The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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IV

1

To find out the worst is, for human nature, only a question of time. But
where the "worst" is attached to a family haloed, as it were, by the
authority and reputation of an institution like the Church, the process
of discovery has to break through many a little hedge. Sheer
unlikelihood, genuine respect, the defensive instinct in those identified
with an institution, who will themselves feel weaker if its strength be
diminished, the feeling that the scandal is too good to be true--all
these little hedges, and more, had to be broken through. To the
Dinnafords, the unholy importance of what Noel had said to them would
have continued to keep them dumb, out of self-protection; but its
monstrosity had given them the feeling that there must be some mistake,
that the girl had been overtaken by a wild desire to "pull their legs" as
dear Charlie would say. With the hope of getting this view confirmed,
they lay in wait for the old nurse who took the baby out, and obtained
the information, shortly imparted: "Oh, yes; Miss Noel's. Her 'usband
was killed--poor lamb!" And they felt rewarded. They had been sure there
was some mistake. The relief of hearing that word "'usband" was intense.
One of these hasty war marriages, of which the dear Vicar had not
approved, and so it had been kept dark. Quite intelligible, but so sad!
Enough misgiving however remained in their minds, to prevent their going
to condole with the dear Vicar; but not enough to prevent their roundly
contradicting the rumours and gossip already coming to their ears. And
then one day, when their friend Mrs. Curtis had said too positively:
"Well, she doesn't wear a wedding-ring, that I'll swear, because I took
very good care to look!" they determined to ask Mr. Lauder. He
would--indeed must--know; and, of course, would not tell a story. When
they asked him it was so manifest that he did know, that they almost
withdrew the question. The poor young man had gone the colour of a
tomato.

"I prefer not to answer," he said. The rest of a very short interview
was passed in exquisite discomfort. Indeed discomfort, exquisite and
otherwise, within a few weeks of Noel's return, had begun to pervade all
the habitual congregation of Pierson's church. It was noticed that
neither of the two sisters attended Service now. Certain people who went
in the sincere hope of seeing Noel, only fell off again when she did not
appear. After all, she would not have the face! And Gratian was too
ashamed, no doubt. It was constantly remarked that the Vicar looked very
grave and thin, even for him. As the rumours hardened into certainty,
the feeling towards him became a curious medley of sympathy and
condemnation. There was about the whole business that which English
people especially resent. By the very fact of his presence before them
every Sunday, and his public ministrations, he was exhibiting to them, as
it were, the seamed and blushing face of his daughter's private life,
besides affording one long and glaring demonstration of the failure of
the Church to guide its flock: If a man could not keep his own daughter
in the straight path--whom could he? Resign! The word began to be
thought about, but not yet spoken. He had been there so long; he had
spent so much money on the church and the parish; his gentle dreamy
manner was greatly liked. He was a gentleman; and had helped many
people; and, though his love of music and vestments had always caused
heart-burnings, yet it had given a certain cachet to the church. The
women, at any rate, were always glad to know that the church they went to
was capable of drawing their fellow women away from other churches.
Besides, it was war-time, and moral delinquency which in time of peace
would have bulked too large to neglect, was now less insistently dwelt
on, by minds preoccupied by food and air-raids. Things, of course, could
not go on as they were; but as yet they did go on.

The talked-about is always the last to hear the talk; and nothing
concrete or tangible came Pierson's way. He went about his usual routine
without seeming change. And yet there was a change, secret and creeping.
Wounded almost to death himself, he felt as though surrounded by one
great wound in others; but it was some weeks before anything occurred to
rouse within him the weapon of anger or the protective impulse.

And then one day a little swift brutality shook him to the very soul. He
was coming home from a long parish round, and had turned into the Square,
when a low voice behind him said:

"Wot price the little barstard?"

A cold, sick feeling stifled his very breathing; he gasped, and spun
round, to see two big loutish boys walking fast away. With swift and
stealthy passion he sprang after them, and putting his hands on their two
neighbouring shoulders, wrenched them round so that they faced him, with
mouths fallen open in alarm. Shaking them with all his force, he said:

"How dare you--how dare you use that word?" His face and voice must have
been rather terrible, for the scare in their faces brought him to sudden
consciousness of his own violence, and he dropped his hands. In two
seconds they were at the corner. They stopped there for a second; one of
them shouted "Gran'pa"; then they vanished. He was left with lips and
hands quivering, and a feeling that he had not known for years--the weak
white empty feeling one has after yielding utterly to sudden murderous
rage. He crossed over, and stood leaning against the Garden railings,
with the thought: 'God forgive me! I could have killed them--I could
have killed them!' There had been a devil in him. If he had had
something in his hand, he might now have been a murderer: How awful!
Only one had spoken; but he could have killed them both! And the word
was true, and was in all mouths--all low common mouths, day after day, of
his own daughter's child! The ghastliness of this thought, brought home
so utterly, made him writhe, and grasp the railings as if he would have
bent them.

