CHAPTER I

SIMON CALLED PETER

BY ROBERT KEABLE

AUTHOR OF "THE DRIFT OF PINIONS," "STANDING BY," ETC.

1921

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO JULIE

She never lived, maybe, but it is truer to say that she never dies. Nor

shall she ever die. One may believe in God, though He is hard to find,

and in Women, though such as Julie are far to seek.

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER

The glamour of no other evil thing is stronger than the 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 does 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 such 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 modern war a nation but moves in uniform to

perform its ordinary tasks in a new intoxicating 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. Commonly men and women more or less restrain themselves because of

to-morrow; but what if there be no to-morrow? What if the dice are heavily

weighted against it? And what of their already jeoparded restraint when

the crisis has thrown the conventions 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 of war is a

thankless task. The stay-at-homes will not believe, and particularly

they whose smug respectability and conventional religion has been put

to no such fiery trial. Moreover they will do more than disbelieve; they

will say 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 brimstone 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.

Moreover, 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 to-day 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; in half a dozen

he had been whirled away. The days lingered and yet flew; the pages were

twirled ever more dazzlingly; only at the end men saw in a blinding flash

whither they had been led.

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.

R.K.

PART I

Ah! is Thy love indeed

A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,

Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

Ah! must--

Designer infinite!--

Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

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 clergyman, 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 preparing.

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 for Peter that he had been invited to preach. He

ought 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 liked 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 conscious of staring down a lane of

tragedy that appalled him. Fragments and 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. He 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 well, 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 well. The Rector said he

would ask him to St. John's one morning...."

Peter Graham's parish ran down to the river, and included slums in which

some of the ladies of St. John's (whose congregation had seen to it that

in their immediate neighbourhood there were no such things) were

interested. So the two had met. She had found him admirable and likeable;

he found her highly respectable and seemingly unapproachable. 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,"

he 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 nervously. "It's colossal."

"Peter, you're going to preach about it: I can see you 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) anxiously. 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 of 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 what do you

think of all this, Graham?" waving the paper as he spoke.

Peter just caught the portentous headline--

"GERMANY DECLARES WAR ON RUSSIA,"

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 never 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. "What 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

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 journalists? 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 proceeded 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, paterfamilias cast one penetrating glance round

the church, and leaned gracefully forward with a kind of circular motion.

Having suitably addressed Almighty God (it is to be supposed), 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 preach, was finally installed in a suitably cushioned

seat within the altar-rails. He knelt to pray, but it was an effort to

formulate anything. 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 something 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 Confession.

The service followed its accustomed course, and throughout 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 but 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 themselves 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 knew. 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 comfortable. 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 certainly 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 the congregation 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 the 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

world.

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 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 week 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 that 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 north 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

unmeaning 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 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 attaché 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.

"No," said the Major, "unless they keep 'em at the base."

"Plenty down at Rouen, anyway," said Donovan. "A sporting little blighter

I met at the Brasserie Opera told me he hadn't anything to do, anyway."

"I shall be a padre in the next war," said Jenks, stretching out his

legs. "A parade on Sunday, and you're finished for the week. No orderly

dog, no night work, and plenty of time for your meals. Padres can always

get leave too, and they always come and go by Paris."

Donovan laughed, and glanced sideways at Peter. "Stow it, Jenks," he

said. "Where you for, padre?" he asked.

"I've got to report at Rouen," said Peter. "I was wondering if you were

there."

"No such luck now," returned the other. "But it's a jolly place. Jenko's

there. Get him to take you out to Duclair. You can get roast duck at a

pub there that melts in your mouth. And what's that little hotel near the

statue of Joan of Arc, Jenks, where they still have decent wine?"

Peter was not to learn yet awhile, for at that moment the little door

opened and a waiter looked in. "Breakfast, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Oh, no," said Jenks. "Waiter, I always bring some rations with me; I'll

just take a cup of coffee."

The man grinned. "Right-o, sir," he said. "Porridge, gentlemen?"

He disappeared, leaving the door open and, Donovan opening a newspaper,

Graham stared out of window to wait. From the far corners came scraps of

conversation, from which he gathered that Jenks and the Major were going

over the doings of the night before. He caught a word or two, and stared

the harder out of window.

Outside the English country was rushing by. Little villas, with

back-gardens running down to the rail, would give way for a mile or two

to fields, and then start afresh. The fog was thin there, and England

looked extraordinarily homely and pleasant. It was the known; he was

conscious of rushing at fifty miles an hour into the unknown. He turned

over the scrappy conversation of the last few minutes, and found it

savoured of the unknown. It was curious the difference uniform made. He

felt that these men were treating him more like one of themselves than

men in a railway-carriage had ever treated him before; that somehow even

his badges made him welcome; and yet that, nevertheless, it was not he,

Peter Graham, that they welcomed, or at least not his type. He wondered

if padres in France were different from priests in England. He turned

over the unknown Drennan in his mind. Was it because he was a good priest

that the men liked him, or because they had discovered the man in the

parson?

The waiter brought in the breakfast--porridge, fish, toast, and the

rest--and they fell to, a running fire of comments going on all the time.

Donovan had had Japanese marmalade somewhere, and thought it better than

this. The Major wouldn't touch the beastly margarine, but Jenks thought

it quite as good as butter if taken with marmalade, and put it on nearly

as thickly as his toast. Peter expanded in the air of camaraderie, and

when he leaned back with a cigarette, tunic unbuttoned and cap tossed up

on the rack, he felt as if he had been in the Army for years. He

reflected how curious that was. The last two or three years or so of Boy

Scouts and hospitals and extra prayer-meetings, attended by the people

who attended everything else, seemed to have faded away. There was hardly

a gap between that first war evening which he remembered so clearly and

this. It was a common experience enough, and probably due to the fact

that, whereas everything else had made little impression, he had lived

for this moment and been extraordinarily impressed by that Sunday. But he

realised, also, that it was due as much to his present companions. They

had, seemingly, accepted him as he had never been accepted before. They

asked practically no questions. So far as he could see, he made no

difference to them. He felt as if he were at last part of a great

brotherhood, in which, chiefly, one worried about nothing more important

than Japanese marmalade and margarine.

"We're almost there, boys," said Bevan, peering out of window.

"Curse!" ejaculated Jenks. "I hate getting my traps together in a train,

and I loathe the mob on the boat."

"I don't see why you should," said Donovan. "I'm blest if I bother about

anything. The R.T.O. and the red-caps do everything, and you needn't even

worry about getting a Pullman ticket this way over. Hope it's not rough,

though." He let a window down and leaned out. "Looks all right," he

added.

Peter got up with the rest and began to hang things about him. His

staringly new Sam Browne irritated him, but he forgot it as the train

swung round the curve to the landing-stage.

"Get a porter and a truck, Donovan," said the Major, who was farthest

from the door.

They got out nonchalantly, and Peter lit a cigarette, while the others

threw remarks at the man as to luggage. Then they all trooped off

together in a crowd that consisted of every variety of rank and regiment

and section of the British Empire, plus some Waacs and nurses.

_The Pride of Folkestone_ lay alongside, and when they got there she

seemed already full. The four of them got jammed at the gangway and

shoved on board, handing in and receiving papers from the official at the

head as they passed him. Donovan was in front, and as he stepped on deck

he swung his kit-bag back to Peter, crying:

"Lay hold of that, padre, and edge across the deck. Get up ahead of the

funnel that side. I'll get chairs. Jenko, you rotter, get belts, and drop

eyeing the girl!"

"Jolly nice bit of fluff," said Jenks meditatively, staring fixedly

across the deck.

"Where?" queried the Major, fumbling for his eyeglass.

"Get on there, please, gentlemen," called a ship's official.

"Damn it! mind my leg!"

"Cheerio, old son, here we are again!"

"I say, Tommy, did you get to the Alhambra last night, after all? What?

Well, I couldn't see you, anyhow."

To which accompaniment, Peter pushed his way across the deck. "Sorry,

padre," said a V.A.D. who blocked the way, bending herself back to let

him pass, and smiling. "Catch hold," called out Donovan, swinging a

couple of chairs at him. "No, sir, it's not my chair"--to a Colonel

who was grabbing at one already set out against the rail.

The Colonel collected it and disappeared, Jenks appearing a moment later,

red-faced, through the crush. "You blamed fool," he whispered, "it's that

girl's. I saw her put one here and edged up on it, only some fool got in

my way. Still (hopefully), perhaps she'll come back."

Between them they got four chairs into a line and sat down, all, that is,

save Jenks, who stood up, in a bland and genial way, as if to survey the

crowd impartially. How impartially soon appeared. "Damn!" he exploded.

"She's met some other females, weird and woolly things, and she's sitting

down there. No, by Jove! she's looking this way."

He made a half-start forward, and the Major kicked his shins. "Blast!" he

exploded; "why did you do that, you fool?"

"Don't be an infant, Jenko, sit down. You can't start a flirtation across

the blooming deck. Here, padre, can't you keep him in order?"

Peter half raised himself from his chair at this, and glanced the way the

other was looking. Through the crush he saw, clearly enough for a minute,

a girl of medium height in a nurse's uniform, sideways on to him. The

next second she half-turned, obviously smiling some remark to her

neighbour, and he caught sight of clear brown eyes and a little fringe

of dark hair on the forehead of an almost childish face. The eyes met

his. And then a sailor blundered across his field of vision.

"Topping, isn't she?" demanded Jenks, who had apparently been pulled down

into his chair in the interval.

"Oh, I don't know," said Graham, and added deliberately: "Rather

ordinary, I thought."

Jenks stared at him. "Good Lord, padre," he said, "where are your eyes?"

Peter heard a little chuckle behind, and glanced round to see Donovan

staring at him with amusement written all across his face. "You'll do,

padre," he said, taking a pipe from his pocket and beginning to fill it.

Peter smiled and leant back. Probably for the first time in five years he

forgot for a moment what sort of a collar it was around his neck.

Sitting there, he began to enjoy himself. The sea glittered in the

sun and the Lees stretched out opposite him across the shining gulf.

Sea-birds dipped and screamed. On his left, Major Bevan was talking to

a flying man, and Peter glanced up with him to see an aeroplane that

came humming 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 extraordinarily clear, but as if their owner kept hidden

behind them a vast number 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 below 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 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 British 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 suppose some of them came over with an assortment of

ideas one time, but they've struck no new ones since. I don'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 engaged, and my

girl's people wouldn't let her out of England."

"Engaged, are you? Thank your stars you aren't married. 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?"

"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 to 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. Better 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 club at Boulogne."

Peter and Donovan went off together. It was a new experience 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

Donovan.

"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 Donovan, 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 argued, over it, that the clergy were not nearly so out of touch

with men as the papers said. But down here, in the steamer's saloon,

surrounded by officers, in an atmosphere of indifference 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 clergyman, 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 himself particularly because a clergyman was present. Peter

clung to the belief 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 aluminum, 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 life-belts,

and the sailors were clearing a place for the gangway. 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 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. "Chuck in your stuff. This chap'll take it down and

Bevan with it. Let's walk. It isn't far."

Jenks elected to go with his friend the Major, and Donovan 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

Dublin Fusilier officer with a tiny moustache, that seemed ludicrous

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 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 keeping well behind

the Fusilier to think much. At a kind of counter a girl in a W.A.A.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 someone: "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 comfortable, as if he had been

there before.

An orderly entered with envelopes in his hand. "Lieutenant 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 no reply. "Lieutenant Morcombe," he called again. Nobody 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 offered it. Bevan, after one or two

ineffectual attempts, got an orderly at last.

"Well, here's fun," he said.

"Cheerio," said Peter. He remembered 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 ticket 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 outside. Peter struck another match and peered in. It was then

observed that the compartment was not empty, but that a dark-haired,

lanky youth, stretched 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!"

Peter looked round him curiously. Two of the four windows 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 legs 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 outside. "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.

Jenks was asleep in the corner, but he woke as they clattered 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 office,

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 Officers 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 English 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 on

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 occupied in the great café 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 attractive, 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 I 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 ascended 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 reason

why one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked.

"Come in," said a voice.

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. 5 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?"

"Captain Harold, sir."

"Harold, that's it. A decent chap. The men are constantly 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 Native 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 motion. "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 I'll 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 one 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 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 waterside 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 attention 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 Lieutenant 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?"

"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 cheerful--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'll 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 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 carpet beneath. Hollies gleamed

green against the brown background, 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

swiftly 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 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 slips 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 constructed of piles driven into

the mud, was a Belgian detachment 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, were levered over, to

swish down in a cloud of dust to the waiting 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 fatigues 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 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!"

"By 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 getting 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 with the cheeriness 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 skirting ploughed fields. Presently they ran

through a little village, 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, turreted 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 garden 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 déjeuner? 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."

"Ah, non, monsieur cannot cheat me. He had found another 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 curé 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 Curé?" 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 _décolleté_ 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!"

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 soaring spaces, but his impatient companion

hauled him out. "Of course, you'll 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, 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 officers

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 the fourth made merry, and Mackay,

who called the W.A.A.C. waitress by her Christian name, was plainly

getting 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 believe. She was

burnt here, and they threw her ashes into the Grand Pont.'"

Peter laughed silently, and the 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?"

"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! It's 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 women

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 all so jolly different from what I expected," 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 altogether 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 piece, were edged with fur and very gay. Each carried a handbag and

one a tasselled stick. "Good-night, chérie," 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 beginning 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; "you can't do anything. Mackay'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't Christ have compassion on people like that?

Didn'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 multitude of hungry women and children and

misguided men, but He hated sin. You can't deny that." Peter recalled his

sermon; he was rather indignant, unreasonably, that the suggestion 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

automatically, his thoughts far away. The little _cafés 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 wondering, 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 analysis. To begin with, this conventional and charming young lady of

Park Lane had in common with Napoleon Bonaparte 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 certain agreements and conclusions in respect to marriage and

class and conduct, and that these agreements and conclusions 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 agreements 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 support 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 conceived 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 occupied the pulpit

of St. John's who were apparently quite anxious that she and the rest

of the congregation should understand 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 understood

nothing. She was far too much the child of her environment 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 perfectly 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 whole 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 mysterious 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 escape 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 unreasonably and all but

unconsciously to certain superstitions which she shared with primitive

savages and fetish-worshippers. All of which seems a far cry from the War

Intercession 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 Authority in Time of War.

Two pews ahead of her knelt Sir Robert Doyle, in uniform. That simple

soldier was a bigger 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 bigger and stronger than she, and perfectly

capable of looking after her. In that, he was like a plucky boy who gets

up from his buttercups 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 for 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."

"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 soon. Come, little 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, giving him her

childhood's name that had never been discontinued 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 can go to your

horrid old club, and I only hope you'll be worried to death. Of course

it isn't that. Besides, he says everyone is very friendly and welcomes

him--only he feels that that makes it worse. He thinks they don't

want--well, what he has to give, I suppose."

"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 responsible 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

life."

Hilda regarded the fine, straight old man for a second as they 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 armchair 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

elbow 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 uses for an altar--and an evening

service in the canteen-hall 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, looking up. Doyle nodded gravely, and she went on

reading: "'Harold said he'd like to take Communion, 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" in 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

begin 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 differently 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 regulations 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 anchor," and sleeping, and cleaning kit (this is a rest camp you

know), and it seemed so cold-blooded somehow. I told them anyone could

come in the evening if he wanted to, but that in the morning the service

was for Church of England communicants. 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 straight 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 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 you, 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 anything 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 then, 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, Harold 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 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 excuse 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 revival 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 _wish_ 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 time out of

touch. They didn't want me, and somehow Christ and the Gospel seemed a

long way off. 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 afterwards 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 extraordinarily nice person, different from most, a man

who thinks a lot and controls himself. He did most of the talking, 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 practically at your word that I find you are

mumbling 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 canteen 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 your

service to-night? Can he be emotionally conjured up by 'Yield 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, Tommy 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 for anyone," he said.

