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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Simon Called Peter, by Robert Keable This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Simon Called Peter Author: Robert Keable Release Date: January 3, 2005 [EBook #14579] Last updated: June 29, 2013 Last updated: August 25, 2013 Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIMON CALLED PETER *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team 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 tomorrow 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 midVictorian 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 "Then let's go together to-night," she said "Do you mean it, Julie?" "Of course I do I'm curious Besides, it's Sunday, and I want to go to church." "But you'll miss dinner," objected Peter "It begins at six-thirty." "Well, let's get some food out—Victoria Station, for instance Won't that do? We can have some supper sent up afterwards in the hotel." Peter agreed, but they did not go to the station In a little cafe outside Julie saw a South African private eating eggs and bacon, and nothing would do but that they must do the same So they went in They ate off thick plates, and Julie dropped the china pepper-pot on her eggs and generally behaved as if she were at a school-treat But it was a novelty, and it kept their thoughts off the fact that it was the last night And finally they went to church The service did not impress Peter, and every time he looked at Julie's face he wanted to laugh; but the atmosphere of the place did, though he could not catch the impression of the morning For the sermon, a stoutish, foreign-looking ecclesiastic mounted the pulpit, and they both prepared to be bored However, he gave out his text, and Peter sat bolt upright at once It would have delighted the ears of his Wesleyan corporal of the Forestry; and more than that it was the text he had quoted in the ears of the dying Jenks He prepared keenly to listen As for Julie, she was regarding the altar with a far-away look in her eyes, and she scarcely moved the whole time Outside, as soon as they were out of the crowd, Peter began at once "Julie," he said, "whatever did you think of that sermon?" "What did you?" she said "Tell me first." "I don't believe you listened at all, but I can't help talking of it It was amazing He began by speaking about Adam and Eve and original sin and the Garden of Eden as if he'd been there There might never have been a Higher Critic in existence Then he said what sin did, and that sin was only truly sin if it did do that That was to hide the face of God, to put Him and a human being absolutely out of communication, so to speak And then he came to Christ, to the Cross Did you hear him, Julie? Christ comes in between—He got in between God and man All the anger that darted out of God against sin hit Him; all the blows that man struck back against God hit Him Do you see that, Julie? That was wonderfully put, but the end was more wonderful Both, ultimately, cannot kill the Heart of Jesus There's no sin there to merit or to feel the anger, and we can hurt, but we can't destroy His love." Peter stopped, "That's what I saw a little this morning," he said after a minute "Well?" said Julie "Oh, it's all so plain! If there was a way to that Heart, one would be safe I mean, a way that is not an emotional idea, not a subjective experience, but something practical Some way that a Tommy could travel, as easily as anyone, and get to a real thing And he said there was a way, and just sketched it, the Sacraments— more than ours, of course, their seven, all of them more or less, I suppose He meant that the Sacraments were not signs of salvation, but salvation itself Julie, I never saw the idea before It's colossal It's a thing to which one might dedicate one's life It's a thing to live and die gladly for It fills one Don't you think so, Julie?" He spoke exultantly "Peter, to be honest," said Julie, "I think you're talking fanatical rubbish." "Do you really, Julie? You can't, surely you can't." "But I do, Peter," she said sadly; "it makes no appeal to me I can only see one great thing in life, and it's not that 'The rest is lies,' But, oh! surely that great thing might not be false too But why do you see one thing, and I another, my dear?" "I don't know," said Peter, "unless—well, perhaps it's a kind of gift, Julie, 'If thou knewest the gift of God…' Not that I know, only I can just see a great wonderful vision, and it fills my sight." "I, too," she said; "but it's not your vision." "What is it, then?" said he, carried away by his own ideas and hardly thinking of her Her voice brought him back "Oh, Peter, don't you know even yet?" He took her arm very tenderly at that "My darling," he said, "the