Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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He had never seen her so. The childish brown eyes had a look in them that
reminded him of an animal caught in a trap. He sprang up and dropped on
his knees by her side, catching her hand.

"Oh, Julie, don't," he said. "What do you mean? What is there about you
that I don't know? How are you different from either of them?"

She threw her cigarette away, and ran her fingers through his hair, then
made a gesture, almost as if pushing something away, Peter thought, and
laughed her old ringing trill of laughter.

"Lor', Peter, was I tragic? I didn't mean to be, my dear. There's a lot
about me that you don't know, but something that you've guessed. I can't
abide shams and conventions really. Let's have life, I say, whatever it
is. Heavens! I've seen street girls with more in them than I pretended to
your friend to have in me to-night. They at least deal with human nature
in the raw. But that's why I love you; there's no need to pretend to you,
partly because, at bottom, you like real things as much as I, and partly
because--oh, never mind."

"Julie, I do mind--tell me," he insisted.

Her face changed again. "Not now, Peter," she said. "Perhaps one day--who
can say? Meantime, go on liking me, will you?"

"Like you!" he exclaimed, springing up, "Why, I adore you! I love you!
Oh, Julie, I love you! Kiss me, darling, now, quick!"

She pushed him off. "Not now," she cried; "I've got to have my revenge.
I know why you wouldn't come home in the cab! Come! we'll clink glasses,
but that's all there is to be done to-night!" She sprang up, flushed and
glowing, and held out an empty glass.

Peter filled hers and his, and they stood opposite to each other. She
looked across the wine at him, and it seemed to him that he read a
longing and a passion in her eyes, deep down below the merriness that was
there now. "Cheerio, old boy," she said, raising hers. "And 'here's to
the day when your big boots and my little shoes lie outside the same
closed door!'"

"Julie!" he said, "you don't mean it!"

"Don't I? How do you know, old sober-sides. Come, buck up, Solomon; we've
been sentimental long enough. I'd like to go to a music-hall now or do a
skirt-dance. But neither's really possible; certainly not the first, and
you'd be shocked at the second. I'm half a mind to shock you, though,
only my skirt's not long and wide enough, and I've not enough lace
underneath. I'll spare you. Come on!"

She seized her hat and put it on. They went out into the hall. There
was a man in uniform there, at the office, and a girl, French and
unmistakable, who glanced at Julie, and then turned away. Julie nodded to
madame, and did not glance at the man, but as she passed the girl she
said distinctly, "Bon soir, mademoiselle." The girl started and turned
towards her. Julie smiled sweetly and passed on.

Peter took her arm in the street, for it was quite dark and deserted.

"Why did you do that?" he said.

"What?" she demanded.

"Speak to that girl. You know what she is?"

"I do--a poor devil that's playing with Fate for the sake of a laugh and
a bit of ribbon. I'm jolly sorry for her, for they are both worth a great
deal, and it's hard to be cheated into thinking you've got them when Fate
is really winning the deal. And I saw her face before she turned away.
Why do you think she turned away, Peter? Not because she was ashamed, but
because she is beginning to know that Fate wins. Oh, la! la! what a
world! Let's be more cheerful. _'There's a long, long trail a-winding.'_"
she hummed.

Peter laughed. "Oh, my dear," he said, "was there ever anyone like you?"

Langton was reading in his room when Peter looked in to say good-night.

"Hullo!" he said. "See her home?"

"Yes," said Peter. "What did you think of her?"

"She's fathoms deep, I should say. But I should take care if I were you,
my boy. It's all very well to eat and drink with publicans and sinners,
though, as I told you, it's better no one should know. But they are
dangerous company."

"Why especially?" demanded Peter.

Langton stretched himself. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Perhaps because
society's agin 'em."

"Look here, Langton," said Peter. "Do you hear what I say? _Damn_
society! Besides, do you think your description applies to that girl?"

Langton smiled. "No," he said, "I shouldn't think so, but she's not your
sort, Peter. When you take that tunic off, you've got to put on a black
coat. Whatever conclusions you come to, don't forget that."

"Have I?" said Peter; "I wonder."

Langton got up. "Of course you have," he said. "Life's a bit of a farce,
but one's got to play it. See here, I believe in facing facts and getting
one's eyes open, but not in making oneself a fool. Nothing's worth that."

"Isn't it?" said Peter; and again, "I wonder."

"Well, I don't, and at any rate I'm for bed. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Peter; "I'm off too. But I don't agree with you. I'm
inclined to think exactly the opposite--that anything worth having is
worth making oneself a fool over. What is a fool, anyway? Good-night."

