J.ED PETER" Keable CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY . FROM L. G. Willward Cornell University Library PR 6021.E12S5 1921a Simon called Peter. 3 1924 013 633 965 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013633965 SIMON CALLED PETER SIMON CALLED PETER By ROBERT KEABLE A. L. BURT COMPANY 'PUBLISHERS New York Chicago Published by arrangement with B. P. Dutton & Company, Inc. Printed In U. S. A. !■,> 1 V \ COPYRIGHT, 1 92 1, BY E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY All Rights Reserved k ^<\h^0' Printed In the TTalttA States of America THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO JULIE She never lived, maybe, but it is truer to aay diat she never dies. Nor shall she ever die. One may believe in God, though He is hard to find, and in Women, though siidi ae Julie are far to seeic THE AUTHOR TO THE READER The glamour of no other evil thing is stronger than thfc glamour of war. It would seem as if the cup of the world's sorrow as a result of war had been filled to the brim again and again, but still a new generation has always been found to forget. A new generation has always been found to talk of the heroisms that the divine in us can manifest in the mouth of hell and to forget that so great a miracle docs not justify our creation of the circumstance. Yet if ever war came near to its final condemnation it was in 1914-1918. Our comrades died bravely, and we had been willing to die, to put an end to it once and for all. Indeed war-weary men heard the noise of conflict die away on November 11, 1918, thinking that that end had been attained. It is not yet three years ago; a little time, but long enough for betrayal. Long enough, too, for the making of many books about it all, wherein has been recorded ssuch heroisms as might make God proud and such horror as might make the Devil weep. Yet has the truth been told, after all? Has the world realized that in a modem war a nation but moves in uniform to perform its ordinary tasks in a new intoxicat- ing atmosphere ? Now and again a small percentage of the whole is flung into the pit, and, for them, where one in ten was heavy slaughter, now one in ten is reasonable escape. The rest, for the greater part of the time, live an unnatural life, death near enough to make them reckless and far enough to make them gay. CoHimonly men and women more or less restrain themselves because of tomorrow; but what if there be no tonsorrow? What if the dice arts vii viii THE AUTHOR TO THE READER heavily weighted against it? And what of their already jeoparded restraint when the crisis has thrown the conven- tions to the winds and there is little to lighten the end of the day? Thus to lift the veil on life behind the lines in time ol war is a thankless task. The stay-at-homes will not believe, and particularly they whose smug respectability and con« ventional religion has been put to no such fiery trial. More- over they will do more than disbelieve ; they will sa/ that the story is not fit to be told. Nor is it. But then it should never have been lived. That very respectability, that very conventionality, that very contented backboneless religion made it possible — all but made it necessary. For it was those things which allowed the world to drift into the war, and what the war was nine days out of ten ought to be thrust under the eyes of those who will not believe. It is a small thing that men die in battle, for a man has but one life to live and it is good to give it for one's friends ; but it is such an evil that it has no like, this drifting of a world into a hell to which men's souls are driven like red maple leaves before the autumn wind. The old-fashioned pious books made hell stink of brim- stone and painted the Devil hideous. But Satan is not such a fool. Champagne and Martinis do not taste like Gregory powder, nor was St. Anthony tempted by shrivelled hags. Paganism can be gay, and passion look like love. More- over, still more truly, Christ could see the potentiality of virtue in Mary Magdalene and of strength in Simon called Peter. The conventional religious world does not. A curious feature, too, of that strange life was its lack of consecutiveness. It was like the pages of La Vie Parisienne. The friend of today was gone for ever to- morrow. A man arrived, weary and dirty and craving for excitement, in some unknown town ; in half an hour he had stepped into the gay glitter of wine and women's smiles ; io half a dozen he had been whirled away. The days lingered THE AUTHOR TO THE READER h and yet flew ; the pages were twirled ever more dazzlingly ; only at the end men saw in a blinding flash whither thejf had been led. i These things, then, are set out in this book. This is its atmosphere. They are truly set out. They are not white- washed ; still less are they pictured as men might have seen them in more sober moments, as the Puritan world would see them now. Nor does the book set forth the author's judgment, for that is not his idea of a novel. It sets out what Peter and Julie saw and did, and what it appeared to them to be while they did it. Very probably, then, the average reader had better read no further than this. . . . But at any rate let him not read further than is written. The last page has been left blank. It has been left blank for a reason, because the curtain falls not on the conclusion of the lives of those who have stepped upon the boards, but at a psychological moment in their story. The Lord has turned to look upon Peter, and Julie has seen that He has looked. It is enough; they were happy who, going down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, saw a vision of God's love even there. For the Christ of Calvary moved to His Cross again but a few short years ago; and it is enough in one book to tell how Simon failed to follow, but how Jesus turned to look on Peter. p « PARTI Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must — Designer infinite! — Ah I must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? FsANas Thoimfson. SIMON CALLED PETER CHAPTER I LONDON lay as if washed with water-colour that Sunday morning, light blue sky and pale dancing sunlight- wooing the begrimed stones of Westminster like a young girl with an old lover. The empty streets, clean-swept, were bathed in the light, and appeared to be transformed from the streets of week-day life. Yet the half of Londoners lay late abed, perhaps because six mornings a week of reality made them care little for one of magic. Peter, nevertheless, saw little of this beauty. He walked swiftly as always, and he looked about him, but he noticed none of these things. True, a fluttering sheet of newspaper headlines impaled on the railings of St. Margaret's held him for a second, but that was because its message was the one that rang continually in his head, and had nothing at all to do with the beauty of things that he passed by. He was a perfectly dressed young man, in a frock coat and silk hat of -the London clergjrman, and he was on his way to preach at St. John's at the morning service. Walking always helped him to prepare his sermons, and this sermon would ordinarily have struck him as one well worth prepar- ing. The pulpit of St. John's marked a rung up in the ladder for him. That great fashionable church of mid- Victorian faith and manners held a congregation on Sunday mornings for which the Rector catered with care. It said a good deal "H" Peter that he had been invited to preach. He ought 4 SIMON GALLED PETER to have had his determined scheme plain before him, and a few sentences, carefully polished, at hand for the beginning and the end. He could trust himself in the middle, and was perfectly conscious of that. He frankly liked preaching, liked it not merely as an actor loves to sway his audience, but Uked it because he always knew what to say, and was really keen that people should see his argument. And yet this morning, when he should have been prepared for the best he could do, he was not prepared at all. Strictly, that is not quite true, for he had a text, and the text absolutely focused his thought. But it was too big for him. Like some at least in England that day, he was con- scious of staring down a lane of tragedy that appalled him. Fragments of sentences came and went in his head. He groped for words, mentally, as he walked. Over and over again he repeated his text. It amazed him by its simplicity ; it horrified him by its depth. Hilda was waiting at the pillar-box as she had said she would be, and, little as she could guess it, she irritated him. He did not want her just then. H.f. could hardly tell why, except that, somehow, she ran counter to his thoughts altogether that morning. She seemed, even in her excellent brown costume that fitted her fine figure so weU, out of place, and out of place for the first time. They were not openly engaged, these two, but there was an understanding between them, and an understanding that her family was slowly recognising. Mr. Lessing, at first, would never have accepted an engagement, for he had other ideas for his daughter of the big house in Park Lane. The rich city merchant, church-warden at St. John's, important in his party, and a person of distinction when at his club, would have been seriously annoyed that his daughter should consider a marriage with a curate whose gifts had not yet made him an income. But he recognised that the young man might go far. "Young Graham?" he would say. "Yes, a clever young fellow, with quite remarkable gifts, sir. Bishop thinks a lot of him, I believe. Preaches extraordinarily SIMON CALLED PETER | •well. The Rector said he would ask him to St. John's one momiflg. . . ." Peter Graham's parish ran down to the river, and included slums in which some of the ladies of St. John's (whost congregation had seen to it that in their immediate neigh- bourhood there were no such things) were interested. So the two had met. She had found him admirable and likeable j he found her highly respectable and seemingly unapproach- able. From which cold elements much more may come than one might suppose. At any rate, now, Mrs. Lessing said nothing when Hilda went to post a letter in London on Sunday morning before breakfast. She would have mildly remonstrated if the girl had gone to meet the young man. The which was England once, and may, despite the Kaiser, be England yet once more. "I was nearly going," she declared. "You're a bit late." "I know," he replied ; "I couldn't help it. The early service took longer than usual. But I'm glad to see you before breakfast. Tell me, what does your father think of it all?" The girl gave a little shrug of the shoulders. "Oh, he says war is impossible. The credit system makes it impossible. But if he really thinks so, I don't see why he should say it so often and so violently. Oh, Peter, what do you think ?" The young man unconsciously quickened his pace. "I think it is certain," hfe said. "We must come in. I should say, more likely, the credit system makes it impossible for us to keep out. I mean, half Europe can't go to war and we sit still. Not in these days. And if it comes — Good Lord, Hilda, do you know what it means? I can't see the end, only it looks to me like being a fearful smash. . . . Oh, we shall pull through, but nobody seems to see that our ordinary life will come down like a pack of cards. And what will the poor do ? And can't you see the masses of poor souls that will be thrown into the vortex like, like . . ." He broke off. "I can't find words," he said, gesticulating ner- vously. "It's colossal." "Peter, you're going to preach about it: I can see you 6 SIMON CALLED PETER are. But do take care what you say. I should hate father to be upset. He's so — oh, I don't know ! — British, I think. He hates to be thrown out, you know, and he won't think all that possible." She glanced up (the least little bit that she had to) anx- iously. Graham smiled. "I know Mr. Lessing," he said. "But, Hilda, he's got to be moved. Why, he may be in khaki yet !" "Oh, Peter, don't be silly. Why, father's fifty, and not exactly in training," she laughed. Then, seriously : "But for goodness' sake don't say such things — for my sake, anyway." Peter regarded her gravely, and held open the gate. "I'll remember," he said, "but more unlikely things may happen than that." They went up the path together, and Hilda slipped a key into the door. As it opened, a thought seemed to strike her for the first time. "What will you do?" she demanded suddenly. Mrs. Lessing was just going into the dining-room, and Peter had no need to reply. "Good-morning, Mr. Graham," she said, coming forward graciously. "I wondered if Hilda would meet you : she wanted to post a letter. Come in. You must be hungry after your walk." A manservant held the door open, and they all went in. That magic sun shone on the silver 6i the breakfast-table, and lit up the otherwise heavy room. Mrs. Lessing swung the cover of a silver dish and the eggs slipped in to boil. She touched a button on the table and sat down, just as Mr. Lessing came rather ponderously forward with a folded newspaper in his hand. "Morning, Graham," he said. "Morning, Hilda. Been out, eh? Well, well, lovely morning out; makes one feel ten years younger. But vfhat do you think of all this, Graham ?" waving the paper as he spoke. Peter just caught the portentous headline — "GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA." SIMON CALLED PETER 7 as he pulled up to the table, but he did not need to see it. There was really no news : only that. "It is certain, I think, sir," he said. "Oh, certain, certain," said Lessing, seating himself. "The telegrams say they are over the frontier of Luxembourg and massing against France. Grey can't stop 'em now, but the world won't stand it — can't stand it. There can't be a long war. Probably it's all a big bluff again ; they know in Berlin that business can't stand a war, or at any rate a long war. And we needn't come in. In the City, yesterday, they said the Government could do more by standing out. We're not pledged. Anderson told me Asquith said so distinctly. And, thank God, the Fleet's ready! It's madness, madness, and we must keep our heads. That's what I say, anyway." Graham cracked an egg mechanically. His sermon was coming back to him. He saw a congregation of Lessings, and more clearly than ever the other things. "What about Belgium?" he queried. "Surely our honour is engaged there?" Mr. Lessing pulled up his napkin, visibly perturbed. "Yes, but what can we do?" he demanded. "What is the good of flinging a handful of troops overseas, even if we can? It's incredible — English troops in Flanders in this century. In my opinion — in my opinion, I say — we should do better to hold ourselves in readiness. Germany would aever really dare antagonise us. They know what it involves. Why, there's hundreds of millions of pounds at stake. Grey has only to be firm, and things must come right. Must — absolutely must." "Annie said, this morning, that she heard everyone in the streets last night say we must fight, father," put in Hilda. "Pooh !" exclaimed the city personage, touched now on the raw. "Wliat do the fools know about it? I suppose the Daily Mail will scream, but, thank God, this country has not quite gone to the dogs yet. The people, indeed ! The mass of the country is solid for sense and business, and trusts the Government. Of course, the Tory press will make the whole 8 SIMON CALLED PETER question a party lever if it can, but it can't. What! Are we going to be pushed into war by a mob and a few journal- ists ? Why, Labour even will be dead against it. Come, Graham, you ought to know something about that. More in your line than mine — don't you think so ?" "You really ought not to let the maids talk so," said Mrs. Lessing gently. Peter glanced at her with a curiously hopeless feeling, and looked slowly round the room until his eyes rested on Mr. Lessing's portrait over the mantelshelf, presented by the congregation of St. John's on some occasion two years before. From the portrait he turned to the gentleman, but it was not necessary for him to speak. Mr. Lessing was saying something to the man — ^probably ordering the car. He glanced across at Hilda, who had made some reply to her mother and was toying with a spoon. He thought he had never seen her look more handsome and . . . He could not find the word: thought of "solid," and then smiled at the thought. It did not fit in with the sunlight on her hair. "Well, well," said Mr. Lessing ; "we ought to make a move. It won't do for either of us to be late, Mr. Preacher." The congregation of St. John's assembled on a Sunday morning as befitted its importance and dignity. Families arrived, or arrived by two or three representatives, and pro ceeded with due solemnity to their private pews. No one, of course, exchanged greetings on the way up the church, but every lady became aware, not only of the other ladies present, but of what each wore. A sidesman, with an air of portentous gravity, as one who, in opening doors, performed an office more on behalf of the Deity than the worshippers, was usually at hand to usher the party in. Once there, there was some stir of orderly bustle: kneelers were distributed according to requirements, books sorted out after the solemn unlocking of the little box that contained them, sticks and hats safely stowed away. These duties performed, pater- familias cast one penetrating glance round the church, and leaned gracefully forward with a kind of circular motion. SIMON CALLED PETER 9 Having suitably addressed Almighty God (it is to be sup- posed), he would lean back, adjust his trousers, possibly place an elbow on the pew-door, and contemplate with a fixed and determined gaze the distant altar. Peter, of course, wound in to solemn music with the procession of choir boys and men, and, accorded the honour of a beadle with a silver mace, since he was to preadi, was finally installed in a suitably cushioned seat within the altar^ rails. He knelt to pray, but it was an effort to formulate an3rthing. He was intensely conscious that morning that a meaning hitherto unfelt and unguessed lay behind his world, and even behind all this pomp and ceremony that he knew so well. Rising, of course, when the senior curate began to intone the opening sentence in a manner which one felt was worthy even of St. John's, he allowed himself to study his surroundings as never before. The church had, indeed, an air of great beauty in the morning sunlight. The Renaissance galleries and woodwork, mellowed by time, were dusted by that soft warm glow, and the somewhat sparse congregation, in its magnificently isolated groups, was humanised by it too. The stone of the chancel, flecked with colour, had a quiet dignity, and even the altar, ecclesiastically ludicrous, had a grace of its own. There was to be a celebration after Matins. The historic gold plate was therefore arranged on the retable with some- thing of the effect of show pieces at Mappin and Webb's. Peter noticed three flagons, and between them two patens of great size. A smaller pair for use stood on the credence- table. The gold chalice and paten, veiled, stood on the altar-table itself, and above them, behind, rose the cross and two vases of hot-house lilies. Suggesting one of the great shields of beaten gold that King Solomon had made for the Temple of Jerusalem, an alms dish stood on edge, and leant against the retable to the right of the veiled chalice. Peter found himself marvelling at its size, but was recalled to his position when it became necessary to kneel for the Confes- sion. lo SIMON CALLED PETER The service followed its accustomed course, and through* out the whole of it Peter was conscious of his chaotic sermon. He glanced at his notes occasionally, and then put them resolutely away, well aware that they would be all hut useless to him. Either he would, at the last, be able to formulate the thoughts that raced through his head, or else he could do no more than occupy the pulpit for' the conventional twenty minutes with a conventional sermon. At times he half thought he would follow this easier course, but then the great letters of the newspaper poster seemed to frame them- selves before him, and he knew he could not. And so, at last, there was the bowing beadle with the silver mace, and he must set out on the little dignified procession to the great Jacobean pulpit with its velvet cushion at the top. Hilda's mind was a curious study during that sermon. At first, as her lover's rather close-cropped, dark-haired head appeared in sight, she had studied him with an odd mixture of pride and apprehension. She held her hymn-book, but she did not need it, and she watched surreptitiously while he opened the Bible, arranged some papers, and, in accordance with custom, knelt to pray. She began to think half-thoughts of the days that might be, when perhaps she would be the wife of the Rector of some St. John's, and later, possibly, of a Bishop. Peter had it in him to go far, she laiew. She half glanced round with a self-conscious feeling that people might be guessing at her thoughts, and then back, wondering suddenly if she really knew the man, or only the minister. And then there came the rustle of shutting books and of people composing themselves to listen, the few coughs, the vague suggestion of hassocks and cushions being made com- fortable. And then, in a moment, almost with the giving out of the text, the sudden stillness and that tense sensation which told that the young orator had gripped his congregation. Thereafter she hardly heard him, as it were, and she cer- tainly lost the feeling of ownership that had been hers before. As he leaned over the pulpit, and the words rang out almost harshly from their intensity, she began to see, as the rest of SIMON CALLED PETER il the congr^ation began to see, the images that the preacher conjured up before her. A sense of coming disaster riveted her— the feeling that she was already watching the end of an age. "Jesus had compassion on the multitude" — ^that had been the short and simple text. Simple words, the preacher had said, but how when one realised Who had had compassion, and on what? Almighty God Himself, with His incarnate Mind set on the working out of immense and agelong plans, had, as it were, paused for a moment to have compassion on hungry women and crying babies and folk whose petty confused affairs could have seemed of no consequence to anyone in the drama of the world. And then, with a few terse sentences, the preacher swung from that instance to the world drama of to-day. Did they realise, he asked, that peaceful bright Sunday morning, that millions of simple men were at that moment being hurled at each other to maim and kill ? At the bidding of powers that even they could hardly visualise, at the behest of world politics that not one in a thousand would understand and scarcely any justify, houses were being broken up, women were weeping, and children playing in the sun before cottage doors were even now being left fatherless. It was