"And I'll 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 that they are prepared to accept

me as a comrade without question, but as for my message, I might as well

be trying 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 probably immoral and he certainly drinks too much,

but he's as unselfish as possible, and I feel in my bones he'd do

anything 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 upright and clean....' 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, uncomfortably. "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 began, but stopped. To

him it was an extraordinarily hard thing to speak of religion, partly

because he cherished so whole-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 lowered voice and bowed head, as

one who considered very deeply of the matter, but in fact he practically

never considered 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'll begin 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 Graham'll 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!

I 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. Then she went back

slowly to the study and looked round. She stood a few moments and then

switched off the lights, and went out and slowly upstairs. The maid was

in the bedroom, and she dismissed her, keeping her face turned away. In

front of her glass, she held 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 modern 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 officer 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 us ten days ago or

so. What about it? I forget for the moment where we put him."

"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

voluntary service than two hundred on a parade."

"Well, I wouldn't," exploded Doyle. "I know your voluntary

services--Moody and Sankey hymns on a Sunday night. The men had better

be in a decent bar. But turn 'em out in the morning, clean and decent

on parade, and give 'em the old service, and it'll tighten 'em up and

do 'em good. Voluntary service! You'll have volunteer evangelists

instead of Army chaplains next!"

Colonel Chichester still smiled, but a little grimly. "We've 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 proposed 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 the all but empty streets, darkened as they were.

The meaning of those great familiar spaces struck him as he walked.

Hardly formulating it, he became aware of a sense of pride and

responsibility 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, monstrous.... 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 Romanist,

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 have 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....

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 came

within earshot, one of them stumbled 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 blessed cru-crushifixes!"

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 England 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 staggered 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

Frères 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 Peter, but he was already

learning that there was no need to worry 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."

At eleven Peter found Harold signing papers. He glanced up. "Oh,

sergeant," he said, "give Captain Graham a Movement 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, 10th 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 envelope

open. "Good Lord, skipper!" he said. "Here's my blessed movement order,

to report at the Gare du Vert at 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. "That's so," he said. "But what'll 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 compliments,

and a telephone message has just come in that you are to report to H.Q.

10th 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 vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior's occasional questions.

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 anything else to do except to arrange

things to suit your convenience? 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, Mallony? Always on

leave or in Paris, and doin' nothing 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 of 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.

"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, listening 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-morning," 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 out slowly for H.Q., was saluted by the sentry under the flag,

climbed up to a corridor with many strangely labelled doors, and 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 10th 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 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 air. 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 1

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 types 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, types of all European nationalities,

a few of the first clean, efficient-looking Americans in tight-fitting

uniforms, and individual officers of a score of regiments.

The old town ended in a row of high, disreputable-looking houses that

were, however, picturesque enough, and across the _pavé_ in front of them

commenced the docks. One 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 sea. 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 of R.E.'s to which he was

attached. He was also to work a hospital which was said to be close 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, clean wards above.

These, all on one level, had great glass doors giving access to the

verandahs, and from the verandahs broad gangways could be placed, running

men, at high tide, on to the hospital ship alongside. The nurses'

quarters were beyond, 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 corner 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."

"Good enough," said Donovan. "Let me introduce you. This is Lieutenant

Pennell, R.E.--Lieutenant Pennell, Captain 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

somebody'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

circumstances. 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 possible," 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 that 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. "You'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. 1 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 believe, 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 it," 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 everybody. 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 likely to be, I'll find a place

for you."

He led Peter into the passage, and consulted a board on the wall. "I'd

like to put you next me, but I can't," he said. "Both sides occupied.

Wait a minute. No. 10 Pennell, and No. 11's free. 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 the 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 next door left, so

keep him in order. Next door 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 my man on to get you

straight, as you haven't a batman yet." And he strolled off.

"Come to my room a minute," said Arnold, and Peter 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.

"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 him 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

Presbyterian 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'll 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 different

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 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 come

to the kingdom for such a time as this."

Pennell pushed the door open, and looked in. "You there, 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 the Bible.

CHAPTER VI

The great central ward at No. 1 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

extraordinarily quiet and passive. Modern science has made the

battlefield a hell, but it has also made the base hospital something

approaching a Paradise.

There were women in plenty. The staff had been augmented 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 exceedingly

popular subaltern was 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 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 unquestionably 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. Perhaps she had made a

mistake. He turned resolutely to his companion.

"Jolly good band, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"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, and 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 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 companion. "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 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 something 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, without 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 smothered laughter amply

rewarded him.

The song ceased in time, and the encore, which they both rigorously

demanded. And immediately she began again.

"I hope to goodness tea isn't far off," she said. "By the way, you'll

have to take 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'll 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 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 made 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 call 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.

"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 think 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 somehow and made his

way to a series of tables spread with cakes and sandwiches. He got a cup

and seized a plate, and shouldered 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?"

"Why?" he asked.

She nodded towards a corner and there was Julie, wedged in between

people, and refusing tea from a subaltern. "She expects you to bring it,"

said Miss Raynard.

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 towards the corner. The

other's readiness and effrontery 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 adieus 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 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, over the Channel, the ships

at anchor looking dark by contrast. 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 townwards.

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. They 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, where there was tennis all the year and moonlight

bathing picnics in the season, and excellent river boating. He could not

catch the name, but it was not too far from Durban. He 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 not 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 Raynard; "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 _will_ 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

cooking is a treat. I swear it's all right."

"Lead on," said Julie; "we'll trust you," and she manoeuvred so that her

half-section was left with Donovan.

The four walked briskly through the dusk. "Don't you love France in the

evening?" demanded Julie.

"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,

of 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 overslept. He merely told us

the time to leave next day. We went to an hotel, and then strolled up the

Avenue de l'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 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, Solomon," said Julie,

and she ran lightly up the steps.

They passed through swing-doors into a larger hall brilliantly 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 unlike 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 remarks with a natural case. 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 other turned to

beckon a _garçon_, 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 something inevitable in it all. He did

not formulate his sensations, but it was the lure of the contrast that

won him. Ever 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 little glass as she did so.

_"Here'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 think_," 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'oeuvres_ 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.

"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 Galeries 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-puff. "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 protested. "Look

here," she said, "I came for dinner, not for 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 pushing her. "I will

have a man beside me, anyhow."

"I'd sooner be opposite," said Donovan. "I can see you 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 shame 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 once before how awkward it was."

Julie laughed. "Give me another drink, then, Captain Donovan," 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

eighty-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 contained 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 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 this

week, Tommy's opposite. There's usually a crush at tea, but you 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, anyway." "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 on duty. You can come in

any hour of the day or night. Tommy, do you hear that? Solomon's our

spiritual pastor. He's begun well, hasn't he?"

Peter was silent. It jarred him horribly. But just then the car slowed

down.

"What's up now?" demanded Donovan.

"Only the sentry at the swing bridge," said Tommy. "They stop all cars at

night. He's your side, dear; give him the glad eye."

The door opened, and a red-cap looked in. "Hospital, corporal; it's all

right," said Julie, beaming at him.

"Oh, all right, miss. Good-night," said the man, stepping back and

saluting in the light of the big electric standard at the bridgehead.

"Carry on, driver!"

"We're just there," said Julie; "I am sorry. It's been rippin'. Stop the

car, Solomon, somewhere near the leave-boat; it won't do to drive right

up to the hospital; we might be spotted."

Peter leaned out of the window on his side. The lights on the quay glowed

steadily across the dark water, and made golden flicking streaks upon it

as the tide swelled slowly in. In the distance a great red eye flashed in

and out solemnly, and on their side he could see the shaded lights of the

hospital ship, getting ready for her night crossing. He judged it was

time, and told the man to stop.

"Where's my powder-puff?" demanded Julie. "I believe you've bagged it,

Captain Donovan. No, it's here. Skip out, Tommy. Is anyone about?"

"No," said the girl from the step. "But don't wait all night. We'd best

run for it."

"Well, good-night," said Julie. "You have both been dears, but whether

I'm steady enough to get in safely I don't know. Still, Tommy's a rock.

See you again soon. Good-bye-ee!"

She leaned forward. "_Now_, if you're good," she said to Donovan. He

kissed her, laughing; and before he knew what she was doing, she reached

over to Peter, kissed him twice on the lips, and leaped lightly out. "Be

good," she said, "and if you can't, be careful."

CHAPTER VII

Following a delay of some days, there had been a fairly heavy mail, and

Peter took his letters to the little terrace by the sea outside the mess,

and sat in the sun to read them. While he was so occupied Arnold appeared

with a pipe, but, seeing him engaged, went back for a novel and a

deck-chair. It was all very peaceful and still, and beyond occasional

hammering from, the leisurely construction of the outer harbour wall and

once or twice the siren of a signalling steamer entering the docks, there

was nothing to disturb them at all. Perhaps half an hour passed, then

Peter folded up some sheets, put them in his pocket, and walked moodily

to the edge of the concrete, staring down, at the lazy slushing of the

tide against: the wall below him.

He kicked a pebble discontentedly into the water, and turned to look, at

Arnold. The older man was stretched out: in his chair smoking a pipe and

regarding him. A slow smile passed between them.

"No, hang it all," said Peter; "there's nothing to smile about, Arnold,

I've pretty well got to the end of my tether."

"Meaning what exactly?" queried the other.

"Oh, well, you know enough already to guess the rest.... Look here,

Arnold, you and. I are fairly good pals now, I'd just like to tell you

exactly what I feel."

"Sit down then, man, and get it out. There's a chair yonder, and you've

got the forenoon before ye. I'm a heretic and all that sort of thing, of

course, but perhaps that'll make it easier. I take it it's a kind of

heretic you're becoming yourself."

Peter pulled up a chair and got out his own pipe. "Arnold," he said, "I'm

too serious to joke, and I don't know that I'm even a Christian heretic.

I don't know what I am and where I stand. I wish I did; I wish I even

knew how much I disbelieved, for then I'd know what to do. But it's not

that my dogmas have been attacked and weakened. I've no new light on the

Apostles' Creed and no fresh doubts about it. I could still argue for the

Virgin Birth of Christ and the Trinity, and so on. But it's worse than

that. I feel ..." He broke off abruptly and pulled at his pipe. The other

said nothing. They were friends enough by now to understand each other.

In a little while the younger man found the words he wanted.

"Look here, it's like this. I remember once, on the East Coast, coming

across a stone breakwater high and dry in a field half a mile from the

sea. There was nothing the matter with the breakwater, and it served

admirably for certain purposes--a seat, for instance, or a shady place

for a picnic. But it was no longer of any vital use in the world, for the

sea had receded and left it there. Now, that's just what I feel. I had a

religion; I suppose it had its weaknesses and its faults; but most of it

was good sound stone, and it certainly had served. But it serves no

longer, not because it's damaged, but because the need for it has changed

its nature or is no longer there." He trailed off into silence and

stopped.

Arnold stirred to get out his pouch. "The sea is shifty, though," he

said. "If they keep the breakwater in decent repair, it'll come in handy

again."

"Yes," burst out Peter. "But, of course, that's where illustrations are

so little good: you can't press them. And in any case no engineer worth

his salt would sit down by his breakwater and smoke a pipe till the sea

came in handy again. His job is to go after it."

"True for ye, boy. But if the old plan was so good, why not go down to

the beach and get on with building operations of the same sort?"

"Arnold," said Peter, "you couldn't have put it better. That's exactly

what I came here to do. I knew in London that the sea was receding to

some extent, and I thought that there was a jolly good chance to get up

with it again out here. But that leads straight to my second problem:

I can't build on the old plan, and it doesn't seem any good. It's as

if our engineer found quicksands that wouldn't hold his stone, and

cross-currents that smashed up all his piles.... I mean, I thought I knew

what would save souls. But I find that I can't because my methods are--I

don't know, faulty perhaps, out of date maybe possibly worse; and, what

is more, the souls don't want my saving. The Lord knows they want

something; I can see that fast enough, but what it is I don't know.

Heavens! I remember preaching in the beginning of the war from the text

'Jesus had compassion on the multitude.' Well I don't feel that He has

changed, and I'm quite sure He still has compassion, but the multitude

doesn't want it. I was wrong about the crowd. It's nothing like what I

imagined. The crowd isn't interested in Jesus any more. It doesn't

believe in Him. It's a different sort of crowd altogether from the one He

led."

"I wonder," said Arnold.

Peter moved impatiently. "Well, I don't see how you can," he said. "Do

you think Tommy worries about his sins? Are the men in our mess

miserable? Does the girl the good books talked about, who flirts and

smokes and drinks and laughs, sit down by night on the edge of her little

white bed and feel a blank in her life? Does she, Arnold?"

"I'm blest if I know; I haven't been there! You seem to know a precious

lot about it," he added dryly.

"Oh, don't rag and don't be facetious. If you do, I shall clear. I'm

trying to talk sense, and at any rate it's what I feel. And I believe you

know I'm right too." Peter was plainly a bit annoyed.

The elder padre sat up straight at that, and his tone changed. He stared

thoughtfully out to sea and did not smoke. But he did not speak all at

once. Peter glanced at him, and then lay back in his chair and waited.

Arnold spoke at last: possibly the harbour works inspired him. "Look

here, boy," he said, "let's get back to your illustration, which is no

such a bad one. What do you suppose your engineer would do when he got

down to the new sea-beach and found the conditions you described? It

wouldn't do much good if he sat down and cursed the blessed sea and the

sands and the currents, would it? It would be mighty little use if he

blamed his good stone and sound timber, useless though they appeared.

I'm thinking he'd be no much of an engineer either if he chucked his

job. What would he do, d'you think?"

"Go on," said Peter, interested.

"Well," said the speaker in parables, "unless I'm mighty mistaken, he'd

get down first to studying the new conditions. He'd find they'd got laws

governing them, same as the old--different laws maybe, but things you

could perhaps reckon with if you knew them. And when he knew them, I

reckon he'd have a look at his timber and stone and iron, and get out

plans. Maybe, these days, he'd help out with a few tons of reinforced

concrete, and get in a bit o' work with some high explosive. I'm no

saying. But if he came from north of the Tweed, my lad," he added, with a

twinkle in his eye and a touch of accent, "I should be verra surprised

if that foreshore hadn't a breakwater that would do its duty in none so

long a while."

"And if he came from south of the Tweed, and found himself in France?"

queried Peter.

"I reckon he'd get down among the multitude and make a few inquiries,"

said Arnold, more gravely. "I reckon he wouldn't be in too great a hurry,

and he wouldn't believe all he saw and heard without chewing on it a bit,

as our Yankee friends say. And he'd know well enough that there was

nothing wrong with his Master, and no change in His compassion, only,

maybe, that he had perhaps misunderstood both a little."

A big steamer hooted as she came up the river, and the echoes of the

siren died out slowly among the houses that climbed up the hill behind

them.

Then Peter put his hand up and rested his head upon it, shading his face.

"That's difficult--and dangerous, Arnold" he said.

"It is that, laddie," the other answered quickly. "There was a time when

I would have thought it too difficult and too dangerous for a boy of

mine. But I've had a lesson or two to learn out here as well as other

folks. Up the line men have learnt not to hesitate at things because they

are difficult and dangerous. And I'll tell you something else we've

learnt--that it is better for half a million to fail in the trying than

for the thing not to be tried at all."

"Arnold," said Peter, "what about yourself? Do you mind my asking? Do you

feel this sort of thing at all, and, if so, what's your solution?"

The padre from north of the Tweed knocked the ashes out of his pipe and

got up, "Young man," he said, "I don't mind your asking, but I'm getting

old, and my answering wouldn't do either of us any good, if I have a

solution I don't suppose it would be yours. Besides, a man can't save his

brother, and not even a father can save his son .... I've nothing to tell

ye, except, maybe, this: don't fear and don't falter, and wherever you

get to, remember that God is there. David is out of date these days,

and very likely it wasn't David at all, but I don't know anything truer

in the auld book than yon verse where it says: 'Though I go down into

hell, Thou art there also.'"

"I beg your pardon, padre," said a drawling voice behind them. "I caught

a word just now which I understand no decent clergyman uses except in the

pulpit. If, therefore, you are preaching, I will at once and discreetly

withdraw, but if not, for his very morals' sake, I will withdraw your

congregation--that is, if he hasn't forgotten his engagement."

