Peter secured his leave for Monday the 21st from Boulogne, which
necessitated his leaving Le Havre at least twenty-four hours before that
day. There were two ways of travelling--across country in a troop-train,
or by French expresses via Paris. He had heard so much of the latter plan
that he determined to try it. It had appeared to belong to the reputation
of the Church.
His movement order was simply from the one port to the other, and was
probably good enough either way round with French officials; but there
was a paper attached to it indicating that the personnel in question
would report at such a time to the R.T.O. at such a station, and the time
and the station spelt troop-train unmistakably. Now, the troop-train
set out on its devious journey an hour later than the Paris express from
the same station, and the hour of the Paris express corresponded with the
time that all decent officers go to dinner. Peter therefore removed the
first paper, folded it up thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket. He then
reported to the R.T.O. a quarter of an hour before the Paris train
started, and found, as he expected, a N.C.O. in sole charge. The man took
his paper and read it. He turned it over; there was no indication of
route anywhere. "Which train are you going by, sir?" he asked.
"Paris mail," said Peter coolly. "Will you please put my stuff in a
first?"
"Certainly, sir," said the man, endorsed the order to that effect, and
shouldered a suit-case. Peter followed him. He was given a first to
himself, and the Deputy R.T.O. saw the French inspector and showed him
the paper. Peter strolled off and collected a bottle of wine, some
sandwiches, and some newspapers; then he made himself comfortable.
The train left punctually. Peter lay back in his corner and watched the
country slip by contentedly. He had grown up, had this young man.
He arrived in Paris with the dawn of Sunday morning, and looked out
cautiously. There was no English official visible. However, his papers
were entirely correct, and he climbed up the stairs and wandered along a
corridor in which hands and letters from time to time indicated the lair
of the R.T.O. Arriving, he found another officer waiting, but no R.T.O.
The other was "bored stiff," he said; he had sat there an hour, but had
seen no sign of the Transport Officer. Peter smiled, and replied that he
had no intention whatever of waiting; he only wanted to know the times of
the Boulogne trains. These he discovered by the aid of a railway guide on
the table, and selected the midnight train, which would land him in
Boulogne in time for the first leave-boat, if the train were punctual and
the leave-boat not too early. In any case, he could take the second,
which would only mean Victoria a few hours later that same day. And these
details settled, he left his luggage in a corner and strolled off into
the city.
A big city, seen for the first time by oneself alone when one does not
know a soul in it, may be intensely boring or intensely interesting. It
depends on oneself. Peter was in the mood to be interested. He was
introspective. It pleased him to watch the early morning stir; to see the
women come out in shawls and slipshod slippers and swill down their bit
of pavement; to see sleepy shopkeepers take down their shutters and
street-vendors set up their stalls; to try to gauge the thoughts and
doings of the place from the shop-windows and the advertisements. His
first need was a wash and a shave, and he got both at a little barber's
in which monsieur attended to him, while madame, in considerable
_négligée_, made her toilette before the next glass. His second was
breakfast, and he got it, _à l'anglaise_, with an omelette and jam, in a
just-stirring hotel; and then, set up, he strolled off for the centre of
things. Many Masses were in progress at the Madeleine, and he heard one
or two with a curious contentment, but they had no lesson for him,
probably because of the foreign element in the atmosphere, and he did
not pray. Still, he sat, chiefly, and watched, until he felt how entirely
he was a stranger here, and went out into the sun.
He made his way to the river, and lingered there long. The great
cathedral, with its bare January trees silhouetted to the last twig
against the clear sky, its massive buttresses, and its cluster of smaller
buildings, held his imagination. He went in, but they were beginning to
sing Mass, and he soon came out. He crossed to the farther bank and found
a seat and lit a pipe. Sitting there, his imagination awoke. He conceived
the pageant of faith that had raised those walls. Kings and lords and
knights, all the glitter and gold of the Middle Ages, had come there--and
gone; Bishops and Archbishops, and even Popes, had had their day of
splendour there--and gone; the humbler sort, in the peasant dress of
the period, speaking quaint tongues, had brought their sorrows there and
their joys--and gone; yet it seemed to him that they had not so surely
gone. The great have their individual day and disappear, but the poor, in
their corporate indistinguishableness remain. The multitude, petty in
their trivial wants and griefs, find no historian and leave no monument.
