Saint's Progress. Galsworthy John
of music and voices in prayer and praise clung there still? Had not sanctity a presence? Outside, a barrel-organ drove its tune along; a wagon staggered on the paved street, and the driver shouted to his horses; some distant guns boomed out in practice, and the rolling of wheels on wheels formed a net of sound. But those invading noises were transmuted to a mere murmuring in here; only the silence and the twilight were real to Pierson, standing there, a little black figure in a great empty space.
When he left the church, it was still rather early to go to Leila’s hospital; and, having ordered the new hymn-books, he called in at the house of a parishioner whose son had been killed in France. He found her in her kitchen; an oldish woman who lived by charing. She wiped a seat for the Vicar.
“I was just makin’ meself a cup o’ tea, sir.”
“Ah! What a comfort tea is, Mrs. Soles!” And he sat down, so that she should feel “at home.”
“Yes; it gives me ‘eart-burn; I take eight or ten cups a day, now. I take ‘em strong, too. I don’t seem able to get on without it. I ‘ope the young ladies are well, sir?”
“Very well, thank you. Miss Noel is going to begin nursing, too.”
“Deary-me! She’s very young; but all the young gells are doin’ something these days. I’ve got a niece in munitions-makin’ a pretty penny she is. I’ve been meanin’ to tell you – I don’t come to church now; since my son was killed, I don’t seem to ‘ave the ‘eart to go anywhere – ’aven’t been to a picture-palace these three months. Any excitement starts me cryin’.”
“I know; but you’d find rest in church.”
Mrs. Soles shook her head, and the small twisted bob of her discoloured hair wobbled vaguely.
“I can’t take any recreation,” she said. “I’d rather sit ‘ere, or be at work. My son was a real son to me. This tea’s the only thing that does me any good. I can make you a fresh cup in a minute.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Soles, but I must be getting on. We must all look forward to meeting our beloved again, in God’s mercy. And one of these days soon I shall be seeing you in church, shan’t I.”
Mrs. Soles shifted her weight from one slippered foot to the other.
“Well! let’s ‘ope so,” she said. “But I dunno when I shall ‘ave the spirit. Good day, sir, and thank you kindly for calling, I’m sure.”
Pierson walked away with a very faint smile. Poor queer old soul! – she was no older than himself, but he thought of her as ancient – cut off from her son, like so many – so many; and how good and patient! The melody of an anthem began running in his head. His fingers moved on the air beside him, and he stood still, waiting for an omnibus to take him to St. John’s Wood. A thousand people went by while he was waiting, but he did not notice them, thinking of that anthem, of his daughters, and the mercy of God; and on the top of his ‘bus, when it came along, he looked lonely and apart, though the man beside him was so fat that there was hardly any seat left to sit on. Getting down at Lord’s Cricket-ground, he asked his way of a lady in a nurse’s dress.
“If you’ll come with me,” she said, “I’m just going there.”
“Oh! Do you happen to know a Mrs. Lynch who nurses”
“I am Mrs. Lynch. Why, you’re Edward Pierson!”
He looked into her face, which he had not yet observed.
“Leila!” he said.
“Yes, Leila! How awfully nice of you to come, Edward!”
They continued to stand, searching each for the other’s youth, till she murmured:
“In spite of your beard, I should have known you anywhere!” But she thought: ‘Poor Edward! He is old, and monk-like!’
And Pierson, in answer, murmured:
“You’re very little changed, Leila! We haven’t, seen each other since my youngest girl was born. She’s just a little like you.” But he thought: ‘My Nollie! So much more dewy; poor Leila!’
They walked on, talking of his daughters, till they reached the hospital.
“If you’ll wait here a minute, I’ll take you over my wards.”
She had left him in a bare hall, holding his hat in one hand and touching his gold cross with the other; but she soon came hack, and a little warmth crept about his heart. How works of mercy suited women! She looked so different, so much softer, beneath the white coif, with a white apron over the bluish frock.
At the change in his face, a little warmth crept about Leila, too, just where the bib of her apron stopped; and her eyes slid round at him while they went towards what had once been a billiard-room.
“My men are dears,” she said; “they love to be talked to.”
Under a skylight six beds jutted out from a green distempered wall, opposite to six beds jutting out from another green distempered wall, and from each bed a face was turned towards them young faces, with but little expression in them. A nurse, at the far end, looked round, and went on with her work. The sight of the ward was no more new to Pierson than to anyone else in these days. It was so familiar, indeed, that it had practically no significance. He stood by the first bed, and Leila stood alongside. The man smiled up when she spoke, and did not smile when he spoke, and that again was familiar to him. They passed from bed to bed, with exactly the same result, till she was called away, and he sat down by a young soldier with a long, very narrow head and face, and a heavily bandaged shoulder. Touching the bandage reverently, Pierson said:
“Well, my dear fellow-still bad?”
“Ah!” replied the soldier. “Shrapnel wound: It’s cut the flesh properly.”
“But not the spirit, I can see!”
The young soldier gave him a quaint look, as much as to say: “Not ‘arf bad!” and a gramophone close to the last bed began to play: “God bless Daddy at the war!”
“Are you fond of music?”
“I like it well enough. Passes the time.”
“I’m afraid the time hangs heavy in hospital.”
“Yes; it hangs a bit ‘eavy; it’s just ‘orspital life. I’ve been wounded before, you see. It’s better than bein’ out there. I expect I’ll lose the proper use o’ this arm. I don’t worry; I’ll get my discharge.”
“You’ve got some good nurses here.”
“Yes; I like Mrs. Lynch; she’s the lady I like.”
“My cousin.”
“I see you come in together. I see everything ‘ere. I think a lot, too. Passes the time.”
“Do they let you smoke?”
“Oh, yes! They let us smoke.”
“Have one of mine?”
The young soldier smiled for the first time. “Thank you; I’ve got plenty.”
The nurse came by, and smiled at Pierson.
“He’s one of our blase ones; been in before, haven’t you, Simson?”
Pierson looked at the young man, whose long, narrow face; where one sandy-lashed eyelid drooped just a little, seemed armoured with a sort of limited omniscience. The gramophone had whirred and grunted into “Sidi Brahim.” The nurse passed on.
“‘Seedy Abram,’.rdquo; said the young soldier. “The Frenchies sing it; they takes it up one after the other, ye know.”
“Ah!” murmured Pierson; “it’s pretty.” And his fingers drummed on the counterpane, for the tune was new to him. Something seemed to move in the young man’s face, as if a blind had been drawn up a little.
“I don’t mind France,” he said abruptly; “I don’t mind the shells and that; but I can’t stick the mud. There’s a lot o’ wounded die in the mud; can’t get up