two aren't incompatible Julie, don't be sad I love you; you know I love you I wish we'd never gone to the place if you think I don't, but I haven't changed towards you a bit, Julie I love you far, far more than anyone else I won't give you up, even to God!" It was dark where they were Julie lifted her face to him just there He thought he had never heard her speak as she spoke now, there, in a London street, under the night sky "Peter, my darling," she said, "my brave boy How I love you, Peter! I know you won't give me up, Peter, and I adore you for it Peter, hell will be heaven with the memory of that!" There, then, he sealed her with his kiss * * * * * Julie stirred in his arms, but the movement did not wake him any more than the knock of the door had done "All right," she called "Thank you," and, leaning over, she switched on the light It was 5.30, and necessary In its radiance she bent over him, and none of her friends had ever seen her look as she did then She kissed him, and he opened his eyes "Half-past five, Peter," she said, as gaily as she could "You've got to get a move on, my dear Two hours to dress and pack and breakfast—no, I suppose you can do that on the train But you've got to get there Oh, Lord, how it brings the war home, doesn't it? Jump up!" Peter sighed "Blast the war!" he said lazily "I shan't move Kiss me again, you darling, and let your hair fall over my face." She did so, and its glossy curtain hid them Beneath the veil she whispered; "Come, darling, for my sake The longer you stay here now, the harder it will be." He threw his arms round her, and then jumped out of bed yawning "That's it," she said "Now go and shave and bath while I pack for you Hurry up; then we'll get more time." While he splashed about she sought for his things, and packed for him as she never packed for herself As she gathered them she thought of the night before, when, overwhelmed in a tempest of love, it had all been left for the morning She filled the suit-case, but she could not fasten it "Come and help, Peter," she called He came out She was kneeling on it in her loose kimono, her hair all about her, her nightdress open at the throat He drank her beauty in, and then mastered himself for a minute and shut the case "That all?" she queried "Yes," he said "You get back into bed, my darling, or you'll catch cold I'll be ready in a second, and then we can have a few minutes together." At the glass he marshalled his arguments, and then he came over to her He dropped by the bedside and wound his arms about her "Julie," he whispered, "my darling, say you'll marry me—please, please!" She made no reply He kissed her, unresisting, again and again "Julie," he said, "you know how I love you You do know it You know I'm not begging you to marry me because I've got something out of you, perhaps when you were carried away, and now I feel I must make reparation My darling, it isn't that I love you so much that I can't live without you I'll give up everything for you I want to start a new life with you I can't go back to the old, anyhow; I don't want to: it's a sham to me now, and I hate shams—you know I do But you're not a sham; our love isn't a sham I'd die for you, Julie, my own Julie; I'd die for the least little bit of this hair of yours, I think! But I want to live for you I want to put you right in the centre of everything, and live for you, Julie Say 'Yes,' my love, my own You must say 'Yes,' Why don't you, Julie?" And still she made no reply A kind of despair seized him "Oh, Julie," he cried, "what can I say or what can I do? You're cruel, Julie; you're killing me! You must say 'Yes' before I go We'll meet in Havre, I know; but that will be so different I must have my answer now Oh, my darling, please, please, speak! You love me, Julie, don't you?" "Peter," said Julie slowly, "I love you so much that I hardly dare speak, lest my love should carry me away But listen, my dear, listen Peter, I've watched you these days; I've watched you in France I've watched you from the moment when I called you over to me because I was interested and felt my fate, I suppose I've watched you struggling along, Peter, and I understand why you've struggled You're built for great things, my dear—how great I can't see and I can't even understand No, Peter, I can't even understand—that's part of the tragedy of it Peter, I love you so that my love for you is my centre, it's my all in all, it's my hope of salvation, Peter Do you hear, my darling?