From that day on, a creeping sensation of being rejected of men, never
left him; the sense of identification with Noel and her tiny outcast
became ever more poignant, more real; the desire to protect them ever
more passionate; and the feeling that round about there were whispering
voices, pointing fingers, and a growing malevolence was ever more
sickening. He was beginning too to realise the deep and hidden truth:
How easily the breath of scandal destroys the influence and sanctity of
those endowed therewith by vocation; how invaluable it is to feel
untarnished, and how difficult to feel that when others think you
tarnished.

He tried to be with Noel as much as possible; and in the evenings they
sometimes went walks together, without ever talking of what was always in
their minds. Between six and eight the girl was giving sittings to
Lavendie in the drawing-room, and sometimes Pierson would come there and
play to them. He was always possessed now by a sense of the danger Noel
ran from companionship with any man. On three occasions, Jimmy Fort made
his appearance after dinner. He had so little to say that it was
difficult to understand why he came; but, sharpened by this new dread for
his daughter, Pierson noticed his eyes always following her. 'He admires
her,' he thought; and often he would try his utmost to grasp the
character of this man, who had lived such a roving life. 'Is he--can he
be the sort of man I would trust Nollie to?' he would think. 'Oh, that I
should have to hope like this that some good man would marry her--my
little Nollie, a child only the other day!'

In these sad, painful, lonely weeks he found a spot of something like
refuge in Leila's sitting-room, and would go there often for half an hour
when she was back from her hospital. That little black-walled room with
its Japanese prints and its flowers, soothed him. And Leila soothed him,
innocent as he was of any knowledge of her latest aberration, and perhaps
conscious that she herself was not too happy. To watch her arranging
flowers, singing her little French songs, or to find her beside him,
listening to his confidences, was the only real pleasure he knew in these
days. And Leila, in turn, would watch him and think: 'Poor Edward! He
has never lived; and never will; now!' But sometimes the thought would
shoot through her: 'Perhaps he's to be envied. He doesn't feel what I
feel, anyway. Why did I fall in love again?'

They did not speak of Noel as a rule, but one evening she expressed her
views roundly.

"It was a great mistake to make Noel come back. Edward. It was
Quixotic. You'll be lucky if real mischief doesn't come of it. She's not
a patient character; one day she'll do something rash. And, mind you,
she'll be much more likely to break out if she sees the world treating
you badly than if it happens to herself. I should send her back to the
country, before she makes bad worse."

"I can't do that, Leila. We must live it down together."

"Wrong, Edward. You should take things as they are."

With a heavy sigh Pierson answered:

"I wish I could see her future. She's so attractive. And her defences
are gone. She's lost faith, and belief in all that a good woman should
be. The day after she came back she told me she was ashamed of herself.
But since--she's not given a sign. She's so proud--my poor little
Nollie. I see how men admire her, too. Our Belgian friend is painting
her. He's a good man; but he finds her beautiful, and who can wonder.
And your friend Captain Fort. Fathers are supposed to be blind, but they
see very clear sometimes."

Leila rose and drew down a blind.

"This sun," she said. "Does Jimmy Fort come to you--often?"

"Oh! no; very seldom. But still--I can see."

'You bat--you blunderer!' thought Leila: 'See! You can't even see this
beside you!'

"I expect he's sorry for her," she said in a queer voice.

"Why should he be sorry? He doesn't know:"

"Oh, yes! He knows; I told him."

"You told him!"

"Yes," Leila repeated stubbornly; "and he's sorry for her."

And even then "this monk" beside her did not see, and went blundering on.

"No, no; it's not merely that he's sorry. By the way he looks at her, I
know I'm not mistaken. I've wondered--what do you think, Leila. He's
too old for her; but he seems an honourable, kind man."

"Oh! a most honourable, kind man." But only by pressing her hand against
her lips had she smothered a burst of bitter laughter. He, who saw
nothing, could yet notice Fort's eyes when he looked at Noel, and be
positive that he was in love with her! How plainly those eyes must
speak! Her control gave way.

