Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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Peter had; there were few people who hadn't, seeing that the same
officers lived in most of the coast towns in England that year; but it is
a pity to damp enthusiasm. He said he had heard a little.

"Walked in and out cool as you please. When they were drowned and picked
up at sea, they had bills and theatre tickets in their pockets, and a
letter acknowledging the booking of rooms for the next week! Fact. Had it
from the fellow who got 'em. And I ask you, what is there to prevent
it? You come here: 'Will you write your name and regiment, please.' You
write the damned thing--any old thing, in fact--and what happens?
Nothing. They don't refer to them. In France the lists go to a central
bureau every day, but here--Lord bless you, the Kaiser himself might put
up anywhere if he shaved his moustache!"

Peter heard him, well content. He offered a cigarette, feeling warmly
disposed towards the world at large. The naval officer took it. "Thanks,"
he said. "You in town for long?"

"No," said Peter--"a week end. I've only just happened. What's worth
seeing?"

"First and last all the way, _Carminetta_. It's a dream. Wonderful. By
Gad, I don't know how that girl does it! Then I'd try _Zigzag_--oh! and
go to _You Never Know, You Know_, at the Cri. Absolutely toppin'. A
perfect scream all through. The thing at Daly's' good too; but all the
shows are good, though, I reckon. Lumme, you wouldn't think the war was
on, 'cept they all touch it a bit! _The Better 'Ole_ I like, but you
mightn't, knowing the real thing. But don't miss _Carminetta_ if you have
to stand all day for a seat in the gods. Well, I must be going. Damned
rough luck, but no help for it. Let's have a last spot, eh?"

Peter agreed, and the drinks were ordered. "Chin-chin," said his
acquaintance. "And here's to old London town, and the Good Lord let me
see it again. It's less than even chances," he added reflectively.

"Here's luck," said Peter; then, for he couldn't help it: "It's you
chaps, by God, that are winning this war!"

"Oh, I don't know," said the other, rising. "We get more leave than you
fellows, and I'd sooner be on my tramp than in the trenches. The sea's
good and clean to die in, anyway. Cheerio."

Peter followed him out in a few minutes, and set about his shopping. He
found a florist's in Regent Street and bought lavishly. The girl smiled
at him, and suggested this and that. "Having a dinner somewhere
to-night?" she queried. "But I have no violets."

"Got my girl comin' up," said Peter expansively; "that's why there must
be violets. See if you can get me some and send them over, will you?" he
asked, naming his hotel. She promised to do her best, and he departed.

He went into a chocolate shop. "Got some really decent chocolates?" he
demanded.

The girl smiled and dived under the counter. "These are the best," she
said, holding out a shovelful for Peter to taste. He tried one. "They'll
do," he said. "Give me a couple of pounds, in a pretty box if you've got
one."

"Two pounds!" she exclaimed. "What are you thinking of? We can only sell
a quarter."

"Only a quarter!" said Peter. "That's no good. Come on, make up the two
pounds."

"If my boss comes in or finds out I'll be fired," said the girl; "can't
be done."

"Well, that doesn't matter," said Peter innocently, "You'll easily get a
job--something better and easier, I expect."

"It's easy enough, perhaps," said the girl, "but you never can tell.
_And_ it's dangerous, _and_ uncertain."

Peter stared at her. When he bought chocolates as a parson, he never had
talks like this. He wondered if London had changed since he knew it. Then
he played up: "You're pretty enough to knock that last out, anyway?" he
said.

"Am I?" she demanded. "Do you mean you'd like to keep me?"

"I've got one week-end left of leave," said Peter. "What about the
chocolates?"

"Poor boy!" she said. "Well, I'll risk it." And she made up the two
pounds.

He wandered into a tobacconist's, and bought cigarettes which Julie's
soul loved, and then he made for a theatre booking-office.

Outside and his business done, he looked at his watch, and found he had a
bit of time to spare. He walked down Shaftesbury Avenue, and thought he
would get himself spruced up at a hairdresser's. He saw a little place
with a foreigner at the door, and he went in. It was a tiny room with
three seats all empty. The man seated him in one and began.

Peter discovered that his hair needed this and that, and being in a good
temper and an idle mood acquiesced. Presently a girl came in. Peter smelt
her enter, and then saw her in the glass. She was short and dark and
foreign, too, and she wore a blouse that appeared to have remarkably
little beneath it, and to be about to slip off her shoulders. She came
forward and stood between him and the glass, smiling. "Wouldn't you like
your nails manicured?" she demanded.

