him, 
 Bob." 
 
 "Why not both of us?" 
 
 "He wants NoHie to come down to me; she's 
 not well." 
 
 "Not well? What's the matter?" 
 
 A short struggle took place within Thirza. To 
 tell him seemed disloyalty to her sex; not to tell 
 him, disloyalty to her husband. As is usual in Hfe, 
 
 198
 
 , SAINT'S PROGRESS 199 
 
 a very simple consideration of fact and not of prin- 
 ciple, decided her. He would certainly say in a 
 moment: "Here! Pitch it over!" and she would 
 have to pitch it. She leaned forward, looked him 
 full in the face, and 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 begin- 
 ning of April. The poor boy is dead. Bob; be gentle 
 — ^he died for the Country." 
 
 She saw the red tide flowing up into his face, and 
 thought absently: " Oh, is his mouth full ? What's 
 coming?" 
 
 Little or nothing came but a gasp and the word: 
 "What!" 
 
 "Poor Edward is dreadfully upset. We must 
 do what we can. I blame myself." By instinct 
 she used those words. 
 
 "Blame yourseK ? 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 com- 
 fort; one feels that nothing's normal." 
 
 Bob Pierson had risen, and was pacing the room. 
 He possessed beyond most men the secret of hap- 
 piness, for he was always absorbed in the hving mo- 
 ment, to the point of unself-consciousness. If he 
 were eating an egg, or cutting down a tree, or sitting 
 on a Tribunal, or making up his accounts, or plant-
 
 200 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ing potatoes, or looking at the moon, or riding his 
 cob, or reading the Lessons, there was not a part 
 of him which stood aside looking on to see how he 
 was doing it, wondering why he was doing it, or 
 not doing it better. He grew like a cork-tree, and 
 acted like a sturdy and weU-natured dog. His griefs, 
 angers, and enjoyments were simple as a child's, 
 or as his somewhat noisy slumbers. They were 
 a notably well-suited couple, for Thirza had the 
 same secret of happiness, save that her absorption 
 in the moment did not — as became a woman — ^pre- 
 vent her being conscious of others; indeed, such 
 formed the chief subject of her absorptions. One 
 might say that they neither of them had philosophy 
 or wisdom, and yet they were as wise and philosophic 
 a couple as one could meet in this earthly paradise 
 of the self-conscious. When once in a while some 
 literary work of the new school came their way, 
 with its self-conscious exhortations to complete self- 
 consciousness, its doctrine of pure and utter selfish- 
 ness, or of a hopelessly self-conscious unselfishness, 
 with the querulous and thin-blooded passionateness 
 of its young heroes and heroines, bent on notliing 
 but reaUsing their imrealisable selves, through a 
 sort of brain-spun arrogance and sexuaHty — they 
 would read it with their habitual absorption, and 
 put it down with a sigh, and the thought: 'Well, 
 I suppose it's very clever, and interestuig, but I 
 don't know what they want!' Daily life to these 
 two was still of simpler savour. Bob Pierson, in- 
 deed, was something of a hot-brained simpleton,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 201 
 
 but Thirza certainly was not. She understood 
 people's thoughts and feelings very well; but what 
 she could not follow was that utter modem pre- 
 occupation with self, which produced in some folk 
 such perfect disgnmtlement. 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 
 these two; but they never thought whether they 
 were absorbed or not, or had any particular atti- 
 tude to Life or Death — a great blessing to them, 
 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, wretched beyond words." But 
 with each repetition of the word his voice grew 
 cheerier, and Thirza felt that he was already over 
 the worst. 
 
 "Your coffee's getting cold I" she said. 
 
 Bob Pierson resumed his seat. 
 
 "What do you advise? Shall I go up, heh?" 
 
 Thirza, who had already thought out her cam- 
 paign, answered: 
 
 "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."
 
 202 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 He rose again at that. 
 
 "You're a good woman, Thirza!" And taking 
 his wife's hand, he put it to his lips. "There isn't 
 another woman like you in the world." 
 
 Thirza's eyes shone. "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 instiUing 
 into her husband the thought that a baby more 
 or less was no great matter in a world which already 
 contained twelve hundred miUion people. But he, 
 with a man's keener sense of family propriety, could 
 not see that this baby would be the same as any 
 other baby. And in aU those days he was hable 
 to come up to her at any moment, and pour out his 
 soul. "By heaven!" he said one day, "I simply 
 can't get used to it; in our family! And Ted a 
 parson ! What the devil shaU we do with it?" 
 
 "The same as we did with our own, Bob; if NoUie 
 will let us, why shouldn't we adopt it ? It'U be some- 
 thing to take my thoughts off the boys." 
 
 "By George ! That's an idea ! But I don't know; 
 Ted's a funny fellow. He'll have some doctrine of 
 atonement, or something, in his bonnet." 
 
 'Oh, bother!" said Thirza with some asperity. 
 'Yes, yes; Ted wiU have to toe the line." 
 
 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, even of being a special 
 constable, and dining at his Club. The nearer he 

 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 203 
 
 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 Coun- 
 try, and for NoUie, one must put up with it ! Damna- 
 tion, yes ! 
 
 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," he said. 
 
 "So shaUI, 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, and 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 under- 
 neath, he had true dehcacy. 
 
 Thirza's last words: "You're very sweet, Bob,'* 
 remained in his ears all the way to Severn Junc- 
 tion, and made him feel quite choky in the throat. 
 
 She went back to the house, which seemed gutted 
 without her husband, or Eve, or the boys, or her
 
 204 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 maids; with only the dogs and the old nurse whom 
 she had taken into confidence. Even in that shel- 
 tered, 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 cut down for war purposes in 
 the wood above the house resounded all day long 
 in the frosty air. She meant to do the cooking her- 
 self; and for the rest of the morning and early after- 
 noon she concocted nice things, and thought out 
 how she herself would feel if she were Noel and Noel 
 she, so as, if possible, to smooth out of the way any- 
 thing 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, in a long, fur-collared coat, looked tired 
 and white, but calm — too calm. Her face seemed 
 to Thirza to be collected, as it were, from within, 
 fined, and with those brooding eyes, more beauti- 
 ful. In the car she possessed herself of the girl's 
 hand, and squeezed it hard; this was the only al- 
 lusion made between them to the situation, except 
 Noel's formal: 
 
 "Thank you so much. Auntie, for having me; it's 
 been most awfuUy sweet of you and Uncle Bob." 
 
 "There's no one in the house, my dear, except 
 old Nurse. I'm afraid it'll be very dull for you; 
 but I thought I'd teach you to cook; it's rather 
 useful."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 205 
 
 The smile which slipped on to Noel's face gave 
 Thirza quite a turn. 
 
 "That'U be splendid," she said. 
 
 She had assigned the girl a different room, and 
 had made it extraordinarily cheerful with a log fire, 
 chrysanthemums, bright copper candlesticks, warm- 
 ing-pans, and such like. 
 
 She went up with her at bedtime, and standing 
 before the fire, said: 
 
 "You know, Nolhe, I absolutely refuse to regard 
 this as any sort of tragedy. To bring Ufe into the 
 world 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 imagina- 
 tion, she kept on seeing Noel turning from side to 
 side in the big bed, and those great eyes of hers star- 
 ing 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
 
 2o6 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 whatever 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 demo- 
 crats, but neither knew the meaning of the word, 
 or 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 West- 
 erner, 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 parti- 
 sanship except what he had read in the journals. 
 After all — what other reasons could they have had ? 
 Edward dishked the Harmsworth Press; Robert 
 thought it was doing good. Robert was explosive, 
 and rather vague; Edward dreamy, and a little
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 207 
 
 didactic. Robert thought poor Ted looking like a 
 ghost; Edward thought poor Bob looking Hke the 
 setting sun. Their faces were indeed as curiously 
 contrasted as their views and voices; the pale-dark, 
 hoUowed, narrow face of Edward, with its short, 
 pointed beard, and the red-skinned, broad, full, 
 wiiiskered 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 companion- 
 ship 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 httle frown of sym- 
 pathy would ridge his forehead between his bushy 
 eyebrows. And once in a way he would catch Ed- 
 ward'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 t}^e, 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,
 
 2o8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 don't beheve 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 Nol- 
 He," 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 httle 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 209 
 
 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 was stand- 
 ing by the hearth after dinner, in his famihar atti- 
 tude, one foot on the fender, one hand grasping 
 the mantel-shelf, and his eyes fixed on the flames, 
 when he said: "I've never asked your forgiveness. 
 Bob." 
 
 Robert, who was Hngering 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."
 
 2IO SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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; yet in a few weeks 
 it will be. 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 
 Nolhe'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 comphcation.' 
 
 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 Uves, rose in Robert. 
 
 "Dash it all, my dear Ted, that's for NolHe to 
 say. She's a woman now, remember." 
 
 A smile went straying about in the shadows of 
 his brother's face. "A woman? Little NoJHe! 
 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 your- 
 self. After all, they're fine girls. I'm sure Nollie's 
 a darhng. It's these modem notions, and this war.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 211 
 
 Cheer up T It'll all dry straight." He went up to 
 his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. Ed- 
 ward 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 Hke 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 Nohie. 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 1 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 al- 
 most unbearable to me to feel that I'm joined with 
 the world, now, to condemn my own daughter; not 
 for their reasons, perhaps — I don't know; I hope 
 not, but still, I'm against her." 
 
 Robert fit his pipe. 
 
 "Steady, old man!" he said. "It's a misfortune. 
 But if I were you I should feel: 'She's done a wild^,
 
 212 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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; espe- 
 cially in these days, when all the world is facing 
 suffering so nobly. And then it seems so hard — 
 so bitter; my poor Httle Noilie !" 
 
