The Lessing family sat at dinner, and it was to be observed that some of
those incredible wonders at which Peter Graham had once hinted to Hilda
had come about. There were only three courses, and Mr. Lessing had but
one glass of wine, for one thing; for another he was actually in uniform,
and was far more proud of his corporal's stripes than he had previously
been of his churchwarden's staff of office. Nor was he only in the
Volunteers; he was actually in training to some extent, and the war had
at any rate done him good. His wife was not dressed for dinner either;
she had just come in from a war committee of some sort. A solitary maid
waited on them, and they had already given up fires in the dining-room.
Not that Mr. Lessing's income had appreciably diminished, but, quite
honestly, he and his were out to win the war. He had come to the
conclusion at last that business could not go on as usual, but, routed
out of that stronghold, he had made for himself another. The war was
now to him a business. He viewed it in that light.
"We must stop them," he was saying. "Mark my words, they'll never get to
Amiens. Did you see Haig's last order to the troops? Not another inch was
to be given at any cost. We shan't give either. We've _got_ to win this
war; there's too much at stake for us to lose. Whoever has to foot the
bill for this business is ruined, and it's not going to be Great Britain.
They were saying in the Hall to-night that the Army is as cheerful as
possible: that's the best sign. I doubt the German Army is. Doesn't
Graham say anything about it, Hilda?"
"No, father," said Hilda shortly, and bent over her plate.
"'Xtraordinary thing. He's a smart chap, and I should have thought he'd
have been full of it. Perhaps he's too far back."
"He was in a big town he doesn't name the other day, in an air-raid, and
a man was killed in his carriage."
"Good Lord! you don't say so? When did you hear that? I thought we had
command of the air."
"I got a letter to-night, father. He just mentioned that, but he doesn't
say much else about it. He's at Abbeville now, on the Somme, and he says
the Germans come over fairly often by night."
"Impossible!" snorted the old man, "I have it on the best possible
authority that our air service is completely up to date now, and far
better than the German. He must be exaggerating. They would never allow
the enemy to out-distance us in so important a department. What else does
he say?"
"Oh, nothing;" said Hilda, "or at least nothing about the war in a way.
It's full of--of his work." She stopped abruptly.
"Well, well," said Mr. Lessing, "I was against his going at first; but
it's all shoulders to the wheel now, and it was plain he ought to see a
little life out there. A young man who doesn't won't have much of a look
in afterwards--that's how _I_ reasoned it. And he works hard, does
Graham; I've always said that for him, I expect he's of great service to
them. Eh, Hilda?"
"I don't know," said the girl; "he doesn't say. But he's been chosen for
some special work, lecturing or something, and that's why he's at
Abbeville."
"Ah! Good! Special work, eh? He'll go far yet, that fellow. I don't know
that I'd have chosen him for you, Hilda, at first, but this business has
shaken us all up, and I shouldn't be surprised if Graham comes to the
front over it." He stopped as the maid came in, "I think I'll have my
coffee in the study, my dear," he said to Mrs. Lessing; "I have some
reading to do."
When the two women were once more alone Mrs. Lessing put her cup down,
and spoke. "What is it, dear?" she questioned.
Hilda did not look at her. The two, indeed, understood each other very
well. "I can't tell you here, mother," she said.
"Come, then, dear," said Mrs. Lessing, rising. "Let's go to my room. Your
father will be busy for some time, and we shall not be disturbed there."
She led the way, and lit a small gas fire. "I can't be cold in my
bedroom," she said; "and though I hate these things, they are better
than nothing. Now, dear, what is it?"
Hilda seated herself on a footstool on the other side of the fire, and
stared into it. The light shone on her fair skin and hair, and Mrs.
Lessing contemplated her with satisfaction from several points of view.
For one thing, Hilda was so sensible....
"What is it?" she asked again. "Your father saw nothing--men don't; but
you can't hide from me, dear, that your letter has troubled you. Is Peter
in trouble?"
Hilda shook her head. Then she said: "Well, at least, mother, not that
sort of trouble. I told father truly; he's been picked for special
service."
"Well, then, what is it?" Mrs. Lessing was a trifle impatient.