"Oh, I don't know," said Peter; "I had not meant to ..." and was lost.

"Second thoughts are best," she said; "but let me look at your hands.
Oh, I should think you did need it! Whatever will your girl say to you
to-night if you have hands like this?"

Peter, humiliated, looked at his hands. They did not appear to him to
differ much from the hands Julie and others had seen without visible
consternation before, but he had no time to say so. The young lady was
now seated by his side with a basin of hot water, and was dabbling his
hand in it. "Nice? Not too hot?" she inquired brightly.

Peter watched her as she bent over her work and kept up a running fire of
talk. He gathered that many officers habitually were manicured by her,
many of them in their own rooms. It was lucky for him that she was not
out. Possibly he would like to make an appointment; she could come early
or late. No? Then she thought his own manicure-set must be a poor one,
judging from these hands, and perhaps she could sell him another. No?
Well, a little cream. Not to-day? He would look in to-morrow? He
hadn't a chance? She would tell him what: where was he staying? (Peter,
for the fun of it, told her he had a private suite in the hotel.) Well,
that was splendid. She would call in with a new set at any time, before
breakfast, after the theatre, as he pleased; bring the cream and do his
hands once with it to show him how. How would that suit him?

Peter was not required to say, for at that minute the shop-bell rang and
a priest came in, a little old man, tired-looking, in a black cassock. He
was apparently known, though he seemed to take no notice of anyone. The
man was all civility, but put on an expression meant to indicate
amusement, to Peter, behind the clerical back. The girl put one of
Peter's fingers on her own lips by way of directing caution, and
continued more or less in silence. The room became all but silent save
for the sound of scissors and the noise of the traffic outside, and Peter
reflected again on many things. When he had had his hair cut previously,
for instance, had people made faces behind his back? Had young ladies
ceased from tempting offers that seemed to include more than manicuring?

He got up to pay. "Well," she demanded, _sotto voce_, "what of the
arrangement? She could do him easily at any..."

He cut her short. No; it was really impossible. His wife was coming up
that afternoon. It was plain that she now regarded it as impossible also.
He paid an enormous sum wonderingly, and departed.

Outside it struck him that he had forgotten one thing. He walked briskly
to the hotel, and went up to his rooms. In the sitting-room was the big
bunch of flowers and a maid unwrapping it. She turned and smiled at him.
"These have just come for you, sir," she said. "Shall I arrange them for
you?"

"No, thank you," said Peter. "I'd rather do them myself. I love arranging
flowers, and I know just what my wife likes. I expect you'd do them
better, but I'll have a shot, if you don't mind. Would you fill the
glasses and get me a few more? We haven't enough here."

"Certainly, sir. There was a gentleman here once who did flowers
beautifully, he did. But most likes us to do it for them."

She departed for the glasses. Peter saw that the florist had secured his
violets, and took them first and filled a bowl. Then he walked into the
bedroom and contemplated for a minute. Then he put the violets critically
on the little table by the bed nearest the window, and stood back to see
the result. Finding it good, he departed. When next he came in, it was to
place a great bunch of roses on the mantelshelf, and a few sprays of the
soft yellow and green mimosa on the dressing-table. For the sitting-room
he had carnations and delphiniums, and he placed a high towering cluster
of the latter on the writing-table, and a vase of the former on the
mantelpiece. A few roses, left over, went on the small table that carried
the reading-lamp, and he and the chambermaid surveyed the results.

"Lovely, I do think," she said; "any lady would love them. I likes
flowers myself, I do. I come from the country, sir, where there's a many,
and the wild flowers that Jack and I liked best of all. Specially
primroses, sir." There was a sound in her voice as she turned away, and
Peter heard it.

"Jack?" he queried softly.

"'E's been missing since last July, sir," she said, stopping by the door.

"Has he?" said Peter. "Well, you must not give up hope, you know; he may
be a prisoner."

She shook her head. "He's dead," she said, with an air of finality. "I
oughtn't to have spoke a word, but them flowers reminded me. I'm glad as
how I have to do these rooms, sir. Most of them don't bother with
flowers. Is there anything else you might be wanting, sir?"

"Light fires in both the grates, please," he said. "I'm so sorry about
Jack," he added.

She gave him a look, and passed out.