"All this is very interesting," she said, spurning her words like Noel,
"considering that he's more than my friend, Edward." It gave her a sort
of pleasure to see him wince. 'These blind bats!' she thought, terribly
stung that he should so clearly assume her out of the running. Then she
was sorry, his face had become so still and wistful. And turning away,
she said:

"Oh! I shan't break my heart; I'm a good loser. And I'm a good fighter,
too; perhaps I shan't lose." And snapping off a sprig of geranium, she
pressed it to her lips.

"Forgive me," said Pierson slowly; "I didn't know. I'm stupid. I
thought your love for your poor soldiers had left no room for other
feelings."

Leila uttered a shrill laugh. "What have they to do with each other?
Did you never hear of passion, Edward? Oh! Don't look at me like that.
Do you think a woman can't feel passion at my age? As much as ever, more
than ever, because it's all slipping away."

She took her hand from her lips, but a geranium petal was left clinging
there, like a bloodstain. "What has your life been all these years," she
went on vehemently--"suppression of passion, nothing else! You monks
twist Nature up with holy words, and try to disguise what the eeriest
simpleton can see. Well, I haven't suppressed passion, Edward. That's
all."

"And are you happier for that?"

"I was; and I shall be again."

A little smile curled Pierson's lips. "Shall be?" he said. "I hope so.
It's just two ways of looking at things, Leila."

"Oh, Edward! Don't be so gentle! I suppose you don't think a person
like me can ever really love?"

He was standing before her with his head down, and a sense that, naive
and bat-like as he was, there was something in him she could not reach or
understand, made her cry out:

"I've not been nice to you. Forgive me, Edward! I'm so unhappy."

"There was a Greek who used to say: 'God is the helping of man by man.'
It isn't true, but it's beautiful. Good-bye, dear Leila, and don't be
sorrowful"

She squeezed his hand, and turned to the window.

She stood there watching his black figure cross the road in the sunshine,
and pass round the corner by the railings of the church. He walked
quickly, very upright; there was something unseeing even about that back
view of him; or was it that he saw-another world? She had never lost the
mental habits of her orthodox girlhood, and in spite of all impatience,
recognised his sanctity. When he had disappeared she went into her
bedroom. What he had said, indeed, was no discovery. She had known.
Oh! She had known. 'Why didn't I accept Jimmy's offer? Why didn't I
marry him? Is it too late?' she thought. 'Could I? Would he--even
now?' But then she started away from her own thought. Marry him! knowing
his heart was with this girl?

She looked long at her face in the mirror, studying with a fearful
interest the little hard lines and markings there beneath their light
coating of powder. She examined the cunning touches of colouring matter
here and there in her front hair. Were they cunning enough? Did they
deceive? They seemed to her suddenly to stare out. She fingered and
smoothed the slight looseness and fulness of the skin below her chin.
She stretched herself, and passed her hands down over her whole form,
searching as it were for slackness, or thickness. And she had the bitter
thought: 'I'm all out. I'm doing all I can.' The lines of a little poem
Fort had showed her went thrumming through her head:

"Time, you old gipsy man
Will you not stay
Put up your caravan
Just for a day?"

What more could she do? He did not like to see her lips reddened. She
had marked his disapprovals, watched him wipe his mouth after a kiss,
when he thought she couldn't see him. 'I need'nt!' she thought. 'Noel's
lips are no redder, really. What has she better than I? Youth--dew on
the grass!' That didn't last long! But long enough to "do her in" as
her soldier-men would say. And, suddenly she revolted against herself,
against Fort, against this chilled and foggy country; felt a fierce
nostalgia for African sun, and the African flowers; the happy-go-lucky,
hand-to-mouth existence of those five years before the war began. High
Constantia at grape harvest! How many years ago--ten years, eleven
years! Ah! To have before her those ten years, with him! Ten years in
the sun! He would have loved her then, and gone on loving her! And she
would not have tired of him, as she had tired of those others. 'In half
an hour,' she thought, 'he'll be here, sit opposite me; I shall see him
struggling forcing himself to seem affectionate! It's too humbling! But
I don't care; I want him!'