 There was a silence, broken only by the gurghng 
 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 gabbUng place. I call my- 
 self 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 lone- 
 liness of that thin black figure, whose fingers were
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 213 
 
 playing with a little gold cross. 'By Jove!' he 
 thought, 'I beUeve 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 hves 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 liis 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 feeUng do pass mysteriously 
 over the invisible wires of space — Cyril Morland's 
 son was being bom 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 conse- 
 quences 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 humihty, 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 er- 
 rors. I have confidence in you, my dear child. 
 
 " Ever your most loving father, 
 "Edward Pierson," 
 217
 
 2i8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 gave a funny 
 little sneeze. Noel laughed, and put her lips close 
 to his face. 'Give you up !' she thought: 'Oh, no ! 
 And I'm gomg to be happy too. They shan't stop 
 me. And I shan't have you baptised; but I shall 
 call you Ted !' 
 
 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 reaUy 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 it was a rehef to 
 Noel not to meet those old familiars, it was a strain 
 to encounter 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 sHpped a little gold band on to its 
 third finger. 
 
 "To please me, NoUie, now that you're going, 
 just for the foolish, who know nothing about 
 you."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 219 
 
 Noel had suffered it with the thought: 'It's all 
 very silly ! ' But now, when the new maid was pour- 
 ing out her hot water, she was suddenly aware of 
 the girl's round blue eyes wandering, as it were, 
 mechanically to her hand. This Httle hoop of gold, 
 then, had an awful power ! A rush of disgust cam.e 
 over her. All life seemed suddenly wretched, a 
 thing of forms and sham. Everybody then would 
 look at that little ring; and she would be a coward, 
 saving herself from them! When she was alone 
 again, she sHpped it off, and laid it on the wash- 
 stand, where the sunlight fell. Only this little shin- 
 ing band of metal, this Httle yellow ring, stood be- 
 tween her and the world's scorn and hostihty ! Her 
 Hps trembled. She took up the ring, and wxnt 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 wash-stand. 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 
 inteUigent? 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 sHpped 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 c>ti-
 
 220 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ical; I can feel it in my bones. How is Daddy look- 
 ing?" 
 
 "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 stiU?" 
 
 "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 some- 
 times 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 hke that when he's 
 sorry for anything. I don't care. Has Monsieur 
 Lavendie been in lately?" 
 
 "Yes; he looks awfully unhappy."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 221 
 
 "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 
 fixed and 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 ? " 
 
 "Very 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 Ufeless and strange. The black figure, with 
 long pale fingers touching the paler piano keys, 
 had a frightening actuahty. The face, three-quarters 
 full, was raised as if for inspiration, and the eyes 
 rested, dreamy and imseeing, 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 sa>dng: "Cheer oh !" 
 
 Noel turned her back on the picture. 
 
 "She is, it's awfully pathetic, I think. It makes 
 me want to cry. Poor Daddy!"
 
 222 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "It's a libel," said Gratian stubbornly. 
 
 Noel shook her head. ''No. That's what hurts. 
 He isn't quite — quite all there. I don't want to look 
 at it. 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 so awful for him.'^ 
 
 Gratian sighed. "I've tried my best, but he al- 
 ways 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 wiU be charity and forgiveness.'" 
 
 "There wonH^'' said Noel, "Daddy's a saint, and 
 he doesn't see." 
 
 "Yes, he is a saint, and I wish I were better to 
 him. But one must think for oneself — one simply 
 must, I can't beheve as he does, any more; can 
 you, NoUie ? " 
 
 "I don't know. When I was going through it, 
 I prayed; but I don't know whether I really be- 
 lieved. 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— Hfe; awfully." 
 And the two sisters were silent, looking at each 
 other with a sort of wonder. 

 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 223 
 
 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 pecuhar 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 Httle 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 Httle 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 hght, absorbed in the face of the sleeping 
 baby, when a sound made her raise her eyes, and 
 she saw in a mirror the reflection of her father's
 
 224 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 dark figure by the door. She could hear him breath- 
 ing as if the ascent of the stairs had tried 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 Hps in prayer. 
 Love for her father, and rebellion against this in- 
 tercession 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 Hps, but still with- 
 out 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.
 
 n 
 
 When Edward Pierson, afraid of his own emo- 
 tion, left the twiht nursery, he slipped into his 
 own room and fell on his knees beside his bed, ab- 
 sorbed in the vision he had seen. That young figure 
 in the Madonna's 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 
 reahsm of fife. Ah ! to Hve with only the inner mean- 
 ing, spiritual and beautified, in a rare wonderment 
 such as he had experienced just now ! 
 
 His alarum clock ticked out the seconds 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 beloved child? How pre- 
 serve that vision in her life, in her spirit, about to 
 enter such cold, rough waters? But the gong 
 
 225
 
 226 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 sounded; he got up, and, bathing his face in cold 
 water, to brace himself, went downstairs. 
 
 But this first family moment, which all had 
 dreaded, was reheved, as dreaded moments so often 
 are, by the imexpected appearance of the Belgian 
 painter. He had a general iuvitation, 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 for the most part silently 
 at Noel. Once he said: ''You will let me paint 
 you now, mademoiselle, I hope ? " and his face bright- 
 ened a little for the first time, 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 mth one who clearly had 
 spirituality, but of a sort which he could not under- 
 stand. 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 NoUie to break the 
 ice. 
 
 "I have not seen you for a long time, tnade- 
 moiselle,^' 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 227 
 
 "I've been away. How are you going to paint 
 me, monsieur!'* 
 
 "In that dress, fnadetrwiselle; just as you are now, 
 warming yourself at the fire of hfe." 
 
 "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 Hkes 
 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 to- 
 gether. 
 
 "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 which was hghted 
 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 wiU. She has never 
 accepted that — she is incapable of accepting it. I 
 am sorry for her. But what would you? I was a
 
 228 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Hve 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 weU could two 
 persons on a desert island separate. She is kiUing 
 herself, too, with these drugs, and I cannot stop 
 her." 
 
 "Poor madame/" murmured Noel. "Poor mon- 
 sieur!" 
 
 The painter suddenly 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, made- 
 moiselle. 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 229 
 
 small sitting-room whose walls were covered with 
 paintings and drawings; from one corner a triangular 
 stack of canvases jutted out. There was little furni- 
 ture 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 rest- 
 ing on his doubled fists. Beside him on the sofa, 
 nursing a doU, 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 Httle 
 girl. A httle refugee, too, aren't you, Chica?" 
 
 The child gave him a sudden brDHant smile and 
 resumed her grave scrutiny of the visitor. The 
 soldier, who had risen heavily, gave Noel one of 
 his podgy hands, with a sort of 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 Httle girl her nursing of the doll, 
 though her big eyes still watched the visitor. Over- 
 come 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-
 
 
 230 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly, and flutter. 
 V ''How do you do?" she said in EngUsh. "So 
 Pierre brought you to see me again. I remember 
 you so weU. You would not let him paint you. Ah ! 
 que c'est drolef You are so pretty, too. Hein, Mon- 
 sieur Barra, is not mademoiselle pretty?" 
 
 The soldier gave his heavy giggle, and resumed 
 his scrutiny of the floor. 
 
 "Henriette," said Lavendie, " asseyez-vous a cote de 
 Chica — ^you must not stand. Asseyez-vous, made- 
 moiselle, je vous prie" 
 
 "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 a sort of anger, and a sort of 
 
 cunmng. 
 
 "He is a great painter, my husband, is he not?" 
 she said suddenly to Noel. ' ' You would not imagine 
 what that man can do. And how he paints — ^all day 
 long; and all night he is painting in his head. And 
 so you would not let him paint you, after all ? " 
 
 "No," murmured NoeJ. 
 
 Those black eyes, travelling so ceaselessly from 
 his face to hers, gave the girl the fantastic feeling 
 that they were weaving a kind of web about them 
 both.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 231 
 
 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 hve day after day — my 
 husband is always painting. WTio would go out 
 alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds 
 of the war in every face? No. 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. ''Vous 
 parlez d'etre 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 1 Bom ! 
 Ah! les tranchees! It's not so free as aU 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 J ^ 
 
 "MoH^^ 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
 
 232 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 niglitmare — ^nightmare — all day and all night — ^I 
 paint them in my head." He suddenly ceased speak- 
 ing and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, 
 with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. "And 
 their souls as white as snow, les camaradesj'^ he added 
 suddenly and loudly, "millions of Belgians, EngHsh 
 French, even the Boches, with white souls. I paint 
 those souls!" 
 
 A httle shiver ran through Noel, and she looked 
 appeahngly at Lavendie. 
 
 "Barra," he said, as if the soldier were not there, 
 "is a great painter, but the Front has turned his 
 head a httle. 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 J 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 hved at home. 
 But here — !" Her eyes darted at his face again, 
 and then sank as if rebuked. Noel saw the paint- 
 er's hps move. The sick woman's whole figure 
 writhed. 
 
 "Manie — certainly it is mania, your painting!" 
 Then, seeming to make a great effort, she looked
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 233 
 
 at Noel with a smile which caused the girl's blood 
 to creep — it was such a travesty of the conventional 
 smile — and added: "Will you have some tea, made- 
 moiselle? 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 hon vin; le ban 
 petit vin I " 
 
 "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, and a sweetish scent rose with her. "Wait 
 a little, mademoiselle. Sit down. 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, burst- 
 ing 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 httle, little mad; nothing to 
 speak of — just a httle bit mad; like a watch, you 
 know, that you can wind for ever. That is the dis-
 
 234 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 CO very of this war, mademoiselle," he said, address- 
 ing 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 atti- 
 tude. ''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 Uttle, 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 wdth white souls, 
 all a little tiny atom 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. 
 