Peter wandered about touching this and that. Suddenly he remembered the
magazines. He ran out and caught a lift about to descend, and was once
more in the street. Near Leicester Square was a big foreign shop, and he
entered it, and gathered of all kinds. As he went to pay, he saw _La Vie
Parisienne_, and added that also to the bundle; Julie used to say she
loved it. Back in the hotel, he sent them to his room, and glanced at his
watch. He had time for tea. He went out into the lounge and ordered it,
sitting back under the palms. It came, and he was in the act of pouring
out a cup when he saw Donovan.

Donovan was with a girl, but so were most men; Peter could not be sure
of her. It was only a glimpse he had, for the two had finished and were
passing out. Donovan stood back to let her first through the great
swing-doors, and then, pulling on his gloves, followed. They both
disappeared.

Peter sat on, in a tumult. He had been too busy all day to reflect much,
but now just what he was about to do began to overwhelm him. If Donovan
met him with Julie? Well, they could pretend they had just met, they
could even part, and meet again. Could they? Would Donovan be deceived
for a minute? It seemed to him impossible. And he might be staying there.
Suppose he met someone else. Langton? Sir Robert Doyle? His late Vicar?
Hilda? Mr. Lessing? And Julie would have acquaintances too. He shook
himself mentally, and lit a cigarette. Well, suppose they did; he was
finished with them. Finished? Then, what lay ahead--what, after this, if
he were discovered? And if he were not discovered? God knew....

His mind took a new train of thought: he was now just such a one as
Donovan. Or as Pennell. As Langton? He wasn't sure; no, he thought not;
Langton kept straight because he had a wife and kids. He had a centre.
Donovan and Pennell had not, apparently. Well, he, Peter Graham, would
have a centre; he would marry Julie. It would be heavenly. They had not
spoken of it, of course, that night of the dinner, but surely Julie
would. There could be no doubt after the week-end.... "I shan't marry or
be given in marriage," she had said. It was like her to speak so, but
of course she didn't mean it. No, he would marry; and then?

He blew out smoke. The Colonies, South Africa; he would get a job
schoolmastering? He hated the idea; it didn't interest him. A farm? He
knew nothing about it--besides, one wanted capital. What would he do?
What did he want to do? _Want_--that was it; how did he want to spend his
life? Well, he wanted Julie; everything else would fit round her,
everything else would be secondary beside her. Of course. And as he got
old it would still be the same, though he could not imagine either of
them old. But still, when they did get old, his work would seem more
important, and what was it to be? Probably it would have to be
schoolmastering. Teaching Latin to little boys--History, Geography,
Mathematics. He smiled ruefully; even factors worried him. They would
hardly want Latin and Greek much in the Colonies, either. Perhaps at
home; but would Julie stop at home? What _would_ Julie do? He must
ask her, sometime before Monday. Not that night--no, not _that_ night....

He ground his cigarette into his cup, and pushed his hands into his
pockets, his feet out before him. That night! He saw the sitting-room
upstairs; they would go there first. Then he would suggest a dinner to
her, in Soho; he knew a place that Pennell had told him of, Bohemian, but
one could take anyone--at least, take Julie. It would be jolly watching
the people, and watching Julie. He saw her, mentally, opposite him, and
her eyes sparkling and alluring. And afterwards, warmed and fed--why,
back to the hotel, to the sitting-room, by the fire. They would have a
little supper, and then....

He pictured the bedroom. He would let Julie go first. He remembered
reading in a novel how some newly married wife said to the fellow:
"You'll come up in half an hour or so, won't you, dear?" He could all but
see the words in print. And so, in half an hour or so, he would go in,
and Julie would be in bed, by the violets, and he--he would know what men
talked about, sometimes, in the anteroom.... He recalled a red-faced,
coarse Colonel: "No man's a man till he's been all the way, I say...."

And he was a chaplain, a priest. Was he? The past months spun before him,
his sermons, his talks to the wounded at the hospital, the things he had
seen, the stories he had heard. He sighed. It was all a dream, a sham.
There was no reality in it all. Where and what was Christ? An ideal, yes,
but no more than an ideal, and unrealisable--a vision of the beautiful.
He thought he had seen that once, but not now. The beautiful! Ah! What
place had His Beauty in Travalini's, in the shattered railway-carriage,
in the dinner at the Grand in Havre with Julie?

Julie. He dwelt on her, eyes, hair, face, skin, and lithe figure. He felt
her kisses again on his lips, those last burning kisses of New Year's
Night, and they were all to be his, as never before.... Julie. What,
then, was she? She was his bride, his wife, coming to him consecrate--not
by any State convention, not by any ceremony of man-made religion, but by
the pure passion of human love, virginal, clean. It was human passion,
perhaps, but where was higher love or greater sacrifice? Was this not
worthy of all his careful preparation, worthy of the one centre of his
being? Donovan, indeed! He wished he had stopped and told him the whole
story, and that he expected Julie that night.