She searched her wardrobe, for some garment or touch of colour, novelty
of any sort, to help her. But she had tried them all--those little
tricks--was bankrupt. And such a discouraged, heavy mood came on her,
that she did not even "change," but went back in her nurse's dress and
lay down on the divan, pretending to sleep, while the maid set out the
supper. She lay there moody and motionless, trying to summon courage,
feeling that if she showed herself beaten she was beaten; knowing that
she only held him by pity. But when she heard his footstep on the stairs
she swiftly passed her hands over her cheeks, as if to press the blood
out of them, and lay absolutely still. She hoped that she was white, and
indeed she was, with finger-marks under the eyes, for she had suffered
greatly this last hour. Through her lashes she saw him halt, and look at
her in surprise. Asleep, or-ill, which? She did not move. She wanted
to watch him. He tiptoed across the room and stood looking down at her.
There was a furrow between his eyes. 'Ah!' she thought, 'it would suit
you, if I were dead, my kind friend.' He bent a little towards her; and
she wondered suddenly whether she looked graceful lying there, sorry now
that she had not changed her dress. She saw him shrug his shoulders ever
so faintly with a puzzled little movement. He had not seen that she was
shamming. How nice his face was--not mean, secret, callous! She opened
her eyes, which against her will had in them the despair she was feeling.
He went on his knees, and lifting her hand to his lips, hid them with it.

"Jimmy," she said gently, "I'm an awful bore to you. Poor Jimmy! No!
Don't pretend! I know what I know!" 'Oh, God! What am I saying?' she
thought. 'It's fatal-fatal. I ought never!' And drawing his head to
her, she put it to her heart. Then, instinctively aware that this moment
had been pressed to its uttermost, she scrambled up, kissed his forehead,
stretched herself, and laughed.

"I was asleep, dreaming; dreaming you loved me. Wasn't it funny? Come
along. There are oysters, for the last time this season."

All that evening, as if both knew they had been looking over a precipice,
they seemed to be treading warily, desperately anxious not to rouse
emotion in each other, or touch on things which must bring a scene. And
Leila talked incessantly of Africa.

"Don't you long for the sun, Jimmy? Couldn't we--couldn't you go? Oh!
why doesn't this wretched war end? All that we've got here at home every
scrap of wealth, and comfort, and age, and art, and music, I'd give it
all for the light and the sun out there. Wouldn't you?"

And Fort said he would, knowing well of one thing which he would not
give. And she knew that, as well as he.

They were both gayer than they had been for a long time; so that when he
had gone, she fell back once more on to the divan, and burying her face
in a cushion, wept bitterly.




V

1

It was not quite disillusionment that Pierson felt while he walked away.
Perhaps he had not really believed in Leila's regeneration. It was more
an acute discomfort, an increasing loneliness. A soft and restful spot
was now denied him; a certain warmth and allurement had gone out of his
life. He had not even the feeling that it was his duty to try and save
Leila by persuading her to marry Fort. He had always been too sensitive,
too much as it were of a gentleman, for the robuster sorts of evangelism.
Such delicacy had been a stumbling-block to him all through professional
life. In the eight years when his wife was with him, all had been more
certain, more direct and simple, with the help of her sympathy, judgment;
and companionship. At her death a sort of mist had gathered in his soul.
No one had ever spoken plainly to him. To a clergyman, who does? No one
had told him in so many words that he should have married again--that to
stay unmarried was bad for him, physically and spiritually, fogging and
perverting life; not driving him, indeed, as it drove many, to
intolerance and cruelty, but to that half-living dreaminess, and the
vague unhappy yearnings which so constantly beset him. All these
celibate years he had really only been happy in his music, or in far-away
country places, taking strong exercise, and losing himself in the
beauties of Nature; and since the war began he had only once, for those
three days at Kestrel, been out of London.

He walked home, going over in his mind very anxiously all the evidence he
had of Fort's feeling for Noel. How many times had he been to them since
she came back? Only three times--three evening visits! And he had not
been alone with her a single minute! Before this calamity befell his
daughter, he would never have observed anything in Fort's demeanour; but,
in his new watchfulness, he had seen the almost reverential way he looked
at her, noticed the extra softness of his voice when he spoke to her, and
once a look of sudden pain, a sort of dulling of his whole self, when
Noel had got up and gone out of the room. And the girl herself? Twice
he had surprised her gazing at Fort when he was not looking, with a sort
of brooding interest. He remembered how, as a little girl, she would
watch a grown-up, and then suddenly one day attach herself to him, and be
quite devoted. Yes, he must warn her, before she could possibly become
entangled. In his fastidious chastity, the opinion he had held of Fort
was suddenly lowered. He, already a free-thinker, was now revealed as a
free-liver. Poor little Nollie! Endangered again already! Every man a
kind of wolf waiting to pounce on her!

He found Lavendie and Noel in the drawing-room, standing before the
portrait which was nearing completion. He looked at it for a long
minute, and turned away:

"Don't you think it's like me, Daddy?"