incredible, colossal, unimaginable, but as one tried to picture it. Hell had opened her mouth and Death gone forth to slay. It was terrible enough that battlefields of stupendous size should soon be littered with the dying and the dead, but the aftermath of such a war as this would be still more terrible. No one could say how near it would come to them all. No one could tell what revolution in morals and social order such a war as this might not bring. That day God Himself looked down on tlie multitude as sheep having no shepherd, abandoned to be butchered by the wolves, and His heart beat with a divine compassion for the infinite sorrows of the wodd. There was little more to it. An exhortation to go home to fear and pray and set the house in order against the Day of Wrath, and that was all. "My brethren," said the young 12 SIMON CALLED PETER man — and the intensity of his thought lent a certain unusual solemnity to the conventional title — "no one can tell how the events of this weelc may affect us. Our feet may even now be going down into the Valley of the Shadow of temptation, of conflict, of death, and even now there may be preparing for us a chalice such as we shall fear to drink. Let us pray that in that hour the compassion of Jesus may be real to us, and we ourselves find a sure place in that sorrowful Heart." And he was gone from the pulpit without another word. It would have been almost ridiculous if one had noted thai the surprised beadle had had no "And now to God the Father . . ." in which to reach the pulpit, and had been forced to meet his victim hurrying halfway up the chancel ; but perhaps no one but that dignitary, whom the fall of thrones would not shake, had noticed it. The congregation paid the preacher the great compliment of sitting on in absolute silence for a minute or two. For a moment it still stared reality in the face. And then Mr. Lessing shifted in his pew and coughed, and the Rector rose, pompously as usual, to announce the hymn, and Hilda became conscious of unaccustomed tears in her eyes. The senior curate solemnly uncovered and removed the chalice. Taking bread and wine, he deposited the sacred vessels at the nprth end of the altar, returned to the centre, unfolded the corporal, received the alms, and as solemnly set the great gold dish on the corporal itself, after the un- meaning custom of the church. And then came the long prayer and the solemn procession to the vestry, while a dozen or two stayed with the senior curate for the Communion. Graham found himself in the little inner vestry, with its green-cloth table and massive inkstand and registers, and began to unvest mechanically. He got his coat out of the beautiful carved wardrobe, and was folding up his hood and surplice, when the Rector laid a patronising hand on his shoulder. "A good sermon, Graham," he said — "a good sermon, if a little emotional. It was a pity you forgot the doxology. But it is a great occasion, I fear a greater occasion SIMON CALLED PETER 13 than we know, and you rose to it very well. Last night 1 had half a mind to 'phone you not to come, and to preach myself, but I am glad now I did not. I am sure we are very grateful. Eh, Sir Robert?" Sir Robert Doyle, the other warden, was making neat piles of sovereigns on the green cloth, while Mr. Lessing counted the silver as to the manner born. He was a pillar of the church, too, was Sir Robert, but a soldier and a straight speaker. He turned genially to the young man. "From the shoulder. Rector," he said. "Perhaps it will make a few of us sit up a little. Coming down to church I met Arnold of the War Office, and he said war was certain. Of course it is. Germany has been playing up for it for years, and we fools have been blind and mad. But it'll come now. Thank God, I can still do a bit, and maybe we shall meet out there yet — eh, Mr. Graham?" Somehow or another that aspect of the question had not struck Peter forcibly till now. He had been so occupied with visualising the march of world events that he had hardly thought of himself as one of the multitude. But now the question struck home. What would he do? He was at a loss for the moment. The Rector saved him, however. "Well, well, of course. Sir Robert, apart from the chaplains, the place of the clergy will be almost certainly at home. Hospital visiting, and so on, will take a lot of time. I believe the Chaplain-General's Department is fully staffed, but doubtless, if there is any demand, the clergy will respond. It is, of course, against Canon Law for them to fight, though doubtless our young friend would like to do his share in that if he could. You were in the O.T.C. at Oxford, weren't you, Graham?" "Yes," said Graham shortly. "The French priests are mobilising with the nation," said Sir Robert. "Ah, yes, naturally," replied the Rector; "that is one result of the recent anti-clerical legislation. Thank God, this country has been spared that, and in any case we shall never 14 SIMON CALLED PETER have conscription. Probably the Army will have to be enlarged — ^half a million will be required at least, I should think. That will mean more chaplains, but I should suppose the Bishops will select — oh, yes, surely their lordships will select. It would be a pity for you to go, Graham ; it's rough work with the Tommies, and your gifts are wanted at home. The Vicar of St. Thomas's speaks very highly of your gifts as an organiser, and doubtless some sphere will be opened up for you. Well, well, these are stirring times. Good-morning, Mr. Graham." He held out his hand to the young man. Mr. Lessing, carefully smoothing his silk hat, looked up. "Come in to luncheon with us, will you, Graham ?" he said. Peter assented, and shook hands all round. Sir Robert and he moved out together, and the baronet caught his eye in the porch. "This'U jog him up a bit, I'm thinking," he said to himself. "There's stuff in that chap, but he's got to feel his legs." Outside the summer sun was now powerful, and the streets were dusty and more busy. The crowd had thinned at the church door, but Hilda and Mrs. Lessing were waiting for the car. "Don't let's drive," said Hilda as they came up ; "I'd much sooner walk home to-day." Her father smiled paternally. "Bit cramped after church, eh?" he said. "Well, what do you say, dear?" he asked his wife. "I think I shall drive," Mrs. Lessing replied ; "but if Mr. Graham is coming to luncheon, perhaps he will walk round with Hilda. Will you, Mr. Graham?" "With pleasure," said Peter. "I agree with Miss Lessing, and the walk will be jolly. We'll go through the park. It's less than half an hour, isn't it?" It was arranged at that, and the elders drove off. Peter raised his hat to Sir Robert, who turned up the street, and together he and Hilda crossed over the wide thoroughfare and started down for the park. SIMON CALLED PETER 15 There was silence for a little, and it was Peter who broke it, "Just before breakfast," he said, "yo" asked me what I should do, and I had no chance to reply. Well, they were talking of it in the vestry just now, and I've made up my mind. I shall write to-night to the Bishop and ask for a chaplaincy." They walked on a hundred yards or so in silence again. Then Hilda broke it. "Peter," she began, and stopped. He glanced at her quickly, and saw in a minute that the one word had spoken truly to him. "Oh, Hilda," he said, "do you really care all that? You can't possibly ! Oh, if we were not here, and I could tell you all I feel! But, dear, I love you; I know now that I have loved you for months, and it is just because I love you that I must go." "Peter," began Hilda again, and again stopped. Then she took a grip of herself, and spoke out bravely. "Oh, Peter," she said, "you've guessed right. I never meant you to — ^at least, not yet, but it is terrible to think of you going out there. I suppose I ought to be glad and proud, and in a way I am, but you don't seem the right person for it. It's wasting you. And I don't know what I shall do without you. You've become the centre of my life. I count on seeing you, and on working with you. If you go, you, you may . . . Oh, I can't say it ! I ought not to say all this. But . . ." She broke off abruptly. Graham glanced round him. They were in the park now, and no one in particular was about in the quiet of the side- walk. He put his hand out, and drew her gently to a seat. Then, leaning forward and poking at the ground with his stick, he begaa, "Hilda, darling," he said, "it's awful to have to speak to you just now and just like this, but I must. First, about ourselves. I love you with all my heart, only that's so little to say; I love you so much that you fill my life. And I have planned my life with you. I hardly knew it, but I had. I thought I should just go on and get a living and marry you — ^perhaps, if you would (I can hardly speak i6 SIMON CALLED PETER of it DOW I know you would) — and — ^and — oh, I don't know — ^make a name in the Church, I suppose. Well, and I hope we shall one day, but now this has come along. I really feel all I said this morning, awfully. I shall go out— I must. The men must be helped ; one can't sit still and imagine them dying, wounded, tempted, and without a priest. It's a su- preme chance. We shall be fighting for honour and truth, and the Church must be there to bear her witness and speak her message. There will be no end to do. And it is a chance of a lifetime to get into touch with the men, and understand them. You do see that, don't you? And, besides — forgive me, but I must put it so — if He had compassion on the multitude, ought we not to have too? He showed it by death ; ought we to fear even that too ?" The girl stole out a hand, and his gripped it hard. Then she remembered the conventions and pulled it away, and sat a little more upright. She was extraordinarily conscious of herself, and she felt as if she had two selves that day. One was Hilda Lessing, a girl she knew quite well, a well-trained person who understood life, and the business of society and of getting married, quite correctly ; and the other was some- body she did not know at all, that could not reason, and who felt naked and ashamed. It was inexplicable, but it was so. That second self was listening to heroics and even talking them, and surely heroics were a little out of date. She looked across a wide green space, and saw, through the distant trees, the procession of the church parade. She felt as if she ought to be there, and half unconsciously glanced at her dress. A couple of terriers ran scurrying across the grass, and a seat-ticket man came round the corner. Behind them a taxi hooted, and some sparrows broke out into a noisy chatter in a bush. And here was Peter talking of death, and the Cross — and out of church, too. She gave a little shudder, and glanced at a wrist-watch. "Peter," she said, "we must go. Dear, for my sake, do think it over. Wait a little, and see what happens. I quite under- stand your point of view, but you must think of others — even SIMON CALLED PETER tf your Vicar, my parents, and of me. And Peter, shall we say anything about our — our love? What do you think?" Peter Graham looked at her steadily, and as she spoke he, too, felt the contrast between his thoughts and ordinary life. The London curate was himself again. He got up. "Well, darling," he said, "just as you like, but perhaps not — at any rate until I knaw what I have to do. I'll think that over. Only, we shan't change, shall we, whatever happens? You do love me, don't you ? And I do love you." Hilda met his gaze frankly and blushed a little. She held out a hand to be helped up. "My dear boy," she said. After luncheon Peter smoked a cigar in the study with Mr. Lessing before departure. Every detail of that hour impressed itself upon him as had the events of the day, for his mind was strung up to see the inner meaning of things clearly. They began with the usual ritual of the selection of chairs and cigars, and Mr. Lessing had a glass of port with his coffee, because, as he explained, his nerves were all on edge. Comfortably stretched out in an armchair, blowing smoke thoughtfully towards the empty grate, his fat face and body did not seem capable of nerves, still less to be suflEering from them, but then one can never tell from appearances. At any rate he chose his words with care, and Graham, oppo- site but sitting rather upright, could not but sense his mean- ing. "Well) well, well," he said, "to think we should come to this ! A European war in this century, and we in it ! Not that I'll believe it till I hear it officially. While there's life there's hope, eh, Graham?" Peter nodded, for he did not know what to say. "The question is," went on the other, "that if we are car- ried into war, what is the best policy? Some fools will lose their keads, of course, and chuck everything to run into it. But I've no use for fools, Graham." "No, sir," said Peter. "Na use for fools," repeated Mr. Lessing. "I shall carry i8 SIMON CALLED PETER on with business as usual, and I hope other people will carry on with theirs. There are plenty of men who can fight, and who ought to, without disorganising everything. Hilda would see that too — she's such a sensible girl. Look at that Boer affair, and all that foolery about the C.I.V. Why, I met a South African at the club the other day who said we'd have done ten times as well without 'em. You must have trained men these days, and, after all, it's the men behind the armies that win the war. Men like you and I, Graham, each doing his ordinary job without excitement. That's the type that's made old England. You ought to preach about it, Graham. Come to think, it fits in with what you said this morning, and a good sermon too, young man. Every man's got to put his house in order and carry on. You meant that, didn't you ?" "Something like that," said Peter; "but as far as the clergy are concerned, I still think the Bishops ought to pick their men." "Yes, yes, of course," said Mr. Lessing, stretching himself a bit. "But I don't think the clergy could be much use ovei there. As the Canon said, there will be plenty to do at home. In any case it would be no use rushing the Bishops. Let them see what's needed, and then let them choose their men, eh? A man like London's sure to be in the know. Good thing he's your Bishop, Graham: you can leave it to him easily ?" "I should think so, sir," said Peter forlornly, "Oh, well, glad to hear you say it, I'm sure, Graham, and so will Mrs. Lessing be, and Hilda. We're old-fashioned folk, you know. . . . Well, v/ell, and I suppose I oughtn't to keep you. I'll come with you to the door, niy boy." He walked ahead of the young man into the hall, and handed him his hat himself. On the steps they shook hands to the fire of small sentences. "Drop in sonie evening, won't you? Don't know if I really congratulated you on the sermon; you spoke extraordinarily well, Graham. You've a great gift. After all, this war will give you a bit of a SIMON CALLED PETER !§ chance, eh? We must hear you again in St. John's. . . . Good-afternoon. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Lessing," said Graham, "and thank you for all you've said." In the street he walked slowly, and he thought of all Mr. Lessing had not said as well as all he had. After all, he had spoken sound sense, and there was Hilda. He couldn't lose Hilda, and if the old man turned out obstinate — well, it would be all but impossible to get her. Probably things were not as bad as he had imagined. Very likely it would all be over by Christmas. If so, it was not much use throw- ing everything up. Perhaps he could word the letter to the Bishop a little differently. He turned over phrases all the way home, and got them fairly pat. But it was a busy evening, and he did not write that night. Monday always began as a full day, what with staff meeting and so on, and its being Bank Holiday did not make much difference to them. But in the afternoon he was free to read carefully the Sunday papers, and was appalled with the swiftness of the approach of , the universal cataclysm. After Evensong and supper, then, he got out paper and pen and wrote, though it took much longer than he thought it would. In the end he begged the Bishop to remember him if it was really necessary to find more chaplains, and ex- pressed his readiness to serve the Church and the country when he was wanted. When it was written, he sat long over the closed envelope and smoked a couple of pipes. He wondered if men were killing each other, even now, just over the water. He pictured a battle scene, drawing from imagination and what he remembered of field-days at Alder- shot. He shuddered a little as he conceived himself crawling through heather to reach a man in the front line who had been hit, while the enemies' guns on the crest opposite were firing as he had seen them fire in play. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be hit. Then he got up and stretched himself. He looked round 'ing man, and Peter glanced up with him to see an aeroplane that came humining high up above the trees on the cliff and flew out to sea. "Damned fine type!" said the boy, whose tunic, for all his youth, sported wings. "Fritz can't touch it yet. Of course, he'll copy it soon enough, or go one better, but just at present I think it's the best out. Wish we'd got some in our circus. We've nothing but . . ." and he trailed off into technicalities. Peter found himself studying Donovan, who lay back beyond Jenks turning the pages of an illustrated magazine and smoking. The eyes interested him; they looked extra- ordinarily clear, but as if their owner kept hidden behind them a vast namber of secrets as old as the universe. The face was lined — good-looking, he thought, but the face of a man who was no novice in the school of life. Peter felt he liked the Captain instinctively. He carried breeding stamped on him, far more than, say, the Major with the eyeglass. Peter wondered if they would meet again. The siren sounded, and a bustle began as people put on their life-belts. "All life-belts on, please," said a young officer continually, who, with a brassard on his arm, was going up and down among the chairs. "Who's that?" asked Peter, struggling with his belt. "Some poor bloke who has been roped in for crossin' duty," said Jenks. "Mind my chair, padre; Bevan and I are going IdcIow for a wet. Coming, skipper?" "Not yet," said Donovan ; "the bar's too full at first for me. Padre and I'll come later." The others stepped off across the crowded deck, and SIMON CALLED PETER 31 Donovan pitched his magazine into Bevan's chair to retain it. "You're from South Africa?" queried Peter. "Yes," replied the other. "I was in German West, and came over after on my own. Joined up with the brigade here." "What part of Africa?" asked Peter. "Basutoland, padre. Not a bad place in a way — decent climate, topping scenery, but rather a stodgy crowd in the camps. One or two decent people, but the majority mid- Victorian, without a blessed notion except the price of mealies, who quarrel about nothing half the time, and talk tuppenny-ha'penny scandal the rest. Good Lord! I wish we had some of the perishers out here. But they know which side of the bread the butter is. Bad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car since the war. Of course, there's something to be said for the other side, but what gets my goat is their pettiness. I'm for Brit- ish East Africa after the war. There's a chap written a novel about Basutoland called 'The Land of To-morrow,' but I'd call it 'The Land of the Day before Yesterday.' I sup- pose some of them came over with an assortment of ideas one time, but they've struck no new ones since. I 4on't advise you to settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre." "Don't suppose I shall," said Peter. "I've just got en> gaged, and my girl's people wouldn't let her out of England." "Engaged, are you? Thank your stars you aren't mar- ried. It's safer not to be out here." "Why?" Donovan looked at him curiously. "Oh, you'll find out fast enough, padre," he said. "Wonder what you'll make of it. Rum place just now, France, I can tell you. There's the sweepings of half the world over there, and everything's turned upside down. Fellows are out for a spree, of course, and you can't be hard on a chap down from the line if he goes on the bust a bit. It's human nature, and you must allow for it; don't you think so?" 32 SIMON CALLED PETER "Human nature can be controlled," said Peter primly. "Can it?" retorted the other. "Even the cloth doesn't find it too easy, apparently." "What do you mean ?" demanded Peter, and then added : "Don't mind telling me; I really want to know." Donovan knocked out his pipe, and evaded. "You've got (o be broad-minded, padre," he said. "Well, I am," said Peter. "But . . ." "Come and have a drink then," interrupted the other. "Jenko and the Major are coming back." "Damned poor whisky!" said the latter, catching the rail as the boat heaved a bit, "begging your pardon, padre. Bet- ter try brandy. If the war lasts much longer there'll be no whisky worth drinking this side. I'm off it till we get to the dub at Boulogne." Peter and Donovan went off together. It was a new ex- perience for Peter, but he wouldn't have owned it. They groped their way down the saloon stairs, and through a crowd to the little bar. "What's yours?" demanded Dono- van. "Oh, I'll take the Major's advice," said Peter. "Brandy- and-soda for me." "Soda finished, sir," said the bar steward. "All right: two brandies-and-water, steward," said Dono^ van, and swung a revolving seat near round for Graham. As he took it, Peter noticed the man opposite. His badge was a Maltese Cross, but he wore a flannel collar and tie. Their eyes met, but the other stared a bit stonily. For the second time, Peter wished he hadn't a clerical collar. The next he was taking the glass from the South African. "Cheerio," said Donovan. "Here's to you," said Peter, and leaned back with an assumption of ease. He had a strange sense of unreality. No fool and no Puritan, he had naturally, however, been little in such an atmosphere since ordination. He would have had a drink in Park Lane with the utmost ease, and he would have ar- SIMON CALLED PETER 33 gued, over it, that the clergy were not nearly so out of touch with men as the papers said. But down here, in the steam- er's saloon, surrounded by officers, in an atmosphere of in- difference to him and his office, he felt differently. He was aware, dimly, that for the past five years situations in which he had been had been dominated by him, and that he, as a clerg)rman, had been continually the centre of concern. Talk, conduct, and company had been rearranged when he came in, and it had happened so often that he had ceased to be aware of it. But now he was a mere unit, of no particular importance whatever. No one dreamed of modifying him- self particularly because a clergyman was present. Peter clung to the bdief that it was not altogether so, but he was sufficiently conscious of it. And he was conscious of liking it, of wanting to sink