Saint's Progress

“Then why – ”

“Because I’m a man, I suppose, and a fool”

“If it was simply, ‘because you are a man’ as you call it, it is clear that no principle or faith governs you. And yet you ask me to give you Noel; my poor Noel, who wants the love and protection not of a ‘man’ but of a good man. No, Captain Fort, no!”

Fort bit his lips. “I’m clearly not a good man in your sense of the word; but I love her terribly, and I would protect her. I don’t in the least know whether she’ll have me. I don’t expect her to, naturally. But I warn you that I mean to ask her, and to wait for her. I’m so much in love that I can do nothing else.”

“The man who is truly in love does what is best for the one he loves.” Fort bent his head; he felt as if he were at school again, confronting his head-master. “That’s true,” he said. “And I shall never trade on her position. If she can’t feel anything for me now or in the future, I shan’t trouble her, you may be sure of that. But if by some wonderful chance she should, I know I can make her happy, sir.”

“She is a child.”

“No, she’s not a child,” said Fort stubbornly.

Pierson touched the lapel of his new tunic. “Captain Fort, I am going far away from her, and leaving her without protection. I trust to your chivalry not to ask her, till I come back.”

Fort threw back his head. “No, no, I won’t accept that position. With or without your presence the facts will be the same. Either she can love me, or she can’t. If she can, she’ll be happier with me. If she can’t, there’s an end of it.”

Pierson came slowly up to him. “In my view,” he said, “you are as bound to Leila as if you were married to her.”

“You can’t, expect me to take the priest’s view, sir.”

Pierson’s lips trembled.

“You call it a priest’s view; I think it is only the view of a man of honour.”

Fort reddened. “That’s for my conscience,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t tell you, and I’m not going to, how things began. I was a fool. But I did my best, and I know that Leila doesn’t think I’m bound. If she had, she would never have gone. When there’s no feeling – there never was real feeling on my side – and when there’s this terribly real feeling for Noel, which I never sought, which I tried to keep down, which I ran away from – ”

“Did you?”

“Yes. To go on with the other was foul. I should have thought you might have seen that, sir; but I did go on with it. It was Leila who made an end.”

“Leila behaved nobly, I think.”

“She was splendid; but that doesn’t make me a brute.”.

Pierson turned away to the window, whence he must see Noel.

“It is repugnant to me,” he said. “Is there never to be any purity in her life?”

“Is there never to be any life for her? At your rate, sir, there will be none. I’m no worse than other men, and I love her more than they could.”

For fully a minute Pierson stood silent, before he said: “Forgive me if I’ve spoken harshly. I didn’t mean to. I love her intensely; I wish for nothing but her good. But all my life I have believed that for a man there is only one woman – for a woman only one man.”

“Then, Sir,” Fort burst out, “you wish her – ”

Pierson had put his hand up, as if to ward off a blow; and, angry though he was, Fort stopped.

“We are all made of flesh and blood,” he continued coldly, “and it seems to me that you think we aren’t.”

“We have spirits too, Captain Fort.” The voice was suddenly so gentle that Fort’s anger evaporated.

“I have a great respect for you, sir; but a greater love for Noel, and nothing in this world will prevent me trying to give my life to her.”

A smile quivered over Pierson’s face. “If you try, then I can but pray that you will fail.”

Fort did not answer, and went out.

He walked slowly away from the bungalow, with his head down, sore, angry, and yet-relieved. He knew where he stood; nor did he feel that he had been worsted – those strictures had not touched him. Convicted of immorality, he remained conscious of private justifications, in a way that human beings have. Only one little corner of memory, unseen and uncriticised by his opponent, troubled him. He pardoned himself the rest; the one thing he did not pardon was the fact that he had known Noel before his liaison with Leila commenced; had even let Leila sweep him away on, an evening when he had been in Noel’s company. For that he felt a real disgust with himself. And all the way back to the station he kept thinking: ‘How could I? I deserve to lose her! Still, I shall try; but not now – not yet!’ And, wearily enough, he took the train back to town.