He closed the door, and Langton walked over to the window to open it. He
stood there a few minutes listening to the silence. Then a cock crew
somewhere, and was answered far away by another. "Yes," said Langton to
himself, "what is a fool, anyway?"

CHAPTER II

The Lessing family sat at dinner, and it was to be observed that some of
those incredible wonders at which Peter Graham had once hinted to Hilda
had come about. There were only three courses, and Mr. Lessing had but
one glass of wine, for one thing; for another he was actually in uniform,
and was far more proud of his corporal's stripes than he had previously
been of his churchwarden's staff of office. Nor was he only in the
Volunteers; he was actually in training to some extent, and the war had
at any rate done him good. His wife was not dressed for dinner either;
she had just come in from a war committee of some sort. A solitary maid
waited on them, and they had already given up fires in the dining-room.
Not that Mr. Lessing's income had appreciably diminished, but, quite
honestly, he and his were out to win the war. He had come to the
conclusion at last that business could not go on as usual, but, routed
out of that stronghold, he had made for himself another. The war was
now to him a business. He viewed it in that light.

"We must stop them," he was saying. "Mark my words, they'll never get to
Amiens. Did you see Haig's last order to the troops? Not another inch was
to be given at any cost. We shan't give either. We've _got_ to win this
war; there's too much at stake for us to lose. Whoever has to foot the
bill for this business is ruined, and it's not going to be Great Britain.
They were saying in the Hall to-night that the Army is as cheerful as
possible: that's the best sign. I doubt the German Army is. Doesn't
Graham say anything about it, Hilda?"

"No, father," said Hilda shortly, and bent over her plate.

"'Xtraordinary thing. He's a smart chap, and I should have thought he'd
have been full of it. Perhaps he's too far back."

"He was in a big town he doesn't name the other day, in an air-raid, and
a man was killed in his carriage."

"Good Lord! you don't say so? When did you hear that? I thought we had
command of the air."

"I got a letter to-night, father. He just mentioned that, but he doesn't
say much else about it. He's at Abbeville now, on the Somme, and he says
the Germans come over fairly often by night."

"Impossible!" snorted the old man, "I have it on the best possible
authority that our air service is completely up to date now, and far
better than the German. He must be exaggerating. They would never allow
the enemy to out-distance us in so important a department. What else does
he say?"

"Oh, nothing;" said Hilda, "or at least nothing about the war in a way.
It's full of--of his work." She stopped abruptly.

"Well, well," said Mr. Lessing, "I was against his going at first; but
it's all shoulders to the wheel now, and it was plain he ought to see a
little life out there. A young man who doesn't won't have much of a look
in afterwards--that's how _I_ reasoned it. And he works hard, does
Graham; I've always said that for him, I expect he's of great service to
them. Eh, Hilda?"

"I don't know," said the girl; "he doesn't say. But he's been chosen for
some special work, lecturing or something, and that's why he's at
Abbeville."

"Ah! Good! Special work, eh? He'll go far yet, that fellow. I don't know
that I'd have chosen him for you, Hilda, at first, but this business has
shaken us all up, and I shouldn't be surprised if Graham comes to the
front over it." He stopped as the maid came in, "I think I'll have my
coffee in the study, my dear," he said to Mrs. Lessing; "I have some
reading to do."

When the two women were once more alone Mrs. Lessing put her cup down,
and spoke. "What is it, dear?" she questioned.

Hilda did not look at her. The two, indeed, understood each other very
well. "I can't tell you here, mother," she said.

"Come, then, dear," said Mrs. Lessing, rising. "Let's go to my room. Your
father will be busy for some time, and we shall not be disturbed there."

She led the way, and lit a small gas fire. "I can't be cold in my
bedroom," she said; "and though I hate these things, they are better
than nothing. Now, dear, what is it?"

Hilda seated herself on a footstool on the other side of the fire, and
stared into it. The light shone on her fair skin and hair, and Mrs.
Lessing contemplated her with satisfaction from several points of view.
For one thing, Hilda was so sensible....

"What is it?" she asked again. "Your father saw nothing--men don't; but
you can't hide from me, dear, that your letter has troubled you. Is Peter
in trouble?"

Hilda shook her head. Then she said: "Well, at least, mother, not that
sort of trouble. I told father truly; he's been picked for special
service."

"Well, then, what is it?" Mrs. Lessing was a trifle impatient.