Graham jumped up. "Good Heavens, Pennell!" he exclaimed, "I'm blest if I

hadn't." He pushed his arm out and glanced at his watch. "Oh, there's

plenty of time, anyway. I'm lunching with this blighter down town, padre,

at some special restaurant of his," he explained, "and I take it the sum

and substance of his unseemly remarks are that he thinks we ought to get

a move on."

"Don't let me stand in the way of your youthful pleasures," said Arnold,

smiling; "but take care of yourself, Graham. Eat and drink, for to-morrow

you die; but don't eat and drink too much in case you live to the day

after."

"I'll remember," said Peter, "but I hope it won't be necessary. However,

you never know 'among the multitude,' do you?" he added.

Arnold caught up the light chair and lunged out at him. "Ye unseemly

creature," he shouted, "get out of it and leave me in peace."

Pennell and Peter left the camp and crossed the swing bridge into the

maze of docks. Threading their way along as men who knew it thoroughly

they came at length to the main roadway, with its small, rather smelly

shops, its narrow side-streets almost like Edinburgh closes, and its

succession of sheds and offices between which one glimpsed the water.

Just here, the war had made a difference. There was less pleasure traffic

up Seine and along Channel, though the Southampton packet ran as

regularly as if no submarine had ever been built. Peter liked Pennell.

He was an observant creature of considerable decencies, and a good

companion. He professed some religion, and although it was neither

profound nor apparently particularly vital, it helped to link the two

men. As they went on, the shops grew a little better, but no restaurant

was visible that offered much expectation.

"Where in the world are you taking me?" demanded Peter. "I don't mind

slums in the way of business, but I prefer not to go to lunch in them."

"Wait and see, my boy," returned his companion, "and don't protest till

it's called for. Even then wait a bit longer, and your sorrow shall be

turned into joy--and that's Scripture. Great Scott! see what comes of

fraternising with padres! _Now._"

So saying he dived in to the right down a dark passage, into which the

amazed Peter followed him. He had already opened a door at the end of it

by the time Peter got there, and was halfway up a flight of wood stairs

that curved up in front of them out of what was, obviously, a kitchen.

A huge man turned his head as Peter came in, and surveyed him silently,

his hands dexterously shaking a frying-pan over a fire as he did so.

"Bon jour, monsieur," said Peter politely.

Monsieur grunted, but not unpleasantly, and Peter gripped the banister

and commenced to ascend. Half-way up he was nearly sent flying down

again. A rosy-cheeked girl, short and dark, with sparkling eyes, had

thrust herself down between him and the rail from a little landing above,

and was shouting:

"Une omelette aux champignons. Jambon. Pommes sautes, s'il vous plait."

Peter recovered himself and smiled. "Bon jour, mademoiselle," he said,

this time. In point of fact, he could say very little else.

"Bon jour, monsieur," said, the girl, and something else that he could

not catch, but by this time he had reached the top in time to witness a

little 'business' there. A second girl, taller, older, slower, but

equally smiling, was taking Pennell's cap and stick and gloves, making

play with her eyes the while. "Merci, chérie," he heard his friend say

and then, in a totally different voice: "Ah! Bon jour Marie."

A third girl was before them. In her presence the other two withdrew. She

was tall, plain, shrewd of face, with reddish hair, but she smiled even

as the others. It was little more than a glance that Peter got, for she

called an order (at which the first girl again disappeared down the

stairs) greeted Pennell, replied to his question that there were two

places, and was out of sight again in the room, seemingly all at once. He

too, then, surrendered cap and stick, and followed his companion in.

There were no more than four tables in the little room--two for six, and

two for four or five. Most were filled, but he and Pennell secured two

seats with their backs to the wall opposite a couple of Australian

officers who had apparently just commenced. Peter's was by the window,

and he glanced out to see the sunlit street below, the wide sparkling

harbour, and right opposite the hospital he had now visited several times

and his own camp near it. There was the new green of spring shoots in the

window-boxes, snowy linen on the table, a cheerful hum of conversation

about him, and an oak-panelled wall behind that had seen the Revolution.

"Pennell," he said, "you're a marvel. The place is perfect."

By the time they had finished Peter was feeling warmed and friendly, the

Australians had been joined to their company, and the four spent an idle

afternoon cheerfully enough. There was nothing in strolling through the

busy streets, joking a little over very French picture post-cards,

quizzing the passing girls, standing in a queue at Cox's, and finally

drawing a fiver in mixed French notes, or in wandering through a huge

shop of many departments to buy some toilet necessities. But it was good

fun. There was a comradeship, a youthfulness, carelessness, about it all

that gripped Peter. He let himself go, and when he did so he was a good

companion.

One little incident in the Grand Magasin completed his abandonment to the

day and the hour. They were ostensibly buying a shaving-stick, but at the

moment were cheerily wandering through the department devoted to

_lingerie_. The attendant girls, entirely at ease, were trying to

persuade the taller of the two Australians, whom his friend addressed

as "Alex," to buy a flimsy lace nightdress "for his fiancée," readily

pointing out that he would find no difficulty in getting rid of it

elsewhere if he had not got such a desirable possession, when Peter heard

an exclamation behind him.

"Hullo!" said a girl's voice; "fancy finding you here!" He turned quickly

and blushed. Julie laughed merrily.

"Caught out," she said, "Tell me what you're buying, and for whom. A

blouse, a camisole, or worse?"

"I'm not buying," said Peter, recovering his ease. "We're just strolling

round, and that girl insists that my friend the Australian yonder should

buy a nightie for his fiancée. He says he hasn't one, so she is

persuading him that he can easily pick one up. What do you think?"

She glanced over at the little group. "Easier than some people I know,

I should think," she said, smiling, taking in his six feet of bronzed

manhood. "But it's no use your buying it. I wear pyjamas, silk, and I

prefer Venns'."

"I'll remember," said Peter. "By the way, I'm coming to tea again

to-morrow."

"That will make three times this week," she said. "But I suppose you

will go round the ward first." Then quickly, for Peter looked slightly

unhappy: "Next week I've a whole day off."

"No?" he said eagerly "Oh, do let's fix something up. Will you come out

somewhere?"

Her eyes roved across to Pennell, who was bearing down upon them. "We'll

fix it up to-morrow," she said. "Bring Donovan, and I'll get Tommy. And

now introduce me nicely."

He did so, and she talked for a few minutes, and then went off to join

some friends, who had moved on to another department. "By Jove," said

Pennell, "that's some girl! I see now why you are so keen on the

hospital, old dear. Wish I were a padre."

"I shall be padre in ..." began Alex, but Peter cut him short.

"Oh, Lord," he said, "I'm tired of that! Come on out of it, and let's get

a refresher somewhere. What's the club like here?"

"Club's no good," said Pennell. "Let's go to Travalini's and introduce

the padre. He's not been there yet."

"I thought everyone knew it," said the other Australian--rather

contemptuously, Peter thought. What with one thing and another, he felt

suddenly that he'd like to go. He remembered how nearly he had gone there

in other company. "Come on, then," he said, and led the way out.

There was nothing in Travalini's to distinguish it from many other such

places--indeed, to distinguish it from the restaurant in which Peter,

Donovan, and the girls had dined ten days or so before, except that it

was bigger, more garish, more expensive, and, consequently, more British

in patronage. The restaurant was, however, separated more completely

from the drinking-lounge, in which, among palms, a string-band played.

There was an hotel above besides, and that helped business, but one could

come and go innocently enough, for all that there was "anything a

gentleman wants," as the headwaiter, who talked English, called himself a

Belgian, and had probably migrated from over the Rhine, said. Everybody,

indeed, visited the place now and again. Peter and his friends went in

between the evergreen shrubs in their pots, and through the great glass

swing-door, with every assurance. The place seemed fairly full. There was

a subdued hum of talk and clink of glasses; waiters hurried to and fro;

the band was tuning up. British uniforms predominated, but there were

many foreign officers and a few civilians. There were perhaps a couple of

dozen girls scattered about the place besides.

The friends found a corner with a big plush couch which took three of

them, and a chair for Alex. A waiter bustled up and they ordered drinks,

which came on little saucers marked with the price. Peter lay back

luxuriously.

"Chin-chin," said the other Australian, and the others responded.

"That's good," said Pennell.

"Not so many girls here this afternoon," remarked Alex carelessly. "See,

Dick, there's that little Levantine with the thick dark hair. She's

caught somebody."

Peter looked across in the direction indicated. The girl, in a cerise

costume with a big black hat, short skirt, and dainty bag, was sitting in

a chair halfway on to them and leaning over the table before her. As he

watched, she threw her head back and laughed softly. He caught the gleam

of a white throat and of dark sloe eyes.

"She's a pretty one," said Pennell. "God! but they're queer little bits

of fluff, these girls. It beats me how they're always gay, and always

easy to get and to leave. And they get rottenly treated sometimes."

"Yes I'm damned if I understand them," said Alex. "Now, padre, I'll tell

you something that's more in your way than mine, and you can see what you

make of it. I was in a maison tolerée the other day--you know the sort

of thing--and there were half a dozen of us in the sitting-room with the

girls, drinking fizz. I had a little bit of a thing with fair hair--she

couldn't have been more than seventeen at most, I reckon--with a laugh

that did you good to hear, and, by gum! we wanted to be cheered just

then, for we had had a bit of a gruelling on the Ancre and had been

pulled out of the line to refit. She sat there with an angel's face, a

chemise transparent except where it was embroidered, and not much else,

and some of the women were fair beasts. Well, she moved on my knee, and I

spilt some champagne and swore--'Jesus Christ!' I said. Do you know, she

pushed back from me as if I had hit her! 'Oh, don't say His Name!' she

said. 'Promise me you won't say it again. Do you not know how He loved

us?' I was so taken aback that I promised, and to tell you the truth,

padre, I haven't said it since. What do you think of that?"

Peter shook his head and drained his glass. He couldn't have spoken at

once; the little story, told in such a place, struck him so much. Then he

asked: "But is that all? How did she come to be there?"

"Well," Alex said, "that's just as strange. Father was in a French

cavalry regiment, and got knocked out on the Marne. They lived in Arras

before the war, and you can guess that there wasn't much left of the

home. One much older sister was a widow with a big family; the other was

a kid of ten or eleven, so this one went into the business to keep the

family going. Fact. The mother used to come and see her, and I got to

know her. She didn't seem to mind: said the doctors looked after them

well, and the girl was making good money. Hullo!" he broke off, "there's

Louise," and to Peter's horror he half-rose and smiled across at a girl

some few tables away.

She got up and came over, beamed on them all, and took the seat Alex

vacated. "Good-evening," she said, in fair English, scrutinising them.

"What is it you say, 'How's things'?"

Alex pressed a drink on her and beckoned the waiter. She took a syrup,

the rest martinis. Peter sipped his, and watched her talking to Alex and

Pennell. The other Australian got up and crossed the room, and sat down

with some other men.

The stories he had heard moved him profoundly. He wondered if they were

true, but he seemed to see confirmation in the girl before him. Despite

some making up, it was a clean face, if one could say so. She was

laughing and talking with all the ease in the world, though Peter noticed

that her eyes kept straying round the room. Apparently his friends had

all her attention, but he could see it was not so. She was on the watch

for clients, old or new. He thought how such a girl would have disgusted

him a few short weeks ago, but he did not feel disgusted now. He could

not. He did not know what he felt. He wondered, as he looked, if she were

one of "the multitude," and then the fragment of a text slipped through

his brain: "The Friend of publicans and sinners." "_The_ Friend": the

little adjective struck him as never before. Had they ever had another?

He frowned to himself at the thought, and could not help wondering

vaguely what his Vicar or the Canon would have done in Travalini's. Then

he wondered instantly what that Other would have done, and he found no

answer at all.

"Yes, but I do not know your friend yet," he heard the girl say, and saw

she was being introduced to Pennell. She held out a decently gloved hand

with a gesture that startled him--it was so like Hilda's. Hilda! The

comparison dazed him. He fancied he could see her utter disgust, and then

he involuntarily shook his head; it would be too great for him to

imagine. What would she have made of the story he had just heard? He

concluded she would flatly disbelieve it....

But Julie? He smiled to himself, and then, for the first time, suddenly

asked himself what he really felt towards Julie. He remembered that first

night and the kiss, and how he had half hated it, half liked it. He felt

now, chiefly, anger that Donovan had had one too. One? But he, Peter,

had had two.... Then he called himself a damned fool; it was all of a

piece with her extravagant and utterly unconventional madness. But what,

then, would she say to this? Had she anything in common with it?

He played with that awhile, blowing out thoughtful rings of smoke. It

struck him that she had, but he was fully aware that that did not

disgust him in the least. It almost fascinated him, just as--that _was_

it--Hilda's disgust would repel him. Why? He hadn't an idea.

"Monsieur le Capitaine is very dull," said a girl's voice at his elbow.

He started: Louise had moved to the sofa and was smiling at him. He

glanced towards his companions, Alex was standing, finishing a last

drink; Pennell staring at Louise.

He looked back at the girl, straight into her eyes, and could not read

them in the least. The darkened eyebrows and the glitter in them baffled

him. But he must speak, "Am I?" he said. "Forgive me, mademoiselle; I was

thinking."

"Of your fiancée--is it not so? Ah! The Capitaine has his fiancée, then?

In England? Ah, well, the girls in England do not suffer like we girls in

France.... They are proud, too, the English misses. I know, for I have

been there, to--how do you call it?--Folkestone. They walk with the head

in the air," and she tilted up her chin so comically that Peter smiled

involuntarily.

"No, I do not like them," went on the girl deliberately. "They are

only half alive, I think. I almost wish the Boche had been in your

land.... They are cold, la! And not so very nice to kiss, eh?"

"They're not all like that," said Pennell.

"Ah, non? But you like the girls of France the best, mon ami; is it not

so?" She leaned across towards him significantly.

Pennell laughed. "_Now_, yes, perhaps," he said deliberately; "but after

the war ..." and he shrugged his shoulders, like a Frenchman.

A shade passed over the girl's face, and she got up. "It is so," she

said lightly. "Monsieur speaks very true--oh, very true! The girls of

France now--they are gay, they are alive, they smile, and it is war, and

you men want these things. But after--oh, I know you English--you'll go

home and be--how do you say?--'respectable,' and marry an English miss,

and have--oh! many, many bébés, and wear the top-hat, and go to church.

There is no country like England...." She made a little gesture. "What do

you believe, you English? In le bon Dieu? Non. In love? Ah, non! In what,

then? Je ne sais!" She laughed again. "What 'ave I said? Forgive me,

monsieur, and you also, Monsieur le Capitaine. But I do see a friend of

mine. See, I go! Bon soir."

She looked deliberately at Peter a moment, then smiled comprehensively

and left them. Peter saw that Alex had gone already; he asked no

questions, but looked at Pennell inquiringly.

"I think so, padre; I've had enough of it to-night. Let's clear. We can

get back in time for mess."

They went out into the darkening streets, crossed an open square, and

turned down a busy road to the docks. They walked quickly, but Peter

seemed to himself conscious of everyone that passed. He scanned faces,

as if to read a riddle in them. There were men who lounged by, gay,

reckless, out for fun plainly, but without any other sinister thought,

apparently. There were Tommies who saluted and trudged on heavily. There

were a couple of Yorkshire boys who did not notice them, flushed, animal,

making determinedly for a destination down the street. There was one man

at least who passed walking alone, with a tense, greedy, hard face, and

Peter all but shuddered.

The lit shops gave way to a railed space, dark by contrast, and a tall

building of old blackened stone, here and there chipped white, loomed up.

Moved by an impulse, Peter paused, "Let's see if it's open, Pennell," he

said. "Do you mind? I won't be a second."

"Not a scrap, old man," said Pennell, "I'll come in too."

Peter walked up to a padded leather-covered door and pushed. It swung

open. They stepped in, into a faintly broken silence, and stood still.

Objects loomed up indistinctly--great columns, altars, pews. Far away a

light flickered and twinkled, and from the top of the aisle across the

church from the door by which they had entered a radiance glowed and lost

itself in the black spaces of the high roof and wide nave. Peter crossed

towards that side, and his companion followed. They trod softly, like

good Englishmen in church, and they moved up the aisle a little to see

more clearly; and so, having reached a place from which much was visible,

remained standing for a few seconds.