 "Sit down, mademoiselle,''^ said Madame Laven- 
 die, and her eyes gleamed. Resuming her seat, Noel 
 saw the woman's thin hand steal to her mouth, and 
 thought: 'Yes, perhaps, we are all mad; I too, I 
 daresay ! * 
 
 "How long have you been at the Front, mon- 
 sieur ?^^ 
 
 "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 Httle hole in the ground 
 where I was sleeping; when one has slept in a bed 
 one becomes particular. Well, I scratch it from
 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 235 
 
 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. I talked 
 with him all night; 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. // me disait des 
 choses, how he had suffered; and I, too, told hhn 
 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, Kttle 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 Httle girl nursed her doll, the 
 soldier gazed at the floor, the woman's mouth moved 
 stealthily, and in Noel the thought rushed continu- 
 ally 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, made- 
 moiselle," he said. '^Eenrielte, qa vousfera du bieni
 
 236 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 Barra! II faut toujours esperer, n^est-ce-pas, made- 
 moiselle?^^ 
 
 Noel raised the glass he had given her. "I wish 
 you all happiness." 
 
 "And you, m^emoiselle,''^ the two men mur- 
 mured. 
 
 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 re- 
 garding it unconscious of her. Noel turned quickly 
 to the door; the last thing she saw was the little 
 girl nursing her doll and gazing after her. 
 
 In the street the painter began at once in his rapid 
 French : 
 
 "I ought not to have asked you to come, made- 
 moiselle; 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 teie. I 
 should not have asked you; but I was so miser- 
 able." 
 
 "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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 237 
 
 a height that we have not. It is wonderful how 
 they still can be for going on till they have beaten 
 theBoche; that is curious and it is very great. Did 
 Barra teU 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 wiU 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 behef of those brave soldiers that 
 the future is theirs." 
 
 "He said a strange thing," murmured Noel; "that 
 they were all a Httle tiny bit mad." 
 
 "He is a man of queer genius — Barra; you should 
 see some of his earher 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, made- 
 moiselle, 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 energ>'; yes, and
 
 238 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 self-sacrifice — all are being forced and forced be- 
 yond 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 form 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: 
 ^wiU.' 
 
 "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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 239 
 
 Perhaps not even your trouble can hurt him very 
 much. He hves in a world apart. That, I think, 
 is his true tragedy — to be aUve, and yet not hving 
 enough to feel reahty. Do you know Anatole 
 France's description of an old woman: ^^Elle vivait, 
 mats si peu.'^ Would that not be well said of the 
 Church in these days: "Elk vivait, mats 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 Hfe' !" he said. "Ah ! that is different. 
 To enjoy yourself ! Well, it is my experience that 
 when people are 'seeing hfe' as they call it, they 
 are not enjoying themselves. You know when one 
 is very thirsty one drinks and drinks, but the thirst 
 remains aU the same. There are places where one 
 can see life as it is called, but the only persons you 
 wiU 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 diff'erent." 
 
 Noel clasped her hands, and her eyes seemed to 
 shine in the gloom. "I want music and dancing 
 and Ught, and beautiful things and faces; but I 
 never get them."
 
 240 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 imspoiled; 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-hien! Let us go in ? " 
 
 They passed into a swing door which confined 
 them in little glass compartments and 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 ungamished.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 241 
 
 Up in a gallery a small band was playing an attrac- 
 tive 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 crimes de menthe,^^ said Lavendie to the 
 waiter. 
 
 Noel was too absorbed to see the queer, bitter 
 Httle 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." 
 
 "Les cocottes raiment,^' said Lavendie savagely. 
 "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 mur- 
 mured 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. 
 
 ii
 
 242 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 at once, 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 refresh- 
 ments to all these who are serving their country. 
 Eat, drink, love, for to-morrow we die. Who cares 
 for the world simple or the world beautiful, in days 
 like these ? The house of the spirit is empty and to 
 let." 
 
 He was looking at her sidelong with an expression 
 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 
 httle 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;
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 243 
 
 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 some- 
 one perhaps whom one day you would meet again; 
 in the place we visited you were safe enough — at 
 least I hope so." 
 
 Noel shrugged her shoulders. " 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. As they passed 
 out into the street, two great tears were roUing down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "I was thinking of something," she said in a 
 muffled voice. "It's all right." 
 
 "Ciiere mademoiselle! " Lavendie murmured; and 
 all the way home he was timid and distressed. Shak- 
 ing 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 wiU not always be this Forcing- 
 House. Good night, chcre mademoiselle !^' 
 
 Noel went up to the nurscr}^, and stole in. A
 
 244 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 night-light was burning, and 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.
 
 Ill 
 
 I§ 
 
 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 dowistairs, when a voice from 
 the hall said: 
 
 "How do you do?" and she saw a khaki-clad 
 figure down there, 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, whom khaki, with a round white collar but- 
 toned behind, did not suit; but his aspiring grey 
 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 so, that he looked almost handsome. 
 "It's so nice to see you again." 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 245
 
 246 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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. 'It's 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 sHpped the little ring off her finger. WTien she 
 turned back to liim, 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 Hke that," said Noel. "Didn't you 
 imderstand? 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 !" 
 
 "Vl%at?" 
 
 "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 him- 
 self, 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 beheve me, 
 ask Daddy." 
 
 He put his hand up to his round collar; and with
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 247 
 
 the wild thought that he was going to tear it off^ 
 she cried: ''Don't!" 
 
 "You!" hQSSiid. ''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 turn- 
 ing 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 httle sound which had pain in it, 
 and Noel felt a real pang of compunction. She 
 turned for a sidelong look. He had gripped the 
 back of a chair; his face had parted with all its heavi- 
 ness. A dull flush coloured his cheeks. Noel had 
 a horrible feehng, 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 dis- 
 approval — 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 upbringing, 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
 
 248 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 
 humihation and chagrin. She had been mad ! She 
 must have been mad ! The Belgian Barra was right : 
 *A11 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, be- 
 wilderment 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. AH was quiet below, 
 and she sHpped 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 — ^impos- 
 sible ! She passed her hospital, and looked at it 
 duUy, 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,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 249 
 
 but none quite so miserable as this. She passed 
 the church opposite to the flats where Leila Hved, 
 and running suddenly into a tall man coming round 
 the comer, saw that it was 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 he' she 
 thought bitterly. But he did not. 
 
 "Yes, Leila told me." 
 
 And she thought: 'I suppose he'll try and pre- 
 tend 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." 
 
 '*'! 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 splen-
 
 250 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 did 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 weU. 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 crawhng along at this pace." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind!" 
 
 "I only wanted to say that if I can be of any ser- 
 vice 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 imphcations, 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 Hke 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 ! AU 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 251 
 
 an official, who spent her days, which showed no 
 symptom of decHning, 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 work- 
 ing 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 dread- 
 fully the war kept husbands and wives apart ! And 
 whose was the dear Uttle 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 comer 
 begin: "WTiat 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 break- 
 down; and she went in calmly. Lunch w^as 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.
 
 252 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 Uaison had no decent founda- 
 tion, save a sort of pity. One day, in a queer access 
 of compunction, he had made Leila an offer of mar- 
 riage. She had refused; and he had respected her 
 the more, reaUsing by the quiver in her voice and 
 the look in her eyes that she refused him, not be- 
 cause 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 253 
 
 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 latch-key, 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 Ufe puts in his way as so much enjoy- 
 ment 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 ob- 
 scure 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
 
 254 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 fear- 
 ful 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 champion- 
 ship of one in such a deplorable position? Leila 
 had hved her fife; but this child's fife— 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,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 255 
 
 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 
 bad caught him !
 
 IV 
 
 To find out the worst is, for human nature, only 
 a question of time. But where the "worst" is at- 
 tached to a family haloed, as it were, by the author- 
 ity and reputation of an institution like the Church, 
 the process of discovery has to break through many 
 a Httle 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 httle hedges, and 
 more, had to be broken through. To the Dinna- 
 fords, 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 feeHng 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 
 
 256
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 257 
 
 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 dis- 
 comfort. Indeed discomfort, exquisite and other- 
 wise, 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 EngHsh people especially resent. By
 
 258 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 the very fact of his presence before them every Sun- 
 day, and his public ministrations, he was exhibiting 
 to them, as it were, the seamed and blushing face 
 of his daughter's private Hfe, 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. Be- 
 sides, it was war-time, and moral dehnquency which 
 in time of peace would have bulked too large to neg- 
 lect, 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 Pier- 
 son's way. He went about his usual routine with- 
 out seeming change. And yet there was a change, 
 secret and creeping. Wounded almost to death
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 259 
 
 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 httle swift brutahty 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 httle 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 comer. 
 They stopped there for a second; one of them 
 shouted "Gran'pa"; then they vanished. He was 
 left with hps and hands quivering, and a feeling 
 that he had not known for years — the weak white 
 empty feehng 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
 
 26o SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 
 raihngs as if b^ would have bent them. 
 
 From that day on, a creeping sensation of being 
 rejected of men, never left him; the sense of identi- 
 fication with Noel and her tiny outcast became 
 ever more poignant, more real; the desire to pro- 
 tect 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 reaKse 
 the deep and hidden truth: How easily the breath 
 of scandal destroys the influence and sanctity of 
 those endowed therewith by vocation: how in- 
 valuable 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 Httle to 
 say that it was difficult to understand why he came;
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 261 
 
 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 Hved such a roving Hfe. 'Is he — can he be the 
 sort of man I would trust NoUie to ? ' he would think. 
 *0h, that I should have to hope Uke this that some 
 good man would marry her — my little NolHe, 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 Httle 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 per- 
 haps conscious that she herself was not too happy. 
 To watch her arranging flowers, singing her Uttle 
 French songs, or to find her beside him, Hstening 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 Hved ; 
 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
 
 262 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 attrac- 
 tive. 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 NoUie. 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 bUnd. 
 