"Mother," said Hilda, "I've known that he has not been happy ever since
his arrival in France, but I've never properly understood why. Peter is
queer in some ways, you know. You remember that sermon of his? He won't
be content with things; he's always worrying. And now he writes
dreadfully. He says..." She hesitated. Then, suddenly, she pulled out the
letter. "Listen, mother," she said, and read what Peter had written in
the club until the end. "'I am going to eat and drink with publicans and
sinners; maybe I shall find my Master still there.'"

If Langton could have seen Mrs. Lessing he would have smiled that cynical
smile of his with much satisfaction. She was frankly horrified--rendered,
in fact, almost speechless.

"Hilda!" she exclaimed. "What a thing to write to you! But what does he
mean? Has he forgotten that he is a clergyman? Why, it's positively
blasphemous! He is speaking of Christ, I suppose. My poor girl, he must
be mad. Surely you see that, dear."

Hilda stared on into the fire, and made no reply. Her mother hardly
needed one, "Has he met another woman, Hilda?" she demanded.

"I don't know; he doesn't say so," said Hilda miserably. "But anyhow, I
don't see that that matters."

"Not matter, girl! Are you mad too? He is your fiance, isn't he? Really,
I think I must speak to your father."

Hilda turned her head slowly, and mother and daughter looked at each
other. Mrs. Lessing was a woman of the world, but she was a good mother,
and she read in her daughter's eyes what every mother has to read sooner
or later. It was as one woman to another, and not as mother to daughter,
that she continued lamely: "Well, Hilda, what do you make of it all? What
are you going to do?"

The girl looked away again, and a silence fell between them. Then she
said, speaking in short, slow sentences:

"I will tell you what I make of it, mother. Peter's gone beyond me, I
think, now, that I have always feared a little that he might. Of course,
he's impetuous and headstrong, but it is more than that. He feels
differently from me, from all of us. I can see that, though I don't
understand him a bit. I thought" (her voice faltered) "he loved me more.
He knows how I wanted him to get on in the Church, and how I would have
helped him. But that's nothing to him, or next to nothing. I think he
doesn't love me at all, mother, and never really did."

Mrs. Lessing threw her head back. "Then he's a fool, my dear," she said
emphatically. "You're worth loving; you know it. I should think no more
about him, Hilda."

Hilda's hands tightened round her knees. "I can't do that," she said.

Mrs. Lessing was impatient again. "Do you mean, Hilda, that if he
persists in this--this madness, if he gives up the Church, for example,
you will not break off the engagement? Mind you, that is the point. Every
young man must have a bit of a fling, possibly even clergymen, I suppose,
and they get over it. A sensible girl knows that. But if he ruins his
prospects--surely, Hilda, you are not going to be a fool?"

The word had been spoken again. Peter had had something to say on it, and
now the gods gave Hilda her chance. She stretched her fine hands out to
the fire, and a new note came into her voice.

"A fool, mother? Oh no, I shan't be a fool. A fool would follow him to
the end of the world. A fool of a woman would give him all he wants for
the sake of giving, and be content with nothing in return. I see that.
But I'm not made for that sort of foolery.... No, I shan't be a fool."

Mrs. Lessing could not conceal her satisfaction. "Well, I am sure I am
very glad to hear you say it, and so would your father be. We have not
brought you up carefully for nothing, Hilda. You are a woman now, and I
don't believe in trying to force a woman against her will, but I am
heartily glad, my dear, that you are so sensible. When you are as old as
I am and have a daughter of your own, you will be glad that you have
behaved so to-night."

Hilda got up, and put her hands behind her head, which was a favourite
posture of hers. She stood looking down at her mother with a curious
expression on her face. Mrs. Lessing could make nothing of it; she merely
thought Hilda "queer"; she had travelled farther than she knew from
youth.

"Shall I, mother?" said Hilda. "Yes, I expect I shall. I have been
carefully brought up, as you say, so carefully that even now I can only
just see what a fool might do, and I know quite well that I can't do it.
After a while I shall no more see it than you do. I shall even probably
forget that I ever did. So that is all. And because I love him, really,
I don't think I can even say 'poor Peter!' That's curious, isn't it,
mother?... Well, I think I'll go to my room for a little. I won't come in
again. Good-night."

She bent and kissed Mrs. Lessing. Her mother held her arms a moment more.
"Then, what are you going to do?" she demanded.

Hilda freed herself, "Write and try to persuade him not to be a fool
either, I think. Not that it's any good. And then--wait and see." She
walked to the floor, "Of course, this is just between us two, isn't it,
dear?" she said, playing with the handle.