The light streamed from an altar, and from candles above it set around

a figure of the Mother of God. In front knelt a priest, and behind him,

straggling back in the pews, a score or so of women, some children, and

a blue-coated French soldier or two. The priest's voice sounded thin

and low: neither could hear what he said; the congregation made rapid

responses regularly, but eliding the, to them, familiar words. There was,

then, the murmur of repeated prayer, like muffled knocking on a door, and

nothing more.

"Let's go," whispered Pennell at last.

They went out, and shut the door softly behind them. As they did so, some

other door was opened noisily and banged, while footsteps began to drag

slowly across the stone floor and up the aisle they had come down. The

new-comer subsided into a pew with a clatter on the boards, but the

murmured prayers went on unbroken.

Outside the street engulfed them. The same faces passed by. A street-car

banged and clattered up towards the centre of the town, packed with

jovial people. Pennell looked towards it half longingly. "Great Scott,

Graham! I wish, now, we hadn't come away so soon," he said.

CHAPTER VIII

The lower valley of the Seine is one of the most beautiful and

interesting river-stretches in Northern Europe. It was the High Street of

old Normandy, and feuda, barons and medieval monks have left their mark

upon it. From the castle of Tancarville to the abbey of Jumièges

you can read the story of their doings; or when you stand in the Roman

circus at Lillebonne, or enter the ancient cloister of M. Maeterlinck's

modern residence at St. Wandrille, see plainly enough the writing of a

still older legend, such as appeared, once, on the wall of a palace in

Babylon. On the left bank steep hills, originally wholly clothed with

forest and still thickly wooded, run down to the river with few breaks

in them, each break, however, being garrisoned by an ancient town. Of

these, Caudebec stands unrivalled. On the right bank the flat plain of

Normandy stretches to the sky-line, pink-and-white in spring with miles

of apple-orchards. The white clouds chase across its fair blue sky,

driven by the winds from the sea, and tall poplars rise in their uniform

rows along the river as if to guard a Paradise.

Caudebec can be reached from Le Havre in a few hours, and although cars

for hire and petrol were not abundant in France at the time, one could

find a chauffeur to make the journey if one was prepared to pay. Given

fine weather, it was an ideal place for a day off in the spring. And

Peter knew it.

In the Grand Magasin Julie had talked of a day off, and a party of four

had been mooted, but when he had leisure to think of it, Peter found

himself averse to four, and particularly if one of the four were to be

Donovan. He admitted it freely to himself. Donovan was the kind of a

man, he thought, that Julie must like, and he was the kind of man, too,

to put him, Peter, into the shade. Ordinarily he asked for no better

companion, but he hated to see Julie and Jack together. He could not make

the girl out, and he wanted to do so. He wanted to know what she thought

about many things, and--incidentally, of course--what she thought about

him.

He had argued all this over next morning while shaving, and had ended

by cutting himself. It was a slight matter, but it argued a certain

absent-mindedness, and it brought him back to decency. He perceived that

he was scheming to leave his friend out, and he fought resolutely against

the idea. Therefore, that afternoon, he went to the hospital, spent a

couple of hours chatting with the men, and finally wound up in the

nurses' mess-room for tea as usual. It was a little room, long and

narrow, at the end of the biggest ward, but its windows looked over the

sea and it was convenient to the kitchen. Coloured illustrations cut from

magazines and neatly mounted on brown paper decorated the walls, but

there was little else by way of furniture or ornament except a long table

and chairs. One could get but little talk except of a scrappy kind, for

nurses came continually in and out for tea, and, indeed, Julie had only a

quarter of an hour to spare. But he got things fixed up for the following

Thursday, and he left the place to settle with Donovan.

That gentleman's company of native labour was lodged a mile or so through

the docks from Peter's camp, on the banks of the Tancarville Canal. It

was enlivened at frequent intervals, day and night, by the sirens of

tugs bringing strings of barges to the docks, whence their cargo was

borne overseas in the sea-going tramps, or, of course, taking equally

long strings to the Seine for Rouen and Paris. It was mud and cinders

underfoot, and it was walled off with corrugated-iron sheeting and

barbed wire from the attentions of some hundreds of Belgian refugees who

lived along the canal and parallel roads in every conceivable kind of

resting-place, from ancient bathing-vans to broken-down railway-trucks.

But there were trees along the canal and reeds and grass, so that there

were worse places than Donovan's camp in Le Havre.

Peter found his friend surveying the endeavours of a gang of boys to

construct a raised causeway from the officers' mess to the orderly-room,

and he promptly broached his object. Donovan was entranced with the

proposal, but he could not go. He was adamant upon it. He could possibly

have got off, but it meant leaving his something camp for a whole day,

and just at present he couldn't. Peter could get Pennell or anyone.

Another time, perhaps, but not now. For thus can the devil trap his

victims.

Peter pushed back for home on his bicycle, but stopped at the docks on

his way to look up Pennell. That gentleman was bored, weary, and inclined

to be blasphemous. It appeared that for the whole, infernal day he had

had to watch the off-loading of motor-spares, that he had had no lunch,

and that he could not get away for a day next week if he tried. "It isn't

everyone can get a day off whenever he wants to, padre," he said. "In the

next war I shall be ..." Peter turned hard on his heel, and left him

complaining to the derricks.

He was now all but cornered. There was nobody else he particularly cared

to ask unless it were Arnold, and he could not imagine Arnold and Julie

together. It appeared to him that fate was on his side; it only remained

to persuade Julie to come alone. He pedalled back to mess and dinner, and

then, about half-past eight, strolled round to the hospital again. It was

late, of course, but he was a padre, and the hospital padre, and

privileged. He knew exactly what to do, and that he was really as safe as

houses in doing it, and yet this intriguing by night made him

uncomfortable still. He told himself he was an ass to think so, but he

could not get rid of the sensation.

Julie would be on duty till 9.30, and he could easily have a couple

of minutes' conversation with her in the ward. He followed the

railway-track, then, along the harbour, and went in under the great roof

of the empty station. On the far platform a hospital train was being made

ready for its return run, but, except for a few cleaners and orderlies,

the place was empty.

An iron stairway led up from the platform to the wards above. He

ascended, and found himself on a landing with the door of the theatre

open before him. There was a light in it, and he caught the sound of

water; some pro. was cleaning up. He moved down the passage and

cautiously opened the door of the ward.

It was shaded and still. Somewhere a man breathed heavily, and another

turned in his sleep. Just beyond the red glow of the stove, with the

empty armchairs in a circle before it, were screens from which came a

subdued light. He walked softly between the beds towards them, and looked

over the top.

Inside was a little sanctum: a desk with a shaded reading-lamp, a chair,

a couch, a little table with flowers upon it and a glass and jug, and on

the floor by the couch a work-basket. Julie was at the desk writing in a

big official book, and he watched her for a moment unobserved. It was

almost as if he saw a different person from the girl he knew. She was at

work, and a certain hidden sadness showed clearly in her face. But the

little brown fringe of hair on her forehead and the dimpled chin were the

same....

"Good-evening," he whispered.

She looked up quickly, with a start, and he noticed curiously how rapidly

the laughter came back to her face. "You did startle me, Solomon," she

said. "What is it?"

"I want to speak to you a minute about Thursday," he said. "Can I come

in?"

She got up and came round the screens. "Follow me," she said, "and don't

make a noise."

She led him across the ward to the wide verandah, opening the door

carefully and leaving it open behind her, and then walked to the

balustrade and glanced down. The hospital ship had gone, and there was

no one visible on the wharf. The stars were hidden, and there was a

suggestion of mist on the harbour, through which the distant lights

seemed to flicker.

"You're coming on, Solomon," she said mockingly. "Never tell me you'd

have dared to call on the hospital to see a nurse by night a few weeks

ago! Suppose matron came round? There is no dangerous case in my ward."

"Not among the men, perhaps," said Peter mischievously. "But, look here,

about Thursday; Donovan can't go, nor Pennell, and I don't know anyone

else I want to ask."

"Well, I'll see if I can raise a man. One or two of the doctors are

fairly decent, or I can get a convalescent out of the officers'

hospital."

She had the lights behind her, and he could not see her face, but he knew

she was laughing at him, and it spurred him on. "Don't rag, Julie," he

said, "You know I want you to come alone."

There was a perceptible pause. Then: "I can't cut Tommy," she said.

"Not for once?" he urged. She turned away from him and looked down at the

water. It is curious how there come moments of apprehension in all our

lives when we want a thing, but know quite well we are mad to want it.

Julie looked into the future for a few seconds, and saw plainly, but

would not believe what she saw.

When she turned back she had her old manner completely. "You're a dear

old thing," she said, "and I'll do it. But if it gets out that I gadded

about for a day with an officer, even though he is a padre, and that we

went miles out of town, there'll be some row, my boy. Quick now! I must

get back. What's the plan?"

"Thanks awfully," said Peter. "It will be a rag. What time can you get

off?"

"Oh, after breakfast easily--say eight-thirty."

"Right. Well, take the tram-car to Harfleur--you know?--as far as it

goes. I'll be at the terminus with a car. What time must you be in?"

"I can get late leave till ten, I think," she said.

"Good! That gives us heaps of time. We'll lunch and tea in Caudebec, and

have some sandwiches for the road home."

"And if the car breaks down?"

"It won't," said Peter. "You're lucky in love, aren't you?"

She did not laugh. "I don't know," she said. "Good-night."

And then Peter had walked home, thinking of Hilda. And he had sat by the

sea, and come to the conclusion that he was a rotter, but in the web of

Fate and much to be pitied, which is like a man. And then he had played

auction till midnight and lost ten francs, and gone to bed concluding

that he was certainly unlucky--at cards.

As Peter sat in his car at the Harfleur terminus that Thursday it must be

confessed that he was largely indifferent to the beauties of the Seine

Valley that he had professedly come to see. He was nervous, to begin

with, lest he should be recognised by anyone, and he was in one of his

troubled moods. But he had not long to wait. The tram came out, and he

threw away his cigarette and walked to meet the passengers.

Julie looked very smart in the grey with its touch of scarlet, but she

was discontented with it. "If only I could put on a few glad rags," she

said as she climbed into the car, "this would be perfect. You men can't

know how a girl comes to hate uniform. It's not bad occasionally, but if

you have to wear it always it spoils chances. But I've got my new shoes

and silk stockings on," she added, sticking out a neat ankle, "and my

skirt is not vastly long, is it? Besides, underneath, if it's any

consolation to you, I've really pretty things. Uniform or not, I see no

reason why one should not feel joyful next the skin. What do you think?"

Peter agreed heartily, and tucked a rug round her. "There's the more need

for this, then," he said.

"Oh, I don't know: silk always makes me feel so comfortable that I can't

be cold. Isn't it a heavenly day? We are lucky, you know; it might have

been beastly. Lor', but I'm going to enjoy myself to-day, my dear! I warn

you. I've got to forget how Tommy looked when I put her off with excuses.

I felt positively mean."

"What did she say?" asked Peter.

"That she didn't mind at all, as she had got to write letters," said

Julie, "Solomon, Tommy's a damned good sort!... Give us a cigarette, and

don't look blue. We're right out of town."

Peter got out his case. "Don't call me Solomon to-day," he said.

Julie threw herself back in her corner and shrieked with laughter. The

French chauffeur glanced round and grimaced appreciatively, and Peter

felt a fool. "What am I to call you, then?" she demanded. "You are a

funny old thing, and now you look more of a Solomon than ever."

"Call me Peter," he said.

She looked at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'm really

beginning to enjoy myself," she said. "But, look here, you mustn't begin

like this. How in the world do you think we shall end up if you do?

You'll have nothing left to say, and I shall be worn to a rag and a

temper warding off your sentimentality."

"Julie," said Peter, "are you ever serious? I can't help it, you know, I

suppose because I am a parson, though I am such a rotten one."

"Who says you're a rotten one?"

"Everybody who tells the truth, and, besides, I know it. I feel an

absolute stummer when I go around the wards. I never can say a word to

the men."

"They like you awfully. You know little Jimmy, that kiddie who came in

the other day who's always such a brick? Well, last night I went and sat

with him a bit because he was in such pain. I told him where I was going

to-day as a secret. What do you think he said about you?"

"I don't want to know," said Peter hastily.

"Well, you shall. He said if more parsons were like you, more men would

go to church. What do you make of that, old Solomon?"

"It isn't true to start with. A few might come for a little, but they

would soon fall off. And if they didn't, they'd get no good. I don't know

what to say to them."

Julie threw away her cigarette-stump. "One sees a lot of human nature in

hospitals, my boy," she said, "and it doesn't leave one with many

illusions. But from what I've seen, I should say nobody does much good by

talking."

"You don't understand," said Peter. "Look here, I shouldn't call you

religious in a way at all Don't be angry. I don't _know_, but I don't

think so, and I don't think you can possibly know what I mean."

"I used to do the flowers in church regularly at home," she said. "I

believe in God, though you think I don't."

Peter sighed. "Let's change the subject," he said. "Have you seen any

more of that Australian chap lately?"

"Rather! He's engaged to a girl I know, and I reckon I'm doing her a good

turn by sticking to him. He's a bit of a devil, you know, but I think I

can keep him off the French girls a bit."

Peter looked at her curiously. "You know what he is, and you don't mind

then?" he said.

"Good Lord, no!" she replied. "My dear boy, I know what men are. It isn't

in their nature to stick to one girl only. He loves Edie all right, and

he'll make her a good husband one day, if she isn't too particular and

inquisitive. If I were married, I'd give my husband absolute liberty--and

I'd expect it in return. But I shall never marry. There isn't a man who

can play fair. They'll take their own pleasures, but they are all as

jealous as possible. I've seen it hundreds of times."

"You amaze me," said Peter. "Let's talk straight. Do you mean to say that

if you were married and your husband ran up to Paris for a fortnight, and

you knew exactly what he'd gone for, you wouldn't mind?"

"No," she declared roundly. "I wouldn't. He'd come back all the more fond

of me, I'd know I'd be a fool to expect anything else."

Peter stared at her. She was unlike anything he had ever seen. Her moral

standards, if she had any, he added mentally, were so different from his

own that he was absolutely floored. He thought grimly that alone in a

motor-car he had got among the multitude with a vengeance. "Have you

ever been in love?" he demanded.

She laughed. "Solomon, you're the quaintest creature. Do you think I'd

tell you if I had been? You never ought to ask anyone that. But if you

want to know, I've been in love hundreds of times. It's a queer disease,

but not serious--at least, not if you don't take it too seriously."

"You don't know what love is at all," he said.

She faced him fairly and unashamed. "I do," she said, "It's an animal

passion for the purpose of populating the earth. And if you ask me, I

think it is rather a dirty trick on the part of God."

"You don't mean that," he said, distressed.

She laughed again merrily, and slipped her hand into his under the rug.

"Peter," she said--"there, am I not good? You aren't made to worry about

these things. I don't know that anyone is. We can't help ourselves, and

the best thing is to take our pleasures when we can find them. I suppose

you'll be shocked at me, but I'm not going to pretend. I wasn't built

that way. If this were a closed car I'd give you a kiss."

"I don't want that sort of a kiss," he said. "That was what you gave me

the other night. I want...."

"You don't know what you want, my dear, though you think you do. You

shouldn't be so serious. I'm sure I kiss very nicely--plenty of men think

so? anyway, and if there is nothing in that sort of kiss, why not kiss?

Is there a Commandment against it? I suppose our grandmothers thought so,

but we don't. Besides, I've been east of Suez, where there ain't no ten

Commandments. There's only one real rule left in life for most of us,

Peter, and that's this: 'Be a good pal, and don't worry.'"

Peter sighed. "You and I were turned out differently, Julie," he said.

"But I like you awfully. You attract me so much that I don't know how to

express it. There's nothing mean about you, and nothing sham. And I

admire your pluck beyond words. It seems to me that you've looked life in

the face and laughed. Anybody can laugh at death, but very few of us at

life. I think I'm terrified of it. And that's the awful part about it

all, for I ought to know the secret, and I don't. I feel an absolute

hypocrite at times--when I take a service, for example. I talk about

things I don't understand in the least, even about God, and I begin

to think I know nothing about Him...." He broke off, utterly miserable.