Yet, ultimately, it was because of the Christian faith in the compassion
of God for such that Notre-Dame lifted her towers to the sky. The stage
for the mighty doings of Kings, it was the home of the people. As he had
seen them just now, creeping about the aisles, lighting little tapers,
crouched in a corner, so had they always been. Kings and Bishops figured
for a moment in pomp before the altar, and then monuments must be erected
to their memory. But it was not so with the poor. Peter, in a glow of
warmth, considered that he was in truth one of them. And Jesus had
had compassion on the multitude, he remembered. The text recalled him,
and he frowned to himself.
He knocked out his pipe, and set out leisurely to find luncheon. The
famous book-boxes held him, and he bought a print or two. In a restaurant
near the Châtelet he got _déjeuner_, and then, remembering Julie, bought
and wrote a picture-postcard, and took a taxi for the Bois. He was
driven about for an hour or more, and watched the people lured out by the
sun, watched the troops of all the armies, watched an aeroplane swing
high over the trees and soar off towards Versailles. He discharged his
car at the Arc de Triomphe, and set about deciphering the carven
pictures. Then, he walked up the great Avenue, made his way to the
Place de la République, wandered through the gardens of the Louvre, and,
as dusk fell, found himself in the Avenue de l'Opéra. It was very gay. He
had a bock at a little marble table, and courteously declined the
invitations of a lady of considerable age painted to look young. He at
first simply refused, and finally cursed into silence, a weedy, flash
youth who offered to show him the sights of the city in an apparently
ascending scale till he reached the final lure of a _cancan_, and he
dined greatly at a palace of a restaurant. Then, tired, he did not know
what to do.
A girl passing, smiled at him, and he smiled back. She came and sat down.
He looked bored, she told him, which was a thing one should not be in
Paris, and she offered to assist him to get rid of the plague.
"What do you suggest?" he demanded.
She shrugged her shoulders--anything that he pleased.
"But I don't know what I want," he objected.
"Ah, well, I have a flat near," she said--"a charming flat. We need not
be bored there."
Peter demurred. He had to catch the midnight train. She made a little
gesture; there was plenty of time.
He regarded her attentively. "See, mademoiselle," he said, "I do not want
that. But I am alone and I want company. Will you not stroll about Paris
with me for an hour or two, and talk?"
She smiled. Monsieur was unreasonable. She had her time to consider; she
could not waste it.
Peter took his case from his pocket and selected a note, folded it, and
handed it to her, without a word. She slipped it into her bag. "Give me a
cigarette," she said. "Let us have one little glass here, and then we
will go on to an 'otel I know, and hear the band and see the dresses, and
talk--is it not so?"
He could not have found a better companion. In the great lounge, later
on, leaning back by his side, she chatted shrewdly and with merriment.
She described dresses and laughed at his ignorance. She acclaimed certain
pieces, and showed a real knowledge of music. She told him of life in
Paris when the Hun had all but knocked at the gates, of the gaiety of
relief, of things big and little, of the flowers in the Bois in the
spring. He said little, but enjoyed himself. Much later she went with him
to the station, and they stood outside to say good-bye.
"Well, little girl," he said, "you have given me a good evening, and I am
very grateful. But I do not even know your name. Tell it me, that I may
remember."
"Mariette," she said. "And will monsieur not take my card? He may be in
Paris again. He is très agréable; I should like much to content him. One
meets many, but there are few one would care to see again."
Peter smiled sadly. For the first time a wistful note had crept into her
voice. He thought of others like her that he knew, and he spoke very
tenderly. "No, Mariette," he said. "If I came back I might spoil a
memory. Good-bye. God bless you!" and he held out his hand. She hesitated
a second. Then she turned back to the taxi.
"Where would you like to go?" he demanded.
She leaned out and glanced up at the clock. "L'Avenue de l'Opéra," she
said, "s'il vous plait."
The man thrust in the clutch with his foot, and Mariette was lost to
Peter for ever in the multitude.
In Boulogne he heard that he was late for the first boat, but caught the
second easily. Remembering Donovan's advice, he got his ticket for the
Pullman at once, and was soon rolling luxuriously to town. The station
was bustling as it had done what seemed to him an age before, but he
stepped out with the feeling that he was no longer a fresher in the
world's or any other university. Declining assistance, he walked over to
the Grosvenor and engaged a room, dined, and then strolled out into
Victoria Street.
