Saint's Progress. Galsworthy John
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What’s the use of pretending it’s like what it was, and being cautious, and all that? If I’m going to be killed, I think we’ve got a right to be married first; and if I’m not, then what does it matter?”
“You’ve known each other twenty-one days, Cyril.”
“No; twenty-one years! Every day’s a year when – Oh! Mrs. Pierson, this isn’t like you, is it? You never go to meet trouble, do you?”
At that shrewd remark, Thirza put her hand on the hand which still clasped her waist, and pressed it closer.
“Well, my dear,” she said softly, “we must see what can be done.”
Cyril Morland kissed her cheek. “I will bless you for ever,” he said. “I haven’t got any people, you know, except my two sisters.”
And something like tears started up on Thirza’s eyelashes. They seemed to her like the babes in the wood – those two!
IV
1
In the dining-room of her father’s house in that old London Square between East and West, Gratian Laird, in the outdoor garb of a nurse, was writing a telegram: “Reverend Edward Pierson, Kestrel, Tintern, Monmouthshire. George terribly ill. Please come if you can. Gratian.” Giving it to a maid, she took off her long coat and sat down for a moment. She had been travelling all night, after a full day’s work, and had only just arrived, to find her husband between life and death. She was very different from Noel; not quite so tall, but of a stronger build; with dark chestnut-coloured hair, clear hazel eyes, and a broad brow. The expression of her face was earnest, with a sort of constant spiritual enquiry; and a singularly truthful look: She was just twenty; and of the year that she had been married, had only spent six weeks with her husband; they had not even a house of their own as yet. After resting five minutes, she passed her hand vigorously over her face, threw back her head, and walked up stairs to the room where he lay. He was not conscious, and there was nothing to be done but sit and watch him.
‘If he dies,’ she thought, ‘I shall hate God for His cruelty. I have had six weeks with George; some people have sixty years.’ She fixed her eyes on his face, short and broad, with bumps of “observation” on the brows. He had been sunburnt. The dark lashes of his closed eyes lay on deathly yellow cheeks; his thick hair grew rather low on his broad forehead. The lips were just open and showed strong white teeth. He had a little clipped moustache, and hair had grown on his clean-cut jaw. His pyjama jacket had fallen open. Gratian drew it close. It was curiously still, for a London day, though the window was wide open. Anything to break this heavy stupor, which was not only George’s, but her own, and the very world’s! The cruelty of it – when she might be going to lose him for ever, in a few hours or days! She thought of their last parting. It had not been very loving, had come too soon after one of those arguments they were inclined to have, in which they could not as yet disagree with suavity. George had said there was no future life for the individual; she had maintained there was. They had grown hot and impatient. Even in the cab on the way to his train they had pursued the wretched discussion, and the last kiss had been from lips on lips yet warm from disagreement.
Ever since, as if in compunction, she had been wavering towards his point of view; and now, when he was perhaps to solve the problem – find out for certain – she had come to feel that if he died, she would never see him after. It was cruel that such a blight should have come on her belief at this, of all moments.
She laid her hand on his. It was warm, felt strong, although so motionless and helpless. George was so vigorous, so alive, and strong-willed; it seemed impossible that life might be going to play him false. She recalled the unflinching look of his steel-bright eyes, his deep, queerly vibrating voice, which had no trace of self-consciousness or pretence. She slipped her hand on to his heart, and began very slowly, gently rubbing it. He, as doctor, and she, as nurse, had both seen so much of death these last two years! Yet it seemed suddenly as if she had never seen death, and that the young faces she had seen, empty and white, in the hospital wards, had just been a show. Death would appear to her for the first time, if this face which she loved were to be drained for ever of light and colour and movement and meaning.
A humblebee from the Square Garden boomed in and buzzed idly round the room. She caught her breath in a little sob…
2
Pierson received that telegram at midday, returning from a lonely walk after his talk with Thirza. Coming from Gratian so self-reliant – it meant the worst. He prepared at once to catch the next train. Noel was out, no one knew where: so with a sick feeling he wrote:
“DEAREST CHILD,
“I am going up to Gratian; poor George is desperately ill. If it goes badly you should be with your sister. I will wire to-morrow morning early. I leave you in your aunt’s hands, my dear. Be reasonable and patient. God bless you.
“Your devoted
“DADDY.”
He was alone in his third-class compartment, and, leaning forward, watched the ruined Abbey across the river till it was out of sight. Those old monks had lived in an age surely not so sad as this. They must have had peaceful lives, remote down here, in days when the Church was great and lovely, and men laid down their lives for their belief in her, and built everlasting fanes to the glory of God! What a change to this age of rush and hurry, of science, trade, material profit, and this terrible war! He tried to read his paper, but it was full of horrors and hate. ‘When will it end?’ he thought. And the train with its rhythmic jolting seemed grinding out the answer: “Never – never!”
At Chepstow a soldier got in, followed by a woman with a very flushed face and curious, swimmy eyes; her hair was in disorder, and her lip bleeding, as if she had bitten it through. The soldier, too, looked strained and desperate. They sat down, far apart, on the seat opposite. Pierson, feeling that he was in their way, tried to hide himself behind his paper; when he looked again, the soldier had taken off his tunic and cap and was leaning out of the window. The woman, on the seat’s edge, sniffing and wiping her face, met his glance with resentful eyes, then, getting up, she pulled the man’s sleeve.
“Sit dahn; don’t ‘ang out o’ there.”
The soldier flung himself back on the seat and looked at Pierson.
“The wife an’ me’s ‘ad a bit of a row,” he said companionably. “Gits on me nerves; I’m not used to it. She was in a raid, and ‘er nerves are all gone funny; ain’t they, old girl? Makes me feel me ‘ead. I’ve been wounded there, you know; can’t stand much now. I might do somethin’ if she was to go on like this for long.”
Pierson looked at the woman, but her eyes still met his resentfully. The soldier held out a packet of cigarettes. “Take one,” he said. Pierson took one and, feeling that the soldier wanted him to speak, murmured: “We all have these troubles with those we’re fond of; the fonder we are of people, the more we feel them, don’t we? I had one with my daughter last night.”
“Ah!” said the soldier; “that’s right. The wife and me’ll make it up. ‘Ere, come orf it, old girl.”
From behind his paper he soon became conscious of the sounds of reconciliation – reproaches because someone had been offered a drink, kisses mixed with mild slappings, and abuse. When they got out at Bristol the soldier shook his hand warmly, but the woman still gave him her resentful stare, and he thought dreamily: ‘The war! How it affects everyone!’ His carriage was invaded by a swarm of soldiers, and the rest of the journey was passed in making himself small. When at last he reached home, Gratian met him in the hall.
“Just the same. The doctor says we shall know in a few hours now. How sweet of you to come! You must be tired, in this heat. It was dreadful to spoil your holiday.”
“My dear! As if – May I go up and see him?”
George Laird was still lying in that stupor. And Pierson stood gazing down at him compassionately. Like most parsons, he had a wide acquaintance with the sick and dying; and one remorseless fellowship with death. Death! The commonest thing in the world, now – commoner than life! This young doctor