 "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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 263 
 
 "You told him!" 
 
 "Yes," Leila repeated stubbornly; "and he's 
 sorry for her." 
 
 And even then Hhis 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 Hps 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 1 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 turn- 
 ing 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 Hps. 
 
 "Forgive me," said Pierson slowly; "I didn't 
 know. I'm stupid. I thought }^our love for your
 
 264 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 poor soldiers had left no room for other feel- 
 mgs. 
 
 Leila uttered a shrill laugh. "What have they 
 to do with each other ? Did you never hear of pas- 
 sion, Edward? Oh! Don't look at me hke 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 Hps, but a geranium 
 petal was left clinging there, like a blood-stain. 
 "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 veriest simpleton can 
 see. Well, / haven't suppressed passion, Edward. 
 That's aU." 
 
 "And are you happier for that?" 
 
 "I was; and I shall be again." 
 
 A Httle 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 under- 
 stand, made her cry out: 
 
 "I've not been nice to you. Forgive me, Ed- 
 ward ! I'm so unhappy." 
 
 "There was a Greek who used to say: 'God is
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 265 
 
 the helping of man by man.' It isn't true, but it's 
 beautiful. Good-bye, dear Leila, and don't be sor- 
 rowful." 
 
 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 raihngs 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, study- 
 ing with a fearful interest the Httle hard lines and 
 markings there beneath their Ught 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 do\vn over her whole form, search- ' 
 ing as it were for slackness, or thickness. And she 
 had the bitter thought: 'I'm all out. I'm doing
 
 266 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Hps reddened. She had marked his disap- 
 provals, watched him wipe his mouth after a kiss, 
 when he thought she couldn't see him. ^I needn't !' 
 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 
 tp '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 Con- 
 stantia 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'U be here, sit opposite me; I shall see 
 him struggling, forcing himself to seem affectionate ! 
 It's too humbhng ! 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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 267 
 
 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, wliile the maid 
 set out the supper. She lay there moody and mo- 
 tionless, trying to summon courage, feehng 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 httle 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 feehng. 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
 
 268 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 to you. Poor Jimmy ! No ! Don't pretend ! I 
 know what I know !" 'Oh, God ! What am I say- 
 ing?' 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." 
 
 AU that evening, as if both knew they had been 
 looking over a precipice, they seemed to be tread- 
 ing warily, desperately anxious not to rouse emo- 
 tion 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 hght 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 feehng 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 
 evangehsm. Such dehcacy had been a stumbling- 
 block to him all through professional hfe. 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 companion- 
 ship. 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 Ufe; not 
 driving him, indeed, as it drives many, to intolerance 
 and cruelty, but to that half-living dreaminess, and 
 the vague imhappy yearnings which so constantly 
 beset him. All these ceUbate years he had really 
 
 269
 
 270 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 only been happy in his music, or in far-away coun- 
 try places, taking strong exercise, and losing him- 
 self 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 any- 
 thing in Fort's demeanour; but, in his new watch- 
 fulness, 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 duUing 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, \vith a sort of brooding 
 interest. He remembered how, as a Httle girl, she 
 would watch a grown-up, and then suddenly one 
 day attach herseh 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-Hver. Poor Httle NolUe! Endangered again 
 already ! Every man a kind of wolf waiting to 
 j)ounce on her ! 
 
 He found Lavendie and Noel in the drawing-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 271 
 
 room, standing before the portrait which was near- 
 ing completion. He looked at it for a long minute, 
 and turned away. 
 
 "Don't you think it's like me, Daddy?" 
 
 "It's hke you; but it hurts me — 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 Kps. 
 
 "It is as I see her, monsietir le cureJ^ 
 
 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 pic- 
 ture. "Fey? What does that mean, mademoi- 
 selle?'' 
 
 "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."
 
 272 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 speak- 
 ing a word.
 
 VI 
 
 I§ 
 
 The day after that silent outburst of emotion 
 in the dramng-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, NoUie." 
 
 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 forgive- 
 ness, and love. Not to have beheved that, after 
 all these years, would have been to deny all his use- 
 fulness 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, disap- 
 proval, and resentment ran a stealthy course. On 
 the back of that young head, with the fair hair curl- 
 ing in to the neck, all eyes were fixed sooner or later, 
 and every mind became the playground of judg- 
 
 273
 
 274 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ments. 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 focussed all the uneasy amaze- 
 ment 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 in- 
 clined to giggle. Old maids could hardly bear to 
 look. Here and there a man or woman who had 
 seen Hfe face to face, was simply sorry ! The con- 
 sciousness 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 haK-dozen, so as to estabhsh their atti- 
 tude once for all. It was, in fact, too severe a test 
 for human nature and the feelings which Church 
 ought to exercise. The stillness of that young figure, 
 the impossibihty of seeing her face and judging of
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 275 
 
 her state of mind thereby; finally, a faint lurking 
 shame that they should be so intrigued and dis- 
 turbed 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 ex- 
 pression 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 
 himgry 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 dehberate evasion of aU contact which 
 probably cHnched 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
 
 276 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 others had witnessed one knows not what of a mani- 
 fested ostracism, the outraged sense of social decency- 
 might have been appeased, and sleeping dogs al- 
 lowed to he, 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 httle 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 meet- 
 ings 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 ob- 
 scure 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 destina- 
 tion. 
 
 On Wednesday morning Pierson was sitting in 
 his study at the hour devoted to the caUs of his 
 parishioners, when the maid announced, "Canon 
 Rushbou^ne, 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 277 
 
 rather portly figure, whose round, rosy, good-hu- 
 moured 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 Httle 
 soft nervous laugh. Then for a few moments he 
 talked of the war and old College days, and Pier- 
 son 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 Httle 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 per-
 
 278 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 haps 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 gar- 
 ments the faint latent green mossiness which under- 
 lies the clothes of clergymen. 
 
 At last Pierson said: "Thank you. Alec; I under- 
 stand." 
 
 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 aU. But there is evidently much feel- 
 ing; 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 53011- 
 patliise deeply. I felt I had to warn you." He held
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 279 
 
 out his hand. "Good-bye, my dear friend, do for- 
 give me"; and he went out. In the hall an adven- 
 ture 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 foohshly: 'Is it a boy?' The poor young 
 thing looked up at me. She has very large eyes, 
 quite beautiful, strange eyes. ' Have you been speak- 
 ing 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: 'x\re 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 Httle baby!" 
 
 "She has brought it on herself, Alec," Mrs. Rush- 
 bourne repUed.
 
 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 har- 
 bour his own daughter, and help her by candid atone- 
 ment 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 Uve on here if he gave up 
 his church was out of the question. But his chief 
 feehng 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 w^ent out. But the 
 absurdity of his quest struck him before he had 
 
 280
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 281 
 
 gone the length of the Square. One could not go 
 to people and say: ''Stand and deUver 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 knowl- ^. 
 edge, 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,' flashed 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, grizzHng beard cut rather 
 like his own, that he must be thinking: 'Ah I sir, 
 but what news of your daughter?' No one would 
 ever teU 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 dehberately he crossed the road, and 
 stood looking in at the window, with the morbid
 
 282 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 283 
 
 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 
 stroUing cat, as though struck by the tall black in- 
 congruity of his figure, paused in her progress, then, 
 sHthering under the wicket gate, arched her back 
 and rubbed herself against his leg, crinkJing and 
 waving the tip of her tail. Pierson bent dowTi 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 efiigy 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 pas- 
 sionate 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 radi- 
 ated everlasting love ! The scent of the Mayflowers, 
 borne down by the sunshine, drenched his senses;
 
 284 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 mifit 
 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 for her straightforward confession 
 and atonement, 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 beHeve 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, of the unfairness of this thing. He had 
 striven to be loyal to what he thought the right,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 285 
 
 had sacrificed all his sensitiveness, all his secret 
 fastidious pride in his child and himself. For that 
 he was to be thrown out ! Whether from prayer, 
 or from 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 aU think me unpractical 
 and dreamy. Is it a sin — I wonder?' There were 
 lambs in the next field; he watched their gambol- 
 lings, 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 other-worldly, with the click of the 
 bats, and the shrill young voices, under the distant 
 drone of that sky-homet threshing along to Hendon. 
 A boy made a good leg hit. "Well played!" he 
 called. Then, suddenly conscious of his own in- 
 congruity and strangeness in that green spot, he 
 turned away on the road back to London. To re- 
 sign; 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, Hhat 
 they can wish me to go, for this ? If so, I had better 
 go. It will be just another failure. But I won't 
 beHeve it yet; I can't believe it.' 
 
 The heat was sweltering, and he became very
 
 286 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 ward- 
 robe stood open as if it had been hastily ransacked, 
 and her dressing-table was bare. In alann 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 imopened 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 287 
 
 He read it with unutterable relief; at all events 
 he knew where she was — poor, wiKul, rushing, lov- 
 ing-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 Httle No] lie, 
 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, Hhat, 
 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 
 stiU 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 feel- 
 ings 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
 
 288 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 powerful, how strange was this instinct of sex, which 
 hovered and swooped on lives, seized them, bore 
 them away, then dropped them exhausted and de- 
 fenceless! Some munition-wagons, painted a dull 
 grey, lumbered past, driven by sunburned youths 
 in drab. Life-force, Death-force — ^was it aU one; 
 the great imknowable 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 Httle 
 leaps and rushes, their funny quivering wriggling 
 tails, their tiny nuzzHng black snouts — what Uttle 
 miracles of careless joy among the meadow flowers ! 
 Lambs, and flowers, and sunhght! 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 hope- 
 less, 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 289 
 
 Kttle 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 comer, 
 with his dog straining in front. A blackbird hidden 
 among the blossoms of an acacia, burst into eve- 
 ning 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 is 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?"
 
