Chapter 24

Then the war came. Doggie Trevor was both patriotic and polite. Having a fragment of the British army in his house, he did his best to make it comfortable. By January he had no doubt that the empire was in peril, that it was every man's duty to do his bit. He welcomed the newcomers with open arms, having unconsciously abandoned his attitude of superiority over mere brawn. It was every patriotic Englishman's duty to encourage brawn. He threw himself heart and soul into the entertainment of officers and men. They thought Doggie a capital fellow.

"My dear chap," one would protest, "you're spoiling us. I don't say we don't like it and aren't grateful. We are. But we're supposed to rough it--to lead the simple life. You're treating us too well."

"Impossible!" Doggie would reply. "Don't I know what we owe you fellows? In what other way can a helpless, delicate being like myself show his gratitude and in some sort of way serve his country?"

When the sympathetic guest would ask what was the nature of his malady, Doggie would tap his chest vaguely and reply:

"Constitutional. I've never been able to do things like other fellows. The least thing bowls me out."

"Hard lines--especially just now!" the soldier would murmur.

"Yes, isn't it?" Doggie would answer.

Doggie never questioned his physical incapacity. His mother had brought him up to look on himself as a singularly frail creature, and the idea was as real to him as the war. He went about pitying himself and seeking pity.

The months passed. The soldiers moved away from Durdlebury, and Doggie was left alone in his house. He felt solitary and restless. News came from Oliver that he had accepted an infantry commission and was in France. "A month of this sort of thing," he wrote, "would make our dear old Doggie sit up." Doggie sighed. If only he had been blessed with Oliver's constitution!

One morning Briggins, his chauffeur, announced that he could stick it out no longer and was going to enlist. Then Doggie remembered a talk he had had with one of the young officers, who had expressed astonishment at his not being able to drive a car.

"I shouldn't have the nerve," he had replied. "My nerves are all wrong--and I shouldn't have the strength to change tires and things."

But now Doggie was confronted by the necessity of driving his own car, for chauffeurs were no longer to be had. To his amazement, he found that he did not die of nervous collapse when a dog crossed the road in front of the automobile, and that the fitting of detachable wheels did not require the strength of a Hercules. The first time he took Peggy out driving, he swelled with pride.

"I'm so glad you can do something!" she said, after a silence.

Although the girl was as kind as ever, Doggie had noticed of late a curious reserve in her manner. Conversation did not flow easily. She had fits of abstraction, from which, when rallied, she roused herself with an effort. Finally, one day, Peggy asked him blankly why he did not enlist.

Doggie was horrified. "I'm not fit," he said, "I've no constitution. I'm an impossibility."

"You thought you had nerves until you learned to drive the car," she answered. "Then you discovered that you hadn't. You fancy you've a weak heart. Perhaps if you walked thirty miles a day, you would discover that you hadn't that, either. And so with the rest of it."

He swung round toward her. "Do you think I'm shamming so as to get out of serving in the army?" he demanded.

"Not consciously. Unconsciously, I think you are. What does your doctor say?"

Doggie was taken aback. He had no doctor, having no need for one. He made confession of the surprising fact. Peggy smiled.

"That proves it," she said. "I don't believe you have anything wrong with you. This is plain talking. It's horrid, I know, but it's best to get through with it once and for all."

Some men would have taken deep offense, but Doggie, conscientious if ineffective, was gnawed for the first time by a suspicion that Peggy might possibly be right. He desired to act honorably.

"I'll do," he said, "whatever you think proper."

"Good!" said Peggy. "Get Doctor Murdoch to overhaul you thoroughly with a view to the army. If he passes you, take a commission."

She put out her hand. Doggie took it firmly.

"Very well," he said. "I agree."

"You're flabby," announced Doctor Murdoch, the next morning, to an anxious Doggie, after some minutes of thumping and listening, "but that's merely a matter of unused muscles. Physical training will set it right in no time. Otherwise, my dear Trevor, you're in splendid health. There's not a flaw in your whole constitution."