He jumped up, and walked out in the steps of Donovan, but with never
another thought of him. A boy in uniform questioned him: "Taxi, sir?" He
nodded, and the commissionaire pushed back the great swing-door. He stood
on the steps, and watched the passers-by, and the lights all shaded as
they were, that began to usher in a night of mystery. His taxi rolled up,
and the man held the door open. "Victoria!" cried Peter, and to himself,
as he sank back on the seat, "Julie!"

CHAPTER VII

"Julie!" exclaimed Peter, "I should hardly have known you; you do look
topping!"

"Glad rags make all that difference, old boy? Well, I am glad you did
know me, anyhow. How are you? Had long to wait?"

"Only ten minutes or so, and I'm very fit, and just dying for you,
Julie."

She smiled up at him and blushed a little. "Are you, Peter? It's much the
same here, my dear. But don't you think we had better get a move on, and
not stop here talking all night?"

Peter laughed excitedly. "Rather," he said. "But I'm so excited at seeing
you that I hardly know if I'm on my head or my heels. What about your
luggage? What have you? Have you any idea where it is? There's a taxi
waiting."

"I haven't much: a big suit-case, most important because it holds an
evening dress--it's marked with my initials; a small leather trunk,
borrowed, with a big star on it; and my dressing-case, which is here. And
I _think_ they're behind, but I wouldn't swear, because we've seemed to
turn round three times in the course of the journey, but it may have
been four!"

Peter chuckled. She was just the old Julie, but yet with a touch of
something more shining in her eyes, and underlying even the simplest
words.

"Well, you stand aside just a moment and I'll go and see," he said, and
he hurried off in the crowd.

Julie stood waiting patiently by a lamp-stand while the world bustled
about her. She wore a little hat with a gay pheasant's wing in it, a dark
green travelling dress and neat brown shoes, and brown silk stockings.
Most people looked at her as they passed, including several officers, but
there was a different look in her brown eyes from that usually there, and
they all passed on unhesitatingly.

It seemed to her a good while before Peter came up again, in his wake a
railway Amazon with the trunk on her shoulder and the suit-case in her
hand. "Sorry to keep you, dear," he said. "But there was a huge crush and
next to no porters, if these _are_ porters. It feels rotten to have a
woman carrying one's luggage, but I suppose it can't be helped. Come on.
Aren't you tired? Don't you want tea?"

"I am a little," she said "And I do a bit. Where are we going to get it?
Do they sell teas in London, Peter, or have you taken a leaf out of my
book?"

They laughed at the reminiscence. "Julie," said Peter, "this is my
outfit, and you shall see what you think of it. Give me your ticket, will
you? I want to see you through myself."

She handed him a little purse without a word, and they set off together.
She was indulging in the feeling of surrender as if it were not a victory
she had won, and he was glowing with the sense of acquisition, as if he
had really acquired something.

Julie got into the taxi while Peter settled the luggage, gave directions,
and paid the Amazon. Then he climbed in and pulled the door to, and they
slipped out of the crowded station-yard into the roar of London. Julie
put her hand in his. "Peter," she said, "do tell me where we're going.
I'm dying to know. What arrangements have you made? Is it safe?"

He leaned over her, his eyes sparkling. "A kiss, first, Julie: no one
will see and it doesn't matter a damn if they do. That's the best of
London. My dear, I can hardly believe we're both here at last, and that
I've really got you." Their lips met.

Julie flung herself back with a laugh. "Oh, Peter," she said, "I shall
never forget that first taxi. If you could have seen your own face!
Really it was too comic, but I must say you've changed since then."

"I was a fool and a beast," he said, more gravely; "I'm only just
beginning to realise how much of a fool. But don't rub it in, Julie, or
not just now. I'm starting to live at last, and I don't want to be
reminded of the past."

She pressed his hand and looked out of window. "Where are we, Peter?
Whitehall? Where are we off to?"

"I've got the snuggest little suite in all London, darling," he said,
"with a fairy palace at our beck and call. I've been revelling in it all
day--not exactly in it, you know, but in the thought of it. I've been too
busy shopping to be in much; and Julie, I hope you notice my hands: I've
had a special manicure in preparation for you. And the girl is coming
round to-morrow before breakfast to do me again--or at least she wanted
to."