 290 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "Yes; it's my being there that matters. Those 
 people don't care, so long as it isn't an open 
 scandal." 
 
 ''NoUie!" 
 
 "But it is so, Daddy. Of course it's so, and you 
 know it. If I'm away they'U just pity you for hav- 
 ing 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 hulf 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 aU 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 aU, 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 291 
 
 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 beheve, 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 Hps 
 were trembling. "You mustn't say things like that; 
 they're blasphemous and wicked." 
 
 Noel bit her Hps, sitting very stiff and still, with 
 her fair cropped head 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 I" 
 
 "And what if you hurt me now, NolUe?" 
 
 Noel seized his hand and pressed it to 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
 
 292 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 imderstood aU 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 293 
 
 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 
 reahsed how much he needed food and drink. Noel 
 returned from the cupboard a second time; she too 
 had a glass and a biscuit. 
 
 "I like it!" she said. "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. Dayhght 
 was not quite gone, but the moon was up, just past 
 its fuU, 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
 
 294 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Hhe 
 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 Bar- 
 ley, ' 'Clementine,' 'Lowlands,' and sang to them 
 such words as she remembered. There was a de- 
 licious 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 
 
 295
 
 296 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 clearly; the look on it filled her with a sort of mali- 
 cious glee. 
 
 "I'm going now," she said. "Would you mind 
 telling Leila that I foimd I couldn't stop?" She 
 made towards the divan to get her hat. When she 
 had put it on, she foimd 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 teUing 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 sa3dng 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!"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 297 
 
 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 worid." 
 
 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 hus- 
 band, 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:
 
 298 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 to- 
 gether, but Noel could see her breast heaving vio- 
 lently. 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 hghting her cigarette; his hand was shak- 
 ing, 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 hght 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 roimd; his tall figure was poised
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 299 
 
 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 Hps, 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 profoimd 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 moonhght. 
 The taxi, a Httle way off, was just beginning to move 
 away; she ran towards it, calling out: 
 
 "Anywhere ! Piccadilly !" and jumping in, blotted 
 herself against the cusliions in the far comer. 
 
 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 ! Noth-
 
 300 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 ing said by any of them — ^nothing, and yet every- 
 thing 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 ex- 
 hilaration was gone, leaving a miserable reckless- 
 ness. 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 hhes in her hand, the surpHces of the choir, the 
 bride's dress, all moonhght-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 marr>dng them, heard his voice: 'For 
 better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness 
 and in health, till death do you part.' And the 
 moonhght 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 doU. "All mad, 
 mademoiselle, a httle mad. MilHons of men with 
 white souls, but all a Httle 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 301 
 
 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 unreaKty. * Love and Chinese lanterns ! 
 I should like some coffee,' she thought suddenly. 
 She was quite close to the place where Lavendie 
 had taken her. 'Shall I go in there,' she thought; 
 'why not? I 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-hpped women, the green 
 stuff that smeUed of peppermint came back, fiUing 
 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. "HaUo!" 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 who turned on her eyes which 
 seemed to scorch. She was like a swift vision of 
 ruin with those eyes, and thickly powdered cheeks, 
 and loose red mouth. Noel shuddered and fled 
 along, feehng 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
 
 302 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Hght 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 rim out. 
 Tears of excited emotion filled her eyes, and trickled 
 down. Steady, smooth, grey, one after the other 
 they came ghding, with a Httle burst of cheers greet- 
 ing each one. AU 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 aU right, if she wanted. 
 WTiat did girls do who had no money, and no friends 
 to go to ? Tucked away in the comer of that empty, 
 heavy, varnished room, she seemed to see the cruelty 
 and hardness of fife 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 nothing — ^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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 303 
 
 whose eyes had scorched her — perhaps she had no 
 one — nothing. And people who were bom ill, and 
 the millions of poor women, hke 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 Kves 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 remorse- 
 ful 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 comfort- 
 ing. But it was aU 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 sen- 
 sation, 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 eyehds, 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.
 
 DC 
 
 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 httle mysterious; 
 but people were already passing on their way to 
 work. She walked along, looking at the water flow- 
 ing up under the bright mist to which the gulls gave 
 a sort of hovering Ufe. She went as far as Black- 
 friars Bridge, and turning back, sat down on a bench 
 under a plane-tree, just as the sun broke through. 
 A Uttle pasty woman with a pinched yellowish face 
 was already sitting there, so still, and seeming to 
 see so Httle, 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 ? " 
 
 304
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 305 
 
 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 sHd 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'U 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 Kttle 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 humble, 
 terribly patient face; its brightness seemed cruel 
 perching there. 
 
 "Can I do anything to help you?" Noel mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "No, thank you, miss. I'm goin' 'ome now. I 
 don't live far. Thank you kindly." And raising
 
 3o6 SAINT'S PROGRESS ' 
 
 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 Kked 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 feUow had two selves, 
 one of which he used when he was 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 Kttle cropped man answering: "Hun- 
 dred and fourteen." 
 
 Fresh from the sight of the poor Httle 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 307 
 
 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, half-veiled 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 travelHng 
 by herself at this hour of the morning. Pretty too ! ' 
 Ah ! 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 Hps — 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 ahve. I won't look at that old man again: 
 then I shan't feel so bad.'
 
 3o8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 cow- 
 slips. The three soldiers were talking now in care- 
 fully lowered voices. The words: 'women,* 'under 
 control,' 'perfect plague,' came to her, making her 
 ears bum. 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, said: "Will you 
 have the window up or down?" and Hngered to 
 draw it half-way up. His pimctiliousness made her 
 feel worse than ever. WTien 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 roUing 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 re- 
 proach 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 309 
 
 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 every- 
 where. 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 tranquillis- 
 ing friend. The sea might be cruel and terrible, 
 awful thu'igs 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 Jfingers with absurd ecstasy; took 
 off her shoes and stockings, paddled, and sat drjdng 
 her legs in the sun. 
 
 When she left the little beach, she felt as if som.e- 
 one had said to her: 
 
 "Your troubles are very Httle. 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. 
 
 "NoUie! Splendid. I've got an hour. Let's
 
 3IO SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 get out of this cemetery. We'll have time for a 
 good stretch on the tops." 
 
 "WeU, my dear," he said, when they were out- 
 side the gates; ''jolly of you to have come to me. 
 Tell us all about it." 
 
 When she had finished, he squeezed her arm. "I 
 knew it wouldn't do. Your Dad forgot that he's a 
 pubhc figure, and must expect to be damned accord- 
 ing. But though you've cut and run, he'll resign 
 aU 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 Hfe, 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, NoUie, where the Church is, and the Church- 
 men are not — ^in the air ! " 
 
 'Don't!" cried Noel passionately. 
 'No, no, I'm not chafiing. 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 
 
 tc-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 311 
 
 ways — to be saints and seers of visions, and yet 
 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
 
 312 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 parsons in a spiritual sense and chalks below most 
 of them in the woridly. And yet I beUeve he's in 
 the right of it. The Church ought to be a foriom 
 hope, NoUie; then we should beheve 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 board- 
 ing-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 Grade'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 Httle farther, 
 and lay down on the short grass, where the chalk 
 broke through in patches. She could hear a distant 
 rumbUng, 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 dread- 
 ful 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 313 
 
 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 Hfe. 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 business- 
 like in all parish matters. But a hundred times 
 that night he stopped, overcome by memories. 
 Every comer, drawer, photograph, paper was a 
 thread in the long-spun web of his Ufe 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, dining-room, draw- 
 ing-room, and anyone seeing him at his work in 
 the dim Hght which visited the staircase from above 
 the front door and the upper-passage window, would 
 have thought: *A ghost, a ghost gone into mourn- 
 ing 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 315 
 
 had finished, and, almost dropping with fatigue, 
 sat down at his Httle piano in bright dayhght. 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, puzzHng the early birds and cats 
 and those few humans who were abroad as yet. . . . 
 
 He received the telegram from Noel in the after- 
 noon 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, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 "You are going?" 
 
 "Yes, I am leaving here. I hope to go to 
 France." 
 
 "And madem/)iselle ? ^' 
 
 "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.
 
 3i6 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 I '^ said the painter, on whom 
 nothing was lost. ^'Comme je suis egoiste I I show 
 my feeUngs; it is deplorable. My disappointment 
 must seem a bagatelle to you, who will be so dis- 
 tressed 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 Eng- 
 lish 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 feehngs, 
 virtue goes out of you? And I will tell you why,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 317 
 
 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 feel- 
 ing too. I think we feel that to speak of our suffer- 
 ings or deeper feeUngs is to obtrude oneself, to make 
 a fuss, to be self-concerned, when we might be con- 
 cerned 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 Men I 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 wiU 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/"
 
 3i8 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 some- 
 times felt; the reason why charity and love were 
 not more aUve 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, beUeving our- 
 selves 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 Gra- 
 tian came in; and taking her hand, he said: 
 
 "Noel has gone down to George, and I want
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 319 
 
 you to get transferred and go to them, Grade. I'm 
 giving up the parish and asking for a chaplaincy." 
 "Giving up? After all this time? Is it because 
 ofNoUie?" 
 
 "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 
 reaUy 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 Gra- 
 tian'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 reahsed to the full how strongly he had 
 resented the pubUc condemnation passed on his own 
 flesh and blood, how much his action was the ex- 
 pression 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
 
 320 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 — Sharking 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 disillusion- 
 ment it had brought. A sense of having lost caste 
 weighed on him, while he sat there with his past 
 receding from him, dusty and imreal. He had the 
 queerest feeling of his old Hfe faUing from him, 
 dropping round his feet like the outworn scales of 
 a serpent, rung after rung of tasks and duties per- 
 formed 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.
 