Doggie crept out of bed, put on a violet dressing-gown, and wandered to his breakfast like a man in a nightmare. But he could not eat. He swallowed a cup of coffee and took refuge in his own room. He was frightened--horribly frightened, caught in a net from which there was no escape. He had given his word to join the army if he should be passed by Murdoch. He had been more than passed! Now he would have to join; he would have to fight. He would have to live in a muddy trench, sleep in mud, eat in mud, plow through mud. Doggie was shaken to his soul, but he had given his word and he had no thought of going back on it.

The fateful little letter bestowing a commission on Doggie arrived two weeks later; he was a second lieutenant in a battalion of the new army. A few days afterward he set off for the training-camp.

He wrote to Peggy regularly. The work was very hard, he said, and the hours were long. Sometimes he confessed himself too tired to write more than a few lines. It was a very strange life--one he never dreamed could have existed. There was the riding-school. Why hadn't he learned to ride as a boy? Peggy was filled with admiration for his courage. She realized that he was suffering acutely in his new and rough environment, but he made no complaint.

Then there came a time when Doggie's letters grew rarer and shorter. At last they ceased altogether. One evening an unstamped envelope addressed to Peggy was put in the letter-box. The envelope contained a copy of the _Gazette_, and a sentence was underlined and adorned with exclamation marks:

"Royal Fusileers. Second Lieutenant J. M. Trevor resigned his commission."

* * * * *

It had been a terrible blow to Doggie. The colonel had dealt as gently as he could in the final interview with him. He put his hand in a fatherly way on Doggie's shoulder and bade him not take the thing too much to heart. He--Doggie--had done his best, but the simple fact was that he was not cut out for an officer. These were merciless times, and in matters of life and death there could be no weak links in the chain. In Doggie's case there was no personal discredit. He had always conducted himself like a gentleman, but he lacked the qualities necessary for the command of men. He must send in his resignation.

Doggie, after leaving the camp, took a room in a hotel and sat there most of the day, the mere pulp of a man. His one desire now was to escape from the eyes of his fellow-men. He felt that he bore the marks of his disgrace, obvious at a glance. He had been turned out of the army as a hopeless incompetent; he was worse than a slacker, for the slacker might have latent qualities he was without.

Presently the sight of his late brother-officers added the gnaw of envy to his heart-ache. On the third day of his exile he moved into lodgings in Woburn Place. Here at least he could be quiet, untroubled by heart-rending sights and sounds. He spent most of his time in dull reading and dispirited walking.

His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though without enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo Bridge and gazed out over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark and peaceful. As he looked down on the rippling water, he presently became aware of a presence by his side. Turning his head, he found a soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet.

"I thought I wasn't mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor," said the soldier.

Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the little gray eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His dawning recognition amused the soldier.

"Yes, laddie, it's your old Phineas. Phineas McPhail, M. A.--now private P. McPhail."

It was no other than Doggie's tutor of his childhood days.

"Very glad to see you," Doggie murmured.

Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm. Doggie's instinctive craving for companionship made Phineas suddenly welcome.

"Let us have a talk," he said. "Come to my rooms. There will be some dinner."

"Will I come? Will I have dinner? Laddie, I will."

In the Strand they hailed a taxi-cab and drove to Doggie's place.

"You mention your rooms," said Phineas. "Are you residing permanently in London?"

"Yes," said Doggie, sadly. "I never expect to leave it."

A few minutes later they reached Woburn Place. Doggie showed Phineas into the sitting-room. The table was set for Doggie's dinner. Phineas looked around him in surprise. The tasteless furniture, the dreadful pictures on the walls, the coarse glass and the well-used plate on the table, the crumpled napkin in a ring--all came as a shock to Phineas, who had expected to find Marmaduke's rooms a reproduction of the fastidious prettiness of the peacock and ivory room in Durdlebury.

"Laddie," he said, gravely, "you must excuse me if I take a liberty, but I cannot fit you into this environment. It cannot be that you have come down in the world?"

"To bed-rock," replied Doggie.

"Man, I'm sorry," said Phineas. "I know what coming down feels like. If I had money--"

Doggie broke in with a laugh. "Pray don't distress yourself, Phineas. It's not a question of money at all. The last thing in the world I've had to think of has been money."

