Simon Called Peter | Page 6

a moment to have
compassion on hungry women and crying babies and folk whose petty
confused affairs could have seemed of no consequence to anyone in the

drama of the world. And then, with a few terse sentences, the preacher
swung from that instance to the world drama of to-day. Did they realise,
he asked, that peaceful bright Sunday morning, that millions of simple
men were at that moment being hurled at each other to maim and kill?
At the bidding of powers that even they could hardly visualise, at the
behest of world politics that not one in a thousand would understand
and scarcely any justify, houses were being broken up, women were
weeping, and children playing in the sun before cottage doors were
even now being left fatherless. It was incredible, colossal,
unimaginable, but as one tried to picture it, Hell had opened her mouth
and Death gone forth to slay. It was terrible enough that battlefields of
stupendous size should soon be littered with the dying and the dead, but
the aftermath of such a war as this would be still more terrible. No one
could say how near it would come to them all. No one could tell what
revolution in morals and social order such a war as this might not bring.
That day God Himself looked down on the multitude as sheep having
no shepherd, abandoned to be butchered by the wolves, and His heart
beat with a divine compassion for the infinite sorrows of the world.
There was little more to it. An exhortation to go home to fear and pray
and set the house in order against the Day of Wrath, and that was all.
"My brethren," said the young man--and the intensity of his thought
lent a certain unusual solemnity to the conventional title--"no one can
tell how the events of this week may affect us. Our feet may even now
be going down into the Valley of the Shadow of temptation, of conflict,
of death, and even now there may be preparing for us a chalice such as
we shall fear to drink. Let us pray that in that hour the compassion of
Jesus may be real to us, and we ourselves find a sure place in that
sorrowful Heart."
And he was gone from the pulpit without another word. It would have
been almost ridiculous if one had noted that the surprised beadle had
had no "And now to God the Father ..." in which to reach the pulpit,
and had been forced to meet his victim hurrying halfway up the chancel;
but perhaps no one but that dignitary, whom the fall of thrones would
not shake, had noticed it. The congregation paid the preacher the great
compliment of sitting on in absolute silence for a minute or two. For a

moment it still stared reality in the face. And then Mr. Lessing shifted
in his pew and coughed, and the Rector rose, pompously as usual, to
announce the hymn, and Hilda became conscious of unaccustomed
tears in her eyes.
The senior curate solemnly uncovered and removed the chalice. Taking
bread and wine, he deposited the sacred vessels at the north end of the
altar, returned to the centre, unfolded the corporal, received the alms,
and as solemnly set the great gold dish on the corporal itself, after the
unmeaning custom of the church. And then came the long prayer and
the solemn procession to the vestry, while a dozen or two stayed with
the senior curate for the Communion.
Graham found himself in the little inner vestry, with its green-cloth
table and massive inkstand and registers, and began to unvest
mechanically. He got his coat out of the beautiful carved wardrobe, and
was folding up his hood and surplice, when the Rector laid a
patronising hand on his shoulder. "A good sermon, Graham," he
said--"a good sermon, if a little emotional. It was a pity you forgot the
doxology. But it is a great occasion, I fear a greater occasion than we
know, and you rose to it very well. Last night I had half a mind to
'phone you not to come, and to preach myself, but I am glad now I did
not. I am sure we are very grateful. Eh, Sir Robert?"
Sir Robert Doyle, the other warden, was making neat piles of
sovereigns on the green cloth, while Mr. Lessing counted the silver as
to the manner born. He was a pillar of the church, too, was Sir Robert,
but a soldier and a straight speaker. He turned genially to the young
man.
"From the shoulder, Rector," he said. "Perhaps it will make a few of us
sit up a little. Coming down to church I met Arnold of the War Office,
and he said war