back in it as a man sinks back in an easy-chair. He felt he ought not to do so, and he made a kind of mental effort to pull himself together. Up on the deck the world was very fair. The French coast was now clearly visible, and even the houses of the town, huddled together as it seemed, but dominated by a church on the hill. Behind them, a sister ship containing Tommies ploughed steadily along, serene and graceful in the sunlight, and above an airship of silvery aluminium, bearing the tricoloured circle of the Allies, kept pace with the swift ship without an effort. Four destroyers were visible, their low, dark shapes ploughing regularly along at stated intervals, and someone said a fifth was out of sight behind. People were already beginning to take off their lifebelts, and the sailors were clearing a place for the gang- way. Peter found that Donovan had known what he was about, for his party would be close to the gangway without moving. He began to wonder uneasily what would be done on landing, and to hope that Donovan would be going his way. No one had said a word about it. He looked round for Jenks' nurse, but couldn't see her. It was jolly entering the port. The French houses and fishing-boats looked foreign, although one could hardly say 34 why. On the quay was a big notice: "All officers to report at once to the M.L.O." Farther on was a board bearing the letters "R.T.O." ... But Peter hardly liked to ask. In fact, everything went like clockwork. He presently found himself in a queue, behind Donovan, of officers who were passing a small window like a ticket office. Arriving, he handed in papers, and was given them back with a brief "All right." Beyond, Donovan had secured a broken-down- looking one-horse cab. "You'll be coming to the club, padre?" he asked. "Qiuck in your stuff. This chap'U take it down and Bevan with it. Let's walk. It isn't far." Jenks elected to go with his friend the Major, and Dono- van and Peter set off over the cobbles. They joined up with another small group, and for the first time Peter had to give his name as he was introduced. He forgot the others as soon as he heard them, and they forgot his. A big Dub-' lin Fusilier officer with a tiny moustache, that seemed lu- dicrous in his great face, exchanged a few sentences with him. They left the quay and crossed a wide space where a bridge debouched towards the railway-station. Donovan, who was walking ahead, passed on, but the Fusilier suggested to Peter that they might as well see the R.T.O. at once about trains. Entering the station gates, the now familiar initials appearing on a row of offices before them to the left, Peter's companion demanded the train to Albert. "Two-thirty a.m., change at Amiens, sir," said a clerk in uniform within, and the Fusilier passed on. "What time is the Rouen train ?" asked Peter in his turn, and was told 9.30 p.m. "You're in luck, padre," said the other. "It's bally rotten getting in at two-thirty, and probably the beastly thing won't go till five. Still, it might be worse. You can get on board at midnight, and with luck get to sleep. If I were you, I'd be down here early for yours — crowded always, it is. Of course, you'll dine at the club?" Peter supposed he would. The club entrance was full up with officers, and more and SIMON CALLED PETER 35 more kept pouring in. Donovan was just leaving the counter on the right with some tickets in his hand as they pushed in. "See you later," he called out. "I've got to sleep here, and I want to leave my traps." Peter wondered where, but was too much occupied in keep- ing well behind the Fusilier to think much. At a kind of counter a girl in a W.AA.C. uniform was serving out tickets of one sort and another, and presently the two of them were before her. For a few francs one got tickets for lunch, dinner, bed, a bath, and whatever else one wanted, but Peter had no French money. The Fusilier bought him the first two, however, and together they forced their way out into the great lounge. "Half an hour before lunch," said his new companion, and then, catching sight of some- one : "Hullo, Jack, you back ? Never saw you on the boat. Did you . . ." His voice trailed off as he crossed the room. Peter looked around a little disconsolately. Then he made, his way to a huge lounge-chair and threw himself into it. All about him was a subdued chatter. A big fire burned in the stove, and round it was a wide semicircle of chairs. Against the wall were more, and a small table or two stood about. Nearly every chair had its occupant — all sorts and conditions of officers, mostly in undress, and he noticed some fast asleep, with muddied boots. There was a look on their faces, even in sleep, and Peter guessed that some at least were down from the line on their way to a brief leave. More and more came in continuously. Stewards with drinks passed quickly in and out about them. The Fusilier and his friend were just ordering something. Peter opened his case and took out a cigarette, tapping it carefully before lighting it. He began to feel at home and lazy and comfort- able, as if he had been there before. An orderly entered with envelopes in his hand. "Lieu- tenant Frazer?" he called, and looked round inquiringly. There was no reply, and he turned to the next. "Captain Saunders?" Still no reply, "Lieutenant Morcombe?" Still 36 SIMON CALLED PETER no reply. "Lieutenant Morcombe," he called again. Nobcxiy took any interest, and he turned on his heel, pushed the swing-door open, and departed. Then Donovan came in, closely followed by Bevan. Peter got up and made towards them. "Hullo!" said Bevan. "Have an appetiser, padre. Lunch will be on in twenty minutes. What's yours, skipper?" The three of them moved on to Peter's chair, and Bevan dragged up another. Peter subsided, and Donovan sat on the edge. Peter pulled out his cigarette-case again, and of- fered it. Bevan, after one or two ineffectual attempts, got an orderly at last. "WeU, here's fun," he said. "Cheerio," said Peter. He renSembered Donovan had said that in the saloon. CHAPTER III JENKS being attached to the A.S.C. engaged in feeding daily more than 100,000 men in the Rouen area, Peter and he travelled together. By the latter's advice they reached the railway-station soon after 8.30, but even so the train seemed full. There were no lights in the siding, and none whatever on the train, so that it was only by matches that one could tell if a compartment was full or empty, except in the case of those from which candle-light and much noise proclaimed the former indisputably. At last, however, somewhere up near the engine, they found a second-class carriage, apparently unoccupied, with a big tidiet marked "Reserved" upon it. Jenks struck a match and regarded this critically. "Well, padre," he said, "as it doesn't say for whom it is reserved, I guess it may as well be reserved for us. So here goes." He swung up and tugged at the door, which for some time refused to give. Then it opened suddenly, and Second-Lieutenant Jenks, A.S.C., subsided gracefully and luridly on the ground out- side. Peter struck another match and peered in. It was then observed that the compartment was not empty, but that a dark-haired, lanky youth, stretdied completely along one seat, was regarding them solemnly. "This carriage is reserved," he said. "Yes," said Jenks cheerfully, "for us, sir. May I ask what you are doing in it?" The awakened one sighed. "It's worked before, and if you chaps come in and shut the door quickly, perhaps it will work again. Three's not too bad, but I've seen six in these perishing cars. Come in quickly, for the Lord's sake!" 37 38 SIMON CALLED PETER Peter looked round him curiously. Two of the four win^ dows were broken, and the glory had departed from the upholstery. There was no light, and it would appear that a heavier body than that designed for it had travelled upon the rack. Jenks was swearing away to himself and trying to light a candle-end. Peter laughed. "Got any cards?" asked the original owner. "Yes," said Jenks. "Got any grub?" "Bath-olivers and chocolate and half a water-bottle of whisky," replied the original owner. "And we shall need them." "Good enough," said Jenks. "And the padre here has plenty of sandwiches, for he ordered a double lot." "Do you play auction, padre?" queried what turned out, in the candle-light, to be a Canadian. Peter assented; he was moderately good, he knew. This fairly roused the Canadian. He swung his l^s off the seat, and groped for the door. "Hang on to this dug- out, you men," he said, "and I'll get a fourth. I kidded some fellows of ours with that notice just now, but I know them, and I can get a decent chap to come in." He was gone a few minutes only ; then voices sounded out- side. "Been looking for you, old dear," said their friend. "Only two sportsmen here and a nice little show all to ourselves. Tumble in, and we'll get cheerful. Not that seat, old dear. But wait a jiffy ; let's sort things out first." They snorted out of the dreary tunnel into Rouen in the first daylight of the next morning. Peter looked eagerly at the great winding river and the glory of the cathedral as it towered up above the mists that hung over the houses. There was a fresh taste of spring in the air, and the smoke curled clear and blue from the slow-moving barges on the water. The bare trees on the island showed every twig and thin branch, as if they had been pencilled against the leaden- coloured flood beneath. A tug puffed fussily upstream, red and yellow markings on its grimy black. SIMON CALLED PETER 39 Jenks was asleep in the corner, but he woke as they dat- tered across the bridge. "Heigh-ho !" he sighed, stretching. "Back to the old graft again." Yet once more Peter began to collect his belongings. It seemed ages since he had got into the train at Victoria, and he felt particularly grubby and unshaven. "What's the next move?" he asked. Jenks eyed him. "Going to take a taxi ?" he queried. "Where to?" said Peter. "Well, if you ask me, padre," he replied, "I don't see what's against a decent clean-up and breakfast at the club. It doesn't much matter when I report, and the club's handy for your show. I know the A.C.G.'s ofifice, because it's in the same house as the Base Cashier, and the club's just at the bottom of the street. But it's the deuce of a way from the^ station. If we can get a taxi, I vote we take it." "Right-o," agreed Peter. "You lead on." They tumbled out on the platform, and produced the necessary papers at the exit labelled "British Ofificers Only." A red-capped military policeman wrote down particulars on a paper, and in a few minutes they were out among the crowd of peasantry in the booking-hall. Jenks pushed through, and had secured a cab by the time Peter arrived. "There isn't a taxi to be got, padre," he said, "but this'll do." They rolled off down an avenue of wintry trees, passed a wooden building which Peter was informed was the Eng- lish military church, and out on to the stone-paved quay. To Peter the drive was an intense delight. A French blue- coated regiment swung past them. "Going up the line," said Jenks. A crowd of black troops marched by in the opposite direction. "Good Lord!" said Jenks, "so the S.A, native labour has come." The river was full of craft, but his mentor explained that the true docks stretched mile oi» mile downstream. By a wide bridge lay a camouflaged steamer. "Hospital ship," said Jenks. Up a narrow street could be seen the buttresses of the cathedral; and if Peter craned his head to glance up, his companion was more occu- 46 SIMON CALLED PETER pied in the great cafe at the corner a little farther on. But it was, of course, deserted at that early hour. A flower-stall at the corner was gay with flowers, and two French peasant women were arranging the blooms. And then the fiacre swung into the Rue Joanne d'Arc, and opposite a gloomy- looking entrance pulled up with a jerk. "Here we are," said Jenks. "It's up an infernal flight of steps." The officers' club in Rouen was not monstrously attrac- tive, but they got a good wash in a little room that looked out over a tangle of picturesque roofs, and finally some excellent coffee and bacon and eggs. Jenks lit a cigarette and handed one to Peter. "Better leave your traps," he said. "I'll go up with you ; I've nothing to do." Outside the street was filling with the morning traffic, and the two walked up the slight hill to the accompaniment of a running fire of comments and explanations from Jenks "That's Cox's — ^useful place for the first half of a month, but not much use to me, anyway, for the second. . . . You ought to go to that shop and buy picture post-cards, padre ; there's a topping girl who sells 'em. . . . Rue de la Grosse Horloge— you can see the clock hanging over the road. The street runs up to the cathedral: rather jolly sometimes, but nothing doing now. . . . What's that ? I don't know. Yes, I do; Palais de Justice or something of that sort. Pretty old, I believe. ... In those gardens is the picture gallery; not been in myself, but I believe they've got some good stuff. . . . That's your show, over there. Don't be long; I'll hang about." Peter crossed the street, and, following directions as- cended some wooden stairs. A door round the corner at the top was inscribed "A.C.G. (C. of E.)," and he went up to it. There he cogitated: ought one to knock, or, being in uniform, walk straight in? He could not think of any rea- son why one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked. "Come in," said a voice. SIMON CALLED PETER 41 He opened the door and entered. At a desk before him sat a rather elderly man, clean-shaven, who eyed him keenly. On his left, with his back to him, was a man in uniform pattering away busily on a typewriter, and, for the rest, the room contained a few chairs, a coloured print of the Light of the World over the fireplace, and a torn map. Peter again hesitated. He wondered what was the rank of the officer in the chair, and if he ought to salute. While he hesitated, the other said: "Good-morning. What can I do for you?" Peter, horribly nervous, made a half-effort at saluting, and stepped forward. "My name's Graham, sir,", he said. "I've just come over, and was told in the C.G.'s office in London to report to Colonel Chichester, A.C.G., at Rouen." The other put him at his ease at once. He rose and held a hand out over the littered desk. "How do you do, Mr. Graham?" he said. "We were expecting you. I am the A.C.G. here, and we've plenty for you to do. Take a seat, won't you ? I believe I once heard you preach at my brother's place down in Suffolk. You were at St. Thomas's, weren't you, down by the river?" Peter warmed to the welcome. It was strangely familiar, after the past twenty-four hours, to hear himself called "Mr.," and, despite the uniforms and the surroundings, he felt he might be in the presence of a vicar in England. Some of his old confidence began to return. He replied freely to the questions. Presently the other glanced at his watch. "Well," he said, "I've got to go over to H.Q., and you had better be getting to your quarters. Where did I place Captain Graham, Martin?" The orderly at the desk leaned sideways and glanced at a paper pinned on the desk. "No. S Rest Camp, sir," he said. "Ah, yes, I remember now. You can get a tram at the bottom of the street that will take you nearly all the way. It's a pretty place, on the edge of the country. You'll find about one thousand men in camp, and the O.C.'s name is— « what is it. Martin?" ^42 SIMON CALLED PETER "Captain Harold, sir." "Harold, that's it. A decent diap. The men are con- Btantly coming and going, but there's a good deal to do." "Is there a chapel in the camp?" asked Peter. "Oh, no, I don't think so. You'll use the canteen. There's a quiet room there you can borrow for celebrations. There's a P.O.W. camp next door one way and a South African Na- tive Labour Corps lot the other. But they have their own chaplains. We'll let you down easy at first, but you might see if you can fix up a service or so for the men in the forest. There's a Labour Company out there cutting wood. Maybe you'll be able to get a lift out in a car, but get your O.C. to indent for a bicycle if there isn't one. Drop in and see me some day and tell me how you are getting on. I'll find you some more work later on.'' Peter got up. The other held out his hand, which Peter took, and then, remembering O.T.C. days at Oxford, firmly and unblushingly saluted. The Colonel made a little mo- tion. "Good-bye," he said, and Peter found himself outside the door. "No. 5 Rest Camp," said Jenks a moment later : "you're in luck, padre. It's a topping camp, and the skipper is an awfully good sort. Beast of a long way out, though. You'll have to have a taxi now." "The A.C.G. said a tram would do," said Peter. "Then he talked through his blooming hat," replied the other. "He's probably never been there in his little life. It's two miles beyond the tram terminus if it's a yard. My place is just across the river, and there's a ferry that pretty well drops you there. Tell you what 111 do. I'll see you down and then skip over." "What about your stuff, though?" queried Peter. "Oh, bless you, I can get a lorry to collect that. That's »ne use in being A.S.C., at any rate." "It's jolly decent of you," said Peter. "Not a bit, old dear," returned the other. "You're the SIMON CALLED PETER 43 right sort, padre, and I'm at a loose end just now. Besides, I'd like to see old Harold. He's one of the best. Come on." They found a taxi this time, near the Gare du Vert, and ran quickly out, first over cobbles, then down a wide avenue with a macadamised surface which paralleled the river, downstream. "Main road to Havre," volunteered Jenks. "I've been through once or twice with our stuff. It's a jolly pretty run, and you can lunch in Candebec with a bit of luck, which is one of the beauty-spots of the Seine, you know." The road gave on open country in a few miles, though there were camps to be seen between it and the river, with wharves and buildings at intervals, and ahead a biggish wa- terside village. Just short of that they pulled up. A notice- board remarked "No. 5 Rest Camp," and Peter saw he had arrived. The sun was well up by this time, and his spirits with it. The country smiled in the clear light. Behind the camp fields ran up to a thick wood through which wound a road, and the river was just opposite them. A sentry came to at- tention as they passed in, sloped arms, and saluted. Peter stared at him. "You ought to take the salute, padre," said Jenks; "you're senior to me, you know." They passed down a regular street of huts, most of which had little patches of garden before them in which the green of some early spring flowers was already showing, and stopped before the orderly-room. Jenks said he would look in and see if "the skipper" were inside, and in a second or two came out with a red-faced, cheerful-looking man, whom he introduced as Captain Harold. With them was a tall young Scots officer in a kilt, whom Peter learned was Lieu- tenant Mackay of their mess. "Glad to see you, padre," said Harold. "Our last man wasn't up to much, and Jenks says you're a sport. I've finished in there, so come on to the mess and let's have a spot for luck. Come on, Scottie. Eleven o'clock's all right for you, isn't it?" 44 SIMON CALLED PETER "Shan't say no," said the gentleman addressed, and they passed behind the orderly-room and in at an open door. Peter glanced curiously round. The place was very cheer- ful—a fire burning and gay pictures on the wall. "Rather neat, isn't it, padre?" queried Harold. "By the way, you've got to dub up a picture. Everyone in the mess gives one. There's a blank space over there that'll do nicely for a Kirschner, if you're sport enough for that. Jenko'U show you where to get a topper. What's yours, old son ?" "Same as usual, skipper," said Jenks, throwing himself into a chair. Harold walked across to a little shuttered window and tapped. A man's face appeared in the opening. "Four whiskies. Hunter — ^that's all right, padre?" "Yes," said Peter, and walked to the fire, while the talk became general, "First time over?" queried Mackay. "Well, how's town?" asked Harold. "Good shows on? I ought to be due next month, but I think I'll wait a bit. Want to get over in the spring and see a bit of the country too. What do they think of the war over there, Jenko ?" "It's going to be over by summer. There's a big push coming off this spring, and Fritz can't stand much more. He's starving, and has no reserves worth talking of. The East does not matter, though the doings at Salonika have depressed them no end. This show's going to be won on the West, and that quickly. Got it, old bean?" "Good old Blighty!" ejaculated Harold. "But they don't really believe all that, do they, padre?" "They do," said Peter. "And, to tell you the truth, I wondered if I'd be over in time myself. Surely the Yanks must come in and make a difference." "This time next year, perhaps, though I doubt it. What do you think, Scottie?" "Oh, ask another! I'm sick of it. Say, skipper, what about that run out into the forest you talked of ?" "Good enough. Would you care to go, padre? There's SIMON CALLED PETER 43 a wood-cuttin' crowd out there, and I want to see 'em about firewood. There's a car possible to-day, and we could all pack in." "Count me out," said Jenks. "I'll have to toddle over and report. Sorry, all the same." "I'd love it," said Peter. "Besides, the A.C.G. said I was to look up those people." "Oh, well done. It isn't a joy-ride at all, then. Have another, padre, and let's get off. No ? Well, I will. How's yours, Scottie?" Ten minutes later the three of them got into a big car and glided smoothly off, first along the river, and then up a steep road into the forest. Peter, fresh from London, lay back and enjoyed it immensely. He had no idea Normandy boasted such woods, and the world looked very good to him. It was all about as different from what he had imagined as it could possibly have been. He just set himself to appreciate it. The forest was largely fir and pine, and the sunlight glanced down the straight trunks and patterned on the car- pet beneath. Hollies gleamed green against the brown back- ground, and in an open space of bare beech trees the littered ground was already pricked with the new green of the wild hyacinth. Now and again the rounded hills gave glimpses of the far Normandy plain across the serpentine river, then would as suddenly close in on them again until the car seemed to dart between the advancing battalions of the forest as though to escape capture. At length, in one such place, they leaped forward up a short rise, then rushed swift- ly downhill, swung round a corner, and came out on what had become all but a bare tableland, set high so that one could see distant valleys — Boscherville, Duclair — ^and yet bare, for the timber had been all but entirely cut down. Five hundred yards along this road brought them to a small encampment. There were some lines of Nysson huts, a canteen with an inverted triangle for sign, some tents, great stacks of timber and of smaller wood, a few lorries 46 SIMON CALLED PETER drawn up and silent, and, beyond, two or three buildings of wood set down by themselves, with a garden in front, and a notice "Officers' Quarters." Here, then. Captain Harold stopped the car, and they got out. There were some jovial introductions, and presently the whole party set off across the cleared space to where, in the distance, one could see the edge of the forest. Peter did not want to talk, and dropped a little behind. Harold and the O.C. of the forestry were on in front, and Mackay, with a junior local officer, were skirmishing about on the right, taking pot-shots with small chunks of wood at the stumps of trees and behaving rather like two school- boys. The air was all heavy with resinous scent, and the carpet beneath soft with moss and leaves and fragrant chips of pine. Here and there, on a definite plan, a small tree had been spared, and when he joined the men ahead, Peter learned how careful were the French in all this apparently wholesale felling. In the forest, as they saw as they reached it, the lines were numbered and lettered, and in some distant office every woodland group was known, with its place and age. There are few foresters like the French, and it was cheering to think that this great levelling would, in a score of years, do more good than harm. Slowly biting into the untouched regiments of trees were the men, helped in their work by a small power engine. The great trunks were lopped and roughly squared here, and then dragged by motor traction to a slide, which they now went to view. It was a fascinating sight. The forest ended abruptly on a high hill, and below, at their feet, wound the river. Far down, working on a wharf that had been con- structed of piks driven into the mud, was a Belgian detach- ment with German prisoners, and near the wharf rough sheds housed the cutting plant. Where they stood was the head of a big slide, with back-up sides, and the forest giants, brought to the top from the place where they were felled. SIMON CALLED PETER 47 were levered over, to swish down in a cloud ef dust to the "Vaiting men beneath. "Well, skipper, what about the firewood?" asked Harold as they stood gazing. "How much do you want?" asked the O.C. Forestry. "Oh, well, what can you let me have? You've got stacks of odd stuff about ; surely you can spare a bit." "It's clean agin regulations, but could you send for it?" "Rather ! There's an A.S.C. camp below us, and the men there promised me a lorry if I'd share the spoils with them. Will that do?" "All right. When will you send up?" "What's to-day? Wednesday? How about Sunday? I could put some boys on to load up who'd like the jaunt. How would Sunday do?" "Capital. My chaps work on all day, of course, and I don't want to give them extra, so send some of yours." Peter listened, and now cut in. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but I was told I ought to try and get a service of some sort out here. Could I come out on the lorry and hold one?" "Delighted, padre, of course. I'll see what I can do for you. About eleven? Probably you won't get many men, as there are usually inspection parades and some extra fa- tigues on Sunday, but I'll put it in orders. We haven't had a padre for a long time." "Eleven would suit me," said Peter, "if Captain Harold thinks the lorry can get up here by that time. Will it, sir ?" "Oh, I should think so, and, anyway, an hour or so won't make much difference. If I can, I'll come with you myself. But, I say, we ought to be getting back now. It will be infernally late for luncheon." "Come and have a drink before you start, anyway," said the O.C. ; and he led the way back to the camp and into an enclosure made of bushes and logs in the rear of the mess, where rustic seats and a table had been constructed under 48 SIMON CALLED PETER the shade of a giant oak. "It's rattling here in summer," he said, "and we have most of our meals out of doors. Sit down, won't you? Orderly!" "Sy Jove! you people are comfortable out here," said Harold. "Wish I had a job of this sort." "Oh, I don't know, skipper; it would feed you up after a while, I think. It's bally lonely in the evening, and we can't always get a car to town. It's a damned nuisance get- ting out again, too." Then, as the orderly brought glasses and a bottle : "Have a spot. It's Haig and Haig, Mackay, and the right stuff." "Jolly good, sir," said that worthy critically. "People think because I don't talk broad Scots I'm no Highlander, but when it comes to the whisky I've got a Scottish thirst. Say when, sir." Peter had another because he was warm with the sense of good comradeship, and was warmer still when he climbed into the car ten minutes later. Life seemed so simple and easy, and he was struck witli the cheer iness of his new friends, and the ready welcome to himself and his duty. He waved to the O.C. "See you Sunday, sir," he called out, " 'bout eleven. You won't forget to put it in orders, will you? Cheerio." "Let's go round by the lower road, skipper," said Mackay. "We can look in at that toppin' little pub — what's its name, Croix something? — and besides, the surface is capital down there." "And see Marie, eh ? But don't forget you've got a padre aboard." "Oh, he's all right, and if he's going to be out here, it's time he knew Marie." Graham laughed. "Carry on," he said. "It's all one to me where we go, skipper." He lay back more comfortably than ever, and the big car leaped forward through the forest, ever descending towards the river level. Soon the trees thinned, and they were skirt- ing ploughed fields. Presently they ran through a little vil- SIMON CALLED PETER 49 lage, where a German prisoner straightened himself from his work in a garden and saluted. Then through a wood which suddenly gave a vista of an avenue to a stately house, tur- reted in the French style, a quarter of a mile away; then over a little stream ; then round a couple of corners, past a dreamy old church, and a long immemorial wall, and so out into the straight road along the river. The sun gleamed on the water, and there were ships in view, a British and a couple of Norwegian tramps, ploughing slowly down to the sea. On the far bank the level of the land was low, but on this side only some narrow apple-orchards and here and there lush water-meadows separated them from the hills. The Croix de Guerre stood back from the road in a long garden just where a forest bridle-path wound down through a tiny village to the main road. Their chauffeur backed the car all but out of sight into this path after they climbed out, and the three of them made for a sidedoor in a high wall. Harold opened it and walked in. The pretty trim little gar- den had a few flowers in bloom, so sheltered was it, and Mackay picked a red rosebud as they walked up the path. Harold led the way without ceremony into a parlour that opened off a verandah, and, finding it empty, opened a door beyond. "Marie! Marie!" he called. "Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine, I come," came a girl's voice, and Marie entered. Peter noticed how rapidly she took them all in, and how cold were the eyes that nevertheless sparkled and greeted Harold and Mackay with seeming gaiety. She was short and dark and not particularly good- looking, but she had all the vivacity and charm of the French. "Oh, monsieur, where have you been for so long? I thought you had forgotten La Croix de Guerre altogether. It's the two weeks— no, three — since you come here. The gentlemen will have dejeuner? And perhaps a little aperitif before?" "Bon jour, Marie," began the Captain in clumsy French, and then abandoned the attempt. "I could not come, Marie, you know. C'est la guerre. Much work each day." so SIMON CALLED PETER "Ah, non, monsieur cannot cheat me. He had found an- other cafe and another girl. . . . Non, non, monsieur, it is not correct ;" and the girl drew herself up with a curiously changed air as Harold clumsily reached out towards her, protesting. "And you have a cure here — ^how do you say, a chapelain?" and Marie beamed on Peter. The two officers looked at him and laughed. "What can I bring you. Monsieur le Capitaine le Cure ?" demanded the girl. "Vermuth? Cognac?" Mackay slipped from the edge of the table on which he had been sitting and advanced towards her, speaking fluent French, with a curious suggestion of a Scotch accent that never appeared in his English. Peter watched with a smile on his face and a curious medley of feelings, while the Lieutenant explained that they could not stop to lunch, that they would take three mixed vermuth, and that he would come and help her get them. They went out together, Marie protesting, and Harold, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Peter, said with a laugh : "He's the boy, is Mackay, Wish I could sling the lingo like him. It's a great country, padre." In a minute or two the pair of them came back. Marie was wearing the rose at the point of the little decolletS of her black dress, and was all over smiles. She carried a tray with glasses and a bottle. Mackay carried the other. With a great show, he helped her pour out, and chatted away in French while they drank. Harold and Peter talked together, but the latter caught scraps of the others' conversation. Mackay wanted to know, apparently, when she would be next in town, and was urging a date on her. Peter caught "Rue Jeanne d'Arc," but little more, and Harold was insistent on a move in a few minutes. They skirmished at the door saying "Good-bye," but it was with an increased feeling of the warmth and jollity of his new life that Peter once more boarded the car. This time Mackay got in front and Harold joined Graham behind. As they sped off, Peter said : "By Jove, skipper, you do have a good time out here!" SIMON CALLED PETER 51 Harold flicked off the ash of his cigarette. "So, so, padre," he said. "But the devil's loose. It's all so easy ; I've never met a girl yet who was not out for a spree. Of course, we don't see anything of the real French ladies, though, and this isn't the line. By God! when I think of the boys up there, I feel a beast sometimes. But I can't help it; they won't pass me to go up, and it's no use growling down here because of it." "I suppose not," said Peter, and leaned back reflecting for the rest of the way. He felt as if he had known these men all his days, and as if his London life had been lived on another planet. After lunch he was given a cubicle, and spent an hour or two getting unpacked. That done, just as he was about to sit down to a letter, there came a knock at the door, and Mackay looked in. "You there, padre?" he asked. "There's a lorry going up to town that has just brought a batch of men in: would you care to come? I've got to do some shopping, and we could dine at the club and come back afterwards." Peter jumped up. "Topping," he said. "I want to get one or two things, and I'd love it." "Come on, then," said the other. "I'll meet you at the gate in five minutes." Peter got on his Sam Browne and went out, and after a bit Mackay joined him. They jolted up to town, and went first to the Officers' Store at the E.F.C. Mackay bought some cigarettes, and Peter some flannel collars and a tie. Together the pair of them strolled round town, and put their heads in at the cathedral at Peter's request. He had a vision of old grey stone and coloured glass and wide soar- ing spaces, but his impatient companion hauled him out. "Of course, youll want to see round, padre," he said, "but you can do it some other time and with somebody else. I've seen it once, and that's enough for me. Let's get on to the club and book a table ; there's usually a fearful crowd." Peter was immensely impressed with the crowd of men, 52 SIMON CALLED PETER the easy greetings of acquaintances, and the way in which one was ignored by the rest. He was introduced to several people, who were all very cheerful, and in the long dining- room they eventually sat down to table with two more offi- cers whom the Scotsman knew. Peter was rather taken with a tall man, slightly bald, of the rank of Captain, who was attached to a Labour Corps. He had travelled a great deal, and been badly knocked about in Gallipoli. In a way, he was more serious than the rest, and he told Peter a good deal about the sights of the town — ^the old houses and churches, and where was the best glass, and so on. Mackay and ^e fourth made merry, and Mackay, who called the W.A.A.C. waitress by her Christian name, was plainly get- ting over-excited. Peter's friend was obviously a little scornful. "You'll meet a lot of fools here, padre," he said, "old and young. The other day I was having tea here when two old buffers came in — dug-outs, shoved into some job or another — ^and they sat down at the table next mine. I couldn't help hearing what they said. The older and fatter, a Colonel, looked out of window, and remarked ponderously : " 'By the way, wasn't Joan of Arc born about here ?' " 'No,' said the second ; 'down in Alsace-Lorraine, I be- lieve. She was burnt here, and they threw her ashes into the Grand Pont' " Peter laughed silently, and ithe other smiled at him. "Fact," he said. "That's one type of ass, and the second is (dropping his voice) your friend here and his like, if you don't mind my saying so. Look at him with that girl now. Somebody'll spot it, and they'll keep an eye on him. Next time he meets her on the sly he'll be caught out, and be up for it. Damned silly fool, I think ! The bally girl's only a waitress from Lyons." Peter glanced at Mackay. He was leaning back holding the menu, which she, with covert glances at the cashier's desk, was trying to take away from him. "Isobel," he said, "I say, come here — no, I really want to see it— tell me, when do you get out next?" SIMON CALLED PETER S3 "We don't get no leave worth talking of, you know," she said. "Besides, you don't mean it. You can't talk to me outside. Oh, shut up! I must go. They'll see us," and she darted away. "Damned pretty girl, eh?" said Mackay contentedly. "Don't mind me, padre. It's only a bit of a joke. Come on, let's clear out." The four went down the stairs together and stood in a little group at the entrance-door. "Where you for now, Mac?" asked the second officer, a subaltern of the West Hampshires. "Don't know, old sport. I'm with the padre. What you for, padre?" "I should think we had better be getting back," said Peter, glancing at the watch on his wrist. "We've a long way to go. "Oh, hang it all, not yet ! Its a topping evenin'. Let's stroll up the street." Peter glanced at the Labour Corps Captain, who nodded, and they two turned off together. "There's not much to do," he said. "One gets sick of cinemas, and the music-hall is •worse, except when one is really warmed up for a razzle- dazzle. I don't wonder these chaps go after wine and woriien more than they ought. After all, most of them are just loose from home. You must make allowances, padre. It's human nature, you know." Peter nodded abstractedly. It was the second time he had heard that. "It's aill so jolly different from what I ex- pected," he said meditatively. "I know," said the other. "Not much danger or poverty or suffering here, seemingly. But you never can tell. Look at those girls : I bet you would probably sum them up alto- gether wrongly if you tried." Peter glanced at a couple of French women who were passing. The pair were looking at them, and in the light of a brilliantly lit cinema they showed up clearly. The paint was laid on shamelessly; their costumes, made in one 54 SIMON CALLEi^ PETER piece, were edged with fur and very gay. Each carried a handbag and one a tasselled stick. "Good-night, cherie," said one, as they passed. Peter gave a little shudder. "How ghastly!" he said. "How can anyone speak to them? Are there many like that about ?" He glanced back again : "Why, good heavens," he cried, "one's Marie!" "Hullo, padre," said his friend, the ghost of a smile be- ginning about his lips. "Where have you been? Marie! By Jove ! I shall have to report you to the A.C.G." Peter blushed furiously. "It was at an inn," he said, "this morning, as we were coming back from the forest. But she seemed so much better then. Mackay knew her ; why, I heard him say . . ." He glanced back at the sudden recollection. The two girls were speaking to the two others, twenty paces or so behind. "Oh," he exclaimed, "look here ! . . ." The tall Labour man slipped his arm in his and interrupted. "Come on, padre," he said ; ''yo" can't do anything. Mac- kay's had a bit too much as it is, and the other chap is looking for a night out. We'll stroll past the cathedral, and I'll see you a bit of the way home." "But how damnable, how beastly !" exclaimed Peter. "It makes one sick! . . ." He broke off, and the two walked on in silence. "Is there much of that?" Peter demanded suddenly. The other glanced at him. "You'll find out without my telling you," he said ; "but don't be too vehement till you've got your eyes open. There are worse things." "There can't be," broke in Peter. "Women like that, and men who will go with them, aren't fit to be called men and women. There's no excuse. It's bestial, that's what it is." "You wouldn't speak to one?" queried the other. "Good heavens, no! Do you forget what I am?" "No, I don't, padre, but look here, I'm not a Christian» and I take a common-sense view of these things, but I'm bound to say I think you're on the wrong tack, too. Didn'J SIMON CALLED PETER 55 Christ have compassion on people like that? Didft't He eat and drink with publicans and sinners?" "Yes, to convert them. You can't name the two things in the same breath. He had compassion on the rnultitude of hungry women and children and misguided men, but He hated sin. You can't deny that." Peter recalled his ser- mon; he was rather indignant, unreasonably, that the sug- gestion should have been made. "So ?" said the other laconically. "Well, you know more about it than I do, I suppose. Come on ; we go down here." They parted at the corner by the river again, and Peter set out for his long walk home alone. It was a lovely evening of stars, cool, but not too cold, and at first the streets were full of people. He kept to the curb or walked in the road till he was out of the town, taking salutes auto- matically, his thoughts far away. The little cafes debits were crowded, largely by Tommies. He was not accosted again, for he walked fast, but he saw enough as he went. More than an hour later he swung into camp, and went to his room, lit a candle, and shut the door. Tunic off, he sat on the edge of the camp-bed and stared at the light. He seemed to have lived a year in a day, and he felt unclean. He thought of Hilda, and then actually smiled, for Hilda and this life seemed so incredibly far apart. He could not conceive of her even knowing of its existence. Yet, he supposed, she knew, as he had done, that such things were. He had even preached about them. ... It suddenly struck him that he had talked rot in the pulpit, talked of things of which he knew nothing. Yet, of course, his attitude had been right. He wondered if he should speak to Mackay, and, so won- dering, fell forward on his knees. CHAPTER IV HILDA'S religion was, like the religion of a great many Englishwomen of her class, of a very curious sort. She never, of course, analysed it herself, and conceivably she would object very strongly to the description set down here, but in practical fact there is no doubt about the analy- sis. To begin with, this conventional and charming young lady of Park Lane had in common with Napoleon Bona- parte that Christianity meant more to them both as the secret of social order than as the mystery of the Incarnation. Hilda was convinced that a decent and orderly life rested on cer- tain agreements and conclusions in respect to marriage and class and conduct, and that these agreements and conclusionsi were admirably stated in the Book of Common Prayer, and most ably and decorously advocated from the pulpit of St. John's. She would have said that she believed the agree- ments and conclusions because of the Prayer Book, but in fact she had primarily given in her allegiance to a social system, and supported the Prayer Book because of its sup- port of that. Once a month she repeated the Nicene Creed, but only because, in the nature of things, the Nicene Creed was given her once a month to repeat, and she never really «:onceived that people might worry strenuously about it, any more than she did. Being an intelligent girl, she knew, of course, that people did, and occasionally preachers occupirf the pulpit of St. John's who were apparently quite anxious that she and the rest of the congregation should understaw|* that it meant this and not that, or that and not this, according to the particular enthusiasm of the clergyman of the moment. Sentence by sentence she more or less understood what these gentlemen keenly urged upon her; as a whole she under' £6 SIMON CALLED PETER 55 stood nothing. She was far too much the child of her en- vironment and age not to perceive that Mr. Lloyd George's experiments in class legislation were vastly more important. Peter, therefore, had always been a bit of an enigma to her. As a rule he fitted in with the scheme of things per- fectly well, for he was a gentleman, he liked nice things, and he was splendidly keen on charity organisation and the reform of abuses on right lines. But now and again he said and did things which perturbed her. It was as if she had gradually become complete mistress of a house, and then had suddenly discovered a new room into which she peeped for a minute before it was lost to her again and the door shut. It was no Bluebeard's chamber into which she looked; it was much more that she had a suspicion that the room contained a live mistress who might come out one day and dispute her own title. She could tell how Peter would act nine times out of ten ; she knew by instinct, a great deal better than he did, the conceptions that ruled his life; but now and again he would hesitate perplexedly as if at the thought of something that she did not understand, or act suddenly in response to an overwhelming flood of impulse whose spring was beyond her control or even her surmise. Women mother all their men because men are on the wholt such big babies, but from a generation of babies is born occasionally the master. Women get so used to the rule that they forget the exception. When he comes, then, they are troubled. But this was not all Hilda's religion. For some mysteri- ous reason this product of a highly civilised community had the elemental in her. Men and women both have got to eliminate all trace of sex before they can altogether es- cape that. In other words, because in her lay latent the power of birth, in which moment she would be cloistered alone in a dark and silent room with infinity, she clung un- reasonably and all but unconsciously to certain superstitions which she shared with primitive savages and fetish-wor- shippers. All of which seems a far cry from the War Inter- 58 SIMON CALLED PETER cession Services at wealthy and fashionable St. John's, but it was nothing more or less than this which was causing her to kneel on a high hassock, elbows comfortably on the prayer-rail, and her face in her hands, on a certain Friday evening in the week after Peter's arrival in France, while the senior curate (after suitable pauses, during which her mind was uncontrollably busy with an infinite number of things, ranging from the doings of Peter in France to the increasing difficulty of obtaining silk stockings), intoned the excellent stately English of the Prayers set forth by Au- thority in Time of War. Two pews ahead of her knelt Sir Robert Doyle, in uni- form. That simple soldier was a b^ger child than most men, and was, therefore, still conscious of a number of unfathomable things about him, for the which Hilda, his godchild, adored and loved him as a mother will adore her child who sits in a field of buttercups and sees, not minted nor botanical, but heavenly gold. He was all the more lovable because he conceived that he was much b^gerand stronger than she, and perfectly capable of looking after her. In that he was like a plucky boy who gets up from his butter- cups to tell his mother not to be frightened when a cow comes into the field. They went out together, and greeted each other in the porch. "Good-evening, child," said the soldier, with a smile. "And how's Peter?" Hilda smiled back, but after a rather wintry fashion, which the man was quick to note. "I couldn't have told you fresh news yesterday," she said, "but I had a letter this morning all about his first Sunday. He's at Rouen at a rest camp foi the present, though he thinks he's likely to be moved almost at once ; and he's quite well." "And then?" queried the other affectionately. "Oh, he doesn't know at all, but he says he doesn't think there's any chance of his getting up the line. He'll be sent to another part where there is likely to be a shortage of chaplains soon." SIMON CALLED PETER 59 "Well, that's all right, isn't it? He's in no danger at Rouen, at any rate. If we go on as we're going on now, they won't even hear the guns down there soiih. Come, lit- tle girl, what's worrying you ? I can see there's something." They were in the street now, walking towards the park, and Hilda did not immediately reply. Then she said: "What are you going to do? Can't you come in for a little? Father and mother will be out till late, and you can keep me company." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to be at the War Office later," he said, "but my man doesn't reach town till after ten, so I will. The club's not over-attractive these days. What with the men who think one knows everything and won't tell, and the men who think they know everything and want to tell, it's a bit trying." Hilda laughed merrily. "Poor Uncle Bob," she said, giv- ing him her childhood's name that had never been discon- tinued between them. "You shall come home with me, and sit in father's chair, and have a still decent whisky and a cigar, and if you're very good I'll read you part of Peter's letter." "What would Peter say?" "Oh, he wouldn't mind the bits I'll read to you. Indeed, I think he'd like it: he'd like to know what you think. You see, he's awfully depressed; he feels he's not wanted out there, and— though I don't know what he means — ^that things, religious things, you know, aren't real." "Not wanted, eh?" queried the old soldier. "Now, I wonder why he resents that. Is it because he feels snubbed ? I shouldn't be surprised if he had a bit of a swelled head, your young man, you know, Hilda." "Sir Robert Doyle, if you're going to be beastly, you cap go to your horrid old club, and I only hope you'll be wor- ried to death. Of course it isn't that. Besides, he says everyone is very friendly and welcomes him — only he feel- that that makes it worse. He thinks they don't want — ^well what he has to give, I suppose." 6o SIMON CALLED PETER "What he has to give ? But -What in the world has he to give? He has to take parade services, and visit hospitals and" (he was just going to say "bury the dead," but thought it hardly sounded pleasant), "make himself generally decent and useful, I suppose. That's what chaplains did when I was a subaltern, and jolly decent fellows they usually were." "Well, I know. That's what I should feel, and that's what I don't quite understand. I suppose he feels he's re- sponsible for making the men religious — ^it reads like that. But you shall hear the letter yourself." Doyle digested this for a while in silence. Then he gave a sort of snort, which is inimitable, but always accompanied his outbursts against things slightly more recent than the sixties. It had the effect of rousing Hilda, at any rate. "Don't, you dear old thing," she said, clutching his arm. "I know exactly what you're going to say. Young men of your day minded their business and did their duty, and didn't theorise so much. Very likely. But, you see, our young men had the misfortune to be born a little later than you. And they can't help it." She sighed a little. "It is trying sometimes. . , . But they're all right really, and they'll come back to things." They were at the gate by now. Sir Robert stood aside to let her pass. "I know, dear," he said, "I'm an old fogey. Besides, young Graham has good stuff in him — I always said so. But if he's on the tack of trying to stick his fingers into people's souls, he's made a mistake in going to France. I know Tommy — or I did know him. (The Lord alone knows what's in the Army these days.) He doesn't want that sort of thing. He swears and he grouses and he drinks, but he respects God Almighty more than you'd think, and he serves his Queen — I mean his King. A parade service is a parade, and it's a bore at times, but it's discipline, and it helps in the end. Like that little 'do' to-night, it helps. One comes away feelin' one can stand a bit more for the sake of the decent, clean things of Hfe." Hilda regarded the fine, straight old man for a second as SIMON CALLED PETER 6l tfiey stood on the top of the steps. Then her eyes grew a little misty. "God bless you, Uncle Bob," she said. "You do understand." And the two went in together. Hilda opened the door of the study. "I'm going to make you comfortable myself," she said. She pulled a big arm- chair round; placed a reading-lamp on a small table and drew it close ; and she made the old soldier sit in the chair. Then she unlocked a little cupboard, and got out a decanter and siphon and glass, and a box of cigars. She placed these by his side, and stood back quizzically a second. Then she threw a big leather cushion at his feet and walked to the switches, turning off the main light and leaving only the shaded radiance of the reading-lamp. She turned the shade of it so that the light would fall on the letter while she sat on the cushion, and then she bent down, kissed her godfather, and went to the door. "I won't be a moment. Uncle Bob," she said. "Help yourself, and get comfortable." Five minutes later the door opened and she came in. As she moved into the circle of light, the man felt an absurd satisfaction, as if he were partly responsible for the dignified figure with its beautifully waved soft, fair hair, of which he was so proud. She smiled on him, and sat down at his feet, leaning back against his chair and placing her left el- bow on his knees. He laid a caressing hand on her arm, and then looked steadily in front of him lest he should see more than she wished. Hilda rustled the sheets. "The first is all about me," she explained, "and I'll skip that. Let me see — yes, here we are. Now listen. It's rather long, but you mustn't say anything till I've finished." "'Saturday' (Peter's letter ran) 'I gave up to getting ready for Sunday, though Harold' (he's the O.C. of the camp, Peter says, a jolly decent sort of man) "wanted me to go up town with him. I had had a talk with him about the services, and had fixed up to have a celebration in the morning in the Y.M.C.A. in camp — they have a quiet room, and there is a table in it that one puts against the wall and 62 SIMON CALLED PETER uses for an altar — ^and an evening service in the canteen- ^all part of the place. I couldn't have a morning service, as I was to go out to the forest camp, as I have told you.' He said in his first letter how he had been motored out to see a camp in the forest where they are cutting wood for something, and he had fixed up a parade," said Hilda, look- ing up. Doyle nodded gravely, and she went on reading: '"Harold said he'd like to take Conununion, and that I could put up a notice in the anteroom of the Officers' Mess. " 'Well, I spent the morning preparing sermons. I thought I'd preach from "The axe is laid to the root of the tree" i^ the forest, and make a sort of little parable out of it for the men. I planned to say how Christ was really watching and testing each one of us, especially out here, and to b^in by talking a bit about Germany, and how the axe was being laid to that tree because it wouldn't bear good fruit. I couldn't get much for the evening, so I thought I'd leave it, and perhaps say much the same as the morning, only differ- ently introduced. I went and saw the hut manager, a very decent fellow who is a Baptist minister at home, and he said he'd like to come in the morning. Well, I didn't know what to say to that; I hated to hurt him, and, of course, he has no Baptist chapel out here ; but I didn't know what the reg- ulations might be, and excused myself on those grounds. " "Then in the afternoon I went round the camp. Oh, Hilda, I was fearfully nervous — I don't know why exactly, but I was. The men were playing "crown and andior," and sleeping, and cleaning kit (this is a rest camp you know), and it seemed so cold-blooded somehow. I told them any- one could come in the evening if he wanted to, but that in the morning the service was for Church of England com- municants. I must say I was very bucked up over the result I had no end of promises, and those who were going to be out in the evening said so stra^ht out. Quite thirty said they'd come in the morning, and they were very respectful and decent. Then I wrote out and put up my notices. The mess ragged a bit about it, but quite decently ("Here's the SIMON CALLED PETER 63 padre actually going to do a bit of work!" and the usual "I shall be a chaplain in the next war !") ; and I mentioned to one or two whom I knew to be Church of England that ' Captain Harold had said he would come to the early service. Someone had told me that if the O.C. of a camp comes, the others often will. After dinner we settled down to bridge, and about ten-thirty I was just going off to bed when Harold came in with two or three other men. Well, I hate to tell vou, dear, but I promised I'd write, and, besides, I do want to talk to somebody. Anyway, he was what they call "merry," and he and his friends were full of talk about what they'd done up town. I don't know that it was any- thing very bad, but it was awful to me to think that this chap was going to communicate next day. I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't say anything dien, and I slipped off to bed as soon as I could. They made a huge row in the anteroom for some time, but at last I got to sleep. " 'Next morning I was up early, and got things fixed up nicely. At eight o'clock one man came rather sheepishly — a young chap I'd seen the day before — ^and I waited for some five minutes more. Then I began. About the Creed, Har- old came in, and so we finished the service. Neither of them seemed to know the responses at all, and I don't think I have ever felt more miserable. However, I had done all I could do, and I let it go at that. I comforted myself that I would get on better in the forest, where I thought there was to be a parade. " 'We got out about eleven o'clock, and I went to the O.C.'s hut. He was sitting in a deck chair reading a novel. He jumped up when he saw me, and was full of apologies. He'd absolutely forgotten I was coming, and so no notice had been given, and, anyway, apparently it isn't the custom in these camps to have ordered parade services. He sent for the Sergeant-Major, who said the men were mostly cleaning camp, but he thought he could get some together. So I sat and talked for about twenty minutes, and then went over. The canteen had been opened, and there were about 64 SIMON CALLED PETER twenty men there. They all looked as if they had been forced in, except one, who turned out to be a Wesleyan, and chose the hymns out of the Y.M.C.A. books in the place. They had mission hymns, and the only one that went well was "Throw out the life-line," which is really a rather ghastly thing. We had short Matins, and I preached as I had arranged. The men sat stiffly and looked at me. I don't know why, but I couldn't work up any enthusiasm and it all seemed futile. Afterwards I tried to talk to this Wesleyan corporal. He was great on forming a choir to learn hymns, and then I said straight out that I was new to this sort of work, and I hoped what I had said was all right. He said: "Yes, sir, very nice, I'm sure; but, if you'll ex- cuse me, what the men need is converting." " 'Said I : "What exactly do you mean by that, corporal ?"" " ' "Well, sir," he said "they want to be led to put their trust in the Lord and get right with God. There's many a rough lad in this camp, sir. If you knew what went on, you'd see it." "'I said that I had told them God was watching them, and that we had to ask His daily help to live clean, honest lives, and truly repent of our sins. " ' "Yes, you did, sir," he said. "That's what I say, sir, it was very nice ; only somehow these chaps have heard that before. It don't grip, sir. Now, we had a preacher in our chapel once . . ." And he went on to tell me of some re- vival mission. " 'Well, I went back to the O.C. He wanted me to have a drink, and I did, for, to tell you the truth, I felt like it. Then I got back to camp. " 'In the afternoon I went round the lines again. Hilda, I zmsh I could tell you what I felt. Everyone was decent enough, but the men would get up and salute as I came up, and by the very sound of their voices you could tell how their talk changed as soon as they saw me. Mind you, they were much more friendly than men at home, but I felt all the tmie out of toucli. They didn't want me, and somehow SIMON CALLED PETER 6j Christ and the Gospel seemed a long way oflf. However, we had the evening service. The hut was fairly full, which pleased me, and I preached a much more "Gospel" address than in the morning. Some officers came, and then after- wards two or three of us went out for a stroll and a talk. " 'Among these officers was a tall chap I had met at the club, named Langton. He had come down to see somebody in our mess, and had come on to service. He is an extra- ordinarily nice person, diflferent from most, a man who thinks a lot and controls himself. He did most of the talk- ing, and began as we strolled up the hill. " ' "Padre," he said, "how does Christ save us ?" "'I said He had died to obtain our forgiveness from God, and that, if we trusted in Him, He would forgive and help us to live nobler and manlier lives. (Of course, I said much more, but I see plainly that that is what it all comes to.) " 'When I had done, he walked on for a bit in silence, and then he said, "Do you think the men understand that?" " 'I said I thought and hoped they might. It was simple enough. " ' "Well," he said, "it's hopeless jargon to me. If I try to analyse it, I am knocked out right and left by countless questions ; but leave that. It is when I try to take you prac- tically at your word that I find you are mumbUng a fetish. Forgive me, but it is so." " 'I was a little annoyed and very troubled. "Do explain," I said. " ' "All right, only you mustn't mind if I hurt you," he said. "Take Trust in Christ — well, that either means that a man gets intoxicated by an idea which does control his life, just as it would if he were intoxicated by the idea Trust in Buddha, or else it comes to nothing. I can't really trust in a dead man, or a man on the right hand of the throne of God. What Tommy wants is a pal to lean on in the can- teen and the street. He wants somebody more real and more lovable and more desirable than the girl who tempts him into sin. And he can't be found. Was he in 3'our serv- 66 SIMON CALLED PETER ke to-night? Can he be emotionally conjured up by 'Yidd not to temptation' or 'Dare to be a Daniel'? Be honest, padre — the thing is a spectre of the imagination." " 'I was absolutely silent. He went on : " ' "You make much talk of sin and forgiveness. Well, Tonany doesn't understand what you mean by sin. He is confused to bits about it; but the main thing that stands out is that a man may break all the Ten Commandments theologically and yet be a rattling good pal, as brave as a lion, as merry as a cricket, and the life and soul and Christ of a platoon. That's the fact, and it is the one thing that matters. But there is another thing: if a man sins, how is he to get forgiveness ? What sort of a God is it Who will wipe the whole blessed thing out because in a moment of enthusiasm the sinner says he is sorry? If that's all sin is, it isn't worth worrying about, and if that is all God is. He's not got the makings of a decent O.C." " ' "Good for you, skipper," said the other man. " 'Langton rounded on him. "It isn't good for me or fot anyone," he said. "And III tell you what, my boy: all that I've said doesn't justify a man making a beast of himself, which is what the majority of us do. I can see that a man may very wisely get drunk at times, but he's a fool to get himself sodden with drink." (And he went on to more, Hilda, that I can't write to you.) " 'Well, I don't know what I said. I went back utterly miserable. Oh, Hilda, I think I never ought to have come out here. Langton's right in a way. We clergy have said the same thing so often that we forget how it strikes a practical common-sense man. But there must be an answer somewhere, if I only knew it. Meantime I'm like a doctor among the dying who cannot diagnose the disease. I'm like a salesman with a shop full of goods that nobody wants because they don't fulfil the advertisement. And I never felt more utterly alone in my life. "'These men talk a different language from mine; they belong to another world. They are such jolly good fellows SIMON CALLED PETER 6? that they are prepared to accept me as a comrade without question, but as for my message, I might as well be tr3dng to cure smallpox by mouthing sonorous Virgil — only it is worse than that, for they no longer even believe that the diagnosis is what I say. And what gets over me is that they are, on the whole, decent chaps. There's Harold — ^he's prob- ably immoral and he certainly drinks too much, but he's as unselfish as possible, and I feel in my bones he'd do any- thing to help a friend. " 'Of course, I hate their vices. The sights in the streets make me feel positively sick. I wouldn't touch what they touch with a stick. When I think of you, so honest and up- right and dean . . .' Oh, but I needn't read that. Uncle Bob." She turned over a page or so. "I think that's all. No, just this: " 'I've been made mess secretary, and I serve out coffee in the canteen for a couple of hours every other day. That's about all there is to do. I wish to Heaven I had an ordinary commission !" The girl's voice ceased with a suspicious suddenness, and the man's hand tightened on her arm. For a minute they remained so, and then, impulsively and unrestrained, she half-turned and sobbed out against his knees : "Oh, Uncle Bob, I'm so unhappy! I feel so sorry for him. And — ^and — the worst is, I don't really understand, ... I don't see what worries him. Our religion is good enough, I'm sure. Oh, I hate those beasts of men out there ! Peter's too good for them. I wish he'd never gone. I feel as if he'd never come back!" "There, there, my dear," said the old soldier, uncomforti ably. "Don't take on so. He'll find his feet, you know, It's not so bad as that. You can trust him, can't you?" She nodded vigorously. "But what do you think of it all?" she demanded. Sir Robert Doyle cleared his throat. "Well," he b^an, but stopped. To him it was an extraordinarily hard thing to speak of religion, partly because he cherished so whole* 68 SIMON CALLED PETER heartedly what he had got, and partly because he had never formulated it, probably for that very reason. Sir Robert could hardly have told his Maker what he believed about Him. When he said the Creed he always said it with low- ered voice and bowed head, as one who considered very deeply of the matter, but in fact he practically never con- sidered at all. . . . "Well," he began again, "you see, dear, it's a strange time out there, and it is a damned unpleasant age, if you'll excuse me. People can't take anything these days without asking an infernal number of questions. Some blessed Socialist'U be- gin to ask why a man should love his mother next, and, not getting a scientific answer, argue that one shouldn't. As for the men, they're all right, or they used to be. 'Love the Brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the King' — ^that's about enough for you and me, I take it, and Grahara'U find it's enough for him. And he'll play the game, and decent men will like him and get — er — helped, my dear. That's all there is to it. But it's a pity," added the old Victorian Regular, "that these blessed labour corps, and rest camps, and all the rest of it, don't have parade services. The boy's bound to miss that. I'm hanged if I don't speak about it ! . , . And that reminds me . . . Good Lord, it's ten o'clock ! 