Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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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 than we know, and you rose to
it very well. Last night I 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 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'll 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.

There was silence for a little, and it was Peter who broke it.

"Just before breakfast," he said, "you 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 sidewalk. He put his hand out,
and drew her gently to a seat. Then, leaning forward and poking at the
ground with his stick, he began. "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 of
it now 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 supreme 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 somebody 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 understand your point of view, but you must
think of others--even 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 know 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 suffering
from them, but then one can never tell from appearances. At any rate he
chose his words with care, and Graham, opposite but sitting rather
upright, could not but sense his meaning.

"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 carried into war,
what is the best policy? Some fools will lose their heads, of course, and
chuck everything to run into it. But I've no use for fools, Graham."

"No, sir," said Peter.

"No use for fools," repeated Mr. Lessing. "I shall carry 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 over 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, well,
and I suppose I oughtn't to keep you. I'll come with you to the door, my
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 some 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 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 throwing 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 expressed 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
Aldershot. 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 curiously at the
bookcase, the Oxford group or two, the hockey cap that hung on the edge
of one. He turned to the mantelpiece and glanced over the photos.
Probably Bob Scarlett would be out at once; he was in some Irish
regiment or other. Old Howson was in India; he wouldn't hear or see much.
Jimmy--what would Jimmy do, now? He picked up the photograph and looked
at it--the clean-shaven, thoughtful, good-looking face of the best fellow
in the world, who had got his fellowship almost at once after his
brilliant degree, and was just now, he reflected, on holiday in the
South of France. Jimmy, the idealist, what would Jimmy do? He reached
for a hat and made for the door. He would post his letter that night
under the stars.

Once outside, he walked on farther down Westminster way. At the Bridge
he leaned for a while and watched the sullen, tireless river, and then
turned to walk up past the House. It was a clear, still night, and the
street was fairly empty. Big Ben boomed eleven, and as he crossed in
front of the gates to reach St. Margaret's he wondered what was doing in
there. He had the vaguest notion where people like the Prime Minister and
Sir Edward Grey would be that night. He thought possibly with the King,
or in Downing Street. And then he heard his name being called, and turned
to see Sir Robert Doyle coming towards him.

The other's face arrested him. "Is there any news, Sir Robert?" he asked.

Sir Robert glanced up in his turn at the great shining dial above them.
"Our ultimatum has gone or is just going to Germany, and in twenty-four
hours we shall be at war," he said tersely. "I'm just going home; I've
been promised a job."

CHAPTER II

At 7.10 on a foggy February morning Victoria Station looked a place of
mystery within which a mighty work was going forward. Electric lights
still shone in the gloom, and whereas innumerable units of life ran this
way and that like ants disturbed, an equal number stood about apparently
indifferent and unperturbed. Tommies who had found a place against a wall
or seat deposited rifle and pack close by, lit a pipe, and let the world
go by, content that when the officers' leave train had gone someone, or
some Providence, would round them up as well. But, for the rest, porters,
male and female, rushed up with baggage; trunks were pushed through the
crowd with the usual objurgations; subalterns, mostly loud and merry,
greeted each other or the officials, or, more subdued, moved purposefully
through the crowd with their women-folk, intent on finding a quieter
place farther up the platforms.

There was no mistaking the leave platform or the time of the train, for a
great notice drew one's attention to it. Once there, the Army took a man
in hand. Peter was entirely new to the process, but he speedily
discovered that his fear of not knowing what to do or where to go, which
had induced him (among other reasons) to say good-bye at home and come
alone to the station, was unfounded. Red-caps passed him on respectfully
but purposefully to officials, who looked at this paper and that, and
finally sent him up to an officer who sat at a little table with papers
before him to write down the name, rank, unit, and destination of each
individual destined that very morning to leave for the Army in France.

Peter at last, then, was free to walk up the platform, and seek the rest
of his luggage that had come on from the hotel with the porter. He was
free, that is, if one disregarded the kit hung about his person, or
which, despite King's Regulations, he carried in his hands. But free or
not, he could not find his luggage. At 7.30 it struck him that at least
he had better find his seat. He therefore entered a corridor and began
pilgrimage. It was seemingly hopeless. The seats were filled with coats
or sticks or papers; every type of officer was engaged in bestowing
himself and his goods; and the general atmosphere struck him as being
precisely that which one experiences as a fresher when one first enters
hall for dinner at the 'Varsity. The comparison was very close.
First-year men--that is to say, junior officers returning from their
first leave--were the most encumbered, self-possessed, and asserting;
those of the second year, so to say, usually got a corner-seat and looked
out of window; while here and there a senior officer, or a subaltern with
a senior's face, selected a place, arranged his few possessions, and got
out a paper, not in the Oxford manner, as if he owned the place, but in
the Cambridge, as if he didn't care a damn who did.