"Poor old boy," she said softly; "is it as bad as that?"

He turned to her fiercely. "You darling!" he said, carried away by her

tone. "I believe I'd rather have you than--than God!"

She did not move in her corner, nor did she smile now. "I wonder," she

said slowly. "Peter, it's you that hate shams, not I. It's you that are

brave, not I. I play with shams because I know they're shams, but I like

playing with them. But you are greater than I. You are not content with

playing. One of these days--oh, I don't know...." She broke off and

looked away.

Peter gripped her hand tightly. "Don't, little girl," he said. "Let's

forget for to-day. Look at those primroses; they're the first I've seen.

Aren't they heavenly?"

They ran into Caudebec in good time, and lunched at an hotel overlooking

the river, with great enthusiasm. To Peter it was utterly delicious to

have her by him. She was as gay as she could possibly be, and made fun

over everything. Sitting daintily before him, her daring, unconventional

talk carried him away. She chose the wine, and after _dèjeuner_ sat with

her elbows on the table, puffing at a cigarette, her brown eyes alight

with mischief, apparently without a thought for to-morrow.

"Oh, I say," she said, "do look at that party in the corner. The old

Major's well away, and the girl'll have a job to keep him in hand, I

wonder where they're from? Rouen, perhaps; there was a car at the door.

What do you think of the girl?"

Peter glanced back. "No better than she ought to be," he said.

"No, I don't suppose so, but they are gay, these French girls. I don't

wonder men like them. And they have a hard time. I'd give them a leg up

any day if I could. I can't, though, so if ever you get a chance do it

for me, will you?"

Peter assented. "Come on," he said. "Finish that glass if you think you

can, and let's get out."

"Here's the best, then, I've done. What are we going to see?"

For a couple of hours they wandered round the old town, with its narrow

streets and even fifteenth-century houses, whose backs actually leaned

over the swift little river that ran all but under the place to the

Seine. They penetrated through an old mill to its back premises, and

climbed precariously round the water-wheel to reach a little moss-grown

platform from which the few remaining massive stones of the Norman wall

and castle could still be seen. The old abbey kept them a good while,

Julie interested Peter enormously as they walked about its cool aisles,

and tried to make out the legends of its ancient glass. She had nothing

of that curious kind of shyness most people have in a church, and that he

would certainly have expected of her. She joked and laughed a little in

it--at a queer row of mutilated statues packed into a kind of chapel to

keep quiet out of the way till wanted, at the vivid red of the Red Sea

engulfing Pharaoh and all his host--but not in the least irreverently. He

recalled a saying of a book he had once read in which a Roman Catholic

priest had defended the homeliness of an Italian congregation by saying

that it was right for them to be at home in their Father's House. It

was almost as if Julie were at home, yet he shrank from the inference.

She was entirely ignorant of everything, except perhaps, of a little

biblical history, but she made a most interested audience. Once he

thought she was perhaps egging him on for his own pleasure, but when he

grew more silent she urged him to explain. "It's ripping going round with

somebody who knows something," she said. "Most of the men one meets know

absolutely nothing. They're very jolly, but one gets tired. I could

listen to you for ages."

Peter assured her that he was almost as ignorant as they, but she was

shrewdly insistent. "You read more, and you understand what you read,"

she said. "Most people don't. I know."

They bought picture post-cards off a queer old woman in a peasant

head-dress, and then came back to the river and sat under the shade of

a line of great trees to wait for the tea the hotel had guaranteed them.

Julie now did all the talking--of South Africa, of gay adventures in

France and on the voyage, and of the men she had met. She was as frank

as possible, but Peter wondered how far he was getting to know the real

girl.

Tea was an unusual success for France. It was real tea, but then there

was reason for that, for Julie had insisted on going into the big

kitchen, to madame's amusement and monsieur's open admiration, and making

it herself. But the chocolate cakes, the white bread and proper butter,

and the cream, were a miracle. Peter wondered if you could get such

things in England now, and Julie gaily told him that the French made laws

only to break them, with several instances thereof. She declared that if

a food-ration officer existed in Caudebec he must be in love with the

landlady's daughter and that she only wished she could get to know such

an official in Havre. The daughter in question waited on them, and Julie

and she chummed up immensely. Finally she was despatched to produce a

collection of Army badges and buttons--scalps Julie called them. When

they came they turned them over. All ranks were represented, or nearly

so, and most regiments that either could remember. There were Canadian,

Australian, and South African badges, and at last Julie declared that

only one was wanting.

"What will you give for this officer's badge?" she demanded, seizing hold

of one of Peter's Maltese crosses.

The girl looked at it curiously. "What is it?" she said.

"It's the badge of the Sacred Legion," said Julie gravely. "You know

Malta? Well, that's part of the British Empire, of course, and the

English used to have a regiment there to defend it from the Turks. It was

a great honour to join, and so it was called the Sacred Legion. This

officer is a Captain in it."

"Shut up Julie," said Peter, _sotto voce_.

But nothing would stop her. "Come now," she said. "What will you give?

You'll give her one for a kiss, won't you, Solomon?"

The girl laughed and blushed "Not before mademoiselle," she said, looking

at Peter.

"Oh, I'm off," cried Julie, "I'll spare you one, but only one, remember."

and she deliberately got up and left them.

Mademoiselle was "tres jolie," said the girl, collecting her badges.

Peter detached a cross and gave it her, and she demurely put up her

mouth. He kissed her lightly, and walked leisurely out to settle the bill

and call the car. He had entirely forgotten his depression, and the world

seemed good to him. He hummed a little song by the water's edge as he

waited, and thought over the day. He could never remember having had such

a one in his life. Then he recollected that one badge was gone, and he

abstracted the other. Without his badges he would not be known as a

chaplain.

When Julie appeared, she made no remark, as he had half-expected. They

got in, and started off back in the cooling evening. Near Tancarville

they stopped the car to have the hood put up, and strolled up into the

grounds of the old castle while they waited.

"Extraordinary it must have been to have lived in a place like this,"

said Peter.

"Rather," said Julie, "and beyond words awful to the women. I cannot

imagine what they must have been like, but I think they must have been

something like native African women."

"Why?" queried Peter.

"Oh, because a native woman never reads and hardly goes five miles from

her village. She is a human animal, who bears children and keeps the

house of her master, that's all. That's what these women must have done."

"The Church produced some different types," said Peter; "but they had no

chance elsewhere, perhaps. Still, I expect they were as happy as we,

perhaps happier."

"And their cows were happier still, I should think," laughed Julie. "No,

you can't persuade me. I wouldn't have been a woman in those days for the

world."

"And now?" asked Peter.

"Rather! We have much the best time on the whole. We can do what we like

pretty well. If we want to be men, we can. We can put on riding-breeches,

even, and run a farm. But if we like, we can wear glad rags and nice

undies, and be more women than ever."

"And in the end thereof?" Peter couldn't help asking.

"Oh," said Julie lightly, "one can settle down and have babies if one

wants to. And sit in a drawing-room and talk scandal as much as one

likes. Not that I shall do either, thank you. I shall--oh, I don't know

what I shall do. Solomon, you are at your worst. Pick me some of those

primroses, and let's be going. You never can tell: we may have to walk

home yet."

Peter plucked a few of the early blooms, and she pushed them into her

waist-belt. Then they went back to the car, and got in again.

"Cold?" he asked, after a little.

"A bit," she said. "Tuck me up, and don't sit in that far corner all the

time. You make me feel chilly to look at you. I hate sentimental people,

but if you tried hard and were nice I could work up quite a lot of

sentiment just now."

He laughed, and tucked her up as required. Then he lit a cigarette and

slipped his arm round her waist. "Is that better?" he said.

"Much. But you can't have had much practice. Now tell me stories."

Peter had a mind to tell her several, but he refrained, and they grew

silent, "Do you think we shall have another day like this?" he demanded,

after a little.

"I don't see why not," she said. "But one never knows, does one? The

chances are we shan't. It's a queer old world."

"Let's try, anyway; I've loved it," he said.

"So have I," said Julie. "It's the best day I've had for a long time,

Peter. You're a nice person to go out with, you know, though I mustn't

flatter you too much. You should develop the gift; it's not everyone that

has it."

"I've no wish to," he said.

"You are an old bear," she laughed; "but you don't mean all you say, or

rather you do, for you will say what you mean. You shouldn't, Peter. It's

not done nowadays, and it gives one away. If you were like me, now, you

could say and do anything and nobody would mind. They'd never know what

you meant, and of course all the time you'd mean nothing."

"So you mean nothing all the time?" he queried.

"Of course," she said merrily. "What do you think?"

That jarred Peter a little, so he said nothing and silence fell on them,

and at the Hôtel de Ville in the city he asked if she would mind

finishing alone.

"Not a bit, old thing, if you want to go anywhere," she said.

He apologised. "Arnold--he's our padre--is likely to be at the club, and

I promised I'd walk home with him," he lied remorselessly. "It's beastly

rude, I know, but I thought you'd understand."

She looked at him, and laughed. "I believe I do," she said.

He stopped the car and got out, settling with the man, and glancing up at

a clock. "You'll be in at nine-forty-five," he said, "as proper as

possible. And thank you so much for coming."

"Thank you, Solomon," she replied. "It's been just topping. Thanks

awfully for taking me. And come in to tea soon, won't you?" He promised

and held out his hand. She pressed it, and waved out of the window as the

car drove off. And no sooner was it in motion than he cursed himself for

a fool. Yet he knew why he had done as he had, there, in the middle of

the town. He knew that he feared she would kiss him again--as before.

Not noticing where he went, he set off through the streets, making,

unconsciously almost, for the sea, and the dark boulevards that led from

the gaily lit centre of the city towards it. He walked slowly, his mind a

chaos of thoughts, and so ran into a curious adventure.

As he passed a side-street he heard a man's uneven steps on the pavement,

a girl's voice, a curse, and the sound of a fall. Then followed an

exclamation in another woman's voice, and a quick sentence in French.

Peter hesitated a minute, and then turned down the road to where a small

group was faintly visible. As he reached it, he saw that a couple of

street girls were bending over a man who lay sprawling on the ground, and

he quickened his steps to a run. His boots were rubber-soled, and all but

noiseless. "Here, I say," he said as he came up. "Let that man alone.

What are you doing?" he added in halting French. One of the two girls

gave a little scream, but the other straightened herself, and Peter

perceived that he knew her. It was Louise, of Travalini's.

"What are you doing?" he demanded again in English. "Is he hurt?"

"Non, non, monsieur," said Louise. "He is but 'zig-zag.' We found him a

little way down the street, and he cannot walk easily. So we help him. If

the gendarme--how do you call him?--the red-cap, see him, maybe he will

get into trouble. But now you come. You will doubtless help him.

Vraiment, he is in luck. We go now, monsieur."

Peter bent over the fallen man. He did not know him, but saw he was a

subaltern, though a middle-aged man. The fellow was very drunk, and did

little else than stutter curses in which the name of our Lord was

frequent.

Peter pulled at his arm, and Louise stooped to help him. Once up, he got

his arm round him, and demanded where he lived.

The man stared at them foolishly. Peter gave him a bit of a shake, and

demanded the address again, "Come on," he said. "Pull yourself together,

for the Lord's sake. We shall end before the A.P.M. if you don't. What's

your camp, you fool?"

At that the man told him, stammeringly, and Peter sighed his relief.

"I know," he said to Louise. "It's not far. I'll maybe get a taxi at the

corner." She pushed him towards a doorway: "Wait a minute," she said.

"I live here; it's all right. I will get a fiacre. I know where to find

one."

She darted away. It seemed long to Peter, but in a few minutes a horn

tooted and a cab came round the corner. Between them, they got the

subaltern in, and Peter gave the address. Then he pulled out his purse

before stepping in himself, opened it, found a ten-franc note, and

offered it to Louise.

The girl of the street and the tavern pushed it away. "La!" she

exclaimed. "Vite! Get in. Bon Dieu! Should I be paid for a kindness? Poor

boy! he does not know what he does. He will 'ave a head--ah! terrible--in

the morning. And see, he has fought for la patrie." She pointed to a gold

wound-stripe on his arm. "Bon soir, monsieur."

She stepped back and spoke quickly to the driver, who was watching

sardonically. He nodded. "Bon soir, monsieur," she said again, and

disappeared in the doorway.

CHAPTER IX

A few weeks later the War Office--if it was the War Office, but one gets

into the habit of attributing these things to the War Office--had one of

its regular spasms. It woke up suddenly with a touch of nightmare, and it

got fearfully busy for a few weeks before going to sleep again. All

manner of innocent people were dragged into the vortex of its activities,

and blameless lives were disturbed and terrorised. This particular

enthusiasm involved even such placid and contented souls as the

Chaplain-General, the Principal Chaplain, their entire staffs and a great

many of their rank and file. It created a new department, acquired many

additional offices for the B.E.F., dragged from their comfortable billets

a certain number of high-principled base officers, and then (by the mercy

of Providence) flickered out almost as soon as the said officers bad made

themselves a little more comfortable than before in their new posts.

It was so widespread a disturbance that even Peter Graham, most harmless

of men, with plenty of his own fish to fry, was dragged into it, as some

leaf, floating placidly downstream, may be caught and whirled away in an

excited eddy. More definitely, it removed him from Havre and Julie just

when he was beginning to want most definitely to stay there, and of

course, when it happened, he could hardly know that it was to be but a

temporary separation.

He was summoned, then, one fine morning, to his A.C.G.'s office in town,

and he departed on a bicycle, turning over in his mind such indiscretions

of which he had been guilty and wondering which of them was about to trip

him. Pennell had been confident, indeed, and particular.

"You're for it, old bean," he had said. "There's a limit to the patience

even of the Church. They are going to say that there is no need for you

to visit hospitals after dark, and that their padres mustn't be seen out

with nurses who smoke in public. And all power to their elbow, I say."

Peter's reply was certainly not in the Prayer-Book, and would probably

have scandalised its compilers, but he thought, secretly, that there

might be something in what his friend said. Consequently he rode his

bicycle carelessly, and was indifferent to tram-lines and some six inches

of nice sticky mud on parts of the _pavé_. In the ordinary course,

therefore, these things revenged themselves upon him. He came off neatly

and conveniently opposite a small _café debit_ at a turn in the dock

road, and the mud prevented the _pavé_ from seriously hurting him.

A Frenchman, minding the cross-lines, picked him up, and he, madame,

her assistant, and a customer, carried him into the kitchen off the

bar and washed and dried him. The least he could do was a glass of

French beer all round, with a franc to the dock labourer who straightened

his handle-bars and tucked in a loose spoke, and for all this the War

Office--if it was the War Office, for it may, quite possibly, have been

Lord Northcliffe or Mr. Bottomley, or some other controller of our

national life--was directly responsible. When one thinks that in a

hundred places just such disturbances were in progress in ten times as

many innocent lives, one is appalled at their effrontery. They ought to

eat and drink more carefully, or take liver pills.

However, in due time Peter sailed up to the office of his immediate chief

but little the worse for wear, and was ushered in. He was prepared for a

solitary interview, but he found a council of some two dozen persons, who

included an itinerant Bishop, an Oxford Professor, a few Y.M.C.A. ladies,

and--triumph of the A.C.G.--a Labour member. Peter could not conceive

that so great a weight of intellect could be involved in his affairs, and

took comfort. He seated himself on a wooden chair, and put on his most

intelligent appearance; and if it was slightly marred by a mud streak

at the back of his ear, overlooked by madame's kindly assistant who had

attended to that side of him, he was not really to blame. Again, it was

the fault of Lord Northcliffe or--or any of the rest of them.

It transpired that he was slightly late: the Bishop had been speaking. He

was a good Bishop and eloquent, and, as the A.C.G. who now rose to take

the matter in hand remarked, he had struck the right note. In all

probability it was due to Peter's having missed that note that he was so

critical of the scheme. The note would have toned him up. He would have

felt a more generous sympathy for the lads in the field, and would have

been more definitely convinced that something must be done. If not

plainly stated in the Holy Scriptures, his lordship had at least found it

indicated there, but Peter was not aware of this. He only observed that

the note had made everyone solemn and intense except the Labour member.