"Mother," said Hilda, "I've known that he has not been happy ever since
his arrival in France, but I've never properly understood why. Peter is
queer in some ways, you know. You remember that sermon of his? He won't
be content with things; he's always worrying. And now he writes
dreadfully. He says..." She hesitated. Then, suddenly, she pulled out the
letter. "Listen, mother," she said, and read what Peter had written in
the club until the end. "'I am going to eat and drink with publicans and
sinners; maybe I shall find my Master still there.'"
If Langton could have seen Mrs. Lessing he would have smiled that cynical
smile of his with much satisfaction. She was frankly horrified--rendered,
in fact, almost speechless.
"Hilda!" she exclaimed. "What a thing to write to you! But what does he
mean? Has he forgotten that he is a clergyman? Why, it's positively
blasphemous! He is speaking of Christ, I suppose. My poor girl, he must
be mad. Surely you see that, dear."
Hilda stared on into the fire, and made no reply. Her mother hardly
needed one, "Has he met another woman, Hilda?" she demanded.
"I don't know; he doesn't say so," said Hilda miserably. "But anyhow, I
don't see that that matters."
"Not matter, girl! Are you mad too? He is your fiancé, isn't he? Really,
I think I must speak to your father."
Hilda turned her head slowly, and mother and daughter looked at each
other. Mrs. Lessing was a woman of the world, but she was a good mother,
and she read in her daughter's eyes what every mother has to read sooner
or later. It was as one woman to another, and not as mother to daughter,
that she continued lamely: "Well, Hilda, what do you make of it all? What
are you going to do?"
The girl looked away again, and a silence fell between them. Then she
said, speaking in short, slow sentences:
"I will tell you what I make of it, mother. Peter's gone beyond me, I
think, now, that I have always feared a little that he might. Of course,
he's impetuous and headstrong, but it is more than that. He feels
differently from me, from all of us. I can see that, though I don't
understand him a bit. I thought" (her voice faltered) "he loved me more.
He knows how I wanted him to get on in the Church, and how I would have
helped him. But that's nothing to him, or next to nothing. I think he
doesn't love me at all, mother, and never really did."
Mrs. Lessing threw her head back. "Then he's a fool, my dear," she said
emphatically. "You're worth loving; you know it. I should think no more
about him, Hilda."
Hilda's hands tightened round her knees. "I can't do that," she said.
Mrs. Lessing was impatient again. "Do you mean, Hilda, that if he
persists in this--this madness, if he gives up the Church, for example,
you will not break off the engagement? Mind you, that is the point. Every
young man must have a bit of a fling, possibly even clergymen, I suppose,
and they get over it. A sensible girl knows that. But if he ruins his
prospects--surely, Hilda, you are not going to be a fool?"
The word had been spoken again. Peter had had something to say on it, and
now the gods gave Hilda her chance. She stretched her fine hands out to
the fire, and a new note came into her voice.
"A fool, mother? Oh no, I shan't be a fool. A fool would follow him to
the end of the world. A fool of a woman would give him all he wants for
the sake of giving, and be content with nothing in return. I see that.
But I'm not made for that sort of foolery.... No, I shan't be a fool."
Mrs. Lessing could not conceal her satisfaction. "Well, I am sure I am
very glad to hear you say it, and so would your father be. We have not
brought you up carefully for nothing, Hilda. You are a woman now, and I
don't believe in trying to force a woman against her will, but I am
heartily glad, my dear, that you are so sensible. When you are as old as
I am and have a daughter of your own, you will be glad that you have
behaved so to-night."
Hilda got up, and put her hands behind her head, which was a favourite
posture of hers. She stood looking down at her mother with a curious
expression on her face. Mrs. Lessing could make nothing of it; she merely
thought Hilda "queer"; she had travelled farther than she knew from
youth.
"Shall I, mother?" said Hilda. "Yes, I expect I shall. I have been
carefully brought up, as you say, so carefully that even now I can only
just see what a fool might do, and I know quite well that I can't do it.
After a while I shall no more see it than you do. I shall even probably
forget that I ever did. So that is all. And because I love him, really,
I don't think I can even say 'poor Peter!' That's curious, isn't it,
mother?... Well, I think I'll go to my room for a little. I won't come in
again. Good-night."