1 must go" He started up. Hilda rose, smiling a little. "That's better," said the old fellow; "must be a man, what? It's all a bit of the war, you know." "Oh, Uncle Bob, you are a dear. You do cheer one up, somehow. I wish men were more like you." "No, you don't, my dear, don't you think it. I'm a back number, and you know it as well as any." "You're not. Uncle Bob. I won't have you say it. Give me a kiss and say you don't mean it." ' "Well, well, Hilda, there is life in the old dog yet, and I must be off and show it. No, I won't have another, not before duty. Good-night, dear, and don't worry." Hilda saw him off, and waved her hand from the door. SIMON CALLEP PETER 69 Then she went back slowly to th6 study and looked round. She stood a few moments and then switched off the lights, and went out and slowly upstairi The maid was in the bedroom, and she dismissed her, li^eeping her face turned away. In front of her glass, she he\d her letter irresolutely a moment, and then folded it and slipped it into a drawer. She lifted a photo from the dressing-table and looked at it for a few minutes earnestly. Then she went to her window, threw it up, and leaned on the sill, staring hard over the dark and empty park. Outside, the General walked some distance before he found a taxi. He walked fast for a man of his age, and ruminated as he went. It was his way, and the way of his kind. Most of the rnodern sciences left him unmoved, and although he would vehemently have denied it, he was the most illogical of men. He held fast by a few good, sound, old-fashioned principles, and the process of thought, to him, meant turning over a new thing until he had got it into line with these principles. It was an excellent method as far as it went, and it made him what he was — a thoroughly sound and dependable servant of the State in any routine business. At the War Office he climbed more slowly up the steps and into the lobby. An oflficer was just coming out, and they recognised each other under the shaded lights. "Hullo, Chichester, what are you doing here?" demanded Doyle heartily. "Thought you were in France." "So I was, up to yesterday. I've just arrived. Orders." "Where have you been ?" "Rouen. It's a big show now. Place full of new troops and mechanics in uniform. To tell you the truth, Doyle, the Army's a different proposition from what it was when you and I were in Egypt and India. But that's a long time ago, old friend." "Rouen, eh? Now, that's a coincidence. A young chap I know has just gone there, in your department. Graham — Peter Graham. Remember him?" "Oh, quite well. A very decent chap, I thought. Joined 70 SIMON CALLED PETER us ten days ago or so. What about it? I farget for the moment where we put Hm." "Oh, nothing, nothing. He'll find his feet all right. But what's this about no parade services these days?" "No parade services? We have 'em all right, when we can. Of course, it depends a bit on the O.C, and in the Labour Corps especially it isn't usually possible. It isn't like the line, old fellow, and even the line isn't what we knew it. You can't have parade services in trenches, and you can't have them much when the men are off-loading bully beef or mending aeroplanes and that sort of thing. This war's a big proposition, and it's got to go on. Why? Young Graham grousing?" "No, no — oh, no," hastily asserted Doyle, the soul of honour. "No, not at all. Only mentioned not getting a parade, and it seemed to me a pity. There's a lot in the good old established religion." "Is there?" said the other thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure to-day. The men don't like being ordered to pray. They prefer to come voluntarily." Doyle got fierce. "Don't like being ordered, don't they? Then what the deuce are they there for? Good Lord, man! the Army isn't a debating society or a mothers' meeting. You might as well have voluntary games at a public school !" ^ « The A.C.G. smiled. "That's it, old headstrong ! No, my boy, the Army isn't a mothers' meeting — ^at any rate, Fritz doesn't think so. But times have changed, and in some ways they're better. I'd sooner have fifty men at a volun- tary service than two hundred on a parade." "Well, I wouldn't," exploded Doyle. "I know your vol- untary services — Moody and Sankey hymns on a Sunday night. The men had better be in a decent bar. But turn 'em out in the moriflng, clean and decent an parade, and give 'em the old service, and it'll tighten 'em up and do 'em good. Voluntary service ! You'll have volunteer evan- gelists instead of Army chaplains next !" Colonel Chichester still smiled, but a little grimly. "We'vfl SIMON CALLED PETER 7s got them," he said. "And no doubt there's something in what you say ; but times change, and the Church has got to keep abreast of the times. But, look here, I must go. What about a luncheon ? I've not got much leave." "So must I ; I've an appointment," said Doyle. "But all right, old friend, to-morrow at the club. But you're younger than I, Chichester, or perhaps you parsons don't get old as quickly!" They shook hands and parted. Sir Robert was busy for an hour, and came out again with his head full of the pro- posed plans for the aerial defence of London. "Taxi, sir ?" he was asked at the door. "No," he replied; "I'll walk home," "Best way to think, walking at night," he said to himself as he turned down Whitehall, through tfie all but empty streets, darkened as they were. The meaning of those great familiar spaces struck him as he walked. Hardly formu- lating it, he became aware of a sense of pride and responsi- bility as he passed scene after scene of England's past glory. The old Abbey towered up in the moonlight, solemn and still, but almost as if animate and looking at him. He felt small and old as he passed into Victoria Street. There the Stores by night made him smile at the contrast, but in Ashley Gardens Westminster Cathedral made him frown. If he hated anything, it was that for which it stood. Romanism meant to him something effeminate, sneaking, tnonstrous. . . . That there should be Englishmen to build such a place positively angered him. He was not exactly a bigot or a fanatic ; he would not have repealed the Emancipation Acts ; and he would have said that if anyone wanted to be a Ro- manist, he had better be one. But he would not have had time for anyone who did»so want, and if he should have had to have by any chance dealings with a priest, he would havt been so frigidly polite that the poor fellow would probably have been frozen solid. Of course, Irishmen were different, and he had known some capital fellows, Irish priests and chaplains. , . < 72 SIMON CALLED PETER And then he saw two men ahead of him. They were privates on leave and drunk, but not hopelessly drunk. They were trying to negotiate the blank of the entrance to the Catholic Soldiers' Hut in the protecting wall which guarded the pavement just beyond the cathedral. As Sir Robert eame within earshot, one of them stun^bled through it and collapsed profanely. He halted for a second irresolutely, with the officer's hesitancy at meddling with a drunken man. The fellow on the ground tried to raise himself, and got one elbow on the gravel. This brought him into such a position that he stared straight at the illuminated crucifix across the path, and but little farther in. "Lor', blimey, Joe," he said, "I'm blasted drunk, I am! Thought I was in old Wipers, I did, and see one of them Messed cru-crushifixes 1" The other, rather less away, pulled at his arm. "So yer did, ole pal," he said. "It's there now. This 'ere's some Cartholic place or other. Come hon." "Strike me dead, so it is, Joe, large as life ! Christ ! oo'd 'ave thought it? A bloody cru-cru-chifix ! Wat's old Eng- land comin' to, Joe?" And with drunken solemnity he began to make a sign of the cross, as he had seen it done in Belgium. The other, in the half-light, plainly started. "Shut your bloody jaw, 'Enery," he said. "It's bad luck to swear near a cruchifix. I saw three chaps blotted out clean next second for it, back behind Lar Basay. Come on, will yer? We carn't stay 'ere all the blasted night." "You are down on a chap, you are," said the other. "Hi don't mean no 'arm. 'E ought to know that, any'ow." He got unsteadily to his feet. " 'E died to save us, 'E did. I 'eard a Y.M.C.A. bloke say them very words. 'E died on the cru-cru-chifix to save us." " 'Ere, cheese it, you fool ! We'll have somebody out next. Come away with yer. I've got some Bass in my place, if We git there." At this the other consented to come. Together they stag* SIMON CALLED PETER 73 gered out, not seeing Sir Robert, and went off down the street, " 'Enery" talking as they went. The General stood and listened as the man's voice died down. "Good for yer, old pal. But 'E died to save us hall, 'E did. Made a bloomer of it, I reckon. Didn't save us from the bloody trenches — not as I can see, any'ow. If that chap could 'ave told us 'ow to get saved from the blasted rats an' bugs an' . . ." Sir Robert pulled himself together and walked away sharply. By the cathedral the carven Christ hung on in the wan yellow light, very still. CHAPTER V PETER lay on a home-made bed between the blankets and contemplated the ceiling while he smoked his first cigarette. He had been a fortnight at Rouen, and he was beginning to feel an old soldier — ^that is to say, he was learning not to worry too much about outside things, and not to show he worried particularly about the interior. He was learning to stand around and smoke endless cigarettes; to stroll in to breakfast and out again, look over a paper, sniff the air, write a letter, read another paper, wander round the camp, talk a lot of rubbish and listen to more, and so do a morning's work. Occasionally he took a service, but his real job was, as mess secretary, to despatch the man to town for the shopping and afterwards go and settle the bills. Just at present he was wondering sleepily whether to continue ordering fish from the big merchants, Biais Freres et Cie, or to go down to the market and choose it for himself. It was a very knotty problem, because solving it in the latter way meant getting up at once. And his batman had not yet brought his tea. There came a knock at the door, and the tea came in. With it was a folded note. "Came last night, sir, but you was out," said the man. He collected his master's tunic and boots, and departed. Peter opened the note and swore definitely and unclerically when he had read it. It was from some unknown person, who signed himself as Acting Assistant Chaplain-General, to the effect that he was to be moved to another base, and that as the A,C.G. was temporarily on leave, he had better apply to the Colonel of his own group for the necessary movement order. On the whole this was unintelligible to SIMON CALLED PETER 7S Peter, but he was already learning that there was no need to wotry about that, for somebody would be able to read the riddle. What annoyed him was the fact that he had got to move just as he was settling down. It was certainly a matter for another cigarette, and as he lit it he perceived one gleam of sunshine : he need worry no more about the fish. Peter waited till Harold had finished his breakfast before he imparted the news to the world a couple of hours or so later. "I say, skipper," he said, "I've got to quit." "What, padre? Oh, hang it all, no, man! You've only just taken on the mess secretary's job, and you aren't doing it any too badly either. You can't go, old dear." "I must. Some blighter's written from the A.C.G.'s office, and I've got to get a movement order from the Colonel of the group, whatever that means. But I suppose you can put me straight about that, anyway." "Sure thing. Come up to the orderly-room 'bout eleven, and you can fill up the chit and I'll fire it in for you. It's only a matter of form. It goes through to Colonel Lear at La Croisset. Where to?" Peter told him moodily. "Eh ?" said Harold. "Well, you can cheer up about that. Havre's not at all a bad place. There are some decent shows about there and some very decent people. What you got to do?" "I don't know; I suppose I shall find out when I get there. But I don't care what it's like. It's vile having to leave just now, when I'm getting straight. And what'll you do for a four at bridge ?" Harold got up and fumbled in his pockets. As usual, there was nothing there. "Why that damned batman of mine won't put my case in my pocket I can't think," he said. "I'll have to fire the blighter, though he is T.T. and used to be a P. and O. steward. Give me a fag, somebody. Thanks. Well, padre, it's no use grousing. It's a beastly old war, and you're in the blinkin' British Army, me lad. Drop in at eleven, then. Cheerio till then." 76 SIMON CALLED PETER At eleven Peter found Harold signing papers. He glanced up. "Oh, sergeant," he said, "give Captain Graham a Move- ment Order Application Form, will you ? Sit down, padre ; there's a pen there." Peter wrestled with the form, which looked quite pretty when it was done. Harold endorsed it. "Fire this through to the orderly-room, loth Group, sergeant," he said, and rose wearily. "Come along, padre," he said: "I've got to go round the camp, and you can come too, if you've nothing better to do." "When'll I have to go, do you think ?" asked Peter as they went out. "Oh, I don't know. In a day or two. You'll have to hang about, for the order may come any time, and I don't know how or when they'll send you." Peter did hang about, for ten days, with his kit packed. His recently acquired calm forsook him about the sixth day, and on the tenth he was entirely mutinous. At lunch he voiced his grievances to the general mess. "Look here, you men," he said, "I'm fed up to the back teeth. I've hung round this blessed camp for more than a week waiting for that infernal movement order, and I'm hanged if I'm going to stay in any more. It's a topping afternoon. Who'll come down the river to La Bouille, or whatever it is called?" Harold volunteered. "That's a good line, padre. I want to go there myself. Are the boats running now ?" "Saw 'em yesterday," volunteered somebody, and it was settled. The two of them spent a decent afternoon on the river, and at Harold's insistence went on back right up to town. They dined and went to a cinema, and got back to camp about midnight. Graham struck a match and looked at the board in the anteroom. "May as well see if there is anything for me," he said. There was, of course. He tore the en- velope open. "Good Lord, skipper !" he said. "Here's my blessed movement order, to report at the Gare du Vert at SIMON CALLED PETER 77 eight p.m. this very day. I'm only four hours too late. What the dickens shall I do?" Harold whistled. "Show it me," he said. " 'The following personnel to report at Gare du Vert ... at 8 p.m. 28th inst.'" he read. "You're for it, old bird," he continued cheerfully. "But what rot! Look here, it was handed in to my orderly-room at six-thirty. You'd have hardly had time to get there at any rate." Graham looked over his shoulder. "Thai's so," he said. "But what '11 I do now?" "Haven't a notion," said the other, "except that they'll let you know quick enough. Don't worry — that's the main thing. If they choke you off, tell 'em it came too late to get to the station." Peter meditated this in silence, and in some dismay. He saw visions of courts-martial, furious strafing, and unholy terrors. He was to be forgiven, for he was new to comic opera; and besides, when a page of Punch falls to one in real life, one hardly realises it till too late. But it was plain that nothing could be done that night, and he went to bed with what consolation he could derive from the cheerful Harold. Next morning his breakfast was hardly over when an orderly came in. Harold had been earlier than usual, and had finished and gone out. "Captain Graham, sir ?" queried the man. "Captain Harold's complinientSj and a telephone message has just come in that you are to report to H.Q. loth Group as quickly as possible." Peter brushed himself up, and outwardly cheerful but inwardly quaking, set off. Half an hour's walk brought him to the place, a little office near a wharf in a tangle of trolley lines. He knocked, went in, came to attention, and saluted. Colonel Lear was a short, red-faced, boorish fellow, and his Adjutant sat beside him at the desk, for the Colonel was not particularly well up in his job. The Adjutant was tall, slightly bald, and fat-faced, and he leaned back throughout the interview with an air of sneering boredom, only 78 SIMON CALLED PETER vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior's occasional ques- tions. Peter didn't know which he hated the more ; but he concluded that whereas he would like to cut the Colonel in Regent Street, he would enjoy shooting the Adjutant. "Ah!" said the Colonel. "Are you Captain Graham? Well, sir, what's the meaning of this? You applied for a movement order, and one was sent you, and you did not report at the station. You damned padres think you can do any bally thing you choose ! Out here for a picnic, I suppose. What is the meaning of it?" "Well, sir," said Peter, "I waited ten days for the order and it did not come. At last I went out for the afternoon, and got back too late to execute it. I'm very sorry, but can't I go to-day instead?" "Good God, sir ! do you think the whole British Army is arranged for your benefit? Do you think nobody has any- thing else to do except to arrange things to suit your con- venience? We haven't got troopers with Pullman cars every day for the advantage of you chaplains, though I suppose you think we ought to have. Supposing you did have to wait, what about it? What else have you to do? You'd have waited fast enough if it was an order to go on leave ; that's about all you parsons think about. I don't know what you can do. What had he better do, Mallony?" The Adjutant leaned forward leisurely, surveying Peter coolly. "Probably he'd better report to the R.T.O., sir," he said. "Oh, very well. It won't be any good, though. Go up to the R.T.O. and ask him what you can do. Here's the order." (He threw it across the table, and Peter picked it up, noting miserably the blue legend, "Failed to Report — R.T.O., Gare du Vert.") "But don't apply to this office again. Haven't you got a blessed department to do your own damned dirty work?" "The A.C.G.'s away, sir," said Peter. "On leave, I suppose. Wish to God I were a padre, eh, Malloney? Always on leave or in Paris, and doin' nothing SIMON CALLED PETER 79 in between. . . Got those returns, sergeant? . . . What in hell are you waiting for, padre?" For the first time in his life Peter had an idea of what seeing red really means. But he mastered it by an effort, saluted without a word, and passed out. In a confused whirl he set off for the R.T.O., and with a sinking heart reached the station, crowded with French peasantry, who had apparently come for the day to wait for the train. Big notices made it impossible to miss the Railway Transport Officer. He passed down a passage and into an office. He loathed and hated the whole wide world as he went in. A young man, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, glanced up at him. Peter observed in time that he had two stars only on his shoulder-strap. Before he could speak, the other said cheerily: "Well, padre, and what can I do for you?" Peter deprecatingly told him. He had waited ten days, etc., and had at last gone out, and the movement order had come with . . . The other cut him short : "Oh, you're the chap who failed to report, are you ? Blighted rotters they are at these Group H.Q.'s. Chuck us over the chit." Peter brightened up and obeyed. The other read it. "I know," ventured Peter, "but I got the dickens o{ a strafe from the Colonel. He said he had no idea when I could get away, and had better see you. What can I do?" "Silly old ass ! You'd better go to-night. There are plenty of trains, and you're all alone, aren't you? I might just alter the date, but I suppose now you had better go to his nibs the Deputy Assistant Officer controlling Transport. He's in the Rue de la Republique, No. 153 ; you can find it easily enough. Tell him I sent you. He'll probably make you out a new order." Peter felt enormously relieved. He relaxed, smiled, and got out a cigarette, offering the other one. "Beastly lot of fuss they make over nothing, these chaps," he said. 8o SIMON CALLED PETER "I know," said the R.T.O.; "but they're paid for it, my boy, and probably your old dear had been strafed himself this morning. Well, cheerio ; see you again to-night. Come in time, and I'll get you a decent place." The great man's office was up two flights of wooden stairs in what looked like a deserted house. But Peter mounted them with an easy mind. He had forgiven Lear, and the world smiled. He still didn't realise he was acting in Punch. Outside a suitably labelled door he stood a moment, listen- ing to a well-bred voice drawling out sarcastic orders to some unfortunate. Then with a smile he entered. A Major looked up at him, and heard his story without a word. Peter got less buoyant as he proceeded, and towards the end he was rather lame. A silence followed. The great man scrutinised the order. "Where were you?" he demanded at last, abruptly. It was an awkward question. Peter hedged. "The O.C. of my camp asked me to go out with him," he said at last, feebly. The other picked up a blue pencil and scrawled further on the order. "We've had too much of this lately," he said icily. "Officers appear to think they can travel when and how they please. You will report to the D.A.Q.M.G. at Headquarters, 3rd Echelon." He handed the folded order back, and the miserable Peter had a notion that he meant to add: "And God have mercy on your soul." He ventured a futile remonstrance. "The R.T.O. said you could perhaps alter the date." The Major leaned back and regarded him in silence as a remarkable phenomenon such as had not previously come his way. Then he sighed, and picked up a pen. "Good-morn' ing," he said. Peter, in the street, contemplated many things, including suicide. If Colonel Chichester had been in Rouen he would have gone there; as it was, he did not dare to face that unknown any more than this other. In the end he set ou<- SIMON CALLED PETER 81 slowly for H.Q., was saluted by the sentry under the flag, climbed up to a corridor with many strangely labelled doors, aijd finally entered the right one, to find himself in a big room in which half a dozen men in uniform were engaged at as many desks with orderlies moving between them. A kind of counter barred his farther passage. He stood at it forlornly for a few minutes. At last an orderly came to him, and he shortly explained his presence and handed in the much-blued order. The man listened in silence, asked him to wait a moment, and departed. Peter leaned on the counter and tried to look indifferent. With a detached air he studied the Kirschner girls on the walls. These added a certain air to the otherwise forlorn place, but when, a little later, W.A.A.C.'s were installed, a paternal Government ordered their removal. But that then mattered no longer to Peter. At the last the orderly came back. "Will you please follow me, sir?" he said. Peter was led round the barrier like a sheep to execution, and in at a small door. He espied a General Officer at a desk by the window, telephone receiver in one hand, the fateful order in the other. He saluted. The other nodded. Peter waited. "Ah, yes! D.A.Q.M.G. speaking. That loth Group Headquarters? Oh yes; good-morning, Mallony. About Captain Graham's movement order. When was this order applied for at your end? . . . What? Eighteenth? Humph! What time did your office receive it? ... Eh? Ten a.m.? Then, sir, I should like to know what it was doing in your office till six p.m. This officer did not receive it till six-thirty. What? He was out? Yes, very likely, but it reached his mess at six-thirty : it is so endorsed. . . . Colonel Lear has had the matter under consideration ? Good, Kindly ask Colonel Lear to come to the telephone." He leaned back, and glanced up at Graham, taking him in with a grave smile. "I understand you waited ten days §2 SIMON CALLED PETER for this, Captain Graham," he said. "It's disgraceful that it should happen. I am glad to have had an instance brought before me, as we have had too many cases of this sort of thing lately. . . ." He