That gentleman, indeed, interrupted the A.C.G. before he was fairly on

his legs with the remark: "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but as this is an

informal conference, does anyone mind if I smoke?"...

Peter's A.C.G. was anything but a fool, and the nightmare from

Headquarters had genuinely communicated itself to him. He felt all he

said, and he said it ably. He lacked only in one regard: he had never

been down among the multitude. He knew exactly what would have to have

been in his own mind for him to act as he believed some of them were

acting, and he knew exactly how he would, in so deplorable a condition of

affairs, have set about remedying it. These things, then, he stated

boldly and clearly. As he proceeded, the Y.M.C.A. ladies got out

notebooks, the Professor allowed himself occasional applause, and the

Labour member lit another pipe.

It appeared that there was extreme unrest and agitation among the troops,

or at least a section of the troops, for no one could say that the armies

in the field were not magnificent. They had got to remember that the

Tommy of to-day was not as the Tommy of yesterday--not that he suffered

by comparison, but that he was far better educated and far more inclined

to think for himself. They were well aware that a little knowledge was a

dangerous thing, or, again, as his friend the Bishop would have doubtless

put it, how great a matter a little fire kindleth. There was no escaping

it: foreign propaganda, certain undesirable books and papers--books and

papers, he need hardly say, outside the control of the reputable

Press--and even Socialistic agitators, were abroad in the Army. He did

not wish to say too much; it was enough to remind them of what, possibly,

they already knew, that certain depots on certain occasions had refused

to sing the National Anthem, and were not content with their wages.

Insignificant as these things might be in detail, G.H.Q. had felt there

was justifiable cause for alarm. This meeting had gathered to consider

plans for a remedy.

Now he thanked God that they were not Prussians. There must be no attempt

at coercion. A war for liberty must be won by free people. One had, of

course, to have discipline in the Army, but theirs was to-day a citizen

Army. His friend who had left his parliamentary duties to visit France

might rest assured that the organizations represented there that morning

would not forget that. In a word, Tommy had a vote, and he was entitled

to it, and should keep it. One day he should even use it; and although no

one could wish to change horses crossing a stream, still, they hoped that

day would speedily come--the day of peace and victory.

But meantime, what was to be done? As the Bishop had rightly said,

something must be done. Resolute on this point, H.Q. had called in the

C.G. and the P.C. and, he believed, expert opinion on both sides the

House of Commons; and the general opinion agreed upon was that Tommy

should be educated to vote correctly when the time came, and to wait

peacefully for that time. The Professor could tell them of schemes even

now in process of formation at home in order that the land they loved

might be cleaner, sweeter, better and happier, in the days to come. But

Tommy, meantime, did not know of these things. He was apparently under

the delusion that he must work out his own salvation, whereas, in point

of fact, it was being worked out for him scientifically and religiously.

If these things were clearly laid before him, H.Q. was convinced that

agitation, dissatisfaction, and even revolution--for there were those who

thought they were actually trending in that direction--would be nipped in

the bud.

The scheme was simple and far-reaching. Lectures would be given all over

the areas occupied by British troops. Every base would be organised in

such a way that such lectures and even detailed courses of study should

be available for everyone. Every chaplain, hutworker, and social

entertainer must do his or her bit. They must know how to speak wisely

and well--not all in public, but, everyone as the occasion offered,

privately, in hut or camp, to inquiring and dissatisfied Tommies. They

would doubtless feel themselves insufficient for these things, but

study-circles were to be formed and literature obtained which would

completely furnish them with information. He would conclude by merely

laying on the table a bundle of the splendid papers and tracts already

prepared for this work. The Professor would now outline what was being

attempted at home, and then the meeting would be open for discussion.

The Professor was given half an hour, and he made an excellent speech for

a cornered and academic theorist. The first ten minutes he devoted to

explaining that he could not explain in the time; in the second,

tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, he pointed out that it was no use

his outlining schemes not yet completed, or that they could read for

themselves, or that, possibly, without some groundwork, they could not

understand; and in the third ten minutes he outlined the committees

dealing with the work and containing such well-known names as Robert

Smiley, Mr. Button, and Clydens. He sat down. Everyone applauded--the

M.P., and possibly the A.C.G., because they honestly knew and respected

these gentlemen, and the rest because they felt they ought to do so. The

meeting was then opened for discussion.

Peter took no part in what followed, and, indeed, nothing

over-illuminating was said save one remark, cast upon the waters by the

Labour member, which was destined to be found after many days. They were

talking of the lectures, and one of the ladies (Peter understood a Girton

lecturer) was apparently eager to begin without delay. The M.P. begged to

ask a question: Were there to be questions and a discussion?

The A.C.G. glanced at a paper before him, and rose. He apologised for

omitting to mention it before, but H.Q. thought it would be subverse of

all discipline if, let us say, privates should be allowed to get up and

argue with the officers who might have addressed them. They all knew

what might be said in the heat of argument. Also, if he might venture to

say so, some of their lecturers, though primed with the right lecture,

might not be such experts that they could answer every question, and

plainly failure to satisfy a questioner might be disastrous. But

questions could be written and replies given at the next lecture. He

thought, smiling, that some of them would perhaps find that convenient.

The M.P. leaned back in his chair. "Well, sir," he said, "I'm sorry to be

a wet-blanket, but if that is so, the scheme is wrecked from the start.

You don't know the men; I do. They're not going to line up, like the

pupils of Dotheboys Academy, for a spoonful of brimstone and treacle."

The meeting was slightly scandalised. The chairman, however, rose to the

occasion. That, he said, was a matter for H.Q. They were there to do

their duty. And, being an able person, he did his. In ten minutes they

were formed into study-bands and were pledged to study, with which

conclusion the meeting adjourned.

Peter was almost out of the door when he heard his name called, and

turning, saw the A.C.G. beckoning him. He went up to the table and shook

hands.

"Do you know the Professor?" asked his superior. "Professor, this is Mr.

Graham."

"How do you do?" said the man of science. "You are Graham of Balliol,

aren't you? You read Political Science and Economics a little at Oxford,

I think? You ought to be the very man for us, especially as you know how

to speak."

Peter was confused, but, being human, a little flattered. He confessed to

the sins enumerated, and waited for more.

"Well," said the A.C.G., "I've sent in your name already, Graham, and

they want you to go to Abbeville for a few weeks. A gathering is to be

made there of the more promising material, and you are to get down to the

work of making a syllabus, and so on. You will meet other officers from

all branches of the Service, and it should be interesting and useful. I

presume you will be willing to go? Of course it is entirely optional, but

I may say that the men who volunteer will not be forgotten."

"Quite so," said the Professor. "They will render extremely valuable

service. I shall hope to be there part of the time myself."

Peter thought quickly of a number of things, as one does at such a

moment. Some of them were serious things, and some quite frivolous--like

Julie. But he could hardly do otherwise than consent. He asked when he

should have to go.

"In a few days. You'll have plenty of time to get ready. I should advise

you to write for some books, and begin to read up a little, for I expect

you are a bit rusty, like the rest of us. And I shall hope to have you

back lecturing in this Army area before long."

So to speak, bowed out, Peter made his way home. In the Rue de Paris

Julie passed him, sitting with a couple of other nurses in an ambulance

motor-lorry, and she waved her hand to him. The incident served to

depress him still more, and he was a bit petulant as he entered the mess.

He flung his cap on the table, and threw himself into a chair.

"Well," said Pennell, who was there, "on the peg all right?"

"Don't be a fool!" said Peter sarcastically. "I'm wanted on the Staff.

Haig can't manage without me. I've got to leave this perishing suburb and

skip up to H.Q., and don't you forget it, old dear. I shall probably be a

Major-General before you get your third pip. Got that?"

Pennell took his pipe from his mouth. "What's in the wind now?" he

demanded.

"Well, you might not have noticed it, but I'm a political and economic

expert, and Haig's fed up that you boys don't tumble to the wisdom of the

centuries as you ought. Consequently I've got to instruct you. I'm going

to waltz around in a motor-car, probably with tabs up, and lecture. And

there aren't to be any questions asked, for that's subversive of

discipline."

"Good Lord, man, do talk sense! What in the world do you mean?"

"I mean jolly well what I say, if you want to know, or something precious

like it. The blinking Army's got dry-rot and revolutionary fever, and we

may all be murdered in our little beds unless I put a shoulder to the

wheel. That's a bit mixed, but it'll stand. I shall be churning out this

thing by the yard in a little."

"Any extra pay?" demanded Pennell anxiously. "I can lecture on

engineering, and would do for an extra sixpence. Whisky's going up, and

I haven't paid my last mess bill."

"You haven't, old son," said Arnold, coming in, "and you've jolly well

got to. Here's a letter for you, Graham."

Peter glanced at the envelope and tore it open. Pennell knocked his pipe

out with feigned dejection. "The fellow makes me sick, padre," he said.

"He gets billets-doux every hour of the blessed day."

Peter jumped up excitedly. "This is better," he said. "It's a letter from

Langton at Rouen, a chap I met there who writes occasionally. He's been

hauled in for this stunt himself, and is to go to Abbeville as well. By

Jove, I'll go up with him if I can. Give me some paper, somebody. I'll

have to write to him at once, or we'll boss it."

"And make a will, and write to a dozen girls, I should think," said

Pennell. "I don't know what the blooming Army's coming to. Might as well

chuck it and have peace, I think. But meantime I've got to leave you

blighted slackers to gad about the place, and go and do an honest day's

work. _I_ don't get Staff jobs and red tabs. No; I help win the ruddy

war, that's all. See you before you go, Graham, I suppose? They'll likely

run the show for a day or two more without you. There'll be time for you

to stand a dinner on the strength of it yet."

A week later Peter met Langton by appointment in the Rouen club, the two

of them being booked to travel that evening via Amiens to Abbeville. His

tall friend was drinking a whisky-and-soda in the smoke-room and talking

with a somewhat bored expression to no less a person than Jenks of the

A.S.C.

Peter greeted them. "Hullo!" he said to the latter. "Fancy meeting you

here again. Don't say you're going to lecture as well?"

"The good God preserve us!" exclaimed Jenks blasphemously. "But I am off

in your train to Boulogne. Been transferred to our show there, and

between ourselves, I'm not sorry to go. It's a decent hole in some ways,

Boulogne, and it's time I got out of Rouen. You're a lucky man, padre,

not to be led into temptation by every damned girl you meet. I don't know

what they see in me," he continued mournfully, "and, at this hour of the

afternoon, I don't know what I see in them."

"Nor do I," said Langton. "Have a drink, Graham? There'll be no getting

anything on the ruddy train. We leave at six-thirty, and get in somewhere

about four a.m. next morning, so far as I can make out."

"You don't sound over-cheerful," said Graham.

"I'm not. I'm fed up over this damned lecture stunt! The thing's

condemned to failure from the start, and at any rate it's no time for it.

Fritz means more by this push than the idiots about here allow. He may

not get through; but, on the other hand, he may. If he does, it's UP with

us all. And here we are to go lecturing on economics and industrial

problems while the damned house is on fire!"

Peter took his drink and sat down. "What's your particular subject?" he

asked.

"The Empire. Colonies. South Africa. Canada. And why? Because I took a

degree in History in Cambridge, and have done surveying on the C.P.R.

Lor'! Finish that drink and have another."

They went together to the station, and got a first to themselves, in

which they were fortunate. They spread their kit about the place,

suborned an official to warn everyone else off, and then Peter and

Langton strolled up and down the platform for half an hour, as the

train was not now to start till seven. Somebody told them there was

a row on up the line, though it was not plain how that would affect

them. Jenks departed on business of his own. A girl lived somewhere

in the neighbourhood.

"How're you getting on now, padre?" asked Langton.

"I'm not getting on," said Peter. "I'm doing my job as best I can, and

I'm seeing all there is to see, but I'm more in a fog than ever. I've got

a hospital at Havre, and I distribute cigarettes and the news of the day.

That's about all. I get on all right with the men socially, and now and

again I meet a keen Nonconformist who wants me to pray with him, or an

Anglican who wants Holy Communion, but not many. When I preach I rebuke

vice, as the Apostle says, but I'm hanged if I really know why."

Langton laughed. "That's a little humorous, padre," he said. "What about

the Ten Commandments?"

Peter thought of Julie. He kicked a stone viciously. "Commandments are no

use," he said--"not out here."

"Nor anywhere," said Langton, "nor ever, I think, too. Why do you suppose

I keep moderately moral? Chiefly because I fear natural consequences and

have a wife and kiddies that I love. Why does Jenks do the opposite?

Because he's more of a fool or less of a coward, and chiefly loves

himself. That's all, and that's all there is in it for most of us."

"You don't fear God at all, then?" demanded Peter.

"Oh that I knew where I might find him!" quoted Langton. "I don't believe

He thundered on Sinai, at any rate."

"Nor spoke in the Sermon on the Mount?"

"Ah, I'm not so sure but it seems to me that He said too much or He

said too little there, Graham. One can't help 'looking on' a woman

occasionally. And in any case it doesn't seem to me that the Sermon is

anything like the Commandments. Brotherly love is behind the first, fear

of a tribal God behind the second. So far as I can see, Christ's creed

was to love and to go on loving and never to despair of love. Love,

according to Him, was stronger than hate, or commandments or preaching,

or the devil himself. If He saved souls at all, He saved them by loving

them whatever they were, and I reckon He meant us to do the same. What do

you make of the woman taken in adultery, and the woman who wiped His feet

with her hair? Or of Peter? or of Judas? He saved Peter by loving him

when he thought he ought to have the Ten Commandments and hell fire

thrown at his head and I reckon He'd have saved Judas by giving him that

sop-token of love if he hadn't had a soul that could love nothing but

himself."

"What is love, Langton?" asked Peter, after a pause.

The other looked at him curiously, and laughed. "Ask the Bishops," he

said. "Don't ask me. I don't know. Living with the woman to whom you're

married because you fear to leave her, or because you get on all right,

is not love at any rate. I can't see that marriage has got much to do

with it. It's a decent convention of society at this stage of development

perhaps, and it may sign and seal love for some people. But I reckon

love's love--a big positive thing that's bigger than sin, and bigger than

the devil. I reckon that if God sees that anywhere, He's satisfied. I

don't think Cranmer's marriage service affects Him much, nor the laws

of the State. If a man cares to do without either, he runs a risk, of

course. Society's hard on a woman, and man's meant to be a gregarious

creature. But that's all there is in it."

"But how can you tell lust from love?" demanded Peter.

"You can't, I think," said Langton. "Most men can't, anyway. Women may

do, but I don't know. I reckon that what they lust after mostly is babies

and a home. I don't think they know it any more than men know that what

they're after is the gratification of a passion; but there it is. We're

sewer rats crawling up a damned long drain, if you ask me, padre! I don't

know who said it, but it's true."

They turned in their walk, and Peter looked out over the old town. In the

glow of sunset the thin iron modern spire of the cathedral had a grace

not its own, and the roofs below it showed strong and almost sentient.

One could imagine that the distant cathedral brooding over the city

heard, saw, and spoke, if in another language than the language of men.

"If that were all, Langton," said Peter suddenly, "I'd shoot myself."

"You're a queer fellow, Graham," said Langton. "I almost think you might.

I'd like to know what becomes of you, anyway. Forgive me--I don't mean to

be rude--but you may make a parson yet. But don't found a new religion

for Heaven's sake, and don't muddle up man-made laws and God-made

instincts--if they are God-made," he added.

Peter said nothing, until they were waiting at the carriage-door for

Jenks. Then he said: "Then you think out here men have simply abandoned

conventions, and because there is no authority or fear or faith left to

them, they do as they please?"