She bent and kissed Mrs. Lessing. Her mother held her arms a moment more.
"Then, what are you going to do?" she demanded.
Hilda freed herself, "Write and try to persuade him not to be a fool
either, I think. Not that it's any good. And then--wait and see." She
walked to the floor, "Of course, this is just between us two, isn't it,
dear?" she said, playing with the handle.
"Of course," said her mother. "But do be sensible, dear, and don't wait
too long. It is much better not to play with these things--much better.
And do tell me how things go, darling, won't you?"
"Oh yes," said Hilda slowly, "Oh yes I'll tell you.... Good-night."
She passed out and closed the door gently "I wonder why I can't cry
to-night?" she asked herself as she went to her room, and quite honestly
she did not know.
Across the water Peter's affairs were speeding up. If Hilda could have
seen him that night she would probably have wept without difficulty, but
for a much more superficial reason than the reason why she could not weep
in London. And it came about in this way.
On the morning after the dinner Peter was moody, and declared he would
not go down to the office, but would take a novel out to the canal. He
was in half a mind to go up and call at the hospital, but something held
him back. Reflection showed him how near he had been to the fatal kiss
the night before, and he did not wish, or, with the morning, he thought
he did not wish, to see Julie so soon again. So he got his novel and went
out to the canal, finding a place where last year's leaves still lay
thick, and one could lie at ease and read. We do these things all our
days, and never learn the lesson.
Half-way through the morning he looked up to see Langton striding along
towards him. He was walking quickly, with the air of one who brings news,
and he delivered his message as soon as they were within earshot of each
other. "Good news, Graham," he called out. "This tomfoolery is over.
They've heard from H.Q. that the whole stunt is postponed, and we've all
to go back to our bases. Isn't it like 'em?" he demanded, as he came up.
"Old Jackson in the office is swearing like blazes. He's had all his maps
made and plans drawn up, etcetera and etcetera, and now they're so much
waste-paper. Jolly fortunate, any road." He sat down and got out a pipe.
Peter shut his book. "I'm glad," he said. "I'm sick of foolin' round
here. Not but what it isn't a decent enough place, but I prefer the
other. There's more doing. When do we go?"
"To-morrow. They're getting our movement orders, yours to Havre, mine to
Rouen. I put in a spoke for you, to get one via Rouen, but I don't know
if you will. It's a vile journey otherwise."
"By Jove!" cried Peter. "I've an idea! Miss Gamelyn's troop of
motor-buses goes back to Havre to-morrow empty. Why shouldn't I travel
on them? Think I could work it?"
Langton puffed solemnly. "Sure, I should think," he said, "being a padre,
anyway."
"What had I best do?"
"Oh, I should go and see Jackson and get him to 'phone the hospital for
you--that is, if you really want to go that way."
"It's far better than that vile train," said Peter. "Besides, one can see
the country, which I love. And I've never been in Dieppe, and they're to
go through there and pick up some casualties."
"Just so," said Langton, still smoking.
"Well," said Peter, "reckon I'll go and see about it. Jackson's a decent
old stick, but I'd best do it before he tackles the R.T.O. Coming?"
"No," said Langton. "Leave that novel, and come back for me. You won't be
long."
"Right-o," said Peter, and set off.
It was easily done. Jackson had no objections, and rang up the hospital
while Peter waited. Oh yes, certainly they could do it. What was the
name? Captain. Graham, C.F. certainly. He must be at the hospital
early--eight-thirty the next morning. That all right? Thank you.
"Thank you," said Peter. "Motoring's a long sight better than the train
these days, and I'll get in quicker, too, as a matter of fact, or at any
rate just as quickly." He turned to go, but a thought struck him. "Have
you an orderly to spare?" he asked.
"Any quantity," said the other bitterly. "They've been detailed for
weeks, and done nothing. You can have one with pleasure. It'll give the
perisher something to do."
"Thanks," said Peter; "I want to send a note, that's all. May I write it
here?"
He was given pen and paper, and scribbled a little note to Julie. He did
not know who else might be on the lorry, or if she would want to appear
to know him. The orderly was called and despatched and he left the place
for the last time.