"Of course," said her mother. "But do be sensible, dear, and don't wait
too long. It is much better not to play with these things--much better.
And do tell me how things go, darling, won't you?"

"Oh yes," said Hilda slowly, "Oh yes I'll tell you.... Good-night."

She passed out and closed the door gently "I wonder why I can't cry
to-night?" she asked herself as she went to her room, and quite honestly
she did not know.

Across the water Peter's affairs were speeding up. If Hilda could have
seen him that night she would probably have wept without difficulty, but
for a much more superficial reason than the reason why she could not weep
in London. And it came about in this way.

On the morning after the dinner Peter was moody, and declared lie would
not go down to the office, but would take a novel out to the canal. He
was in half a mind to go up and call at the hospital, but something held
him back. Reflection showed him how near he had been to the fatal kiss
the night before, and he did not wish, or, with the morning, he thought
he did not wish, to see Julie so soon again. So he got his novel and went
out to the canal, finding a place where last year's leaves still lay
thick, and one could lie at ease and read. We do these things all our
days, and never learn the lesson.

Half-way through the morning he looked up to see Langton striding along
towards him. He was walking quickly, with the air of one who brings news,
and he delivered his message as soon as they were within earshot of each
other. "Good news, Graham," he called out. "This tomfoolery is over.
They've heard from H.Q. that the whole stunt is postponed, and we've all
to go back to our bases. Isn't it like 'em?" he demanded, as he came up.
"Old Jackson in the office is swearing like blazes. He's had all his maps
made and plans drawn up, etcetera and etcetera, and now they're so much
waste-paper. Jolly fortunate, any road." He sat down and got out a pipe.

Peter shut his book. "I'm glad," he said. "I'm sick of foolin' round
here. Not but what it isn't a decent enough place, but I prefer the
other. There's more doing. When do we go?"

"To-morrow. They're getting our movement orders, yours to Havre, mine to
Rouen. I put in a spoke for you, to get one via Rouen, but I don't know
if you will. It's a vile journey otherwise."

"By Jove!" cried Peter. "I've an idea! Miss Gamelyn's troop of
motor-buses goes back to Havre to-morrow empty. Why shouldn't I travel
on them? Think I could work it?"

Langton puffed solemnly. "Sure, I should think," he said, "being a padre,
anyway."

"What had I best do?"

"Oh, I should go and see Jackson and get him to 'phone the hospital for
you--that is, if you really want to go that way."

"It's far better than that vile train," said Peter. "Besides, one can see
the country, which I love. And I've never been in Dieppe, and they're to
go through there and pick up some casualties."

"Just so," said Langton, still smoking.

"Well," said Peter, "reckon I'll go and see about it. Jackson's a decent
old stick, but I'd best do it before he tackles the R.T.O. Coming?"

"No," said Langton. "Leave that novel, and come back for me. You won't be
long."

"Right-o," said Peter, and set off.

It was easily done. Jackson had no objections, and rang up the hospital
while Peter waited. Oh yes, certainly they could do it. What was the
name? Captain. Graham, C.F. certainly. He must be at the hospital
early--eight-thirty the next morning. That all right? Thank you.

"Thank you," said Peter. "Motoring's a long sight better than the train
these days, and I'll get in quicker, too, as a matter of fact, or at any
rate just as quickly." He turned to go, but a thought struck him. "Have
you an orderly to spare?" he asked.

"Any quantity," said the other bitterly. "They've been detailed for
weeks, and done nothing. You can have one with pleasure. It'll give the
perisher something to do."

"Thanks," said Peter; "I want to send a note, that's all. May I write it
here?"

He was given pen and paper, and scribbled a little note to Julie. He did
not know who else might be on the lorry, or if she would want to appear
to know him. The orderly was called and despatched and he left the place
for the last time.

Langton and he walked out to St. Riquier in the afternoon, had tea there,
and got back to dinner. A note was waiting for Peter, a characteristic
one.

"DEAREST SOLOMON (it ran),

"You are really waking up! There will be three of us nurses in one lorry,
and they're sure to start you off in another. We lunch at Eu, and I'll be
delighted to see you. Then you can go on in our car. Dieppe's on the
knees of the gods, as you say, but probably we can pull off something.

"JULIE."

He smiled and put it in his pocket. Langton said nothing till the coffee
and liqueurs came in. Then he lit a cigarette and held the match out to
Peter. "Wonder if we shall meet again?" he said.