Langton settled himself in a corner. "Yes," he said, "that's right in a

way. But that's negatively. I'd go farther than that. Of course, there

are a lot of Judas Iscariots about for whom I shouldn't imagine the devil

himself has much time, though I suppose we ought not to judge 'em, but

there are also a lot of fine fellows--and fine women. They are men and

women, if I understand it, who have sloughed off the conventions, that

are conventions simply for convention's sake, and who are reaching out

towards the realities. Most of them haven't an idea what those are, but

dumbly they know. Tommy knows, for instance, who is a good chum and who

isn't; that is, he knows that sincerity and unselfishness and pluck are

realities. He doesn't care a damn if a chap drinks and swears and commits

what the Statute-Book and the Prayer-Book call fornication. And he

certainly doesn't think there is an ascending scale of sins, or at

any rate that you parsons have got the scale right."

"I shouldn't be surprised if we haven't," said Peter. "The Bible lumps

liars and drunkards and murderers and adulterers and dogs--whatever that

may mean--into hell altogether."

"That's so," said Langton, sticking a candle on the window-sill; "but I

reckon that's not so much because they lie or drink or murder or lust

or--or grin about the city like our friend Jenks, who'll likely miss the

boat for that very reason, but because of something else they all have in

common."

"What's that?" demanded Peter.

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Langton.

At this moment the French guard, an R.T.O., and Jenks appeared in sight

simultaneously, the two former urging the latter along. He caught sight

of them, and waved.

"Help him in," said the R.T.O., a jovial-looking subaltern,

genially--"and keep him there," he added under his voice.

"He's had all he can carry, and if he gets loose again he'll

be for the high jump. The wonder is he ever got back in

time."

Peter helped him up. The subaltern glanced at his badges and smiled.

"He's in good company anyway, padre," he said. "If you're leaving the

ninety-and-nine in the wilderness, here's one to bring home rejoicing."

He slammed the door. "Right-o!" he said to the guard; "they're all aboard

now." The man comprehended the action, and waved a flag. The train

started after the manner of French trains told off for the use of British

soldiers, and Jenks collapsed on the seat.

"Damned near thing that!" he said unsteadily; "might have missed the

bloody boat! I saw my little bit, though. She's a jolly good sort, she

is. Blasted strong stuff that French brandy, though! Whiskies at the club

first, yer know. Give us a hand, padre; I reckon I'll just lie down

a bit.... Jolly good sort of padre, eh, skipper? What?"

Peter helped him into his place, and then came and sat at his feet,

opposite Langton, who smiled askance at him. "I'll read a bit," he said.

"Jenks won't trouble us further; he'll sleep it off. I know his sort. Got

a book, padre?"

Peter said he had, but that he wouldn't read for a little, and he sat

still looking at the country as they jolted past in the dusk. After a

while Langton lit his candle, and contrived a wind-screen, for the centre

window was broken, of a newspaper. Peter watched him drowsily. He had

been up early and travelled already that day. The motion helped, too, and

in half an hour or so he was asleep.

He dreamt that he was preaching Langton's views on the Sermon on the

Mount in the pulpit of St. John's, and that the Canon, from his place

beside the credence-table within the altar-rails, was shouting at him to

stop. In his dream he persisted, however, until that irate dignitary

seized the famous and massive offertory-dish by his side and hurled it

in the direction of the pulpit. The clatter that it made on the stone

floor awoke him.

He was first aware that the train was no longer in motion, and next that

Langton's tall form was leaning half out of the window. Then confused

noises penetrated his consciousness, and he perceived that light

flickered in the otherwise darkened compartment. "Where are we?" he

demanded, now fully awake. "What's up?"

Langton answered over his shoulder. "Some where outside of a biggish

town," he said; "and there's the devil of a strafe on. The whole

sky-line's lit up, but that may be twenty miles off. However, Fritz

must have advanced some."

He was interrupted by a series of much louder explosions and the rattle

of machine-gun fire. "That's near," he said. "Over the town, I should

say--an air-raid, though it may be long-distance firing. Come and see for

yourself."

He pulled himself back into the carriage, and Peter leaned out of the

window in his turn. It was as the other had said. Flares and sudden

flashes, that came and went more like summer-lightning than anything

else, lit up the whole sky-line, but nearer at hand a steady glow from

one or two places showed in the sky. One could distinguish flights of

illuminated tracer bullets, and now and again what he took to be Very

lights exposed the countryside. Peter saw that they were in a siding, the

banks of which reached just above the top of the compartments. It was

only by craning that he could see fields and what looked like a house

beyond. Men were leaning out of all the windows, mostly in silence. In

the compartment next them a man cursed the Huns for spoiling his beauty

sleep. It was slightly overdone, Peter thought.

"Good God!" said, his companion behind him. "Listen!"

It was difficult, but between the louder explosions Peter concentrated

his senses on listening. In a minute he heard something new, a faint buzz

in the air.

"Aeroplanes," said Langton coolly. "I hope they don't spot us. Let me

see. Maybe it's our planes." He craned out in Peter's place. "I can't see

anything," he said, "and you can hear they're flying high."

Down the train everyone was staring upwards now. "Christ!" exclaimed

Langton suddenly, "some fool's lighting a pipe! Put that match out

there," he called.

Other voices took him up. "That's better," he said in a minute. "Forgive

my swearing, padre, but a match might give us away."

Peter was silent, and, truth to tell, terrified. He tried hard not to

feel it, and glanced at Jenks. He was still asleep, and breathing

heavily. He pressed his face against the pane, and tried to stare up too.

"They're coming," said Langton suddenly and quickly. "There they are,

too--Hun planes. They may not see us, of course, but they may...." He

brought his head in again and sat down.

"Is there anything we can do?" said Peter.

"Nothing," said Langton, "unless you like to get under the seat. But

that's no real good. It's on the knees of the gods, padre, whatever gods

there be."

Just then Peter saw one. Sailing obliquely towards them and lit by the

light of a flare, the plane looked serene and beautiful. He watched it,

fascinated.

"It's very low--two hundred feet, I should say," said Langton behind him.

"Hope he's no pills left. I wonder whether there's another. Let's have a

look the other side."

He had scarcely got up to cross the compartment when the rattle of a

machine-gun very near broke out. "Our fellows, likely," he exclaimed

excitedly, struggling with the sash, but they knew the truth almost as he

spoke.

Langton ducked back. A plane on the other side was deliberately flying up

the train, machine-gunning. "Down, padre, for God's sake!" he exclaimed,

and threw himself on the floor.

Peter couldn't move. He heard the splintering of glass and a rending of

woodwork, some oaths, and a sudden cry. The whirr of an engine filled his

ears and seemed, as it were, on top of them. Then there was a crash all

but at his side, and next instant a half-smothered groan and a dreadful

gasp for breath.

He couldn't speak. He heard Langton say, "Hit, anyone?" and then Jenks'

"They've got me, skipper," in a muffled whisper, and he noticed that the

hard breathing had ceased. At that he found strength and voice and jumped

up. He bent over Jenks. "Where have you got it, old man?" he said, and

hardly realised that it was himself speaking.

The other was lying just as before, on his back, but he had pulled his

knees up convulsively and a rug had slipped off. In a flare Peter saw

beads of sweat on his forehead and a white, twisted face.

He choked back panic and knelt down. He had imagined it all before, and

yet not quite like this. He knew what he ought to say, but for a minute

he could not formulate it. "Where are you hit, Jenks?" was all he said.

The other turned his head a little and looked at him. "Body--lungs, I

think," he whispered. "I'm done, padre; I've seen chaps before."

The words trailed off. Peter gripped himself mentally, and steadied his

voice. "Jenks, old man," he said. "Just a minute. Think about God--you

are going to Him, you know. Trust Him, will you? 'The blood of Jesus

Christ, God's Son, saveth us from all sin.'"

The dying man, moved his hand convulsively. "Don't you worry, padre," he

said faintly; "I've been--confirmed." The lips tightened a second with

pain, and then: "Reckon I won't--shirk. Have you--got--a cigarette?"

Peter felt quickly for his case, fumbled and dropped one, then got

another into his fingers. He hesitated a second, and then, put it to his

own lips, struck a match, and puffed at it. He was in the act of holding

it to the other when Langton spoke behind him:

"It's no good now, padre," he said quietly; "it's all over."

And Peter saw that it was.

The planes did not come back. The officer in charge of the train came

down it with a lantern, and looked in. "That makes three," he said. "We

can do nothing now, but we'll be in the station in a bit. Don't show any

lights; they may come back. Where the hell were our machines, I'd like to

know?"

He went on, and Peter sat down in his corner. Langton picked up the rug,

and covered up the body. Then he glanced at Peter. "Here," he said,

holding out a flask, "have some of this."

Peter shook his head. Langton came over to him. "You must," he said;

"it'll pull you together. Don't go under now, Graham. You kept your nerve

just now--come on."

At that Peter took it, and drained the little cup the other poured out

for him. Then he handed it back, without a word.

"Feel better?" queried the other, a trifle curiously, staring at him.

"Yes, thanks," said Peter--"a damned sight better! Poor old Jenks! What

blasted luck that he should have got it!... Langton, I wish to God it had

been me!"

PART II

"And the Lord turned and looked upon Peter."

ST. LUKE'S GOSPEL.

CHAPTER I

The charm of the little towns of Northern France is very difficult to

imprison on paper. It is not exactly that they are old, although there is

scarcely one which has not a church or a château or a quaint medieval

street worth coming far to see; nor that they are particularly

picturesque, for the ground is fairly flat, and they are all but always

set among the fields, since it is by agriculture far more than by

manufacture that they live. But they are clean and cheerful; one thinks

of them under the sun; and they are very homely. In them the folk smile

simply at you, but not inquisitively as in England, for each bustles

gaily about his own affairs, and will let you do what you please, with a

shrug of the shoulders. Abbeville is very typical of all this. It has its

church, and from the bridge over the Somme the backs of ancient houses

can be seen leaning half over the river, which has sung beneath them for

five hundred years; and it is set in the midst of memories of stirring

days. Yet it is not for these that one would revisit the little town, but

rather that one might walk by the still canal under the high trees in

spring, or loiter in the market-place round what the Hun has left of the

statue of the famous Admiral with his attendant nymphs, or wander down

the winding streets that skirt the ancient church and give glimpses of

its unfinished tower.

Peter found it very good to be there in the days that followed the death

of Jenks. True, it was now nearer to the seat of war than it had been for

years, and air-raids began to be common, but in a sense the sound of the

guns fitted in with his mood. So great a battle was being fought within

him that the world could not in any case have seemed wholly at peace, and

yet in the quiet fields, or sauntering of an afternoon by the river, he

found it easier than at Havre to think. Langton was almost his sole

companion, and a considerable intimacy had grown up between them. Peter

found that his friend seemed to understand a great deal of his thoughts

without explanation. He neither condoled nor exhorted; rather he watched

with an almost shy interest the other's inward battle.

They lodged at the Hôtel de l'Angleterre, that hostelry in the street

that leads up and out of the town towards Saint Riquier, which you

enter from a courtyard that opens on the road and has rooms that you

reach by means of narrow, rickety flights of stairs and balconies

overhanging the court. The big dining-room wore an air of gloomy

festivity. Its chandeliers swathed in brown paper, its faded paint, and

its covered upholstery, suggested that it awaited a day yet to be when it

should blossom forth once more in glory as in the days of old. Till then

it was as merry as it could be. Its little tables filled up of an evening

with the new cosmopolitan population of the town, and old Jacques bustled

round with the good wine, and dropped no hint that the choice brands were

nearly at an end in the cellar.

Peter and Langton would have their war-time apology for _petit déjeuner_

in bed or alone. Peter, as a rule, was up early, and used to wander out a

little and sometimes into church, coming back to coffee as good as ever,

but war-time bread instead of rolls on a small table under a low balcony

in the courtyard if it were fine. He would linger over it, and have

chance conversation with passing strangers of all sorts, from clerical

personages belonging to the Church Army or the Y.M.C.A. to officers who

came and went usually on unrevealed affairs. Then Langton would come

down, and they would stroll round to the newly-fitted-up office which had

been prepared for the lecture campaign and glance at maps of districts,

and exchange news with the officer in charge, who, having done all he

could, had now nothing to do but stand by and wait for the next move from

a War Office that had either forgotten his existence or discovered some

hitch in its plans. They had a couple of lectures from people who were

alleged to know all about such topics as the food shortage at home or the

new plans for housing, but who invariably turned out to be waiting

themselves for the precise information that was necessary for successful

lectures. After such they would stroll out through the town into the

fields, and Langton would criticise the thing in lurid but humorous

language, and they would come back to the club and sit or read till

lunch.

The club was one of the best in France, it was an old house with lovely

furniture, and not too much of it, which stood well back from the street

and boasted an old-fashioned garden of shady trees and spring flowers and

green lawns. Peter could both read and write in its rooms, and it was

there that he finally wrote to Hilda, but not until after much thought.

After his day with Julie at Caudebec one might have supposed that there

was nothing left for him to do but break off his engagement to Hilda. But

it did not strike him so. For one thing, he was not engaged to Julie or

anything like it, and he could not imagine such a situation, even if

Julie had not positively repudiated any desire to be either engaged or

married. He had certainly declared, in a fit of enthusiasm, that he loved

her, but he had not asked if she loved him. He had seen her since, but

although they were very good friends, nothing more exciting had passed

between them. Peter was conscious that when he was with Julie she

fascinated him, but that when he was away--ah! that was it, when he was

away? It certainly was not that Hilda came back and took her place; it

was rather that the other things in his mind dominated him. It was a

curious state of affairs. He was less like an orthodox parson than he had

ever been, and yet he had never thought so much about religion. He

agonised over it now. At times his thoughts were almost more than he

could bear.

It came, then, to this, that he had not so much changed towards Hilda as

changed towards life. Whether he had really fundamentally changed in such

a way that a break with the old was inevitable he did not know. Till then

Hilda was part of the old, and if he went back to it she naturally took

her old place in it. If he did not--well, there he invariably came to the

end of thought. Curiously enough, it was when faced with a mental blank

that Julie's image began to rise in his mind. If he admitted her, he

found himself abandoning himself to her. He felt sometimes that if he

could but take her in his arms he could let the world go by, and God with

it. Her kisses were at least a reality. There was neither convention nor

subterfuge nor divided allegiance there. She was passion, naked and

unashamed, and at least real.

And then he would remember that much of this was problematical after all,

for they had never kissed as that passion demanded, or at least that he

had never so kissed her. He was not sure of the first. He knew that he

did not understand Julie, but he felt, if he did kiss her, it would be a

kiss of surrender, of finality. He feared to look beyond that, and he

could not if he would.

He wrote, then, to Hilda, and he told of the death of Jenks, and of their

arrival in Abbeville, "You must understand, dear," he said, "that all

this has had a tremendous effect upon me. In that train all that I had

begun to feel about the uselessness of my old religion came to a head. I

could do no more for that soul than light a cigarette.... Possibly no one

could have done any more, but I cannot, I will not believe it. Jenks was

not fundamentally evil, or at least I don't think so. He was rather a

selfish fool who had no control, that is all. He did not serve the devil;

it was much more that he had never seen any master to serve. And I could

do nothing. I had no master to show him.

"You may say that that is absurd: that Christ is my Master, and I could

have shown Him. Hilda, so He is: I cling passionately to that. But

listen: I can't express Him, I don't understand Him. I no longer feel

that He was animating and ordering the form of religion I administered.

It is not that I feel Anglicanism to be untrue, and something else--say

Wesleyanism--to be true; it is much more that I feel them all to be out

of touch with reality. _That's_ it. I don't think you can possibly see

it, but that is the main trouble.

"That, too, brings me to my next point, and this I find harder still to

express. I want you to realise that I feel as if I had never seen life

before. I feel as if I had been shown all my days a certain number of

pictures and told that they were the real thing, or given certain

descriptions and told that they were true. I had always accepted that

they were. But, Hilda, they are not. Wickedness is not wicked in the way

that I was told it was wicked, and what I was told was salvation is not

the salvation men and women want. I have been playing in a fool's

paradise all these years, and I've got outside the gate. I am distressed

and terrified, I think, but underneath it all I am very glad....

"You will say, 'What are you going to do?' and I can only reply, I don't

know. I'm not going to make any vast change, if you mean that. A padre I

am, and a padre I shall stay for the war at least, and none of us can see

beyond that at present. But what I do mean to do is just this: I mean to

try and get down to reality myself and try to weigh it up. I am going to

eat and drink with publicans and sinners; maybe I shall find my Master

still there."