It was all so familiar and it was all so different. He stood aloof and
looked at himself, and played with the thought. It was incredible that he
was the Peter Graham of less than a year before, and that he walked where
he had walked a score of times. He went up Whitehall, and across the
Square, and hesitated whether or not he should take the Strand. Deciding
against it, he made his way to Piccadilly Circus and chose a music-hall
that advertised a world-famous comedian. He heard him and came out, still
laughing to himself, and then he walked down Piccadilly to Hyde Park
Corner, and stood for a minute looking up Park Lane. Hilda ought to come
down, he said to himself amusedly. Then, marvelling that he could be
amused at all at the thought, he turned off for his hotel.
It is nothing to write down, but to Peter it was very much. Everything
was old, but everything was new to him. At his hotel he smoked a
cigarette in the lounge just to watch the men and women who came and
went, and then he declined the lift and ascended the big staircase to his
room. As he went, it struck him why it was that he felt so much wiser
than he had been; that he looked on London from the inside, whereas he
had used to look from the outside only; that he looked with a charity of
which he had never dreamed, and that he was amazingly content. And as he
got into bed he thought that when next he slept in town he would not be
alone. He would have crossed Tommy's Rubicon.
Next morning he went down into the country to relations who did not
interest him at all; but he walked and rode and enjoyed the English
countryside with zest. He went to the little country church on the Sunday
twice, to Matins and Evensong, and he came home and read that chapter of
Mr. Wells' book in which Mr. Britling expounds the domestication of God.
And he had some fierce moments in which he thought of Louise, and of
Lucienne's sister, and of Mariette, and of Pennell, and, last of all, of
Jenks, and asked himself of what use a domesticated God could be to any
of them. And then on the Thursday he came up to meet Julie.
It thrilled him that she was in England somewhere and preparing to come
to him. His pulses beat so as he thought of it that every other
consideration was temporarily driven from his mind; but presently he
caught himself thinking what ought to be done, and of what she would be
like. He turned it over in his mind. He had known her in France,
in uniform, when he was not sure of her; but now, what would she be like?
He could not conceive, and he banished the idea. It would be more
splendid when it occurred if he had made no imaginary construction of it.
His station was King's Cross, and he took a taxi to a big central hotel
in the neighbourhood of Regent Street. And as he passed its doors they
closed irrevocably on his past.
The girl at the bureau looked up and smiled. "Good-morning," she said.
"What can I do for you? We are very full."
"Good-morning," he replied. "I expect you are, but my wife is coming up
to town this afternoon, and we have only a few days together. We want to
be as central as possible. Have you a small suite over the week-end?"
"I don't know," she said, and pulled the big book toward her. She
ran a finger down the page. "Four-twenty," she said--"double bedroom,
sitting-room, and bathroom, how would that do?"
"It sounds capital," said Peter. "May I go and see it?"
She turned in her seat, reached for a key, and touched a button. A man
appeared, soundlessly on the thick, rich carpet. "Show this officer
four-twenty, will you?" she said, and turned to someone else. What means
so much to some of us is everyday business to others.
Peter followed across the hall and into a lift. They went up high, got
out in a corridor, took a turn to the right, and stopped before a door
numbered 420. The man opened it. Peter was led into a little hall, with
two doors leading from it. The first room was the sitting-room. It was
charmingly furnished and very cosy, a couple of good prints on the
walls, wide fireplace, a tall standard lamp, some delightfully easy
chairs--all this he took in at a glance. He walked to the window and
looked out. Far below was the great thoroughfare, and beyond a wilderness
of roofs and spires. He stood and gazed at it. London seemed a different
place up there. He felt remote, and looked again into the street. Its
business rolled on indifferent to him, and unaware. He glanced back into
the snug pretty little room. How easy it all was, how secure! "This is
excellent," he said, "Show me the bedroom."
"This way, sir," said, the man.