broke off. "Yes? Colonel Lear? Ah, good-morning, Colonel Lear. This case of the movement order of Captain Graham has just been brought to me. This officer was kept waiting ten days for his order, and then given an impossibly short time to report. Well, it won't do. Colonel. There must be something very wrong in your orderly-room ; kindly see to it. Chaplains have other things to do than sit around in camps waiting the convenience of Group Headquarters. The application for this order reached us on the 27th, and was sent off early next morning, in ample time for the officer to travel. I am very displeased about it. You will kindly apply at once for a fresh order, and see that it is in Captain Graham's hands at least six hours before he must report. That is all. Good-morning." Peter could hardly believe his ears, but he could barely keep a straight face either. The D.A.Q.M.G. hung up the receiver and repeated the latter part of the message. Peter thanked him and departed, walking on jiir. A day later an orderly from the group informed him at 11 a.m. that the order had been applied for and might be expected that day, and at i o'clock he received it. Such is the humour of the high gods who control the British Army. But he never saw Colonel Lear again, and was thankful. Peter reached his new base, then, early in March in a drizzle of rain. He was told his camp and set off to find it, and for an hour walked through endless docks, over innumerable bridges, several of which, being open to admit and let out ships, caused him pretty considerable delay. It was a strange, new experience. The docks presented tsrpes of nearly every conceivable nationality and of every sort of shipping. French marines and seamen were, of course, everywhere, but so were Chinese, South African natives, Egyptians, Senegalese, t)rpes of all European nationalities, a few of the first clean, efficient-looking Americans in tight- SIMON CALLED PETER 8^ fltting uniforms, and individual officers of a score of regi- ments. The old town ended in a row of high, disreputable-looking houses that were, however, picturesque enough, and across the pave in front of them commenced the docks. Ona walked in and out of harbours and waterways, the main stretch of harbour opening up more and more on the right hand, and finally showing two great encircling arms that nearly met, and the grey Channel beyond. Tossing at anchor outside were more than a dozen ships, waiting for dark to attempt the crossing. As he went, a seaplane came humming in from the mists, circled the old town, and took the harbour water in a slither of foam. He had to wait while a big Argentine ship ploughed slowly in up a narrow channel, and then, in the late afternoon, crossed a narrow swing foot- bridge, and found himself on the main outer sea-wall. Following directions, he turned to the right and walked as if going out to the harbour mouth a mile or so ahead. It seemed impossible that his camp should be here, for on the one hand he was close to the harbour, and on the other, over a high wall and some buildings, was plainly to be espied the sea. A few hundred yards on, however, a crowd of Tommies were lined up and passing embarkation officers for a big trooper, and Peter concluded that this was the leave boat by which he was to mark his camp across the road and more or less beyond it. He crossed a railway-line, went in at a gate, and was there. The officers' quarters had a certain fascination. You stepped out of the anteroom and found yourself on a raised concrete platform at the back of which washed the gea. Very extensive harbour works, half completed, ran farther out in a great semicircle across a wide space of leaden water, over which gulls were circling and crying ; but the thin black line of this wall hardly interrupted one's sense of looking straight out to sea, and its wide mouth away on the right let in the real invigorating, sea-smelling wind. The camp itself was a mere strip between the railway-line and the water, a camp 84 SIMON CALLED PETER of R.E.'s to which he was attached. He was also to work a hospital which was said to be dose by. It was pointed out to him later. The railway ran out all but to the harbour mouth, and there ended in a great covered, wide station. Above it, large and airy, with extensive verandahs parallel to the harbour, was the old Customs, and it was this that had been transformed into a hospital. It was an admirable place. The Red Cross trains ran in below, and the men could be quickly swung up into the cool, cleah wards above. These, all on one level, had great glass doors giving access to the verandahs, and from the verandahs broa4 gangways could be placed, running men, at high tide, on to the hospital ship alongside. The nurses' quarters were be- yond, and their sitting-room was perched up, as it were, sea on one side and harbour on the other. At present, of course, Peter did not know all this. He was merely conducted by an orderly in the dusk to the anteroom of the mess, and welcomed by the orderly-officer^ who led him into a comfortable room already lit, in a comer of which, near a stove, four officers sat at cards. "Hearts three," said one as Peter came in. "Pass me," said another, and it struck Peter that he knew the tone. The four were fairly absorbed in their game, but the orderly officer led Peter towards the table. At that they looked up, and next minute one had jumped up and was greeting him. "By all that's wonderful ! It's you again," he said. "Donovan!" exclaimed Peter. "What are you doing here?" The South African held out his hand. "I've got attached to one of our nigger outfits," he said, "just up the dock from here. But what are you doing?" "Oh, I've been moved from Rouen," said Peter, "and told to join up here. Got to look after the hospital and a few camps. And I was told." he added, "I'd live in this camp." SIMON CALLED PETER 83 "Good enough," said Donovan. "Let me introduce you. This is Lieutenant Pennell, R.E. — Lieutenant Pennell, Cap- tain Graham. This is a bird of your kidney, mess secretary and a great man. Padre Arnold, and this is one Ferrars, Australian Infantry. He tried to stop a shell," went on Donovan easily, "and is now recovering. The shock left him a little insane, or so his best friends think ; hence, as you may have heard, he has just gone three hearts. And that's all anyone can do at present, padre, so have a cigarette and sit down. I hope you haven't changed your old habits, as you are just in time for a sun-downer. Orderly !" He pulled up a large easy-chair, and Peter subsided into it with a pleasant feeling of welcome. He remembered, now, having heard that Donovan was at Havre, but it was none the less a surprise to meet him. Donovan played a good hand when he liked, but when he was not meeting his mettle, or perhaps when the conditions were not serious enough, he usually kept up a diverting, unorthodox run of talk the whole time. Peter listened and took in his surroundings lazily. "Come on," said his friend, playing a queen. "Shove on your king, Pennell; everyone knows you've got him. What? Hiding the old gentleman, are you? Why, sure it's myself has him all the time" — gathering up the trick and leading the king. "Perhaps some- body's holding up the ace now . . ." and so on. Pennell played well too, but very differently. He was usually bored with his luck or the circumstances, and until you got to know him you were inclined to think he was bored with you. He was a young-looking man of thirty-five, rather good-looking, an engineer in peace-time who had knocked about the world a good deal, but hardly gave you that impression. The Australian played poorly. With curly dark hair and a perpetual pipe, his face was almost sullen in repose, but it lit up eagerly enough at any chance excitement, Arnold was easily the eldest, a short man with iron-grey hair and very kindly eyes, a man master of himself and his cir- 86 SIMON CALLED PETER cumstances. Peter watched him eagerly. He was likely to see a good deal of him, he thought, and he was glad there would be a padre as well in camp. Donovan and Ferrars won the game and so the rubber easily, and the former pushed his chair back from the table. "That's enough for me, boys," he said. "I must trek in a minute. Well, padre, and what do you think of the Army now.' ■?" "Mixed biscuits rather," Peter said. "But I had a rum experience getting here. You wouldn't have thought it pos- sible," and he related the story of the movement order. At the close, Pennell nodded gloomily. "Pack of fools they are !" he said. "Hardly one of them knows his job. You can thank your lucky stars that the D.A.Q.M.G. had a down on tliat Colonel What's-his-name, or it would have taken you another month to get here, probably — eh, Donovan?" "That's so, old dear," said that worthy. "But I'm hanged if I'd have cared. Some place, Rouen. Better'n this hole." "Well, at Rouen they said this was better," said Peter. Arnold laughed. "That's the way of the Army," he said. "It's all much the same, but you would have to go far to beat this camp." Pennell agreed, ""iou're right there, padre," he said. "This is as neat a hole as I've struck. If you know the road," he went on to Peter, "you can slip into town in twenty-five minutes or so, and we're much better placed than most camps. There's no mud and cinders here, is there, Donovan? His camp's built on cinders," he added. "There are not," said that worthy, rising. "And you're very convenient to the hospital here, padre. You better get Arnold to show you round ; he's a dog with the nurses." "What about the acting matron. No. i Base?" demanded Arnold. "He has tea there every Sunday," he explained to Peter, "and he a married man, too." "It's time I went," said Donovan, laughing ; "all the same, there's a concert on Tuesday in next week, a good one, I SIMON CALLED PETER 8? oelieve, and I've promised to go and take some people. Who'll come? Pennell, will you?" "Not this child, thanks. Too many nurses, too much tea, and too much talk for me. Now, if you would pick me out a pretty one and fix up a little dinner in town, I'm your man, old bean." "Well, that might be managed. It's time we had a flutter of some sort. I'll see. What about you, Graham? You game to try the hospital? You'll have to get to know the ropes of them all, you know." "Yes, I'll come," said Peter— "if I can, that is." He looked inquiringly at Arnold. "Oh, your time is more or less your own," he replied — "at least, it is our side of the house. Are you C.G. or P.C. ?" "Good God, padre!" said the Australian, getting up too, "what in the world do you mean?" "Chaplain-General's Department or Principal Chaplain's Department, Church of England or Nonconformist. And it's sixpence a swear in this mess." Arnold held out a hand. Donovan caught his friend by the arm. "Come on out of k," he said. "You won't get back in time if you don't. The padre's a good sort ; you needn't mind him. So long every- body. Keep Tuesday clear, Graham. I'll call for you." "Well, I'd better fix you up, Graham," said Arnold. "For my sins I'm mess secretary, and as the president's out and Ekely to be, I'll find a place for yoa." He led Peter into the passage, and consulted a board on the wall. "I'd like to put you next tne, but I can't," he said, "Both sides occupied. Wait a minute. No. lo Pennell, and No. ii's iree. How would you like that? Pennell," he called through the open door, "what's the next room to yours like? Light all right?" "Quite decent," said Pennell, coming to the door. "Going to put him there, padre ? Let's go and see." Then the three went off together down the passage. The little room was bare, except for a table under tbe 88 SIMON CALLED PETER window. Arnold opened it, and Peter saw he; looked out over the sea. Pennell switched on the light and found it working correctly, and then sauntered across the couple of yards or so of the cubicle's width to look at the remains of some coloured pictures pasted on the wooden partition. "Last man's made a little collection from La Vie Parisienne for you, padre," he said. "Not a very bright selection, either. You'll have to cover them up, or it'll never do to bring your A.C.G. or A.P.C., or whatever he is, in here. What a life !" he added, regarding them. "They are a queer people, the French. . . . Well, is this going to do?" Graham glanced at Arnold. "Very well," he said, "if it's all right for me to have it." "Quite all right," said Arnold. "Remember, Pennell is nextdoor left, so keep him in order. Nextdoor right is the English Channel, more or less. Now, what about your traps?" "I left them outside the orderly-room," said Peter, "except for some that a porter was to bring up. Perhaps they'll be here by now. I've got a stretcher and so on." "I'll go and see," said Pennell, "and I'll put ray man on to ^et you straight, as you haven't a batman yet." And he strolled off. "Come to my room a mmute," said Arnold, and Petef followed him. Arnold's room was littered with stuff. The table was spread with mess accounts, and the corners of the little place were stacked up with a gramophone, hymn-books, lantern- slides, footballs, boxing-gloves, and such-like. The chairs were both littered, but Arnold cleared one by the simple expedient of piling all its contents on the other, and motioned his visitor to sit down. "Have a pipe ?" he asked, holding out his pouch. Peter thanked him, filled and handed it back, then lit his pipe, and glanced curiously round the room as he drew on it. "You're pretty full up," he said. SIMON CALLED PETER 89 "Fairly," said the other. "There's a Y.M.C.A. here, and I run it more or less, and Tommy likes variety. He's a fine chap, Tommy ; don't you think so ?" Peter hesitated a second, and the other glanced at hins shrewdly. "Perhaps you haven't been out long enough," he said. "Perhaps not," said Peter. "Not but what I do like him. He's a cheerful creature for all his grousing, and has sterling good stuff in him. But religiously I don't get on far. To tell you the truth, I'm awfully worried about it." The elder man nodded. "I guess I know, lad," he said. "See here. I'm Presb)^erian and I reckon you are Anglican, but I expect we're up against much the same sort of thing. Don't worry too much. Do your job and talk straight, and the men '11 listen more than you think." "But I don't think I know what to tell them," said Peter miserably, but drawn out by the other. Arnold smiled. "The Prayer Book's not much use here, eh? But forgive me; I don't mean to be rude. I know what you mean. To tell you the truth, I think this war is what we padres have been needing. It'll help us to find our feet. Only — ^this is honest — if you don't take care you may lose them. I have to keep a tight hold of that" — and he laid his hand on a big Bible — "to mind my own." Peter did not reply for a minute. He could not talk easily to a stranger. But at last he said : "Yes ; but it doesn't seem to me to fit the case. Men are different. Times are different. The New Testament people took certain things for granted, and even if they disagreed, they always had a common basis with the Apostles. Men out here seem to me to talk a differ- ent language : you don't know where to begin. It seems to me that they have long ago ceased to believe in the authority of anyone or anything in religion, and now to-day they actually deny our very commonplaces. But I don't know how to put it," he added lamely. Arnold puffed silently for a little. Then he took his pipe 90 SIMON CALLED PETER out of his mouth and regarded it critically. "God's in the soul of every man still," he said. "They can still hear Him speak, and speak there. And so must we too, Graham." Peter said nothing. In a minute or so steps sounded in the passage, and Arnold looked up quickly. "Maybe," he said, "our ordinary life prevented us hearing God very plainly ourselves, Graham, and maybe He has sent us here for that purpose. I hope so. I've wondered lately if we haven't cot>;e to the kingdom for such a time as this." Pennell pushed the door open, and looked in. "You therCi Graham?" he asked. "Oh, I thought I'd find him here, padre; his stuff's come." Peter got up. "Excuse me, Arnold," he said; "I must shake in. But I'm jolly glad you said what you did, and I hope you'll say it again, and some more." The older man smiled an answer, and the door closed. Then he sighed a little, and stretched out his hand again for ihe BiUe. CHAPTER VI THE great central ward at No. i Base Hospital looked as gay as possible. In the centre a Guard's band sat among palms and ferns, and an extemporised stage, draped with flags, was behind, with wings constructed of Japanese- figured material. Pretty well all round were the beds, although many of them had been moved up into a central position, and there was a space for chairs and forms. The green-room had to be outside the ward, and the performers, therefore, came and went in the public gaze. But it was not a critical public, and the men, with a plenitude of cigarettes, did not object to pauses. On the whole, they were extraordi- narily quiet and passive. Modern science has made the battlefield a hell, but it has also made the base hospital some- thing approaching a Paradise. There were women in plenty. The staff had been aug- mented by visitors from most of the other hospitals in the town, and there was a fair sprinkling of W.A.A.C.'s, Y.M.C.A. workers, and so on, in addition. Jack Donovan and Peter were a little late, and arrived at the time an ex- ceedingly popular subalternjwas holding the stage amid roars of laughter. They stood outside one of the many glass doors and peered in. Once inside, one had to make one's way among beds and chairs, and the nature of things brought one into rather more than the usual share of late-comers' scrutiny, but nothing could abash Donovan. He spotted at once a handsome woman in nurse's indoor staff uniform, and made for her. She, with two others, was sitting on an empty bed, and she promptly made room for Donovan. Graham was introduced, and a quiet girl moved up a bit for him to sit down; but ai 93 SIMON CALLED PETER there was not much room, and the girl would not talk, so that he sat uncomfortably and looked about him, listening with one ear to the fire of chaff on his right. Donovan was irrepressible. His laugh and voice, and the fact that he was talking to a hospital personage, attracted a certain amount of attention. Peter tried to smile, but he felt out of it and observed. He stared up towards the band, which was just striking up again. Suddenly he became conscious, as one will, that someone was particularly looking at him. He glanced back over the chairs, and met a pair of eyes, roguish, laughing, and unques^ tionably fixed upon him. The moment he saw them, their owner nodded and telegraphed an obvious invitation. Peter glanced at Donovan : he had not apparently seen. He looked back; the eyes called him again. He felt himself getting hot, for, despite the fact that he had a kind of feeling that he had seen those eyes before, he was perfectly certain he did not know the girl. Perliaps she had made a mistake. He turned resolutely to his companion. "Jt)lly good band, isn't it?" he said. "Yes," she rephed. "But I suppose at a hospital like this you're always hearing decent music ?" he ventured. "Not so often," she said. "This band is just back from touring the front, isn't it? My friend said something to that effect." "I believe so," she said. Peter could have cursed her. It was impossible to get anything out of her, though why he had not a notion. The answer was really simple, for she wanted to be next Donovan, and wasn't ?-nd she was all the while scheming how to get there. But Peter did not tumble to that ; he felt an ass and very uncomfortable, and he broke into open revolt. _ He looked steadily towards the chairs. The back of the girl who had looked at him was towards him now, for she was talking sideways to somebody; but he noted an empty SIMON CALLED PETER 93 chair just next her, and that her uniform was not that of the nurses of this hospital. He felt confident that she would look again, and he was not disappointed. Instantly he made up his mind, nodded, and reached for his cap. "I see a girl I know over there," he said to his neighbour. "Excuse me, will you?" Then he got up and walked boldly over to the vacant chair. He was fast acclimatising to war conditions. He sat down on that empty chair and met the girl's eyes fairly. She was entirely at her ease and laughing merrily. "I've lost my bet," she said," and Tommy's won." "And you've made me tell a thundering lie," he replied, laughing too, "which you know is the first step towards losing one's soul. Therefore you deserve your share in the loss." "Why ? What did you say ?" she demanded. "I said I saw a girl I knew," he replied. "But I haven't any idea who you are, though I can't help feeling I've seen you before." She chuckled with amusement, and turned to her com- panion. "He doesn't remember. Tommy," she said. The second girl looked past her to Peter. "I should think not," she said. "Nobody would. But he'll probably say in two minutes that he does. You're perfectly shameless, Julie." Julie swung round to Peter. "You're a beast, Tommy," she said over her shoulder, "and I shan't speak to you again. You see," she went on to Peter, "I could see you had struck a footling girl, and as I don't know a single decent boy here, I thought I'd presume on an acquaintance, and see if it wasn't a lucky one. We've got to know each other, you know. The girl with me on the boat — oh, damn, I've told you! — and I am swearing, and you're a parson, but it can't be helped now — well, the girl told me we should meet again, and that it was probably you who was mixed up with my fate-line. What do you think of that?" Peter had not an idea, really. He was going through the most amazing set of sensations. He felt heavy and dull, and as if he were utterly at a loss how to deal with a female of so obviously and totally different a kind from any he had met 94 SIMON CALLED PETER before; but, with it all, he was very conscious of being glad to be there. Underneath everything, too, he felt a bit of a dare-devil, which was a delightful experience for a London curate ; and still deeper, much more mysteriously and almost a little terrifyingly, something stranger still, that he had known this girl for ages, although he had not seen her for a long time. "I'm highly privileged, I'm sure," he said, and could have kicked himself for a stupid ass. "Oh Lord !" said Julie, with a mock expression of horror ; "for goodness' sake don't talk like that. That's the worst of a parson: he can't forget the drawing-room. At any rate, I'm not sure that I'm highly fortunate, but I thought I ought to give Fate a chance. Do you smoke?" "Yes," said Peter wonderingly. "Then for goodness' sake smoke, and you'll feel better. No, I daren't here, but I'm glad you are educated enough to ask me. Nurses aren't supposed to smoke in public, you know, and I take it that even you have observed that I'm a nurse." She was quite right. Peter drew on his