Langton and he walked out to St. Riquier in the afternoon, had tea there,
and got back to dinner. A note was waiting for Peter, a characteristic
one.
"DEAREST SOLOMON (it ran),
"You are really waking up! There will be three of us nurses in one lorry,
and they're sure to start you off in another. We lunch at Eu, and I'll be
delighted to see you. Then you can go on in our car. Dieppe's on the
knees of the gods, as you say, but probably we can pull off something.
"JULIE."
He smiled and put it in his pocket. Langton said nothing till the coffee
and liqueurs came in. Then he lit a cigarette and held the match out to
Peter. "Wonder if we shall meet again?" he said.
"Oh, I expect so," said Peter. "Write, anyway, won't you? I'll likely get
a chance to come to Rouen."
"And I likely won't be there. I'm putting in again for another job.
They're short of men now, and want equipment officers for the R.A.F. It's
a stunt for which engineering's useful, and I may get in. I don't suppose
I'll see much of the fun, but it's better than bossing up a labour
company, any road."
"Sportsman," said Peter. "I envy you. Why didn't you tell me? I've half a
mind to put in too. Do you think I'd have a chance?"
"No," said Langton brutally. "Besides, it's not your line. You know what
yours is; stick to it."
"And you know that I'm not so sure that I can," said Peter.
"Rot!" said the other. "You can if you like. You won't gain by running
away. Only I give you this bit of advice, old son: go slow. You're so
damned hot-headed! You can't remake the world to order in five minutes;
and if you could, I bet it wouldn't be a much better old world. We've
worried along for some time moderately well. Don't be too ready to turn
down the things that have worked with some success, at any rate, for the
things that have never been tried."
Peter smoked in silence. Then he said: "Langton you're a bit different
from what you were. In a way, it's you who have set me out on this
racket, and it's you who encouraged me to try and get down to
rock-bottom. You've always been a cautious old rotter, but you're more
than cautious now. Why?"
Langton leaned over and touched the other's tunic pocket in which lay
Julie's note. Then he leaned back and went on with his cigarette.
Peter flushed. "It's too late," he said judicially, flicking off his ash.
"So? Well, I'm sorry, frankly--sorry for her and sorry for you. But if it
is, I'll remember my own wisdom: it's no use meddling with such things.
For all that, you're a fool, Peter, as I told you last night."
"Just so. And I asked what was a fool."
"And I didn't answer. I reckon fools can be of many sorts. Your sort of
fool chucks the world over for the quest of an ideal."
"Thank you," said Peter quietly.
"You needn't. That fool is a real fool, and bigger than most. Ideals are
ideals, and one can't realise them. It's waste of time to try."
"Is it?" said Peter. "Well, at any rate, I don't know that I'm out after
them much. I don't see any. All I know is that I've looked in the likely
places, and now I'll look in the unlikely."
Langton ground his cigarette-end in his coffee-cup. "You will," he said,
"whatever I say.... Have another drink? After all, there's no need to
'turn down the empty glass' yet."
They did not see each other in the morning, and Peter made his way early
to the hospital as arranged. The P.M.O. met him, and he was put in
nominal charge of the three Red-Cross ambulance-cars. While he was
talking to the doctor the three nurses came out and got in, Julie not
looking in his direction; then he climbed up next the driver of the
first car. "Cheerio," said the P.M.O., and they were off.
It was a dull day, and mists hung over the water-meadows by the Somme.
For all that Peter enjoyed himself immensely. They ran swiftly through
the little villages, under the sweeping trees all new-budded into green,
and soon had vistas of the distant sea. The driver of Peter's car was an
observant fellow, and he knew something of gardening. It was he who
pointed out that the fruit-trees had been indifferently pruned or not
pruned at all, and that there were fields no longer under the plough that
had been plainly so not long before. In a word, the country bore its war
scars, although it needed a clever eye to see them.