The bedroom was large and airy. A pretty light paper covered the walls,
and two beds stood against one of them, side by side. The sun shone in at
the big double windows and fell on the white paint of the woodwork, the
plate-glass tops of the toilet-tables, and the thick cream-coloured
carpet. A door was open on his right. He walked across, and looked in
there too. A tiled bathroom, he saw it was, the clean towels on the
highly polished brass rail heated by steam, the cork-mat against the
wall, the shower, douche, and spray all complete, even the big cake of
delicious-looking soap on its sliding rack across the bath. He looked as
a man in a fairy-story might look. It was as if an enchanted palace, with
the princess just round the corner, had been offered him. Smiling at the
conceit, he turned to the man. "I didn't notice the telephone," he said;
"I suppose it is installed?"
"In each room, sir," said the man.
"That will do," said Peter. "It will suit me admirably. Have my baggage
sent up, will you, and say that I engage the suite. I will be down
presently."
"Yes, sir," said the man, and departed.
Peter went back to the sitting-room, and threw himself into a chair. Then
he had an idea, got up, went to the telephone, ordered a bottle of whisky
to be sent up, and a siphon, and went back to his seat. Presently he was
pouring himself out a drink and smoking a cigarette on his own
(temporary) hearth-rug. The little incident increased his satisfaction.
He was reassuring himself. Here he was really safe and remote and master,
with a thousand servants and a huge palace at his beck and call, and all
for a few pounds! It was absurd, but he thought to himself that he was
feeling civilised for the first time, perhaps.
He looked round, and considered Julie. What would she want? Flowers to
begin with, heaps of them; she liked violets for one thing, and by hook
or by crook he would get a little wattle or mimosa to remind her of
Africa. Then chocolates and cigarettes, both must never be lacking, and
a few books--no, not books, magazines; and he would have some wine sent
up. What else? Biscuits; after the theatre they might be jolly. Ah, the
theatre! he must book seats. Well, a box would be better; they did not
want to run too great a risk of being seen. Donovan was quite possibly in
town, to say nothing of--older friends. Possibly, considering the run on
the theatres, he had better book up fairly completely for the days they
had together. But what would she like? Julie would never want to go if
she did not spontaneously fancy a play. It was a portentous question, and
he considered it long. Finally he decided on half-and-half measures,
leaving some time free.... Time! how did it go? By Jove! he ought to make
a move. Luncheon first; his last meal alone for some time; then order the
things; and Victoria at 5.30. He poured himself another short drink and
went out.
He lunched in a big public grill-room, and chatted with a naval officer
at his table who was engaged in mine-sweeping with a steam-tramp. The
latter was not vastly enthusiastic over things, but was chiefly depressed
because he had to report at a naval base that night, and his short London
leave was all but run out.
"Tell you what," he said, "I've seen a good many cities one way and
another, from San Francisco to Singapore, and I know Paris and Brussels
and Berlin, but you can take my word for it, there's no better place for
ten days' leave than this same old blessed London. You can have some
spree out East if you want it, but you can get much the same, if not
better, here. If a fellow wants a bit of a skirt, he can get as good a
pick in London as anywhere. If you want a good show, there isn't another
spot in the universe that can beat it, whatever it is you feel like. If
you want to slip out of sight for a bit, give me a big hotel like this
in London. They don't damn-well worry about identification papers much
here--too little, p'raps, these days. Did you hear of those German
submarine officers who lived in an hotel in Southampton?"
Peter had; there were few people who hadn't, seeing that the same
officers lived in most of the coast towns in England that year; but it is
a pity to damp enthusiasm. He said he had heard a little.
"Walked in and out cool as you please. When they were drowned and picked
up at sea, they had bills and theatre tickets in their pockets, and a
letter acknowledging the booking of rooms for the next week! Fact. Had it
from the fellow who got 'em. And I ask you, what is there to prevent
it? You come here: 'Will you write your name and regiment, please.' You
write the damned thing--any old thing, in fact--and what happens?
Nothing. They don't refer to them. In France the lists go to a central
bureau every day, but here--Lord bless you, the Kaiser himself might put
up anywhere if he shaved his moustache!"
Peter heard him, well content. He offered a cigarette, feeling warmly
disposed towards the world at large. The naval officer took it. "Thanks,"
he said. "You in town for long?"
"No," said Peter--"a week end. I've only just happened. What's worth
seeing?"