Peter made a horrible hash of it. He tried to find a seat with all his
goods in his hands, not realising that they might have been deposited
anywhere in the train, and found when it had started, since, owing to a
particular dispensation of the high gods, everything that passed the
barrier for France got there. He made a dive for one place and sat in it,
never noting a thin stick in the corner, and he cleared out with enormous
apologies when a perfectly groomed Major with an exceedingly pleasant
manner mentioned that it was his seat, and carefully put the stick
elsewhere as soon as Peter had gone. Finally, at the end of a carriage,
he descried a small door half open, and inside what looked like an empty
seat. He pulled it open, and discovered a small, select compartment with
a centre table and three men about it, all making themselves very
comfortable.

"I beg your pardon," said Peter, "but is there a place vacant for one?"

The three eyed him stonily, and he knew instinctively that he was again a
fresher calling on the second year. One, a Captain, raised his head to
look at him better. He was a man of light hair and blue, alert eyes,
wearing a cap that, while not looking dissipated, somehow conveyed the
impression that its owner knew all about things--a cap, too, that carried
the Springbok device. The lean face, with its humorous mouth, regarded
Peter and took him all in: his vast expanse of collar, the wide black
edging to his shoulder-straps, his brand-new badges, his black buttons
and stars. Then he lied remorselessly:

"Sorry, padre; we're full up."

Peter backed out and forgot to close the door, for at that moment a
shrill whistle was excruciatingly blown. He found himself in the very cab
of the Pullman with the glass door before him, through which could be
seen a sudden bustle. Subalterns hastened forward from the more or less
secluded spots that they had found, with a vision of skirts and hats
behind them; an inspector passed aggressively along; and--thanks to those
high gods--Peter observed the hurrying hotel porter at that moment. In
sixty seconds the door had been jerked open; a gladstone, a suit-case,
and a kit-bag shot at him; largesse had changed hands; the door had shut
again; the train had groaned and started; and Peter was off to France.

It was with mixed feelings that he groped for his luggage. He was
conscious of wanting a seat and a breakfast; he was also conscious of
wanting to look at the station he was leaving, which he dimly felt he
might never see again; and he was, above all, conscious that he looked a
fool and would like not to. In such a turmoil he lugged at the gladstone
and got it into a corner, and then turned to the window in the cleared
space with a determination. In turning he caught the Captain's face stuck
round the little door. It was withdrawn at once, but came out again, and
he heard for the second time the unfamiliar title:

"Say, padre; come in here. There's room after all."

Peter felt cheered. He staggered to the door, and found the others busy
making room. A subaltern of the A.S.C. gripped his small attache case and
swung it up on to the rack. The South African pulled a British warm off
the vacant seat and reached out for the suit-case. And the third man, with
the rank of a Major and the badge of a bursting bomb, struck a match and
paused as he lit a cigarette to jerk out:

"Damned full train! We ought to have missed it, Donovan."

"It's a good stunt that, if too many blighters don't try it on," observed
the subaltern, reaching for Peter's warm. "But they did my last leave,
and I got the devil of a choking off from the brass-hat in charge. It's
the Staff train, and they only take Prime Ministers, journalists, and
trade-union officials in addition. How's that, padre?"

"Thanks," said Peter, subsiding. "It's jolly good of you to take me in. I
thought I'd got to stand from here to Folkestone."

H.P. Jenks, Second-Lieutenant A.S.C., regarded him seriously. "It
couldn't be done, padre," he said, "not at this hour of the morning. I
left Ealing about midnight more or less, got sandwiched in the Metro with
a Brigadier-General and his blooming wife and daughters, and had to wait
God knows how long for the R.T.O. If I couldn't get a seat and a break
after that, I'd be a casualty, sure thing."

"It's your own fault for going home last night," observed the Major
judiciously. (Peter noticed that he was little older than Jenks on
inspection.) "Gad, Donovan, you should have been with us at the Adelphi!
It was some do, I can tell you. And afterwards..."

"Shut up, Major!" cut in Jenks. "Remember the padre."

"Oh, he's broad-minded I know, aren't you, padre? By the way, did you
ever meet old Drennan who was up near Poperinghe with the Canadians? He
was a sport, I can tell you. Mind you, a real good chap at his job, but a
white man. Pluck! By jove! I don't think that chap had nerves. I saw him
one day when they were dropping heavy stuff on the station, and he was
getting some casualties out of a Red Cross train. A shell burst just down
the embankment, and his two orderlies ducked for it under the carriage,
but old Drennan never turned a hair. 'Better have a fag,' he said to the
Scottie he was helping. 'It's no use letting Fritz put one off one's
smoke.'"

Peter said he had not met him, but could not think of anything else to
say at the moment, except that he was just going out for the first time.

"You don't say?" said Donovan dryly.

"Wish I was!" ejaculated Jenks.

"Good chap," replied the Major. "Pity more of your sort don't come over.
When I was up at Loos, September last year, we didn't see a padre in
three months. Then they put on a little chap--forget his name--who used
to bike over when we were in rest billets. But he wasn't much use."

"I was in hospital seven weeks and never saw one," said Jenks.

"Good heavens!" said Graham. "But I've been trying to get out for
all these years, and I was always told that every billet was taken
and that there were hundreds on the waiting list. Last December the
Chaplain-General himself showed me a list of over two hundred names."

"Don't know where they get to, then, do you, Bevan?" asked Jenks.

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