"What is the trouble?" Phineas demanded.

"That's a long story," answered Doggie. "In the meantime I had better give some orders about dinner."

The dinner came in presently, not particularly well served. They sat down to it.

"By the way," remarked Doggie, "you haven't told me why you became a soldier."

"Chance," replied Phineas. "I have been going down in the world for some time, and no one seemed to want me except my country. She clamored for me at every corner. A recruiting sergeant in Trafalgar Square at last persuaded me to take the leap. That's how I became Private Phineas McPhail of the Tenth Wessex Rangers, at the compensation of one shilling and two pence per day."

"Do you like it?" asked Doggie.

Phineas rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully.

"In itself it is a vile life," he made answer. "The hours are absurd, the work is distasteful, and the mode of living repulsive. But it contents me. The secret of happiness lies in adapting one's self to conditions. I adapt myself wherever I happen to be. And now, may I, without impertinent curiosity, again ask what you meant when you said you had come down to bed-rock?"

All of Doggie's rage and shame flared up at the question.

"I've been thrown out of the army!" he cried. "I'm here in hiding--hiding from my family and the decent folk I'm ashamed to meet!"

"Tell me all about it, laddie," urged Phineas, gently.

Then Doggie broke down, and with a gush of unminded tears found expression for his stony despair. His story took a long time in the telling, and Phineas interjected a sympathetic "Ay, ay," from time to time.

"And now," cried Doggie, his young face distorted and reddened, his sleek hair ruffled, and his hands appealingly outstretched, "what am I going to do?"

"You've got to go back home," said Phineas. "You've got to whip up all the moral courage in you and go back to Durdlebury."

"I won't," said Doggie, "I can't. I'd sooner die than go back there disgraced. I'd sooner enlist as a private soldier."

"Enlist?" repeated Phineas, and he drew himself up straight and gaunt. "Well, why not?"

"Enlist?" echoed Doggie, in a dull tone. "As a Tommy?"

"As a Tommy," replied Phineas.

"Enlist!" murmured Doggie. He thought of the alternatives--flight, which was craven; home, which he could not bear. Doggie rose from his chair with a new light in his eyes. He had come to the supreme moment of his life; he had made his great resolution. Yes, he would enlist as a private soldier in the British army.

III

A year later Doggie Trevor returned to Durdlebury. He had been laid up in hospital with a wounded leg, the result of fighting the German snipers in front of the first line trenches, and he was now on his way back to France. Durdlebury had not changed in the interval; it was Marmaduke Trevor that had changed. He measured about ten inches more around the chest than the year before, and his hands were red and calloused from hard work. He was as straight as an Indian now, and in his rough khaki uniform of a British private he looked every bit a man--yes, and more than that, a veteran soldier. For Doggie had passed through battle after battle, gas attacks, mine explosions, and months of dreary duty in water-filled trenches, where only brave and tough men could endure. He had been tried in the furnace and he had come out pure gold.

Doggie entered the familiar Deanery, and was met by Peggy with a glad smile of welcome. His uncle, the Dean, appeared in the hall, florid, whitehaired, benevolent, and extended both hands to the homecoming warrior.

"My dear boy," he said, "how glad I am to see you! Welcome back! And how's the wound?"

Opening the drawing-room door, he pushed Doggie inside. A tall, lean figure in uniform, which had remained in the background by the fireplace, advanced with outstretched hand.

"Hello, old chap!"

Doggie took the hand in an honest grip.

"Hello, Oliver!"

"How goes it?" asked Oliver.

"Splendid," said Doggie. "Are you all right?"

"Tip-top," answered Oliver. He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. "My hat! you do look fit."

He turned to the Dean. "Uncle Edward, isn't he a hundred times the man he was?"

In a little while tea came. It appeared to Doggie, handing round the three-tiered cake-stand, that he had returned to some forgotten existence. The delicate china cup in his hand seemed too frail for the material usages of life, and he feared lest he break it, for Doggie was accustomed to the rough dishes of the private.

The talk lay chiefly between Oliver and himself and ran on the war. Both men had been at Ypres and at Arras, where the British and German trenches lay only five yards apart.