"First and last all the way, _Carminetta_. It's a dream. Wonderful. By
Gad, I don't know how that girl does it! Then I'd try _Zigzag_--oh! and
go to _You Never Know, You Know_, at the Cri. Absolutely toppin'. A
perfect scream all through. The thing at Daly's' good too; but all the
shows are good, though, I reckon. Lumme, you wouldn't think the war was
on, 'cept they all touch it a bit! _The Better 'Ole_ I like, but you
mightn't, knowing the real thing. But don't miss _Carminetta_ if you have
to stand all day for a seat in the gods. Well, I must be going. Damned
rough luck, but no help for it. Let's have a last spot, eh?"
Peter agreed, and the drinks were ordered. "Chin-chin," said his
acquaintance. "And here's to old London town, and the Good Lord let me
see it again. It's less than even chances," he added reflectively.
"Here's luck," said Peter; then, for he couldn't help it: "It's you
chaps, by God, that are winning this war!"
"Oh, I don't know," said the other, rising. "We get more leave than you
fellows, and I'd sooner be on my tramp than in the trenches. The sea's
good and clean to die in, anyway. Cheerio."
Peter followed him out in a few minutes, and set about his shopping. He
found a florist's in Regent Street and bought lavishly. The girl smiled
at him, and suggested this and that. "Having a dinner somewhere
to-night?" she queried. "But I have no violets."
"Got my girl comin' up," said Peter expansively; "that's why there must
be violets. See if you can get me some and send them over, will you?" he
asked, naming his hotel. She promised to do her best, and he departed.
He went into a chocolate shop. "Got some really decent chocolates?" he
demanded.
The girl smiled and dived under the counter. "These are the best," she
said, holding out a shovelful for Peter to taste. He tried one. "They'll
do," he said. "Give me a couple of pounds, in a pretty box if you've got
one."
"Two pounds!" she exclaimed. "What are you thinking of? We can only sell
a quarter."
"Only a quarter!" said Peter. "That's no good. Come on, make up the two
pounds."
"If my boss comes in or finds out I'll be fired," said the girl; "can't
be done."
"Well, that doesn't matter," said Peter innocently, "You'll easily get a
job--something better and easier, I expect."
"It's easy enough, perhaps," said the girl, "but you never can tell.
_And_ it's dangerous, _and_ uncertain."
Peter stared at her. When he bought chocolates as a parson, he never had
talks like this. He wondered if London had changed since he knew it. Then
he played up: "You're pretty enough to knock that last out, anyway?" he
said.
"Am I?" she demanded. "Do you mean you'd like to keep me?"
"I've got one week-end left of leave," said Peter. "What about the
chocolates?"
"Poor boy!" she said. "Well, I'll risk it." And she made up the two
pounds.
He wandered into a tobacconist's, and bought cigarettes which Julie's
soul loved, and then he made for a theatre booking-office.
Outside and his business done, he looked at his watch, and found he had a
bit of time to spare. He walked down Shaftesbury Avenue, and thought he
would get himself spruced up at a hairdresser's. He saw a little place
with a foreigner at the door, and he went in. It was a tiny room with
three seats all empty. The man seated him in one and began.
Peter discovered that his hair needed this and that, and being in a good
temper and an idle mood acquiesced. Presently a girl came in. Peter smelt
her enter, and then saw her in the glass. She was short and dark and
foreign, too, and she wore a blouse that appeared to have remarkably
little beneath it, and to be about to slip off her shoulders. She came
forward and stood between him and the glass, smiling. "Wouldn't you like
your nails manicured?" she demanded.
"Oh, I don't know," said Peter; "I had not meant to ..." and was lost.
"Second thoughts are best," she said; "but let me look at your hands.
Oh, I should think you did need it! Whatever will your girl say to you
to-night if you have hands like this?"
Peter, humiliated, looked at his hands. They did not appear to him to
differ much from the hands Julie and others had seen without visible
consternation before, but he had no time to say so. The young lady was
now seated by his side with a basin of hot water, and was dabbling his
hand in it. "Nice? Not too hot?" she inquired brightly.
Peter watched her as she bent over her work and kept up a running fire of
talk. He gathered that many officers habitually were manicured by her,
many of them in their own rooms. It was lucky for him that she was not
out. Possibly he would like to make an appointment; she could come early
or late. No? Then she thought his own manicure-set must be a poor one,
judging from these hands, and perhaps she could sell him another. No?