"It's like you; but it hurts me. I can't tell why."

He saw the smile of a painter whose picture is being criticised come on
Lavendie's face.

"It is perhaps the colouring which does not please you, monsieur?"

"No, no; deeper. The expression; what is she waiting for?"

The defensive smile died on Lavendie's lips.

"It is as I see her, monsieur le cure."

Pierson turned again to the picture, and suddenly covered his eyes. "She
looks 'fey,"' he said, and went out of the room.

Lavendie and Noel remained staring at the picture. "Fey? What does that
mean, mademoiselle?"

"Possessed, or something."

And they continued to stare at the picture, till Lavendie said:

"I think there is still a little too much light on that ear."

The same evening, at bedtime, Pierson called Noel back.

"Nollie, I want you to know something. In all but the name, Captain Fort
is a married man."

He saw her flush, and felt his own face darkening with colour.

She said calmly: "I know; to Leila."

"Do you mean she has told you?"

Noel shook her head.

"Then how?"

"I guessed. Daddy, don't treat me as a child any more. What's the use,
now?"

He sat down in the chair before the hearth, and covered his face with his
hands. By the quivering of those hands, and the movement of his
shoulders, she could tell that he was stifling emotion, perhaps even
crying; and sinking down on his knees she pressed his hands and face to
her, murmuring: "Oh, Daddy dear! Oh, Daddy dear!"

He put his arms round her, and they sat a long time with their cheeks
pressed together, not speaking a word.




VI

1

The day after that silent outburst of emotion in the drawing-room was a
Sunday. And, obeying the longing awakened overnight to be as good as she
could to her father; Noel said to him:

"Would you like me to come to Church?"

"Of course, Nollie."

How could he have answered otherwise? To him Church was the home of
comfort and absolution, where people must bring their sins and
troubles--a haven of sinners, the fount of charity, of forgiveness, and
love. Not to have believed that, after all these years, would have been
to deny all his usefulness in life, and to cast a slur on the House of
God.

And so Noel walked there with him, for Gratian had gone down to George,
for the week-end. She slipped quietly up the side aisle to their empty
pew, under the pulpit. Never turning her eyes from the chancel, she
remained unconscious of the stir her presence made, during that hour and
twenty minutes. Behind her, the dumb currents of wonder, disapproval,
and resentment ran a stealthy course. On her all eyes were fixed sooner
or later, and every mind became the play ground of judgments. From every
soul, kneeling, standing, or sitting, while the voice of the Service
droned, sang, or spoke, a kind of glare radiated on to that one small
devoted head, which seemed so ludicrously devout. She disturbed their
devotions, this girl who had betrayed her father, her faith, her class.
She ought to repent, of course, and Church was the right place; yet there
was something brazen in her repenting there before their very eyes; she
was too palpable a flaw in the crystal of the Church's authority, too
visible a rent in the raiment of their priest. Her figure focused all
the uneasy amazement and heart searchings of these last weeks. Mothers
quivered with the knowledge that their daughters could see her; wives
with the idea that their husbands were seeing her. Men experienced
sensations varying from condemnation to a sort of covetousness. Young
folk wondered, and felt inclined to giggle. Old maids could hardly bear
to look. Here and there a man or woman who had seen life face to face,
was simply sorry! The consciousness of all who knew her personally was
at stretch how to behave if they came within reach of her in going out.
For, though only half a dozen would actually rub shoulders with her, all
knew that they might be, and many felt it their duty to be, of that
half-dozen, so as to establish their attitude once for all. It was, in
fact, too severe a test for human nature and the feelings which Church
ought to arouse. The stillness of that young figure, the impossibility of
seeing her face and judging of her state of mind thereby; finally, a
faint lurking shame that they should be so intrigued and disturbed by
something which had to do with sex, in this House of Worship--all
combined to produce in every mind that herd-feeling of defence, which so
soon becomes, offensive. And, half unconscious, half aware of it all,
Noel stood, and sat, and knelt. Once or twice she saw her father's eyes
fixed on her; and, still in the glow of last night's pity and remorse,
felt a kind of worship for his thin grave face. But for the most part,
her own wore the expression Lavendie had translated to his canvas--the
look of one ever waiting for the extreme moments of life, for those few
and fleeting poignancies which existence holds for the human heart. A
look neither hungry nor dissatisfied, but dreamy and expectant, which
might blaze into warmth and depth at any moment, and then go back to its
dream.