 XI 
 
 The last Sunday, sunny and bright! Though 
 he did not ask her to go, Gratian went to every Ser- 
 vice 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 underhe 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 bhght, 
 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, per- 
 haps many, seriously grieved that he was going; 
 but to try and reaHse 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 finaHty, did not perhaps even feel it yet. 
 For so beautiful a summer evening the congregation 
 was large. In spite of aU reticence, rumour was busy 
 
 321
 
 322 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 speak- 
 ing 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 phancy, 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 wink- 
 ing 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 323 
 
 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 
 reahty, something he loved more dearly. She fell 
 on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. 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 remaui with you always." And still she 
 knelt on, tiU 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 thmking; 
 'aU over. My beloved Daddy! Now he has no 
 home; Nolhe and I have puUed him down. And 
 yet I couldn't help it, and perhaps she couldn't. 
 Poor Nolhe! . , .' 
 
 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
 
 324 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 with a friend to carry on till the new Vicar was ap- 
 pointed. 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 comer of 
 Square Garden, and hear this famihar 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 aU that he would leave, 
 he would miss this most — the right to come and 
 play here in the darkening Church, to release emo- 
 tional 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 — aU was invisible, save the columns, and the 
 walls. He began playing his favourite slow move- 
 ment 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 325 
 
 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 dayHght 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. * Good-bye, 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 stiU in her 
 mouth; and the only movement was the curHng 
 of its blue smoke. He could see her face reflected, 
 wide-eyed, pale, with a Httle 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 liis 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 ! " 
 
 a ' 
 
 I was not discussing you. I merely said you 
 were not to be envied for having me. Are you?" 
 
 326
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 327 
 
 The moment he had spoken, he was sorry. The 
 anger in her eyes changed instantly, first to search- 
 ing, then to misery. She cried out: 
 
 "I was to be en\aed. Oh ! Jimmy; I was!" and 
 flung herself face down on the bed. 
 
 Through Fort's mind went the thought: 'Atro- 
 cious!' How could he soothe — make her feel — 
 what? That he loved her, when he didn't: that he 
 wanted her, when he wanted Noel. That he was 
 her true and loving servant, when he knew that he 
 was not. Atrocious ! He went up to the bedside, 
 touched her timidly, and murmured: 
 
 "Leila, what is it? You're overtired. What's 
 the matter, dear? I couldn't help the child's being 
 here. Why do you let it upset you? She's gone. 
 It's nothing. 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, screw- 
 ing 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 en- 
 trenched. 
 
 "My dear Jimmy!" she said, "I want you to 
 do nothing but get me another cigarette. At my
 
 328 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 cmious Httle smile she had said 
 that! But no sooner was he out of the room and 
 hunting blindly for the cigarettes whose position 
 he knew perfectly well, than his mind was filled 
 with an aching concern for Noel, fleeing like that, 
 reckless and hurt, with nowhere to go. He found 
 the Httle pohshed golden birchwood box which held 
 the cigarettes, and going back made a desperate 
 effort to dismiss the image of the girl before he again 
 reached Leila. She was 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 Ht 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 ap- 
 peared suddenly radiant the fatal night after the 
 Queen's Hall concert. She took the wine-glass, 
 and passed him, going into the sitting-room. 
 
 "Come and sit down," she said. "Is your leg 
 hurting you?"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 329 
 
 "Not more than usual,'* and he sat down beside 
 her. 
 
 ''Won't you have some? 'In vmo Veritas,' my 
 friend." 
 
 He shook his head, and taking her hand, 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 EngUshman 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 ab- 
 solutely nothing, his whole being held in chancery. 
 So far as a man can understand that moment in a
 
 330 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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; 'sim- 
 ply 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 ! Quite right, so do I. I've had 
 too many of them 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 — ^horribly. 
 What a disgusting 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 ! Bless you !" 
 
 But, in opening the door, he caught sight of her
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 331 
 
 face, staring at him, evidently waiting for him ta 
 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. Atrocious ! Once in the 
 moonlight, 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; 
 if only it had been a souUess companionship, a quite 
 sordid business. Anything rather than this ! What 
 was he, that she, who had loved at least two other 
 men in her time, should be so wretched because he 
 couldn't love her? English to the backbone, he 
 could not divest himself of a sense of guilt. To have 
 let it begin at all — and now that it had come to this, 
 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. For a moment he seemed 
 to see the window-curtain move. 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. It's altogether a bad — bad business. 
 My God, yes ! A bad — bad business ! ' 
 
 And, painfully, for his leg was hurting him, he 
 walked away.
 
 332 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 2§ 
 
 Leila was only too well aware of a truth that feel- 
 ings are no less real, poignant, and important to 
 those outside the ring fence of morahty than to 
 those within. Her feehngs were, indeed, probably 
 even more real and poignant, just as a wild fruit 
 has a sharper taste than that of the tame product. 
 Opinion — she knew — ^would say, that having wil- 
 fully chosen a position outside morality she had 
 not half the case for broken-heartedness she would 
 have had if Fort had been her husband. Opinion 
 — she knew — would say she had no claim on him; 
 indeed, that the sooner an illegal tie was broken, 
 the better! And yet she felt fully as wretched as 
 if she had been married. Moreover she had not 
 wanted to be outside morality; she had never in 
 her hfe wanted to be that. She was like those folk 
 who by good and constant confession can shed their 
 sins and start again with a clear conscience. She 
 had never meant to sin, merely to love, and when 
 she was in love, the thing was so important to her 
 that nothing else mattered for the moment. But, 
 if she was a gambler, she had so far always paid 
 up. Only, this time the stakes for which she had 
 played were the heaviest a woman can put down, 
 or rather, that Time and Fate can put down for 
 her. 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 behef had suddenly gone
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 333 
 
 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, too, was the first time 
 a man had tired of her before she was ready for it. 
 Why ! he had been tired before he began, or so she 
 felt, sitting there when he had gone. In one swift 
 moment as of a drowning person, she seemed to 
 see again all the passages of their companionship, 
 and to know with certainty that it had never been 
 real or deep in him — ^never a genuine flame. A fever 
 of shame ran, consuming, in her veins. She buried 
 her face deep in the cushions. The girl, who had 
 sat just here where she was sitting, had possessed 
 his real heart all the time. Why had she ever gone 
 over her reHcs, and found those two little letters, 
 from him and Edward? And with a laugh she 
 thought: 'I put my money on the wrong horse; 
 I ought to have backed Edward. If I had tried, 
 perhaps I could have turned that poor monk's head. 
 If I had never seen Jimmy again; if I had torn his 
 letter up, I could have made poor Edward love me !' 
 But ifs, ifs ! What folly ! Things happened as they 
 must! And, starting up, she began to roam the 
 little room. One thing was certain — ^without Jimmy 
 she would be wretched, and with him she would 
 be wretched too ! ' I can't bear to see his face,' she 
 thought; 'and I can't Uve without him ! It's really 
 funny ! ' The thought of her hospital filled her with 
 absolute loathing. To go there day after day with 
 this despair eating at her heart — she simply could
 
 334 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 not. She went over her resources. She had more 
 money than she thought; Jinmiy had given her a 
 Christmas present of five hundred poimds. 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 escape in the past. She 
 thought of her first husband, Ronny Fane; of their 
 mosquito-curtained rooms in that ghastly Madras 
 heat. Poor Ronny! Wliat a pale, cynical young 
 ghost started up under that name. She thought 
 of L5mch, 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 
 Jinmiy, 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 companion- 
 ship, 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. Fif- 
 teen years to bewitch men; 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-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 335 
 
 four. She felt as if she must scream, and, stuffing 
 her handkerchief into her mouth, turned out the 
 light, to get rid of the sight of her face in the glass 
 over the mantel-shelf. Darkness cooled her, a Httle. 
 She pulled aside the curtains, and let in the moon- 
 light. Jimmy and that girl were out in it somewhere, 
 seeking each other, if not in body, then in thought. 
 And soon, somehow, somewhere, they would come 
 together. That was clear as the shape of that great, 
 hard, ugly church, which hurt her eyes whenever 
 she looked out. They would come together because 
 Fate meant them to! Fate which had given her 
 young cousin a likeness to herseh; placed her, too, 
 in just such a hopeless position as appealed to Jimmy, 
 and gave him a chance against younger m.en. She 
 saw it with bitter surety. Good gamblers cut their 
 losses! Yes, and proud women did not keep un- 
 wilHng 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, 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 httle de- 
 vice — and all, to what end? To see his face get
 
 336 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 colder and colder, hear Ms voice more and more 
 constrained to gentleness; and know that under- 
 neath, aversion was growing with the thought: 'You 
 are keeping me from Hf e, and love ! ' till one evening, 
 in sheer nerve-break, she would say or do some fear- 
 ful thing, and he would come no more. ' No, Jimmy ! ' 
 she thought; 'find her, and stay with her. You're 
 not worth all that!' And pulling- 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 337 
 
 '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 sHpped it in a pillar box. The night smelled 
 good, it smelled of flowers; and, hastening back 
 away from it, she lay down, and stayed awake 
 for hours, tossing, and staring at the dark.
 
 XIII 
 
 Leila had pluck, but little patience. Difficult 
 to say which helped her most in the next few days. 
 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 pur- 
 chase and preparation were as good an anodyne 
 as she could have taken. The perils of the sea were 
 at fuU 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 irrevocabihty 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 de- 
 cide. 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 un- 
 bearable 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 uncon- 
 
 338
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 339 
 
 sciously 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. Reach- 
 ing the old Square, she was astonished to see a board 
 up with the words: "To let," though the house 
 stUl 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 extraordinarily 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, 
 and 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 Pier- 
 son 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?"
 