"I ought to be over there now," said Oliver, "but I just escaped shell-shock and I was sent home for two weeks."

"My crowd is at the Somme," said Doggie.

"You're well out of it, old chap," laughed Oliver.

For the first time in his life Doggie began really to like Oliver. Oliver stood in his eyes in a new light, that of the typical officer, trusted and beloved by his men, and Doggie's heart went out to him.

After some further talk, the men separated to dress for dinner.

"You've got the green room, Marmaduke," said Peggy. "The one with the Chippendale furniture you used to covet so much."

"I haven't got much to change into," laughed Doggie, looking down at his uniform.

"You'll find Peddle up there waiting for you."

When Doggie entered the green room, he found Peddle, who welcomed him with tears of joy and a display of all the luxuries of the toilet and adornment which Doggie had left behind at home. There were pots of [v]pomade and face cream, and nail polish; bottles of hair-wash and tooth-wash; half a dozen gleaming razors; the array of brushes and combs and [v]manicure set in [v]tortoise-shell with his crest in silver; bottles of scent; the purple silk dressing-gown; a soft-fronted shirt fitted with ruby and diamond sleeve-links; the dinner jacket and suit laid out on the glass-topped table, with tie and handkerchief; the silk socks, the glossy pumps.

"My, Peddle!" cried Doggie, scratching his closely-cropped head. "What's all this?"

Peddle, gray, bent, uncomprehending, regarded him blankly.

"All what, sir?"

"I only want to wash my hands," said Doggie.

"But aren't you going to dress for dinner, sir?"

"A private soldier's not allowed to wear [v]mufti," returned Doggie.

"Who's to find out?"

"There's Mr. Oliver; he's a major."

"Ah, Mr. Marmaduke, he wouldn't mind. Miss Peggy gave me my orders, sir, and I think you can leave things to her."

"All right, Peddle," laughed Doggie. "If it's Miss Peggy's decree, I'll change my clothes. I have all I want."

"Are you sure you can manage, sir?" Peddle asked anxiously, for the time was when Doggie could not stick his legs into his trousers unless Peddle helped him.

"Quite," said Doggie.

"It seems rather roughing it, here at the Deanery, Mr. Marmaduke, after what you've been accustomed to at the Hall," said Peddle.

"That's so," replied Doggie. "And it's martyrdom compared to what it is in the trenches. There we always have a major-general to lace our boots and a field-marshall to hand us coffee."

Peddle looked blank, being utterly unable to comprehend the nature of a joke.

A little later, when Doggie went downstairs to dinner, he found Peggy alone in the drawing-room.

"Now you look more like a Christian gentleman," she said. "Confess: it's much more comfortable than your wretched private's uniform."

"I'm not quite so sure," he replied, somewhat ruefully, indicating his dinner jacket, which was tightly constricted beneath the arms. "Already I've had to slit my waistcoat down the back. Poor old Peddle will have a fit when he sees it. I've grown a bit since these elegant rags were made for me."

Oliver came in--in khaki. Doggie jumped up and pointed to him.

"Look here, Peggy," he said; "I'll be sent to the guard-room."

Oliver laughed. "I did change my uniform," he said. "I don't know where my dinner clothes are."

"That's the best thing about being a major," spoke up Doggie. "They have heaps of suits. Poor Tommy has but one suit to his name."

Then the Dean and his wife entered, and they went in to dinner. It was for Doggie the most pleasant of meals. He had the superbly healthy man's whole-hearted appreciation for unaccustomed good food. There were other and finer pleasures--the table with its exquisite [v]napery and china and glass and silver and flowers. There was the delightful atmosphere of peace and gentle living. And there was Oliver--a new Oliver.

Most of all, Doggie appreciated Oliver's comrade-like attitude. It was a recognition of him as a soldier. He had "made good" in the eyes of one of the finest soldiers in the British army, and what else mattered? To Doggie the supreme joy of that pleasurable evening was the knowledge that he had done well in the eyes of Oliver. The latter wore on his tunic the white, mauve, and white ribbon of the Military Cross. Honor where honor was due. But he--Doggie--had been wounded, and Oliver frankly put them both on the same plane of achievement, thus wiping away with generous hand all the hated memories of the past.

