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Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

R >> Robert Keable >> Simon Called Peter




"Julie," he said, "you know how I love you. You do know it. You know
I'm not begging you to marry me because I've got something out of
you, perhaps when you were carried away, and now I feel I must make
reparation. My darling, it isn't that. I love you so much that I can't
live without you. I'll give up everything for you. I want to start a new
life with you. I can't go back to the old, anyhow; I don't want to: it's
a sham to me now, and I hate shams--you know I do. But you're not a sham;
our love isn't a sham. I'd die for you, Julie, my own Julie; I'd die for
the least little bit of this hair of yours, I think! But I want to live
for you. I want to put you right in the centre of everything, and live
for you, Julie. Say 'Yes,' my love, my own. You must say 'Yes,' Why don't
you, Julie?"

And still she made no reply.

A kind of despair seized him. "Oh, Julie," he cried, "what can I say or
what can I do? You're cruel, Julie; you're killing me! You _must_ say
'Yes' before I go. We'll meet in Havre, I know; but that will be so
different. I must have my answer now. Oh, my darling, please, please,
speak! You love me, Julie, don't you?"

"Peter," said Julie slowly, "I love you so much that I hardly dare speak,
lest my love should carry me away. But listen, my dear, listen. Peter,
I've watched you these days; I've watched you in France. I've watched you
from the moment when I called you over to me because I was interested
and felt my fate, I suppose. I've watched you struggling along, Peter,
and I understand why you've struggled. You're built for great things, my
dear--how great I can't see and I can't even understand. No, Peter, I
can't even understand--that's part of the tragedy of it. Peter, I love
you so that my love for you _is_ my centre, it's my all in all, it's my
hope of salvation, Peter. Do you hear, my darling?--my love, it's my one
hope! If I can't keep that pure and clean, Peter, I ruin both of us. I
love you so, Peter, that I won't marry you!"

He gave a little cry, but swiftly she put a hand over his mouth. She
smiled at him as she did so, a daring little smile. "Be quiet, you
Solomon, you," she said; "I haven't finished. There! Now listen again,
Peter: you can't help it, but you can't love me as I love you. I see it.
I--I hate it, I think; but I know it, and there's an end. You, my dear,
you _would put me_ in the centre, but you can't. I can't put _you_ out of
_my_ centre, Peter. You _would_ give up God for me, Peter, but you can't,
or if you did, you'd lose us both. But I, Peter--oh, my darling, I have
no god but you. And that's why I'll worship you, Peter, and sacrifice to
you, Peter, sacrifice to your only ultimate happiness, Peter, and
sacrifice my all."

He tried to speak, but he could not. The past days lay before him in a
clear light at last. Her love shone on them, and shone too plainly for
mistake. He tried to deny, but he couldn't; contradict, but his heart
cried the truth, and his eyes could not hide it. But he could and did
vent his passion. "Damn God! Curse Him!" he cried. "I hate Him! Why
should He master me? I want you, Julie; I will have you; I will worship
_you_, Julie!"

She let him speak; and, being Julie, his words only brought a more tender
light into her face. "Peter," she said, "one minute. Do you remember
where you first kissed me, my darling?--the first real kiss, I mean," and
her eyes sparkled with fun even then. "You know--ah, I see you do! You
will never forget that, will you? Perhaps you thought I didn't notice,
but I did. Neither you nor I chose it; it was Fate; perhaps it was your
God, Peter. But, anyway, look at me now as you looked then. What do you
see?"

He stared at her, and he saw--how clearly he saw! Her sweet back-bent
head, her shining eyes, the lamp-light falling on her hair out of the
night. He even heard the sea as it beat on the stones of the quay--or
thought he did--and felt the whip of the wind. And behind her,
dominating, arms outspread, the harbour crucifix. And she saw that he
saw, and she whispered: "_Do_ you hate Him, Peter?" And he sank his head
into her hands and sobbed great dry sobs.

"Ah, don't, don't," he heard her say--"don't Peter! It's not so bad as
that. Your life is going to be full, my beloved, with a great and burning
love; and you were right this morning, Peter, more right than you knew.
When that is there you will have place even for me--yes, even for me, the
love of what you will call your sin. And I, my dear, dear boy, I have
something even now which no devil, Peter, and no god can take away."

He looked up. "Then there's a chance, Julie. You won't say 'Yes,' but
don't say 'No.' Let us see. I shall take no vows, Julie. I haven't an
idea what I shall do, and maybe it won't be quite as you think, and there
will be a little room for you one day. Oh, say you'll wait a while,
Julie, just to see!"

It was the supreme moment. She saw no crucifix to sustain her, but she
did see the bastard Spanish dancing-girl. And she did not hesitate. "No,
Peter," she said, "I would not take that, and you never could give it. I
did not mean such place as that. It never can be, Peter; you are not
made for me."

And thus did Julie, who knew no God, but Julie of the brave, clean,
steadfast heart, give Peter to Him.

* * * * *

The maid came in answer to her ring. "Will you light a fire, please?"
said Julie. "I suppose Captain Graham has gone?"

"Yes, mam, he's gone, and he felt it terrible, I could see. But don't you
fear, mam, he'll be kept, I know he will. You're that good, he'll come
back to you, never fear. But it's 'ard on those they leave, ain't it,
mam?--their wives an' all."

"Yes," said Julie, and she never spoke more bravely. "But it's got to be,
hasn't it? Would you pull the blind up? Ah, thanks; why, it's sunny! I'm
so glad. It will be good for the crossing."

"It will be that, 'm. We gets the sun first up here. Shall I bring up the
tea, madame?"

"I'll ring," said Julie, "when I want it. It won't be for a few minutes
yet."

The girl went out, and the door shut behind her. Julie lay on still for a
little, and then she got up. She walked to the window and looked out, and
she threw her arms wide with a gesture, and shut her eyes, and let the
sun fall on her. Then she walked to her little trunk, and rummaged in it.
From somewhere far down she drew out a leather case, and with it in her
hand she went over and sat by the fire. She held it without moving for a
minute, and then she slowly opened it. One by one she drew out a few
worthless things--a withered bunch of primroses, a couple of little
scribbled notes, a paper cap from a cracker, a menu card, a handkerchief
of her own that she had lent to him, and that he (just like Peter) had
given back. She held them all in her hand a minute, and then she bent
forward and dropped them in the open fire.

And the sun rose a little higher, and fell on the tumbled brown hair that
Peter had kissed and that now hid her eyes.

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