—my love, it's my one hope! If I can't keep that pure and clean, Peter, I ruin both of us I love you so, Peter, that I won't marry you!" He gave a little cry, but swiftly she put a hand over his mouth She smiled at him as she did so, a daring little smile "Be quiet, you Solomon, you," she said; "I haven't finished There! Now listen again, Peter: you can't help it, but you can't love me as I love you I see it I—I hate it, I think; but I know it, and there's an end You, my dear, you would put me in the centre, but you can't I can't put you out of my centre, Peter You would give up God for me, Peter, but you can't, or if you did, you'd lose us both But I, Peter—oh, my darling, I have no god but you And that's why I'll worship you, Peter, and sacrifice to you, Peter, sacrifice to your only ultimate happiness, Peter, and sacrifice my all." He tried to speak, but he could not The past days lay before him in a clear light at last Her love shone on them, and shone too plainly for mistake He tried to deny, but he couldn't; contradict, but his heart cried the truth, and his eyes could not hide it But he could and did vent his passion "Damn God! Curse Him!" he cried "I hate Him! Why should He master me? I want you, Julie; I will have you; I will worship you, Julie!" She let him speak; and, being Julie, his words only brought a more tender light into her face "Peter," she said, "one minute Do you remember where you first kissed me, my darling?—the first real kiss, I mean," and her eyes sparkled with fun even then "You know—ah, I see you do! You will never forget that, will you? Perhaps you thought I didn't notice, but I did Neither you nor I chose it; it was Fate; perhaps it was your God, Peter But, anyway, look at me now as you looked then What do you see?" He stared at her, and he saw—how clearly he saw! Her sweet back-bent head, her shining eyes, the lamp-light falling on her hair out of the night He even heard the sea as it beat on the stones of the quay—or thought he did—and felt the whip of the wind And behind her, dominating, arms outspread, the harbour crucifix And she saw that he saw, and she whispered: "Do you hate Him, Peter?" And he sank his head into her hands and sobbed great dry sobs "Ah, don't, don't," he heard her say—"don't Peter! It's not so bad as that Your life is going to be full, my beloved, with a great and burning love; and you were right this morning, Peter, more right than you knew When that is there you will have place even for me—yes, even for me, the love of what you will call your sin And I, my dear, dear boy, I have something even now which no devil, Peter, and no god can take away." He looked up "Then there's a chance, Julie You won't say 'Yes,' but don't say 'No.' Let us see I shall take no vows, Julie I haven't an idea what I shall do, and maybe it won't be quite as you think, and there will be a little room for you one day Oh, say you'll wait a while, Julie, just to see!" It was the supreme moment She saw no crucifix to sustain her, but she did see the bastard Spanish dancing-girl And she did not hesitate "No, Peter," she said, "I would not take that, and you never could give it I did not mean such place as that It never can be, Peter; you are not made for me." And thus did Julie, who knew no God, but Julie of the brave, clean, steadfast heart, give Peter to Him * * * * * The maid came in answer to her ring "Will you light a fire, please?" said Julie "I suppose Captain Graham has gone?" "Yes, mam, he's gone, and he felt it terrible, I could see But don't you fear, mam, he'll be kept, I know he will You're that good, he'll come back to you, never fear But it's 'ard on those they leave, ain't it, mam?—their wives an' all." "Yes," said Julie, and she never spoke more bravely "But it's got to be, hasn't it? Would you pull the blind up? Ah, thanks; why, it's sunny! I'm so glad It will be good for the crossing." "It will be that, 'm We gets the sun first up here Shall I bring up the tea, madame?" "I'll ring," said Julie, "when I want it It won't be for a few minutes yet." The girl went out, and the door shut behind her Julie lay on still for a little, and then she got up She walked to the window and looked out, and she threw her arms wide with a gesture, and shut her eyes, and let the sun fall on her Then she walked to her little trunk, and rummaged in it From somewhere far down she drew out a leather case, and with it in her hand she went over and sat by the fire She held it without moving for a minute, and then she slowly opened it One by one she drew out a few worthless things—a withered bunch of primroses, a couple of little scribbled notes, a paper cap from a cracker, a menu card, a handkerchief of her own that she had lent to him, and that he (just like Peter) had given back She held them all in her hand a minute, and then she bent forward and dropped them in the open fire And the sun rose a little higher, and fell on the tumbled brown hair that Peter had kissed and that now hid her eyes End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Simon Called Peter, by 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