"What are you talking about? Peter, what have you been doing to-day?" She
sighed a mock sigh. "Really, you're getting beyond me; it's rather
trying."

Peter launched out into the story to fill up time. He really did not want
to speak of the rooms, that they might give her the greater surprise. So
he kept going till the taxi stopped before the hotel. He jumped out gaily
as the commissionaire opened the door.

"Come on," he said, "as quick as ever you can." Then, to the man: "Have
these sent up to No. 420, will you, please?" And he took Julie's arm.

They went in at the great door, and crossed the wide entrance-hall.
Everyone glanced at Julie, Peter noted proudly, even the girls behind the
sweet-counter, and the people waiting about as always. Julie held her
head high and walked more sedately than usual. She _was_ a bit different,
thought Peter, but even nicer. He glowed at the thought.

He led her to the lift and gave his landing number. They walked down the
corridor in silence and in at their door. Peter opened the door on the
left and stood back. Julie went in. He followed and shut the door behind
them.

The maid had lit a fire, which blazed merrily. Julie took it all in--the
flowers, the pile of magazines, even the open box of cigarettes, and she
turned enthusiastically to him and flung her arms round his neck, kissing
him again and again. "Oh, Peter darling," she cried, "I can't tell you
how I love you! I could hardly sit still in the railway carriage, and the
train seemed worse than a French one. But now I have you at last, and all
to myself. Oh, Peter, my darling Peter!"

There came a knock at the door. Julie disengaged her arms from his neck,
but slipped her hand in his, and he said, "Come in."

The maid entered, carrying tea. She smiled at them. "I thought madame
might like tea at once, sir," she said, and placed the tray on the little
table.

"Thank you ever so much," said Julie impulsively; "that is good of you.
I'm longing for it. One gets so tired in the train." Then she walked to
the glass. "I'll take off my hat, Peter," she said, "and my coat, and
then well have tea comfortably. I do want it, and a cigarette. You're an
angel to have thought of my own De Reszke."

She threw herself into a big basket chair, and leaned over to the table.
"Milk and sugar for you, Peter? By the way, I ought to know these things;
not that it much matters; ours was a war marriage, and I've hardly seen
you at all!"

Peter sat opposite, and watched her pour out. She leaned back with a
piece of toast in her hands, her eyes on him, and they smiled across at
each other. Suddenly he could bear it no longer. He put his cup down and
knelt forward at her feet, his arms on her knees, devouring her. "Oh,
Julie," he said, "I want to worship you--I do indeed. I can't believe
my luck. I can't think that _you_ love _me_."

Her white teeth bit into the toast. "You old silly," she said. "But I
don't want to be worshipped; I _won't_ be worshipped; I want to be loved,
Peter."

He put his arms up, and pulled her head down to his, kissing her again
and again, stroking her arm, murmuring foolish words that meant nothing
and meant everything. It was she who stopped him. "Go and sit down," she
said, "and tell me all the plans."

"Well," he said, "I do hope you'll like them. First, I've not booked up
anything for to-night. I thought we'd go out to dinner to a place I know
and sit over it, and enjoy ourselves. It's a place in Soho, and quite
humorous, I think. Then we might walk back: London's so perfect at night,
isn't it? To-morrow I've got seats for the Coliseum matinee. You know it,
of course; it's a jolly place where one can talk if one wants to, and
smoke; and then I've seats in the evening for _Zigzag_. Saturday night
we're going to see _Carminetta_, which they say is the best show in town,
and Saturday morning we can go anywhere you please, or do anything. And
we can cut out any of them if you like," he added.

She let her arms lie along the chair, and drew a breath of delight.
"You're truly wonderful," she said. "What a blessing not having to worry
what's to be done! It's a perfect programme. I only wish we could be in
Paris for Sunday; it's so slow here."

He smiled. "You're sure you're not bored about to-night?" he asked. She
looked him full in the eyes and said nothing. He sprang up and rushed
towards her. She laughed her old gay laugh, and avoided him, jumping up
and getting round the table. "No," she warned; "no more now. Come and
show me the rest of the establishment."

Arm in arm they made the tour of inspection. In the bathroom Julie's eyes
danced. "Thank the Lord for that bath, Peter," she said. "I shall revel
in it. That's one thing I loathe about France, that one can't get decent
baths, and in the country here it's no better. I had two inches of water
in a foot-bath down in Sussex, and when you sit in the beastly thing only
about three inches of yourself get wet and those the least important
inches. I shall lie in this for hours and smoke, and you shall feed me
with chocolates and read to me. How will you like that?"

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