But Peter had little thought for this. Now and again, at a corner, he
would glance back, his mind on Julie in the following car, while every
church tower gave him pause for thought. He tried to draw the man beside
him on religion, but without any success, though he talked freely enough
of other things. He was for the Colonies after the war, he said. He'd
knocked about a good deal in France, and the taste for travel had come to
him. Canada appeared a land of promise; one could get a farm easily, and
his motor knowledge would be useful on a farm these days. Yes, he had a
pal out there, a Canadian who had done his bit and been invalided out of
it. They corresponded, and he expected to get in with him, the one's
local knowledge eking out the other's technical. No, he wasn't for
marrying yet awhile; he'd wait till he'd got a place for the wife and
kiddies. Then he would. The thought made him expand a bit, and Peter
smiled to himself as he thought of his conversation with Langton over the
family group. It struck him to test the man, and as they passed a wayside
Calvary, rudely painted, he drew his attention to it. "What do you think
of that?" he asked.
The man glanced at it, and then away. "It's all right for them as like
it," he said. "Religion's best in a church, it seems to me. I've seen
chaps mock at them crucifixes, sir, same as they wouldn't if they'd only
been in church."
"Yes," said Peter; "but I suppose some men have been helped by them who
never would have been if they had only been in church. But don't you
think they're rather gaudy?"
"Gaudy, sir? Meanin' 'ighly painted? No, not as I knows on. They're more
like what happened, I reckon, than them brass crosses we have in our
churches."
They ran into Eu for lunch, and drew up in the market-square. Peter
went round to the girls' car, greeted Julie, and was introduced. He
led them to an old inn in the square, and they sat down to luncheon
in very good humour. The other girls were ordinary enough, and Julie
rather subdued for her. Afterwards they spent an hour in the church and
a picture-postcard shop, and it was there that Julie whispered: "Go on
in your own car. At Dieppe, go to the Hôtel Trois Poissons and wait for
me. I found out yesterday that a woman I know is a doctor in Dieppe, and
she lives there. I'll get leave easily to call. Then I can see you. If
we travel together these girls'll talk; they're just the sort."
Peter nodded understanding, and they drifted apart. He went out to see if
the cars were ready and returned to call the nurses, and in a few minutes
they were off again.
The road now ran through forests nearly all the way, except where
villages had cleared a space around them, as was plain to see. They
crossed little streams, and finally came downhill through the forest into
the river valley that leads to Dieppe. It was still early, and Peter
stopped the cars to suggest that they might have a look at the castle of
Arques-le-Bataille. The grand old pile kept them nearly an hour, and they
wandered about the ruins to their hearts' content. Julie would climb a
buttress of the ancient keep when their guide had gone on with the
others, and Peter went up after her. She was as lissom as a boy and
seemingly as strong, swinging up by roots of ivy and the branches of a
near tree, in no wise impeded by her short skirts. From the top one had,
indeed, a glorious view. The weather had cleared somewhat, and one could
see every bit of the old castle below, the village at its feet, and the
forest across the little stream out of which the Duke of Mayenne's
infantry had debouched that day of battle from which the village took
its name.
"They had some of the first guns in the castle, which was held for Henry
of Navarre," explained Peter, "and they did great execution. I suppose
they fired one stone shot in about every five minutes, and killed a man
about every half-hour. The enemy were more frightened than hurt, I should
think. Anyway, Henry won."
"Wasn't he the King who thought Paris worth more than a Mass?" she
demanded.
"Yes," said Peter, watching her brown eyes as she stared out over the
plain.
"I wonder what he thinks now," she said.
He laughed. "You're likely to wonder," he said.
"Funny old days," said Julie. "I suppose there were girls in this castle
watching the fight. I expect they cared more for the one man each
half-hour the cannon hit than for either Paris or the Mass. That's the
way of women, Peter, and a damned silly way it is! Come on, let's go.
I'll get down first, if you please."
On the short road remaining Peter asked his chauffeur if he knew the
Trois Poissons, and, finding that he did, had the direction pointed out.
They ran through the town to the hospital, and Peter handed his cars
over. "I'll sleep in town," he said. "What time ought we to start in the
morning?" He was told, and walked away. Julie had disappeared.