Peter stopped and looked up. Langton was stretched out in a chair beside

him, reading a novel, a pipe in his mouth. Moved by an impulse, he

interrupted him.

"Old man," he said, "I want you to let me read you a bit of this letter.

It's to my girl, but there's nothing rotten in reading it. May I?"

Langton did not move. "Carry on," he said shortly.

Peter finished and put down the sheet. The other smoked placidly and said

nothing. "Well?" demanded Peter impatiently.

"I should cut out that last sentence," pronounced the judge.

"Why? It's true."

"Maybe, but it isn't pretty."

"Langton," burst out Peter, "I'm sick of prettinesses! I've been stuffed

up with them all my life, and so has she. I want to break with them."

"Very likely, and I don't say that it won't be the best thing for you to

try for a little to do so, but she hasn't been where you've been or seen

what you've seen. You can't expect her wholly to understand. And more

than that, maybe she is meant for prettinesses. After all, they're

pretty."

Peter stabbed the blotting-paper with his pen. "Then she isn't meant for

me," he said.

"I'm not so sure," said Langton. "I don't know that you've stuff enough

in you to get on without those same prettinesses yourself. Most of us

haven't. And at any rate I wouldn't burn my boats yet awhile. You may

want to escape yet."

Peter considered this in silence. Then he drew the sheets to him and

added a few more words, folded the paper, put it in the envelope, and

stuck it down. "Come on," he said, "let's go and post this and have a

walk."

Langton got up and looked at him curiously, as he sometimes did. "Peter,"

he said, "you're a weird blighter, but there's something damned gritty in

you. You take life too strenuously. Why can't you saunter through it like

I do?"

Peter reached for this cap. "Come on," he said again, "and don't talk

rot."

Out in the street, they strolled aimlessly on, more or less in silence.

The big book-shop at the corner detained them for a little, and they

regarded its variegated contents through the glass. It contained a few

good prints, and many more poorly executed coloured pictures of ruined

places in France and Belgium, of which a few, however, were not bad.

Cheek by jowl with some religious works, a statue of Notre Dame d'Albert,

and some more of Jeanne d'Arc, were a line of pornographic novels and

beyond packets of picture post-cards entitled _Théâtreuses, Le Bain de la

Parisienne, Les Seins des Marbre_, and so on. Then Langton drew Graham's

attention to one or two other books, one of which had a gaudy cover

representing a mistress with a birch-rod in her hands and a number of

canes hung up beside her, while a girl of fifteen or so, with very red

cheeks, was apparently about to be whipped. "Good Lord," said Langton,

"the French are beyond me. This window is a study for you, Graham, in

itself. I should take it that it means that there is nothing real in

life. It is utterly cynical.

"'And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,

End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;

Think then you are To-day what Yesterday

You were--To-morrow you shall not be less,'"

he quoted.

"Yes," said Peter. "Or else it means that there are only two realities,

and that the excellent person who keeps this establishment regards both

in a detached way, and conceives it her business to cater for each. Let's

go on."

They turned the corner, and presently found themselves outside the famous

carven door of the church. "Have you ever been round?" asked Peter.

"No," said Langton; "let's go in."

They passed through the door into the old church, which, in contrast to

that at Le Havre, was bathed in the daylight that streamed through many

clear windows. Together they wandered round it, saying little. They

inspected an eighteenth-century statue of St. Roch, who was pulling up

his robe to expose a wound and looking upwards at the same time

seraphically--or, at least, after the manner that the artist of that age

had regarded as seraphic. A number of white ribbons and some wax figures

of feet and hands and other parts of the body were tied to him. They

stood before a wonderful coloured alabaster reredos of the fourteenth

century, in which shepherds and kings and beasts came to worship at the

manger. They had a little conversation as to the architectural periods of

the nave, choir, and transepts, and Langton was enthusiastic over a noble

pillar and arch. Beyond they gazed in silence at a statue of Our Lady

Immaculate in modern coloured plaster, so arranged that the daylight

fell through an unseen opening upon her. Among the objects in front were

a pair of Renaissance candlesticks of great beauty. A French officer came

up and arranged and lit a votive candle as they watched, and then went

back to stand in silence by a pillar. The church door banged and two

peasants came in, one obviously from the market, with a huge basket of

carrots and cabbages and some long, thin French loaves. She deposited

this just inside the door, took holy water, clattered up towards the high

altar, dropped a curtsy, and made her way to an altar of the Sacred

Heart, at which she knelt. Peter sighed. "Come on," he said; "let's

get out."

Langton marched on before him, and held the door back as they stepped

into the street. "Well, philosopher," he demanded, "what do you make of

that?"

Peter smiled. "What do you?" he said.

"Well," said Langton, "it leaves me unmoved, except when I'm annoyed by

the way their wretched images spoil the church, but it is plain that they

like it. I should say one of your two realities is there. But I find it

hard to forgive the bad art."

"Do you?" said Peter, "I don't. It reminds me of those appalling

enlargements of family groups that you see, for example, in any Yorkshire

cottage. They are unutterably hideous, but they stand for a real thing

that is honest and beautiful--the love of home and family. And by the

same token, when the photographs got exchanged, as they do in Mayfair,

for modern French pictures of nude women, or some incredible Futurist

extravagance, that love has usually flown out of the window."

"Humph!" said Langton--"not always. Besides, why can't a family group be

made artistically, and so keep both art and love? I should think we ought

to aim at that."

"I suppose we ought," said Peter, "but in our age the two don't seem to

go together. Goodness alone knows why. Why, hullo!" he broke off.

"What's up now?" demanded Langton.

"Why, there, across the street, if that isn't a nurse I know from Havre,

I don't know who it is. Wait a tick."

He crossed the road, and saw, as he got near, that it was indeed Julie.

He came up behind her as she examined a shop-window. "By all that's

wonderful, what are you doing here?" he asked.

She turned quickly, her eyes dancing. "I wondered if I should meet you,"

she said. "You see, your letter told me you were coming here, but I

haven't heard from you since you came, and I didn't know if you had

started your tour or not. _I_ came simply enough. There's a big South

African hospital here, and we had to send up a batch of men by motor.

As they knew I was from South Africa, they gave me the chance to come

with them."

"Well, I _am_ glad," said Peter, devouring the sight of her. "Wait a

minute; I must introduce you to Langton. He and I are together, and he's

a jolly good chap."

He turned and beckoned Langton, who came over and was introduced. They

walked up the street a little way together. "Where are you going now?"

asked Peter.

"Back to the hospital," said Julie. "A car starts from the square at

twelve-forty-five, and I have to be in for lunch."

"Have you much to do up there?" asked Peter.

"Oh no," she said, "my job's done. I clear off the day after to-morrow.

We only got in last night, so I get a couple of days' holiday. What are

you doing? You don't look any too busy."

Peter glanced across at Langton and laughed. "We aren't," he said. "The

whole stunt's a wash-out, if you ask me, and we're really expecting to be

sent back any day. There's too much doing now for lectures. Is the

hospital full?"

"Packed," said Julie gravely. "The papers say we're falling back steadily

so as not to lose men, but the facts don't bear it out. We're crammed

out. It's ghastly; I've never known it so bad."

Peter had hardly ever seen her grave before, and her face showed a new

aspect of her. He felt a glow of warmth steal over him. "I say," he said,

"couldn't you dine with us to-night? We're at the Angleterre, and its

tremendously respectable."

She laughed, her gravity vanishing in a minute. "I must say," she said,

"that I'd love to see you anywhere really respectable. He's a terrible

person for a padre--don't you think so, Captain Langton?"

"Terrible," said Langton. "But really the Angleterre is quite proper. You

don't get any too bad a dinner, either. Do come, Miss Gamelyn."

She appeared to consider. "I might manage it," she said at last, stopping

just short of entering the square; "but I haven't the nerve to burst in

and ask for you. Nor will it do for you to see me all the way to that

car, or we shall have a dozen girls talking. If you will meet me

somewhere," she added, looking at Peter, "I'll risk it. I'll have a

headache and not go to first dinner; then the first will think I'm at the

second, and the second at the first. Besides, I've no duty, and the

hospital's not like Havre. It's all spread out in huts and tents, and

it's easy enough to get in. Last, but not least, it's Colonial, and the

matron is a brick. Yes, I'll come."

"Hurrah!" said Peter. "I tell you what: I'll meet you at the

cross-roads below the hospital and bring you on. Will that do? What

time? Five-thirty?"

"Heavens! do you dine at five-thirty?" demanded Julie.

"Well, not quite, but we've got to get down," said Peter, laughing.

"All right," said Julie, "five-thirty, and the saints preserve us. Look

here, I shall chance it and come in mufti if possible. No one knows me

here."

"Splendid!" said Peter. "Good-bye, five-thirty."

"Good-bye," said Langton; "we'll go and arrange our menu."

"There must be champagne," called Julie merrily over her shoulder, and

catching his eye.

The two men watched her make for the car across the sunlit square, then

they strolled round it towards a café. "Come on," said Langton; "let's

have an appetiser."

From the little marble-topped table Peter watched the car drive away.

Julie was laughing over something with another girl. It seemed to

conclude the morning, somehow. He raised his glass and looked at Langton.

"Well," he said, "here's to reality, wherever it is."

"And here's to getting along without too much of it," said Langton,

smiling at him.

* * * * *

The dinner was a great success--at least, in the beginning. Julie wore a

frock of some soft brown stuff, and Peter could hardly keep his eyes off

her. He had never seen her out of uniform before, and although she was

gay enough, she said and did nothing very exciting. If Hilda had been

there she need hardly have behaved differently, and for a while Peter was

wholly delighted. Then it began to dawn on him that she was playing up to

Langton, and that set in train irritating thoughts. He watched the other

jealously, and noticed how the girl drew him out to speak of his travels,

and how excellently he did it, leaning back at coffee with his cigarette,

polite, pleasant, attractive. Julie, who usually smoked cigarette after

cigarette furiously, only, however, getting through about half of each,

now refused a second, and glanced at the clock about 8.30.

"Oh," she said, "I must go."

Peter remonstrated. "If you can stay out later at Havre," he said, "why

not here?"

She laughed lightly. "I'm reforming," she said, "in the absence of bad

companions. Besides, they are used to my being later at Havre, but here I

might be spotted, and then there would be trouble. Would you fetch my

coat, Captain Graham?"

Peter went obediently, and they all three moved out into the court.

"Come along and see her home, Langton," he said, though he hardly knew

why he included the other.

"Thanks," said his friend; "but if Miss Gamelyn will excuse me, I ought

not. I've got some reading I must do for to-morrow, and I want to write a

letter or two as well. You'll be an admirable escort, Graham."

"Good-night," said Julie, holding out her hand; "perhaps we shall meet

again some time. One is always running up against people in France. And

thank you so much for your share of the entertainment."

In a few seconds Peter and she were outside. The street was much

darkened, and there was no moon. They walked in silence for a little.

Suddenly he stopped. "Wouldn't you like a cab?" he said; "we might be

able to get one."

Julie laughed mischievously, and Peter gave a little start in the dark.

It struck him that this was the old laugh and that he had not heard it

that night before. "It's convenient, of course," she said mockingly. "Do

get one by all means. But last time I came home with you in a cab, you

let me finish alone. I thought that was to be an invariable rule."

"Oh, don't Julie," said Peter.

Her tone changed. "Why not?" she demanded. "Solomon, what's made you so

glum to-night? You were cheerful enough when you met me, and when we

began; then you got silent. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said.

She slipped her hand in his arm. "There is something," she said. "Do tell

me."

"Do you like Langton?" he asked.

"Oh, immensely--why? Oh, Lord, Solomon, what do you mean?"

"You were different in his presence, Julie, from anything you've been

before."

They took a few paces in silence; then Peter had an idea, and glanced at

her. She was laughing silently to herself. He let her hand fall from his

arm, and looked away. He knew he was behaving like an ass, but he could

not help it.

She stopped suddenly. "Peter," she said, "I want to talk to you. Take me

somewhere where it's possible."

"At this hour of the evening? What about being late?"

She gave a little stamp with her foot, then laughed again. "What a boy it

is!" she said. "Don't you know anywhere to go?"

Peter hesitated; then he made up his mind. There was an hotel he knew of,

out of the main street, of none too good a reputation. Some men had taken

Langton and him there, once, in the afternoon, between the hours in which

drinks were legally sold, and they had gone through the hall into a

little back-room that was apparently partly a sitting-room, partly part

of the private rooms of the landlord, and had been served there. He

recalled the description of one of the men: "It's a place to know. You

can always get a drink, and take in anyone you please."

"Come on, then," he said, and turned down a back-street.

"Where in the world are you taking me?" demanded Julie. "I shall have no

reputation left if this gets out."

"Nor shall I," said Peter.

"Nor you will; what a spree! Do you think it's worth it, Peter?"

Under a shaded lamp they were passing at the moment, he glanced at her,

and his pulses raced! "Good God, Julie!" he said, "you could do anything

with me."

She chuckled with laughter, her brown eyes dancing. "Maybe," she said,

"but I'm out to talk to you for your good now."

They turned another corner, into an old street, and under an arch. Peter

walked forward to the hotel entrance, and entered. There was a woman in

the office, who glanced up, and looked, first at Peter, then at Julie. On

seeing her behind him, she came forward. "What can I do for monsieur?"

she asked.

"Good-evening, madame," said Peter. "I was here the other day. Give us a

bottle of wine in that little room at the back, will you?"

"Why, certainly, monsieur," said she. "Will madame follow me? It is this

way."

She opened, the door, and switched on the light, "Shall I light the fire,

madame?" she demanded.

Julie beamed on her. "Ah, yes; that would be jolly," she said. "And the

wine, madame--Beaune."

The woman smiled and bowed. "Let madame but seat herself and it shall

come," she said, and went out.

Julie took off her hat, and walked to the glass, patting her hair. "Give

me a cigarette, my dear," she said. "It was jolly hard only to smoke one

to-night."

Peter opened and handed her his case in silence, then pulled up a big

chair. There was a knock at the door, and a girl came in with the wine

and glasses, which she set on the table, and, then knelt down to light

the fire. She withdrew and shut the door. They were alone.

Peter was still standing. Julie glanced at him, and pointed to a chair

opposite. "Give me a drink, and then go and sit there," she said.

He obeyed. She pulled her skirts up high to the blaze and pushed one foot

out to the logs, and sat there, provocative, sipping her wine and puffing

little puffs of smoke from her cigarette. "Now, then," she said, "what

did I do wrong to-night?"

Peter was horribly uncomfortable. He felt how little he knew this girl,

and he felt also how much he loved her.

"Nothing, dear," he said; "I was a beast."

"Well," she said, "if you won't tell me, I'll tell you. I was quite

proper to-night, immensely and intensely proper, and you didn't like it.

You had never seen me so. You thought, too, that I was making up to your

friend. Isn't that so?"

Peter nodded. He marvelled that she should know so well, and he wondered

what was coming.

"I wonder what you really think of me, Peter," she went on. "I suppose

you think I never can be serious--no, I won't say serious--conventional.

But you're very stupid; we all of us can be, and must be sometimes. You

asked me just now what I thought of your friend--well, I'll tell you.

He is as different from you as possible. He has his thoughts, no doubt,

but he prefers to be very tidy. He takes refuge in the things you throw

overboard. He's not at all my sort, and he's not yours either, in a way.

Goodness knows what will happen to either of us, but he'll be Captain

Langton to the end of his days. I envy that sort of person intensely,

and when I meet him I put on armour. See?"

Peter stared at her. "How is he different from Donovan?" he asked.

"Donovan! Oh, Lord, Peter, how dull you are! Donovan has hardly a thought

in his head about anything except Donovan. He was born a jolly good sort,

and he's sampled pretty well everything. He's cool as a cucumber, though

he has his passions like everyone else. If you keep your head, you can

say or do anything with Donovan. But Langton is deliberate. He knows

about things, and he refuses and chooses. I didn't want ..." She broke

off. "Peter," she said savagely, "in two minutes that man would know more

about me than you do, if I let him."

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?"