III

Both girls rose early that last day, and went with their father to Communion. As Gratian had said to George: “It’s nothing to me now, but it will mean a lot to him out there, as a memory of us. So I must go.” And he had answered: “Quite right, my dear. Let him have all he can get of you both to-day. I’ll keep out of the way, and be back the last thing at night.” Their father’s smile when he saw them waiting for him went straight to both their hearts. It was a delicious day, and the early freshness had not yet dried out of the air, when they were walking home to breakfast. Each girl had slipped a hand under his arm. ‘It’s like Moses or was it Aaron?’ Noel thought absurdly Memory had complete hold of her. All the old days! Nursery hours on Sundays after tea, stories out of the huge Bible bound in mother-o’pearl, with photogravures of the Holy Land – palms, and hills, and goats, and little Eastern figures, and funny boats on the Sea of Galilee, and camels – always camels. The book would be on his knee, and they one on each arm of his chair, waiting eagerly for the pages to be turned so that a new picture came. And there would be the feel of his cheek, prickly against theirs; and the old names with the old glamour – to Gratian, Joshua, Daniel, Mordecai, Peter; to Noel Absalom because of his hair, and Haman because she liked the sound, and Ruth because she was pretty and John because he leaned on Jesus’ breast. Neither of them cared for Job or David, and Elijah and Elisha they detested because they hated the name Eliza. And later days by firelight in the drawing-room, roasting chestnuts just before evening church, and telling ghost stories, and trying to make Daddy eat his share. And hours beside him at the piano, each eager for her special hymns – for Gratian, “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” “Lead, Kindly Light,” and “O God Our Help”; for Noel, “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” the one with “The Hosts of Midian” in it, and “For Those in Peril on the Sea.” And carols! Ah! And Choristers! Noel had loved one deeply – the word “chorister” was so enchanting; and because of his whiteness, and hair which had no grease on it, but stood up all bright; she had never spoken to him – a far worship, like that for a star. And always, always Daddy had been gentle; sometimes angry, but always gentle; and they sometimes not at all! And mixed up with it all, the dogs they had had, and the cats they had had, and the cockatoo, and the governesses, and their red cloaks, and the curates, and the pantomimes, and “Peter Pan,” and “Alice in Wonderland” – Daddy sitting between them, so that one could snuggle up. And later, the school-days, the hockey, the prizes, the holidays, the rush into his arms; and the great and wonderful yearly exodus to far places, fishing and bathing; walks and drives; rides and climbs, always with him. And concerts and Shakespeare plays in the Christmas and Easter holidays; and the walk home through the streets – all lighted in those days – one on each side of him. And this was the end! They waited on him at breakfast: they kept stealing glances at him, photographing him in their minds. Gratian got her camera and did actually photograph him in the morning sunlight with Noel, without Noel, with the baby; against all regulations for the defence of the realm. It was Noel who suggested: “Daddy, let’s take lunch out and go for all day on the cliffs, us three, and forget there’s a war.”

So easy to say, so difficult to do, with the boom of the guns travelling to their ears along the grass, mingled with the buzz of insects. Yet that hum of summer, the innumerable voices of tiny lives, gossamer things all as alive as they, and as important to their frail selves; and the white clouds, few and so slow-moving, and the remote strange purity which clings to the chalky downs, all this white and green and blue of land and sea had its peace, which crept into the spirits of those three alone with Nature, this once more, the last time for – who could say how long? They talked, by tacit agreement, of nothing but what had happened before the war began, while the flock of the blown dandelions drifted past. Pierson sat cross-legged on the grass, without his cap, suffering a little still from the stiffness of his unwonted garments. And the girls lay one on each side of him, half critical, and half admiring. Noel could not bear his collar.

“If you had a soft collar you’d be lovely, Daddy. Perhaps out there they’ll let you take it off. It must be fearfully hot in Egypt. Oh! I wish I were going. I wish I were going everywhere in the world. Some day!” Presently he read to them, Murray’s “Hippolytus” of Euripides. And now and then Gratian and he discussed a passage. But Noel lay silent, looking at the sky. Whenever his voice ceased, there was the song of the larks, and very faint, the distant mutter of the guns.

They stayed up there till past six, and it was time to go and have tea before Evening Service. Those hours in the baking sun had drawn virtue out of them; they were silent and melancholy all the evening. Noel was the first to go up to her bedroom. She went without saying good night – she knew her father would come to her room that last evening. George had not yet come in; and Gratian was left alone with Pierson in the drawing-room, round whose single lamp, in spite of close-drawn curtains, moths were circling: She moved over to him on the sofa.

“Dad, promise me not to worry about Nollie; we’ll take care of her.”

“She can only take care of herself, Gracie, and will she? Did you know that Captain Fort was here yesterday?”

“She told me.”

“What is her feeling about him?”

“I don’t think she knows. Nollie dreams along, and then suddenly rushes.”

“I wish she were safe from that man.”

“But, Dad, why? George likes him and so do I.”

A big grey moth was fluttering against the lamp. Pierson got up and caught it in the curve of his palm. “Poor thing! You’re like my Nollie; so soft, and dreamy, so feckless, so reckless.” And going to the curtains, he thrust his hand through, and released the moth.

“Dad!” said Gratian suddenly, “we can only find out for ourselves, even if we do singe our wings in doing it. We’ve been reading James’s ‘Pragmatism.’ George says the only chapter that’s important is missing – the one on ethics, to show that what we do is not wrong till it’s proved wrong by the result. I suppose he was afraid to deliver that lecture.”

Pierson’s face wore the smile which always came on it when he had to deal with George, the smile which said: “Ah, George, that’s very clever; but I know.”

“My dear,” he said, “that doctrine is the most dangerous in the world. I am surprised at George.”

“I don’t think George is in danger, Dad.”

“George is a man of wide experience and strong judgment and character; but think how fatal it would be for Nollie, my poor Nollie, whom a little gust can blow into the candle.”

“All the same,” said Gratian stubbornly, “I don’t think anyone can be good or worth anything unless they judge for themselves and take risks.”

Pierson went close to her; his face was quivering.