cigarette and felt more at ease. "Well, to be absolutely honest, I had," he said. "And I observe, moreover, that you are not wearing exactly an English nurse's uniform, and that you have what I might venture to call a zoological badge. I therefore conclude that, like my friend Donovan, you hail from South Africa. What hospital are you in?" "Quai de France," she said. "Know it?" Peter repressed a start. "Quai de France?" he queried. "Where's that, now?" At this moment a song started, but his companion dropped her voice to stage whisper and replied : "End of the harbour, near where the leave-boat starts. Know it now?" He nodded, but was saved a reply. She looked away toward the platform, and he studied her face surreptitiously. It seemed very young till you looked closely, especially at the eyes, and then you perceived some SIMON CALLED PETER 95 thing lurking there. She was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, he concluded. She looked as if she knew the world inside out, and as if there were something hidden below the gaiety. Peter felt curiously and intensely attracted. His shyness vanished. He had, and had had, no intimations of the doings of Providence, and nobody could possibly be more sceptical of fate-lines than he, but it dawned on him as he stared at her that he would fathom that look somehow, somewhere. "I'm practically not made up at all," she whispered, with- out turning her head, "so for Heaven's sake don't say there's too much powder on my nose." Peter shook silently. "No, but a faint trace on the right cheek," he whispered back. She turned then and looked at him, and her eyes challenged his. And yet it is to be supposed that Hilda knew nothing whatever about it. " 'Right on my mother's knee . . .' " sang the platform. " 'Without a shirt, without a shirt,' " gagged Peter, sotto Voce, and marvelled at himself. But he felt that her smoth- ered laughter amply rewarded him. The song ceased in time, and the encore, which they both vigorously demanded. And immediately she began again. "I hope to goodness tea isn't far off," she said. "By the way, you'll have to tajke me to it, now, you know. We go out of that door, and up a flight of steps, and there's the matron's room on the top and a visitor's room next to it, and tea '11 be there. It will be a fiendish squash, and I wouldn't go if I hadn't you to get me tea and take me away afterwards as soon as possible." "I'm highly privileged, I'm sure," said Peter again, quite deliberately. She laughed. "You are," she said. "Look how you're coming on ! Ten minutes ago you were a bored curate, and now you're — ^what are you ?" Peter hesitated perceptibly. He felt he might say many things. Then he said "A trapped padre," and they both laughed. "Thank goodness you're not sentimental, anyway," she 96 SIMON CALLED PETER said. "Nor's your friend; but the matron is. I know her sort. Look at them." Peter looked. Donovan appeared still entirely at his ease, but he was watching Peter, who realised why he had been m^de to look. He brazened it out, smiled back at him, and turned perfectly deliberately to his companion. "Julie," he said, "don't look over there any more, for goodness' sake, or we'll have Donovan here. And if he comes he'll sail in and take you to tea without a word. I know him. He's got an unfair advantage over me. I'm just waking up, and he's been awake for years. Please give me a chance." She leaned back and regarded him humorously. "You're not doing so badly," she said. "I don't know that a man has ever called me 'Julie' before in the first quarter of an hour. Do you know that, Solomon?" "It's your fault. I've never been introduced, and I must call you something, so why not the name your friend called you ? Julie's very pretty and suits you. Somehow I couldn't ■•all you 'Miss' anything, though it may be convenient to know the rest. Do you think you could call me the Rev. Peter Graham ?" "I couldn't," she confessed, slightly more solemnly. "Queer, isn't it? But don't talk about it: it isn't lucky. I shall call you Solomon for ever now. And you can only call me Miss Gamelyn when you've got to. See?" "But why in the world 'Solomon'? It doesn't fit me a bit." "Oh," she said, "it does, but don't worry why. Perhaps because, as the old man said to the vicar when he heard of Solomon's wives, you are a highly privileged Christian. You can't deny that, since you've said it twice. Praises be, here is tea. Come on ; come on. Tommy. Oh, Tommy, this is the Very Reverend Peter Graham. Mr. Graham, this is one Raynard, commonly known as Tommy, my half -section, so try to be polite." There was a general movement, and Peter shook hands as he got up. The other girl struck him at once as a good sort SIMON CALLED PETER 97 •You're booked to take us to tea, I suppose?" she said. "Julie's far more practical than you'd imagine, padre." They left the row of chairs together, Julie well in front and apparently forgetful of their existence. As they came abreast of the empty bed, Peter noticed that the assistant matron had gone, and that Donovan was drifting in the stream alongside her in front. But before they were out of the great ward, Julie and he were laughing together. Peter felt absurdly hurt, and hated himself for feeling it. The other girl was talking at his elbow, but he made ridiculous and commonplace replies and hardly noticed her. She broke off at last abruptly, and he roused himself to carry on. He caught her expression, and somehow or other it landed him deeper in the business. He made a deliberate move. "Where are you going after this ?" he asked. "Down town to do some shopping ; then I suppose home, unless a fit seizes Julie and we run a risk once more of being summarily repatriated." He laughed. "Does that often happen?" "Quite often. You see ours is an English hospital, though we are South Africans attached to it. I thinlt they're much more strict than Colonial hospitals. But they give us more latitude than the rest, at any rate. Julie had a fearful row once, and simply declared she would do some things, and since then they turn a blind eye occasionally. But there are limits, and one day she'll step over them — I know she will." "Let's hope not," said Peter ; "but now let me get you some tea." The little room was packed, but Peter got through some- how and made his way to a series of tables spread with cakes and sandwiches. He got a cup and seized a plate, and shoul- dered his way back. In the crush he saw only the top of Miss Raynard's head, and made for that. "Here you are," he said cheerfully, as he emerged. "Have a sandwich?" "Thanks," she said as she took it; "but why didn't you bring two cups?" 98 SIMON CALLED PETER "Why?" he asked. She nodded towards a comer and there was Julie, wedged in between people, and refusing tea from a subaltern. "She expects you to bring it," said Miss Ra3mard. Peter looked puzzled. "Where's Donovan?" he said. "I thought she came in with him." The girl smiled. "She did, but she arranged for you to bring her tea, whoever Donovan is, and she'll wait for it. She's that sort. Besides, if Donovan was that officer with the matron, he's probably got other fish to fry." Peter waited for no more, but plunged into the press again. As he emerged, he crossed the track of his friend, who was steering about with cakes. "Hullo, padre," that individual said; "you're a smart one, you are. Let's take those girls out to dinner. They'll come all right." Peter mumbled something, and went on with his tea to- wards the corner. The other's readiness and eflErontery staggered him, but he wasn't going to give himself away. "You're a brute !" said Julie promptly. "Where have you been?" "It's where have you been, you mean," retorted Peter. "I thought I was to take you in to tea. When last I saw you, you had Donovan in tow." "And you had Tommy. Don't you like her ?" "Awfully," said Peter ; "I think she wants something now. But do come across to our side. Aren't you going soon?" "Yes, when we can get away. Remember, everyone is watching. You go on out, and we can meet you below." "Right," said Peter; "I'll collect Donovan." He found him after a bit, and the two made their adieux and thanks. As they went down the steps. Jack outlined the campaign. "I just joked to her about dinner," he said, "but I think they'll rise. If they do, we'll go to Travalini's, if they dare. That girl of yours is up to anything : she knows a thing or two. You've some nerve, old thing." "Nothing to yours," retorted Graham, still not at all sure SIMON CALLED PETER 99 of himself. "But, look here, what about Travalini's? I don't know that I care to go there." "Oh, it's all right, old dear. You haven't a vast collar on now, and you ought to see life. I've seen scores of chaplains there, even old Arnold. I'll look after your morals. Come on; let's get out and across the road. We shall see them coming down the steps." The hospital fronted on to the sea and the promenade that once was so fashionable. The sun was setting, blood red, H)ver the Channel, the ships at anchor looking dark by con- trast. But there was still plenty of light, and Peter was inwardly conscious of his badges. Still, he told himself that he was an ass, and the two of them sauntered slowly town- wards. In a few minutes Jack glanced back. "They're coming," he said, and as the girls crossed on to the pavement behind them, turned round. "Good for you," he said. "You got out quicker than I thought you would. Shall we tram or walk?" "Walk, I think," said Julie ; "it's topping here by the sea. I want to get a pair of shoes, and the shop's not too far. Besides, you can buy shoes by artificial light, which won't do for some things. Tommy bought a hat the other night, and she nearly had a fit in the morning. She's keeping it for the next fancy-dress stunt." She ran on, and, despite Peter, Donovan annexed her. ThSy set off gaily ahead, Julie's clear laugh coming back now and again. Peter felt depressed and angry. He told himself he was being let in for something he did not want, and he had not much to say. To make conversation, he asked about South Africa. It appeared the girls came from Natal. Miss Raynard was enthusiastic, and he gathered they had been trained together in Pietermaritzburg, but lived somewhere on the coast, whqre there was tennis all the year and moonlight bathing picnics in the season, and excellent river boating. He could not catch the twrrM" but it was not too far from Durban. He lOO SIMON CALLED PETER said, in the end, that he had always wanted to visit South Africa, and should certainly come to Natal. . , . They turned off the promenade into a boulevard lined with the usual avenue of trees. It was dusk now, and looked darker by contrast with the street lamps. Small tram-cars rushed by now and again, with clanging bells and platforms crowded before and behind, and there were plenty of people in the street. Julie turned abruptly. "I say, Tommy," she said, "Captain Donovan wants us to go out to dinner. What do you say? My shoes can wait, and we needn't be in till eight-thirty. It's nbt more than six now. It will be a spree." "I'm game; but where are we going?" "I suggest Travalini's, padre," said Donovan. "Not for me," said Miss Paynard; "it's too public, and you seem to forget. Captain Donovan, that we are forbidden to dine with officers." "Nobody is likely to give us away. Tommy," said Miss Gamelyn. "I'm not going to take the risk in uniform. Let's go to a quiet hotel, or else to some very French place. That would be fun." "A jolly good idea," cried Donovan, "and I know what will just fix us up. Come on." Tommy smiled. "Probably it wUl fix us up. Tell us about it first." "It's absolutely safe," Donovan protested. "It's quite French, and we shall get one knife and fork each. There's a cinema on top, and billiards underneath, and practically no officers go. A Belgian Captain I came out with took me. He said you could 'eat well' there, and you can, for the cook- ing is a treat. I swear it's all right." "Lead on," said Julie; "we'll trust you," and she ma- noeuvred so that her ,half-section was left with Donovan. The four walked briskly through the duslc. "Don't you love France in the evening ?" demanded Julie. SIMON CALLED PETER loi "Yes," said Peter, but dubiously. "I don't know it much yet," he added. "Oh, I do. Even a girl can almost do what she likes out here. I've had some awful fun in Havre. I think one ought to take one's pleasure when one has the chance, don't you? But some of these girls give me the hump ; they're so narrow. They can't see you with a man without imagining all sorts of things, whereas I've had some rattling good pals among men out here. Then they're so afraid of doing things — the girls, I mean. Do you know I went to Paris when I came up here from Boulogne? Had absolutely the time. Of course, nobody knows, so don't speak of it — except Tommy, oi course." "How did you do it ?" demanded Peter, amused. "Well, you see, I and another girl, English, were sent over by Boulogne, as you know, because you saw us on the boat, and we were supposed to come straight here. In the train we met a Canadian in the French Air Service, and he put us wise about changing, and so on. But it appeared you have to change at Amiens in the middle of the night, and he said the thing was to sleep in the train and go right on to Paris. Then you got twenty-four hours there, and left next day by the Havre express. The girl was horribly scared, but I said we'd try it. Nothing happened at all. We had a carriage to ourselves, and merely sat still at Amiens. When we got to Paris we simply walked out, bold as brass. I showed our tickets at Havre and told the French inspector we had over- slept. He merely told us the time to leave next day. We went to an hotel, and then strolled up the Avenue d I'Opera. And what do you think? Who should I see but an old dear of a General I knew out in South Africa who is in the French Red Cross. He was simply delighted to see us. He motored us out to the Bois in the afternoon, dined us, and took us to the theatre — only, by Jove ! I did curse that other girl. She was in a ferment all the time. Next morning he had a job on, but he sent a car for us with a subaltern to put us on the train, and we went to the R.T.O. this time. He couldn't do I02 SIMON CALLED PETER enough for us when he heard the name of General de Villiers and saw his card. We got into Havre at midday, and nobody was a penny the wiser." Peter laughed. "You were lucky," he said ; "perhaps you always are." "No, I'm not," she said, "but I usually do what I want and get through with it. Hullo, is this the place?" "I suppose so," said Peter. "Now for it. Look as if you'd been going to such places all your life." "I've probably been more often than you, anyhow, Solo- mon," said Julie, and she ran lightly up tfie steps. They passed through swing-doors into a larger hall, bril- liantly lit and heavy with a mixed aroma of smoke and food. There was a sort of hum of sound going on all the time, and Peter looked round wonderingly. He perceived immediately that there was an atmosphere about this French restaurant Vinlike that of any he had been in before. He was, in truth, utterly bewildered by what he saw, but he made an effort not to show it. Julie, on the other hand, was fairly carried away. They seated themselves at a table for four near the end of the partition, and she led the party in gaiety. Donovan hardly took his eyes off her, and cut in with dry, daring re- marks with a natural ease. Tommy played a good second to Julie, and if she had had any fears they were not visible now. "What about an appetiser?" demanded Donovan. "Oh, rather! Mixed vermuth for me; but Tommy must have a very small one : she gets drunk on nothing. Give me a cigarette now, padre; I'm dying to smoke." Peter produced his case. "Don't call him 'padre' here," said Donovan ; "you'll spoil his enjoyment." "A cigarette, Solomon, then," whispered Julie, as the othe» turned to beckon a gargon, flashing her eyes on him. Peter resisted no longer. "Don't," he said. "Call me anything but that." It seemed to him that there was some- thing inevitable in it all. He did not formulate his sensa- tions, but it was the lure of the contrast that won him. Ever SIMON CALLED PETER 103 since he had landed in France he had, as it were, hung on to the old conventional position, and he had felt increasingly that it was impossible to do so. True, there seemed little connection between a dinner with a couple of madcap girls in a French restaurant and religion, but there was one. He had felt out of touch with men and life, and now a new phase of it was offered him. He reached out for it eagerly. Julie leaned back and blew out a thin stream of smoke, her eyes daring him, picking up the litde glass as she did so. "Her^s to the girl with the little grey shoes," she chanted merrily. "Don't Julie, for Heaven's sake !" pleaded Tommy. "He'll be shocked." "Oh, go on," said Peter; "what is it?" "Captain Donovan will finish," laughed Julie. " 'Deed I can't, for I don't know it," he said. "Let's have it, little girl ; I'm sure it's a sporting toast." " 'Who eats your grub and drinks your booze,' " continued she. "Shut up, Julie," said Tommy, leaning over as if to snatch her glass. " 'And then goes home to her mother to snooze,' " called Julie breathlessly, leaning back. " 'I don't thmk,' " ejaculated Donovan. Julie tipped down the drink. "You knew it all the time," she. said. And they all burst out laughing. Peter drank, and called for another, his eyes on Julie. He knew that he could not sum her up, but he refused to believe that this was the secret behind the eyes. She was too gay, too insolent. What Donovan thought he could not say, but he almost hated him for the ease with which he kept pace with their companions. They ordered dinner, and the great dish of hors d'ceuvres was brought round by a waiter who seemed to preside over it with a fatherly solicitude. Julie picked up an olive in her fingers, and found it so good that she grumbled at only having taken one. I04 SIMON CALLED PETER "Have mine," said Donovan, shooting one on to her plate. "Thanks," she said. "Oh, heavens ! I forgot that patch on my left cheek— or was it my right, Solomon ? Let's see." She dived into her pocket, and produced a tiny satin beaded box. "Isn't it chic?" she demanded, leaning over to show Donovan. "I got it in the Nouvelles Galleries the other day." She took off the lid, which revealed its reverse as a tiny mirror, and scrutinised herself, patting back a stray lock on her forehead. "Oh, don't," said Donovan, and he slipped the hair out again with his finger. "Be quiet ; but I'll concede that. This won't do, though." Out came a tiny powder-puflf. "How's that?" she demanded, smiling up at him. "Perfect," he said. "But it's not fair to do that here." "Wait for the taxi then," she said. "Besides, it won't matter so much then." "What won't matter ?" demanded Peter. "Solomon, dear, you're as innocent as a new-born babe. Isn't he?" she demanded of his friend. Donovan looked across at him. "Still waters run deep," he said. "I don't know, but excuse me!" He had been sitting next Julie and opposite Miss Raynard, but he was now on his feet and begging her to change places with him. She consented, laughing, and did so, but Julie pretended to be furious. "I won't have it. You're a perfect beast. Tommy. Captain Donovan, I'll never come out with you again. Solomon, come and sit here, and you. Tommy, go over there." Peter hadn't an idea why, but he too got up. Tommy pro- tested. "Look here," she said, "I came for dinner, not fol a dance. Oh, look out. Captain Graham; you'll upset the cutlets!" Peter avoided the waiter by an effort, but came on round her to the other side. "Get out of it, Tommy," said Julie, leaning over and push- ing her. "I will have a man beside me, anyhow." "I'd sooner be opposite," said Donovan. "I can see yoa SIMON CALLED PETER 105 better, and you can't make eyes at the Frenchman at the other table quite so well if I get my head in the way." "Oh, but he's such a dear," said Julie. "I'd love to flirt with him. Only I must say his hair is a bit greasy." "You'll make his lady furious if you don't take care," said Donovan, "and it's a shanie to spoil her trade." Peter glanced across. A French officer, sitting opposite a painted girl, was smiling at them. He looked at Julie ; she was smiling back. "Julie, don't for Heaven's sake," said her half-section. "We shall have him over here next, and you remember onc« before how awkward it was." Julie laughed. "Give me another drink, then. Captain Ponovan," she said, "and I'll be good." Donovan filled up her glass. She raised it and challenged him. " 'Here's to we two in Blighty,' " she began. Miss Raynard rose determinedly and interrupted her. "Come on," she said; "that's a bit too much, Julie. We must go, or we'll never get back, and don't forget you've got to go on duty in the morning, my dear." She pulled out a little watch. "Good heavens!" she cried. "Do you know the time ? It's eight-twenty now. We ought to have been in by eight, and eight-thirty is the latest time that's safe. For any sake, come on." Julie for once agreed. "Good Lord, yes," she said. "We must have a taxi. Can we get one easily ?" "Oh, I expect so," said Donovan. "Settle up, Graham, will you? while I shepherd them out and get a car. Come on, and take care how you pass the Frenchman." In a few minutes Peter joined them on the steps outside. The restaurant was in the corner of a square which con- tained a small public garden, and the three of them were waiting for him on the curb. A taxi stood by them. The broad streets ran away to left and right, gay with lights and passers-by, and the dark trees stood out against a starry sky. A group of British officers went laughing by, and one of them recognised Donovan and hailed him. Two 106 . SIMON CALLED PETER spahis crossed out of the shade into the light, their red and gold a picturesque splash of colour. Behind them glared the staring pictures of the cinema show on a great hoarding by the wall. "Come on, Graham," called Donovan, "hop in." The four packed in closely, Peter and Tommy opposite the other two, Julie farthest from Peter. They started, and he caught her profile as the street lights shone in and out with the speed of their passing. She was smoking, puffing quickly at her cigarette, and hardly silent a moment. "It's been a perfect treat," she said. "You're both dears, aren't they. Tommy? You must come and have tea at the hospital any day: just walk in. Mine's Ward 3. Come about four o'clock, and you'll find me any day tiiis week- Tommy's opposite. There's usually a crush at tea, but yow must come. By the way, where's your camp? Aren't you. going heaps out of your way? Solomon, where do you live? Tell me." Peter grinned in the dark, and told her. "Oh, you perfect beast !" she said. "Then you knew the Quai de France all the time. Well, you're jolly near, any- way." "Oh, Lord!" she exclaimed suddenly, "you aren't the new padre?" "I am," said Peter. "Good Lord! what a spree! Then you'll come in en