 340 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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, won't 
 we? 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 ? ' And 
 she looked at him with a queer little smile. 
 
 "What would have happened, Edward, if you 
 had proposed to me that May week, when we were 
 — a Httle bit in love. WTiich would it have been 
 worst for, you or me?" 
 
 "You wouldn't have taken me, Leila." 
 
 "Oh, one never knoM^s. 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 "
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 34i 
 
 "I do; I can see that you've been half bumed 
 alive; half bumed 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 quiver- 
 ing off her Hps 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 hfelong 
 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 httle 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.' Wliile she was
 
 342 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 from some soldiers bil- 
 leted in a big hotel close by. ^'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 — flying on a wicker- 
 couch against the wall in the far comer, 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 rest- 
 lessly, 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 gHnted 
 white and strong. His face was young; so much
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 343, 
 
 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 sHpped 
 dowTi off the couch, and smother him as he lay 
 there, refusing, so it seemed to her, to come to con- 
 sciousness. 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 vel ' 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 httle nervous laugh. 
 
 "You weren't dreaming of me, dear Jimmy, that's 
 certain. In what garden were you wandering?" 
 
 "Leila! You! How— how joUy ! " 
 
 "How — ^how joUy! 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 — awfuUy 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 aU 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 beheve that nothing — nothing will 
 ever shake your chivalry." 
 
 "Chivalry? I have none."
 
 344 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 Uttle bit, be nice 
 to me to-day. 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-beheve. * He loves me — ^he loves me — 
 he loves me!' To lose herseK 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. 
 
 3§ 
 
 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 there with a little 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 345 
 
 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. Quite 
 right. Get yourself a fresh one to-morrow." 
 
 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 Hps clung to his with all 
 their might. She wrenched them away, felt for the 
 handle bHndly, 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 Hstened. There wasn't 
 a sound. 'If I stand here behind this curtain,' she 
 thought, *I shall see him again.' She sHpped be- 
 hind the curtain, close drawn but for a httle chink. 
 It was so dark there that she could not see her own 
 hand. She heard the door open, and his slow foot- 
 steps 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,
 
 346 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 length- 
 ened 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 MaU. He went 
 up some steps, and vanished into his Club. It was 
 the end. She looked up at the building; a mon- 
 strous 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, vive4a VC' 
 Vive-la compagnie I '
 
 XIV 
 
 Fort had been lying there about an hour, sleep- 
 ing and awake, before that visit. He had dreamed 
 a curious and wonderfully emotionaHsing dream. 
 A long grey line, in a dim hght, 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 
 Enghsh ! ' The sensation of that advancing tide 
 of dim figures in grey Hght, the throb and roar, the 
 wonderful, rhythmic steady drive of it, no more to 
 be stopped than the waves of an incoming tide, 
 was perfectly, gloriously fascinating; hfe was noth- 
 ing, death nothing. 'Hooray, the English!' In 
 that dream, he was his country, he was every one 
 of that long charging hne, 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 reaUsm. Death was nothing, if his coun- 
 
 347
 
 348 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 try 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 conamon 'Hooray!* 
 And 'the Enghsh,' not the hterary '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 Ukely 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 eve- 
 ning, 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 I 
 
 "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.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 349 
 
 And, trying to collect his thoughts, he took a cab 
 and drove to her flat. 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 oS 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 beU. 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 greet- 
 ing 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 Hues: 
 
 "My dear Leila, 
 
 " I cannot express to you the feelings with which I received 
 your letter "
 
 350 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Hght from the setting sun threw 
 her shadow on the waU, 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 incHned 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 comers 
 of her lips ever so sUghtly, and drop her gaze again. 
 She had pitted herself against Fate; so long as she 
 knitted, the war could not stop — such was the con- 
 clusion 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, too ! ' If I were to hold her elbows from 
 behind,' the girl used to think, ^I beheve 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 httle silvery tune would cUck itself once 
 more into her brain, and stop her thinking. In her 
 lap this evening lay a letter from her father. 
 
 353
 
 354 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 *'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 com- 
 fort to me to think that Gratian is with you, and no doubt 
 you will all soon be in a house where my Httle grandson can 
 join you. I have excellent accounts of him in a letter from 
 your aunt, just received. My darling 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. Mon- 
 sieur 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 hke 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 good-bye. She was very brave, for I fear it means a 
 great wrench for her. I hope and pray she may find com- 
 fort 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 can- 
 not 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,
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 355 
 
 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 ac- 
 quiescence that the old lady knitted, or was it re- 
 sistance — a challenge to death itself, a challenge 
 dancing to the time of the needles like the grey ghost 
 of himian 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 Uttle 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?"
 
 356 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 >» 
 
 "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 beheve in this 
 Hfe; not living at all, just preparing for the life he 
 did beheve 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 beheve 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 beheve 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 some- 
 one else — ^like Leila. 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 357 
 
 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 sol- 
 diers; they didn't know why they were heroes, it 
 was not because they'd been told to be, or because 
 they beheved in a future Hfe. They just had to 
 be, from inside somewhere, to save others. 'And 
 they love hfe as much as I do,' she thought. 'What 
 a beast it makes one feel ! ' Those needles ! Re- 
 sistance — acquiescence ? Both perhaps. The oldest 
 lady in the world, with her lips moving at the comers, 
 keeping things in, had Hved her hfe, and knew it. 
 How dreadful to Hve on v/hen 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 hfe and love were 
 yours for the taking! 'I shan't answer Daddy,' 
 she thought.
 
 II 
 
 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 pro- 
 cession 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. Then he 
 waited, turning the leaves of an illustrated journal, 
 wherein Society beauties, starving Serbians, ac- 
 tresses with pretty legs, prize dogs, sinking ships. 
 Royalties, shells bursting, and padres reading funeral 
 services, testified to the cathoHcity 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 cHck 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 ap- 
 preciated, 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." 
 
 358
 
 til 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 359 
 
 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 httle 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 Kfe to knit.' And he turned away to the 
 window. y 
 
 "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."
 
 360 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "Good afternoon." The needles clicked, and 
 little movements occurred at the comers 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 cHffs, 
 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 ghbly 
 from imbelievers when they want anything. A 
 baby's ciying 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 herseK! 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 faUing across its pram, ceased crying. Noel 
 took his hand. Under the sunbonnet, which hid 
 her short 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 361 
 
 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 down-hill. It had scratched its 
 snub nose and bumpy, forehead, and it stared up 
 at its mother with blue eyes, which seemed to have 
 no imderlids 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 something." 
 
 "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 darhng," 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 httle 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 Httle crea- 
 ture, I shouldn't have a dog's chance.' "I'll go 
 and see your father. Is he in?" 
 
 "I thmk so." 
 
 "May I come to-morrow?"
 
 362 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 Pier- 
 son was sitting on a sofa reading. The sight of that 
 figure in khaki disconcerted Fort, who had not real- 
 ised 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 pennission 
 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. Cap- 
 tain Fort?" 
 
 "I saw Noel in the garden. I've said nothing 
 to her, of course. But she told me you were start- 
 ing 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." 
 T did ask her; she refused." 
 
 
 a-
 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS s^S 
 
 "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, na- 
 turally. 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."
 
 364 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "She is a child." 
 
 ''No, she's not a child," said Fort stubbornly. 
 
 Pierson touched the lapel of his new tunic. " Cap- 
 tain Fort, I am going far away from her, and leav- 
 ing 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 hps 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 feel- 
 ing 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 365 
 
 *' 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 hfe?" 
 
 "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 be- 
 lieved 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 con- 
 tinued 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, wdth 
 his head down, sore, angry, and yet — relieved. He
 
 366 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 knew where he stood; nor did he feel that he had 
 been worsted — those strictures had not touched him. 
 Convicted of inunorahty, he remained conscious 
 of private justifications, in a way that human 
 beings have. Only one httle comer 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 haison 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.
 
 Ill 
 
 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 deUcious day, and the early 
 freshness had not yet dried out of the air, when 
 they were walking home to breakfast. Each girl 
 had sUpped 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 ! Nur- 
 sery 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, 
 
 367
 
 368 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 Peter; to Noel Absalom because of his hair, and 
 Haman because she liked the sound, and Ruth be- 
 cause she was pretty, and John because he leaned 
 on Jesus' breast. Neither of them cared for Job 
 or David, and EHjah and EUsha they detested be- 
 cause they hated the name EKza. And later days 
 by firelight in the drawing-room, roasting chest- 
 nuts just before evening church, and telhng 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, Chris- 
 tian Soldiers," "Lead, Kindly Light," and "0 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 be- 
 cause 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 cocka- 
 too, and the governesses, and their red cloaks, and 
 the curates, and the pantomimes, and "Peter Pan," 
 and "Alice in Wonderland" — Daddy sitting be- 
 tween 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, al-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 369 
 
 ways with him. And concerts and Shakespeare 
 plays in the Christmas and Easter hoKdays; and the 
 walks home in 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 steal- 
 ing glances at him, photographing him in their minds. 
 Gratian got her camera and did actually photograph 
 him in the morning sunhght 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, we three, and forget there's a war." 
 
 So easy to say, so difficult to do, with the boom 
 of the guns travelHng 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 impor- 
 tant to their frail selves; and the white clouds, few 
 and so slow-moving, and the remote strange purity 
 which chngs 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 agree- 
 ment, of nothing but what had happened before 
 the war began, while the flock of the blown dande- 
 lions 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.
 
 370 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 
 " Ilippoly tus " 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 eve- 
 ning. 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 eve- 
 ning. 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 NoUie; 
 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 feehng about him?" 
 