Well, a little cream. Not to-day? He would look in to-morrow? He
hadn't a chance? She would tell him what: where was he staying? (Peter,
for the fun of it, told her he had a private suite in the hotel.) Well,
that was splendid. She would call in with a new set at any time, before
breakfast, after the theatre, as he pleased; bring the cream and do his
hands once with it to show him how. How would that suit him?
Peter was not required to say, for at that minute the shop-bell rang and
a priest came in, a little old man, tired-looking, in a black cassock. He
was apparently known, though he seemed to take no notice of anyone. The
man was all civility, but put on an expression meant to indicate
amusement, to Peter, behind the clerical back. The girl put one of
Peter's fingers on her own lips by way of directing caution, and
continued more or less in silence. The room became all but silent save
for the sound of scissors and the noise of the traffic outside, and Peter
reflected again on many things. When he had had his hair cut previously,
for instance, had people made faces behind his back? Had young ladies
ceased from tempting offers that seemed to include more than manicuring?
He got up to pay. "Well," she demanded, _sotto voce_, "what of the
arrangement? She could do him easily at any..."
He cut her short. No; it was really impossible. His wife was coming up
that afternoon. It was plain that she now regarded it as impossible also.
He paid an enormous sum wonderingly, and departed.
Outside it struck him that he had forgotten one thing. He walked briskly
to the hotel, and went up to his rooms. In the sitting-room was the big
bunch of flowers and a maid unwrapping it. She turned and smiled at him.
"These have just come for you, sir," she said. "Shall I arrange them for
you?"
"No, thank you," said Peter. "I'd rather do them myself. I love arranging
flowers, and I know just what my wife likes. I expect you'd do them
better, but I'll have a shot, if you don't mind. Would you fill the
glasses and get me a few more? We haven't enough here."
"Certainly, sir. There was a gentleman here once who did flowers
beautifully, he did. But most likes us to do it for them."
She departed for the glasses. Peter saw that the florist had secured his
violets, and took them first and filled a bowl. Then he walked into the
bedroom and contemplated for a minute. Then he put the violets critically
on the little table by the bed nearest the window, and stood back to see
the result. Finding it good, he departed. When next he came in, it was to
place a great bunch of roses on the mantelshelf, and a few sprays of the
soft yellow and green mimosa on the dressing-table. For the sitting-room
he had carnations and delphiniums, and he placed a high towering cluster
of the latter on the writing-table, and a vase of the former on the
mantelpiece. A few roses, left over, went on the small table that carried
the reading-lamp, and he and the chambermaid surveyed the results.
"Lovely, I do think," she said; "any lady would love them. I likes
flowers myself, I do. I come from the country, sir, where there's a many,
and the wild flowers that Jack and I liked best of all. Specially
primroses, sir." There was a sound in her voice as she turned away, and
Peter heard it.
"Jack?" he queried softly.
"'E's been missing since last July, sir," she said, stopping by the door.
"Has he?" said Peter. "Well, you must not give up hope, you know; he may
be a prisoner."
She shook her head. "He's dead," she said, with an air of finality. "I
oughtn't to have spoke a word, but them flowers reminded me. I'm glad as
how I have to do these rooms, sir. Most of them don't bother with
flowers. Is there anything else you might be wanting, sir?"
"Light fires in both the grates, please," he said. "I'm so sorry about
Jack," he added.
She gave him a look, and passed out.
Peter wandered about touching this and that. Suddenly he remembered the
magazines. He ran out and caught a lift about to descend, and was once
more in the street. Near Leicester Square was a big foreign shop, and he
entered it, and gathered of all kinds. As he went to pay, he saw _La Vie
Parisienne_, and added that also to the bundle; Julie used to say she
loved it. Back in the hotel, he sent them to his room, and glanced at his
watch. He had time for tea. He went out into the lounge and ordered it,
sitting back under the palms. It came, and he was in the act of pouring
out a cup when he saw Donovan.
Donovan was with a girl, but so were most men; Peter could not be sure
of her. It was only a glimpse he had, for the two had finished and were
passing out. Donovan stood back to let her first through the great
swing-doors, and then, pulling on his gloves, followed. They both
disappeared.
Peter sat on, in a tumult. He had been too busy all day to reflect much,
but now just what he was about to do began to overwhelm him. If Donovan
met him with Julie? Well, they could pretend they had just met, they
could even part, and meet again. Could they? Would Donovan be deceived
for a minute? It seemed to him impossible. And he might be staying there.
