Simon Called Peter | Page 4

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,