He found the Trois Poissons without difficulty, and made his way to the
sitting-room, a queer room opening from the pavement direct on the one
side, and from the hall of the hotel on the other. It had a table down
the middle, a weird selection of chairs, and a piano. A small woman was
sitting in a chair reading the _Tatler_ and smoking. An empty glass
stood beside her.
She looked up as he came in, and he noticed R.A.M.C. badges.
"Good-evening," he said cheerily.
"Good-evening, padre," she replied, plainly willing to talk. "Where have
you sprung from?"
"Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars," he said, "and I feel
like a sun-downer. Won't you have another with me?"
"Sure thing," she said, and he ordered a couple from the French maid who
came in answer to his ring. "Do you live here?" he asked.
"For my sins I do," she said. "I doctor Waac's, and I don't think much of
it. A finer, heartier lot of women I never saw. Epsom salts is all they
want. A child could do it."
Peter laughed. "Well, I don't see why you should grumble," he said.
"Don't you? Where's the practice? This business out here is the best
chance for doctors in a lifetime, and I have to strip strapping girls
hopelessly and endlessly."
"You do, do you?" said a voice in the doorway, and there stood Julie.
"Well, at any rate you oughtn't to talk about it like that to my
gentleman friends, especially padres. How do you do, my dear?"
"Julie, by all that's holy! Where have you sprung from?"
She glanced from one to the other. "From Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of
Red Cross cars, I dare bet," she said.
"Julie, you're beyond me. If you weren't so strong I'd smack you, but as
it is, give me another kiss. _And_ introduce us. There may as well be
propriety somewhere."
They sorted themselves out and sat down. "What do you think of my rig?"
demanded Dr. Melville (as Julie had introduced her).
"Toppin'," said Julie critically. "But what in the world is it? Chiefly
Waac, with three pukka stars and an R.A.M.C. badge. Teanie, how dare you
do it?"
"I dare do all that doth become a woman," she answered complacently. "And
it doth, doth it not? Skirt's a trifle short, perhaps," she added,
sticking out a leg and examining the effect critically, "but upper's
eminently satisfactory."
Julie leaned over and prodded her. "No corsets?" she inquired innocently.
"Julie, you're positively indecent. You must have tamed your padre
completely. You're not married by any chance?" she added suddenly.
Julie screamed with laughter. "Oh, Teanie, you'll be the death of me,"
she said at last. "Solomon, are we married? I don't think so, Teanie.
There's never no telling these days, but I can't recollect it."
"Well, it strikes me you ought to be if you're jogging round the country
together," said the other, her eyes twinkling. "But if you're not, take
warning, padre. A girl that talks about corsets in public isn't
respectable, especially as she doesn't wear them herself, except in the
evening, for the sake of other things. Or she used not to. But perhaps
you know?"
Peter tried to look comfortable, but he was completely out of his depth.
He finished his drink with a happy inspiration, and ordered another. That
down, he began to feel more capable of entering into the spirit of these
two. They were the sort he wanted to know, both of them, women about as
different from those he had met as they could possibly be.
Another man dropped in after a while, so the talk became general. The
atmosphere was very free and easy, bantering, careless, jolly, and Peter
expanded in it. Julie led them all. She was never at a loss, and
apparently had no care in the world.
The two girls and Peter went together to dinner and sat at the same
table. They talked a good deal together, and Peter gathered they had come
to know each other at a hospital in England. They were full of
reminiscences.
"Do you remember ducking Pockett?" Teanie asked Julie.
"Lor', I should think I do! Tell Peter. He won't be horrified unless you
go into details. If I cough, Solomon, you're to change the subject. Carry
on, Teanie."
"Well, Pockett was a nurse of about the last limit. She was fearfully
snobby, which nobody of that name ought to be, and she ruled her pros.
with a rod of iron. I expect that was good for them, and I say nothing
as to that, but she was a beast to the boys. We had some poor chaps in
who were damnably knocked about, and one could do a lot for them in
roundabout ways. Regulations are made to be broken in some cases, I
think. But she was a holy terror. Sooner than call her, the boys would
endure anything, but some of us knew, and once she caught Julie here..."
"It wasn't--it was you, Teanie."