Suppose he met someone else. Langton? Sir Robert Doyle? His late Vicar?
Hilda? Mr. Lessing? And Julie would have acquaintances too. He shook
himself mentally, and lit a cigarette. Well, suppose they did; he was
finished with them. Finished? Then, what lay ahead--what, after this, if
he were discovered? And if he were not discovered? God knew....
His mind took a new train of thought: he was now just such a one as
Donovan. Or as Pennell. As Langton? He wasn't sure; no, he thought not;
Langton kept straight because he had a wife and kids. He had a centre.
Donovan and Pennell had not, apparently. Well, he, Peter Graham, would
have a centre; he would marry Julie. It would be heavenly. They had not
spoken of it, of course, that night of the dinner, but surely Julie
would. There could be no doubt after the week-end.... "I shan't marry or
be given in marriage," she had said. It was like her to speak so, but
of course she didn't mean it. No, he would marry; and then?
He blew out smoke. The Colonies, South Africa; he would get a job
schoolmastering? He hated the idea; it didn't interest him. A farm? He
knew nothing about it--besides, one wanted capital. What would he do?
What did he want to do? _Want_--that was it; how did he want to spend his
life? Well, he wanted Julie; everything else would fit round her,
everything else would be secondary beside her. Of course. And as he got
old it would still be the same, though he could not imagine either of
them old. But still, when they did get old, his work would seem more
important, and what was it to be? Probably it would have to be
schoolmastering. Teaching Latin to little boys--History, Geography,
Mathematics. He smiled ruefully; even factors worried him. They would
hardly want Latin and Greek much in the Colonies, either. Perhaps at
home; but would Julie stop at home? What _would_ Julie do? He must
ask her, sometime before Monday. Not that night--no, not _that_ night....
He ground his cigarette into his cup, and pushed his hands into his
pockets, his feet out before him. That night! He saw the sitting-room
upstairs; they would go there first. Then he would suggest a dinner to
her, in Soho; he knew a place that Pennell had told him of, Bohemian, but
one could take anyone--at least, take Julie. It would be jolly watching
the people, and watching Julie. He saw her, mentally, opposite him, and
her eyes sparkling and alluring. And afterwards, warmed and fed--why,
back to the hotel, to the sitting-room, by the fire. They would have a
little supper, and then....
He pictured the bedroom. He would let Julie go first. He remembered
reading in a novel how some newly married wife said to the fellow:
"You'll come up in half an hour or so, won't you, dear?" He could all but
see the words in print. And so, in half an hour or so, he would go in,
and Julie would be in bed, by the violets, and he--he would know what men
talked about, sometimes, in the anteroom.... He recalled a red-faced,
coarse Colonel: "No man's a man till he's been all the way, I say...."
And he was a chaplain, a priest. Was he? The past months spun before him,
his sermons, his talks to the wounded at the hospital, the things he had
seen, the stories he had heard. He sighed. It was all a dream, a sham.
There was no reality in it all. Where and what was Christ? An ideal, yes,
but no more than an ideal, and unrealisable--a vision of the beautiful.
He thought he had seen that once, but not now. The beautiful! Ah! What
place had His Beauty in Travalini's, in the shattered railway-carriage,
in the dinner at the Grand in Havre with Julie?
Julie. He dwelt on her, eyes, hair, face, skin, and lithe figure. He felt
her kisses again on his lips, those last burning kisses of New Year's
Night, and they were all to be his, as never before.... Julie. What,
then, was she? She was his bride, his wife, coming to him consecrate--not
by any State convention, not by any ceremony of man-made religion, but by
the pure passion of human love, virginal, clean. It was human passion,
perhaps, but where was higher love or greater sacrifice? Was this not
worthy of all his careful preparation, worthy of the one centre of his
being? Donovan, indeed! He wished he had stopped and told him the whole
story, and that he expected Julie that night.
He jumped up, and walked out in the steps of Donovan, but with never
another thought of him. A boy in uniform questioned him: "Taxi, sir?" He
nodded, and the commissionaire pushed back the great swing-door. He stood
on the steps, and watched the passers-by, and the lights all shaded as
they were, that began to usher in a night of mystery. His taxi rolled up,
and the man held the door open. "Victoria!" cried Peter, and to himself,
as he sank back on the seat, "Julie!"