When the ladies left the room the Dean went with them, and the cousins were left alone.

"And now," said Oliver, "don't you think you're a bit of a fool, Doggie?"

"I know it," Doggie returned cheerfully. "The army has drummed that into me at any rate."

"I mean in staying in the ranks," Oliver went on. "Why don't you apply for the Cadet Corps and get a commission again?"

Doggie's brow grew dark. "I will tell you," he replied. "The only real happiness I've had in my life has been as a Tommy. I'm not talking foolishness. The only real friends I've ever made in my life are Tommies. I've a real life as a Tommy, and I'm satisfied. When I came to my senses after being thrown out for incompetence and I enlisted, I made a vow that I would stick it out as a Tommy without anybody's sympathy, least of all that of the people here. And as a Tommy I am a real soldier and do my part."

Oliver smiled. "I'm glad you told me, old man. I appreciate it very much. I've been through the ranks myself and know what it is--the bad and the good. Many a man has found his soul that way--"

"Heavens!" cried Doggie, starting to his feet. "Do you say that, too?"

The cousins clasped hands. That was Oliver's final recognition of Doggie as a soldier and a man. Doggie had found his soul.

W. J. LOCKE.

IN FLANDERS FIELD

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our places. In the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you, from failing hands, we throw The torch. Be yours to lift it high! If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies blow In Flanders fields.

JOHN MCCRAE.

IN FLANDERS FIELD

(AN ANSWER)

In Flanders fields, the cannon boom And fitful flashes light the gloom, While up above, like eagles, fly The fierce destroyers of the sky; With stains the earth wherein you lie Is redder than the poppy bloom, In Flanders fields.

Sleep on, ye brave. The shrieking shell, The quaking trench, the startled yell, The fury of the battle hell Shall wake you not, for all is well. Sleep peacefully, for all is well. Your flaming torch aloft we bear, With burning heart an oath we swear To keep the faith, to fight it through, To crush the foe or sleep with you In Flanders fields.

C. B. GALBRAITH.

A BALLAD OF HEROES

Because you passed, and now are not,-- Because in some remoter day Your sacred dust from doubtful spot Was blown of ancient airs away,-- Because you perished,--must men say Your deeds were naught, and so profane Your lives with that cold burden? Nay, The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

Though, it may be above the plot That hid your once imperial clay, No greener than o'er men forgot The unregarded grasses sway,-- Though there no sweeter is the lay From careless bird,--though you remain Without distinction of decay,-- The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

No. For while yet in tower or cot Your story stirs the pulse's play; And men forget the sordid lot-- The sordid care, of cities gray;-- While yet, beset in homelier fray, They learn from you the lesson plain That life may go, so Honor stay,-- The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

ENVOY

Heroes of old! I humbly lay The laurel on your graves again; Whatever men have done, men may,-- The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

DICTIONARY

=a byss´=: a deep gulf.

=ac´ me=: height.

=ac ro bat´ ics=: gymnastics; athletic exercises.

=ad´ age=: saying; proverb.

=a e´ ri al=: airy.

=a lac´ ri ty=: eagerness; spryness.

=al´ der man=: here, a Saxon nobleman.

=al´ gæ=: seaweeds.

=al ter´ na tive=: a second choice.

=A´ ma ti ki´ ta=: an Esquimau.

=am´ i ca bly ad just´ ed=: arranged peacefully.

=am´ phi the a ter=: a circular building with tiers of seats arranged around an open space.

=an´ chor ite=: a hermit.

=an´ nals=: records.

=aped=: imitated.

=ap er tif´= (teef): an appetizer.

=ap´ er ture=: opening.

=Ap´ pa lach´ ian=: a chain of mountains in the eastern United States.

=ap pre hen´ sions=: fears.

=a quat´ ic=: of the water.

=ar cade´=: an arched gallery.

=ar tic´ u late=: in regular words.

=at´ mos phere=: air pressure at sea level used as a unit.

=au ro´ ra=: the Northern Lights, the red glow in the sky in the Far North.

=aus ter´ i ty=: soberness; sternness.