"Oh, well, one of us, anyway, in her ward when she was on night duty,
sitting with a poor chap who pegged out a few days after. It soothed him
to sit and hold her hand. Well, anyway, she was furious and reported it.
There was a bit of a row--had to be, I suppose, as it was against
regulations--but thank God the P.M.O. knew his job, so there was only a
strafe with the tongue in the cheek. However, we swore revenge, and we
had it--eh, Julie?"
"We did. Go on. It was you who thought of it."
"Well, we filled a bath with tepid water and then went to her room one
night. She was asleep, and never heard us. We had a towel round her head
in two twinks, and carried her by the legs and arms to the bathroom.
Julie had her legs, and held 'em well up, so that down went her head
under water. She couldn't yell then. When we let her up, I douched her
with cold water, and then we bolted. We saw to it that there wasn't a
towel in the bathroom, and we locked her bedroom door. Oh, lor', poor
soul, but it was funny! She met an orderly in the corridor, and he nearly
had a fit, and I don't wonder, for her wet nightie clung to her figure
like a skin. She had to try half a dozen rooms before she got anyone to
help her, and then, when she got back, we'd ragged her room to blazes.
She never said a word, and left soon after. Ever hear of her again,
Julie?"
"No," said she, looking more innocent than ever, Peter thought; "but I
expect she's made good somewhere. She must have had something in her or
she'd have kicked up a row."
Miss Melville was laughing silently. "You innocent babe unborn," she
said; "never shall I forget how you held...."
"Come on, Captain Graham," said Julie, getting up; "you've got to see me
home, and I want a nice walk by the sea-front."
They went out together, and stood at the hotel door in the little street.
There was a bit of a moon, with clouds scurrying by, and when it shone
the road was damp and glistening in the moonlight. "What a heavenly
night!" said Julie. "Come on with us along the sea-front, Teanie--do!"
Miss Melville smiled up at them. "I reckon you'd prefer to be alone," she
said.
Peter glanced at Julie, and then protested. "No," he said; "do come on,"
and Julie rewarded him with a smile.
So they set out together. On the front the wind was higher, lashing the
waves, and the moonlight shone fitfully on the distant cliffs, the
harbour mouth, and the sea. The two girls clung together, and as Peter
walked by Julie she took his arm. Conversation was difficult as they
battled their way along the promenade. There was hardly a soul about, and
Peter felt the night to fit his mood.
They went up once and down again, and at the Casino grounds Teanie
stopped them. "'Nough," she said; "I'm for home and bed. You two dears
can finish up without me."
"Oh, we must see you home," said Peter.
The doctor laughed. "Think I shall get stolen?" she demanded. "Someone
would have to get up pretty early for that. No, padre, I'm past the need
of being escorted, thanks. Good-night. Be good, Julie. We'll meet again
sometime, I hope. If not, keep smiling. Cheerio."
She waved her hand and was gone in the night. "If there was ever a
plucky, unselfish, rattling good woman, there she goes," said Julie.
"I've known her sit up night after night with wounded men when she was
working like a horse all day. I've known her to help a drunken Tommy
into a cab and get him home, and quiet his wife into the bargain. I saw
her once walk off out of the Monico with a boy of a subaltern, who didn't
know what he was doing, and take him to her own flat, and put him to bed,
and get him on to the leave-train in time in the morning. She'd give away
her last penny, and you wouldn't know she'd done it. And yet she's not
the sort of woman you'd choose to run a mother's meeting, would you,
Solomon?"
"Sure thing I wouldn't," said Peter, "not in my old parish, but I'm not
so sure I wouldn't in my new one."
"What's your new one?" asked Julie curiously.
"Oh, it hasn't a name," said Peter, "but it's pretty big. Something after
the style of John Wesley's parish, I reckon. And I'm gradually getting it
sized up."
"Where do I come in, Solomon?" demanded Julie.
They were passing by the big Calvary at the harbour gates, and there was
a light there. He stopped and turned so that the light fell on her. She
looked up at him, and so they stood a minute. He could hear the lash of
the waves, and the wind drumming in the rigging of the flagstaff near
them. Then, deliberately, he bent down, and kissed her on the lips. "I
don't know, Julie," he said, "but I believe you have the biggest part,
somehow."