 "I don't think she knows. Nolhe dreams along, 
 and then suddenly rushes." 
 
 "I wish she were safe from that man."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 371 
 
 "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. 
 'Toor thing! You're like my NoUie; so soft, and 
 dreamy, so feckless, so reckless." And going to 
 the curtains, he thrust his hand through, and re- 
 leased 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 dehver 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 Httle 
 gust can blow into the candle." 
 
 "Ail 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 quiver- 
 ing.
 
 372 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "Don't let us differ on this last night; I must 
 go up to NoUie 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 
 beautiful country!' he thought; 'my wonderful 
 country ! ' The dew was lying thick and silvery al- 
 ready on the little patch of grass — the last dew, 
 the last sweet scent of an EngUsh night. The call 
 of a bugle floated out. "My England !" he prayed; 
 "God be about you!" A little sound answered 
 from across the grass, Hke 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 
 homed 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 Httle room, next the nursery. No voice
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 373 
 
 answered his tap. It was dark, but he could see 
 her at the window, leaning far out, with her chin 
 on her hands. 
 
 "NoUie!" 
 
 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, NolUe; too wild. It's been 
 hard to tame oneself." 
 
 Noel slipped her hand through his arm. "Poor, 
 poor!" she said. "Let's go and take the goat and 
 skip together on the hiUs. If only we had a penny 
 whistle ! Did you hear the bugle ? The bugle and 
 the goat — diet's make a poem of it !" 
 • Pierson pressed the hand against him. 
 
 "Nollie, my beloved, 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
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 374 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 ghmmering spear — 
 Ah! if I could!" 
 
 All that in life had been to him unknown, of ven- 
 ture and wild savour; all the emotion he had stifled; 
 the swift Pan he had denied; the sharp fruits, the 
 burning suns, the dark pools, and unearthly moon- 
 light, 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 per- 
 son; it makes you ache to kiss it." 
 
 His lips felt parched. ''There is a beauty beyond 
 all that," he said stubbornly. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "HoHness, duty, faith. O NolHe, my love!" 
 But Noel's hand tightened on his arm.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 375 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I should like?" she whis- 
 pered. "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 I 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, strok- 
 ing her head. Then the habit of a hundred death- 
 beds helped him. "Come,Nolhe! This Hfe 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, Nolhe, 
 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, Daddy,
 
 / 
 
 / 376 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 I and all my badness to come, especially all my bad- 
 ness to come!" 
 
 Pierson smiled. "I shall always forgive you, 
 NoUie; 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 to-morrow, 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 and lov- 
 able than you, NoUie!" he said quietly. "Remem- 
 ber 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 win- 
 dow, and Noel's face just visible.
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 377 
 
 "George, let the goat loose, just for to-night. 
 It's Daddy's last 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.
 
 IV 
 
 I§ 
 
 In the weeks which succeeded Pierson's departure, 
 Gratian and George often discussed Noel's conduct 
 and position by the Hght 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 NoUie could 
 make good her vagary. If she could, and grew in 
 strength of character thereby, it was ipso facto aU 
 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 aca- 
 demic — ^he insisted — ^were always forgetting the 
 adaptability of living organisms; how every action 
 which was out of the ordinary, unconsciously modi- 
 fied all the other actions together with the outlook, 
 and philosophy of the doer. "Of course NoUie was 
 crazy," he said, "but when she did what she did, 
 she at once began to think differently about Hfe 
 and morals. The deepest instinct we all have is 
 the instinct that we must do what we must, and 
 
 378
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 379 
 
 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 — v/e 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 
 NolHe. 
 
 They watched the victim of their discussions 
 with real anxiety. The knowledge that she would 
 never be more sheltered than she was ■v\ith them, 
 at aU 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
 
 380 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 weU 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 con- 
 science. 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 fearfuUy." 
 Gratian stared at her, astonished that she could
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 381 
 
 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 ad- 
 vice was: "Answer it politely, but say notliing; 
 and nothing to Nollie. I think it would be a very 
 good thing. Of course it's a bit of a makeshift — 
 twice her age; but he's a genuine man, if not ex- 
 actly 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
 
 382 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 im- 
 pending visit increased the anxiety with wliich 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 darhngs," 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 hu-
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 383 
 
 man binders he could get. That first day in the 
 fields bUstered 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 thought: 'If only I 
 could be tired out like this every day ! ' She would 
 be all right then, would lose the feehng of not know- 
 ing what she wanted, of being in a sort of large box, 
 with the Ud slammed down, roaming round it Hke 
 a dazed and homesick bee in an overturned tumbler; 
 the feeling of being only half aHve, of having a wing 
 maimed so that she could only fly a httle 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 
 dra\vn through her hand till she held them level,
 
 384 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Httle 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 somethmg good being done, 
 of a job getting surely to its end. And gradually 
 the centre patch narrowed, and the sun slowly 
 slanted do\vn. 
 
 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, scout- 
 ing 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, comdnced 
 that she had nothing more to give him, sneezed 
 at her, and went away. Pressing the end of her
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 385 
 
 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! 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 cart- 
 ridges left, and the rabbits were dealt with by huUa- 
 baloo 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 shiUings apiece; aU this she knew — ^but to see 
 the poor frightened things steahng out, pounced 
 on, turned, shouted at, chased, rolled over by great 
 swift dogs, fallen on by the boys and killed and 
 carried with their hmp 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 com 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 httle 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
 
 386 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 while I look at it/ Noel turned her head away. Out 
 of the comer 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 httle 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."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 387 
 
 Noel gave a sigh of pleasure. 
 
 "Where have you come from?" she asked. 
 
 "Straight from the station. I'm on my holi- 
 day." 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 veranda, and 
 it was nearly dark before they had finished. In 
 rhyme with the failing of the Hght 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 starhght she could only just see the dim gar- 
 den, where no goat was grazing. Now that her 
 first excitement had worn off, this sudden reappear- 
 ance 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
 
 388 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 drag- 
 ging 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 humihated 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 Ufe 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 comer 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." 
 
 ii>
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 389 
 
 "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'U get away from 
 aU 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. 'JoUy!' 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 run- 
 ning 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 accus- 
 tomed — the guns, always at work, killing — ^killing 
 men and killing trees, little trees perhaps like this 
 within her arms, Uttle trembUng trees ! Out there,
 
 390 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 in this dark night, there would not be a single un- 
 scarred tree Hke this smooth quivering thing, no 
 fields of com, 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 help- 
 less, hopeless revolt and sorrow overtook her, which 
 had wrung from her that passionate httle outburst 
 to her father, the night before he went away. 
 Killed, torn, and bruised; burned, and killed, like 
 Cyril ! All the young things, hke this httle 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, wliich the sun had 
 warmed all day, against the satiny smooth bark. 
 But the Httle 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 candies 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 hving wood, absorbed in itself, and 
 coldly watching her, this intruder of the mischievous
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 391 
 
 breed, the fatal breed which loosed those rumblings 
 on the earth. Noel unlocked her arms, and re- 
 coiled. 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 un- 
 friendliness. She held her hands up to her face for 
 the mere pleasure of seeing something a Httle 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 for- 
 gotten 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 aU 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 — ahve! 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
 
 392 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 tnmk. 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 inter- 
 view 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 Uttle 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 deter- 
 mined: 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 
 
 393
 
 394 
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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 Turk- 
 ish 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 be- 
 fore she saw him, with his heart beating more vio- 
 lently 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. 
 
 *'Nolhe 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 to-morrow, won't you?"
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 395 
 
 "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, tr}dng 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 Hke this ? If only 
 I could get out to France again ! ' And then Noel's 
 figure bent over the falling com formed before him. 
 'I'll [have one more try,' he thought; 'one more — 
 to-morrow 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?"
 
 396 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 t» 
 
 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 cover- 
 ing 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 httle gulps and 
 gasps of her breathing, he stepped forward and put 
 his hands on her shoulders. He held her Hghtly, 
 without speaking, terrified lest he should wound her 
 pride. 
 
 "I — I got in there," she gasped, "and the trees — 
 and I stumbled over a man 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 imnaturally 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 Hps to her forehead all wet 
 with heat. She closed her eyes, gave a Httle choke, 
 and buried her face against his coat. 
 
 "There, there, my darhng!" 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 cer- 
 tain 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
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 397 
 
 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 snified at 
 it, and whispered : 
 
 "It smells good."
 
 VI 
 
 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 Httle 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 song; two aeroplanes, wheeling exactly Hke 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 
 
 398
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 399 
 
 yet he never looked at it without a spasm of home- 
 sickness. 
 
 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 visit- 
 ing 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 feehng 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 
 hstening to that even-song, gazing at the old desert 
 road. 
 
 "East Bungalow. 
 "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'lljust 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 after-
 
 400 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 noon, 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 NoUie'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 
 NoUie. 
 
 "Gratl\n."
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 401 
 
 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 lonehness 
 so utter and complete that he did not know how to 
 bear it. It seemed as if some last Hnk 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 Sou- 
 danese melody on a Httle wooden Arab flute. Pier- 
 son 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.
 
 402 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 "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 i^ 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 sun- 
 light, and one splash of red and blue from a Httle 
 flag on the wall glowed out. At this cooler hour, 
 the ward behind the screens was almost empty, and 
 few sounds broke the stiUness; 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, wonder- 
 fully 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 httle 
 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 : 
 * God ! Let me be some help to him ! '
 
 SAINT'S PROGRESS 403 
 
 "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 sunhght; and his 
 eyes closed. Pierson bent over the hand. When 
 he looked up the boy was dead. He kissed his fore- 
 head 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
 
 404 SAINT'S PROGRESS 
 
 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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