"Oh, I expect so," said Peter. "Write, anyway, won't you? I'll likely get
a chance to come to Rouen."

"And I likely won't be there. I'm putting in again for another job.
They're short of men now, and want equipment officers for the R.A.F. It's
a stunt for which engineering's useful, and I may get in. I don't suppose
I'll see much of the fun, but it's better than bossing up a labour
company, any road."

"Sportsman," said Peter. "I envy you. Why didn't you tell me? I've half a
mind to put in too. Do you think I'd have a chance?"

"No," said Langton brutally. "Besides, it's not your line. You know what
yours is; stick to it."

"And you know that I'm not so sure that I can," said Peter.

"Rot!" said the other. "You can if you like. You won't gain by running
away. Only I give you this bit of advice, old son: go slow. You're so
damned hot-headed! You can't remake the world to order in five minutes;
and if you could, I bet it wouldn't be a much better old world. We've
worried along for some time moderately well. Don't be too ready to turn
down the things that have worked with some success, at any rate, for the
things that have never been tried."

Peter smoked in silence. Then he said: "Langton you're a bit different
from what you were. In a way, it's you who have set me out on this
racket, and it's you who encouraged me to try and get down to
rock-bottom. You've always been a cautious old rotter, but you're more
than cautious now. Why?"

Langton leaned over and touched the other's tunic pocket in which lay
Julie's note. Then he leaned back and went on with his cigarette.

Peter flushed. "It's too late," he said judicially, flicking off his ash.

"So? Well, I'm sorry, frankly--sorry for her and sorry for you. But if it
is, I'll remember my own wisdom: it's no use meddling with such things.
For all that, you're a fool, Peter, as I told you last night."

"Just so. And I asked what was a fool."

"And I didn't answer. I reckon fools can be of many sorts. Your sort of
fool chucks the world over for the quest of an ideal."

"Thank you," said Peter quietly.

"You needn't. That fool is a real fool, and bigger than most. Ideals are
ideals, and one can't realise them. It's waste of time to try."

"Is it?" said Peter. "Well, at any rate, I don't know that I'm out after
them much. I don't see any. All I know is that I've looked in the likely
places, and now I'll look in the unlikely."

Langton ground his cigarette-end in his coffee-cup. "You will," he said,
"whatever I say.... Have another drink? After all, there's no need to
'turn down the empty glass' yet."

They did not see each other in the morning, and Peter made his way early
to the hospital as arranged. The P.M.O. met him, and he was put in
nominal charge of the three Red-Cross ambulance-cars. While he was
talking to the doctor the three nurses came out and got in, Julie not
looking in his direction; then he climbed up next the driver of the
first car. "Cheerio," said the P.M.O., and they were off.

It was a dull day, and mists hung over the water-meadows by the Somme.
For all that Peter enjoyed himself immensely. They ran swiftly through
the little villages, under the sweeping trees all new-budded into green,
and soon had vistas of the distant sea. The driver of Peter's car was an
observant fellow, and he knew something of gardening. It was he who
pointed out that the fruit-trees had been indifferently pruned or not
pruned at all, and that there were fields no longer under the plough that
had been plainly so not long before. In a word, the country bore its war
scars, although it needed a clever eye to see them.

But Peter had little thought for this. Now and again, at a corner, he
would glance back, his mind on Julie in the following car, while every
church tower gave him pause for thought. He tried to draw the man beside
him on religion, but without any success, though he talked freely enough
of other things. He was for the Colonies after the war, he said. He'd
knocked about a good deal in France, and the taste for travel had come to
him. Canada appeared a land of promise; one could get a farm easily, and
his motor knowledge would be useful on a farm these days. Yes, he had a
pal out there, a Canadian who had done his bit and been invalided out of
it. They corresponded, and he expected to get in with him, the one's
local knowledge eking out the other's technical. No, he wasn't for
marrying yet awhile; he'd wait till he'd got a place for the wife and
kiddies. Then he would. The thought made him expand a bit, and Peter
smiled to himself as he thought of his conversation with Langton over the
family group. It struck him to test the man, and as they passed a wayside
Calvary, rudely painted, he drew his attention to it. "What do you think
of that?" he asked.

The man glanced at it, and then away. "It's all right for them as like
it," he said. "Religion's best in a church, it seems to me. I've seen
chaps mock at them crucifixes, sir, same as they wouldn't if they'd only
been in church."

"Yes," said Peter; "but I suppose some men have been helped by them who
never would have been if they had only been in church. But don't you
think they're rather gaudy?"

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