Simon Called Peter | Page 7

was certain. Of course it is. Germany has been playing
up for it for years, and we fools have been blind and mad. But it'll come
now. Thank God, I can still do a bit, and maybe we shall meet out there
yet--eh, Mr. Graham?"
Somehow or another that aspect of the question had not struck Peter

forcibly till now. He had been so occupied with visualising the march
of world events that he had hardly thought of himself as one of the
multitude. But now the question struck home. What would he do? He
was at a loss for the moment.
The Rector saved him, however. "Well, well, of course, Sir Robert,
apart from the chaplains, the place of the clergy will be almost certainly
at home. Hospital visiting, and so on, will take a lot of time. I believe
the Chaplain-General's Department is fully staffed, but doubtless, if
there is any demand, the clergy will respond. It is, of course, against
Canon Law for them to fight, though doubtless our young friend would
like to do his share in that if he could. You were in the O.T.C. at
Oxford, weren't you, Graham?"
"Yes," said Graham shortly.
"The French priests are mobilising with the nation," said Sir Robert.
"Ah, yes, naturally," replied the Rector; "that is one result of the recent
anti-clerical legislation. Thank God, this country has been spared that,
and in any case we shall never have conscription. Probably the Army
will have to be enlarged--half a million will be required at least, I
should think. That will mean more chaplains, but I should suppose the
Bishops will select--oh, yes, surely their lordships will select. It would
be a pity for you to go, Graham; it's rough work with the Tommies, and
your gifts are wanted at home. The Vicar of St. Thomas's speaks very
highly of your gifts as an organiser, and doubtless some sphere will be
opened up for you. Well, well, these are stirring times. Good-morning,
Mr. Graham."
He held out his hand to the young man. Mr. Lessing, carefully
smoothing his silk hat, looked up. "Come in to luncheon with us, will
you, Graham?" he said.
Peter assented, and shook hands all round. Sir Robert and he moved out
together, and the baronet caught his eye in the porch. "This'll jog him
up a bit, I'm thinking," he said to himself. "There's stuff in that chap,
but he's got to feel his legs."

Outside the summer sun was now powerful, and the streets were dusty
and more busy. The crowd had thinned at the church door, but Hilda
and Mrs. Lessing were waiting for the car.
"Don't let's drive," said Hilda as they came up; "I'd much sooner walk
home to-day."
Her father smiled paternally. "Bit cramped after church, eh?" he said.
"Well, what do you say, dear?" he asked his wife.
"I think I shall drive," Mrs. Lessing replied; "but if Mr. Graham is
coming to luncheon, perhaps he will walk round with Hilda. Will you,
Mr. Graham?"
"With pleasure," said Peter. "I agree with Miss Lessing, and the walk
will be jolly. We'll go through the park. It's less than half an hour, isn't
it?"
It was arranged at that, and the elders drove off. Peter raised his hat to
Sir Robert, who turned up the street, and together he and Hilda crossed
over the wide thoroughfare and started down for the park.
There was silence for a little, and it was Peter who broke it.
"Just before breakfast," he said, "you asked me what I should do, and I
had no chance to reply. Well, they were talking of it in the vestry just
now, and I've made up my mind. I shall write to-night to the Bishop
and ask for a chaplaincy."
They walked on a hundred yards or so in silence again. Then Hilda
broke it. "Peter," she began, and stopped. He glanced at her quickly,
and saw in a minute that the one word had spoken truly to him.
"Oh, Hilda," he said, "do you really care all that? You can't possibly!
Oh, if we were not here, and I could tell you all I feel! But, dear, I love
you; I know now that I have loved you for months, and it is just
because I love you that I must go."

"Peter," began Hilda again, and again stopped. Then she took a grip of
herself, and spoke out bravely. "Oh, Peter," she said, "you've guessed
right. I never meant you to--at least, not yet, but it is terrible to think of
you going out there. I suppose I ought to be glad and proud, and in a
way I am, but you don't seem the right person for it. It's wasting you.
And I don't know what