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THE ROUGH ROAD
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THE ROUGH ROAD
WILLIAM J. LOCKE
ACTHOR <W "the bed Fl.
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN lANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
TORONTO: a B. GUNDY .-. MCMXVIII
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OFYRIGHT I917, 1
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COPYRIGHT, I918
BY JOHN LAMB COKPANY
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THE ROUGH ROAD
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The Rough Road
CHAPTER I
THIS is the story of Doggie Trevor. It tdls
of his doiogs and of a girl in England and a
girl in France. Chiefly it is concerned irith
the iimuence that enabled huu to win tlirough the
War. Doggie Trevor did not get the Victoria Cross.
He got no cross of distinction whatever. He did
not even attain the sorrowful glory of a little white
caxiss above his grave in the Western Front. Doraie
was no hero of romance, ancient or modem. But
he went through with it and is alive to tell the tale.
The brutal of his acquaintance gave him the name
of "Doggie" years before the War was ever thought
of, because he had been brought up from babyhood
like a toy Pom. The almost freak offspring of
elderly parents, he had the rough worla against
him from birth. His father died before he had
cut a tooth. His mother was old CTiough to be his
grandmother. She had the intense maternal in-
stinct and the brain, such as it is, of an earwig.
She wrapped Doggie — his real name was James
Marmaduke — in cotton-wool and k^t him so
until he was almost a grown man. Doggie had
never a chance. She brought him up like a toy
Pom until he was twenty-one — and then she died.
Doggie, being comfortably off, continued the ma-
ternal tradition and kept on bringing himself up
like a toy Pom. He did not know what else to do.
Then, when he was six-and-twenty, he found him-
sdf at the edge of the world gazing in timorous
7
Diflitizec by Google
8 THE ROUGH ROAD
starkness down into the abyss of the Great War.
Something kicked him over the brink ami sent him
sprawling into the thick of it.
That the world knows little of its greatest men
is a conHnoDplace among silly aphorisms. With
far mcM^ justice it may be stated that of its least
men the world. knows nothing and cares less. Yet
the Doggies of the War who on the cry of " Havoc 1"
have been let loose, much to their own and every-
body else's stupefaction, deserve the passing tribute
sometimes, poor fellows, of a sigh, sometimes of a
smile, often of a cheer. Very few of them — very
few, at any rate, of the F.nglish Doggies — have
tucked their little tails between their legs and run
away. Once a brawny humourist wrote to Doggie
Trevor "Sursum cauda." Doggie happened to be
at the time in a water-logged front trench in Flanders
€tnd the writer basking in the mild sunshine of
Simla with his Territorial Regiment. Doggie,
bidden by the Hedonist of circumstance to up with
his tail, felt like a scorpion.
Such feelings, however, will be more adequately
dealt with hereafter. For the moment it is only
essential to obtain a general view of the type to
which Trevor belonged.
If there is one spot in England where the presrait
is the past, where the future is still more of the
past, where the past wraps you and enfolds you in
the dreamy mist of Gothic things, where the lazy
meadows sloping riverward deny the passage of the
centuries, where the very clouds are secmar, it is
the cathedral town of Durdlebury. No factory
chimneys defile with their smoke its calm air, or
defy its august and heaven-searching spires. No
rabble of factory hands shocks its few and sedate
streets. Divine Providence, according to the de-
vout, and the crfiss stupidity of the local authori-
ties seventy years ago, according to progresfuve
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THE ROUGH ROAD 9
minds, turned the main line of railway twenty
miles from the sacred spot. So that to this year
of grace it is the very devil of a business to find out,
from Bradshaw, how to get to Dordlebury, and,
having found, to get there. As for setting away,
God help you I But who ever wanted to get away
from Dordlebury, except liie BiahopP In pre-
motor days he used to ^itunble tremendously and
threaten the House of Lords with Railway Bills
and try to blackmail the Government with dark
hints of resignation, and so he lived and threatened
and made his wearisome diocesan round of visits
and died. But now he has his episcopal motor-
car, which has deprived him of his grievances.
In the Close of Dordlebury, greenswarded, sOent,
sentinelled by inunemorial elms that giuird the
dignified Gothic dwellings of the cathemitd dimi-
taiies, was James Marmaduke Trevor bom. His
father, a man of private fortune, wjis Canon of
Durdlebury. For many years he lived in the most
commodious canonical house in the Close with his
sisters Sophia and Sarah. In the course of time
a new Dean, Dr. Conover, was appointed to Dur-
dlebury, and, restless innovator that he was, under-
mimed the North Transept and spht up Canon
Trevor's home by mfurying Sophia. Then Smah,
bitten b^ the madness, committed abrupt matri-
mony with the Rev. Vernon Manningtree, Rector
of Durdlebury. Canon Trevor, many years older
than his sisters, remained for some months in be-
wildered loneliness, until one day he found him ~
self standing in front of the Cathedral altar with
Miss Mathilda Jessup, while the Bishop pronounced
over them words diabofically strange yet ecclesi-
astically familiar. Miss Jessup, thus transformed
into ^fr8. Trevor, was a mature tind comfortable
maiden lady of ample means, the only and orphan
dau^ter of a late Bishop of Durdlebury. Never
DiMzeobv Google
10 THE ROUGH ROAD
had there been such a marrymg and giving in
marriage in the Cathedral circle. Chil<&en were
bom in Decanal, Rectorial, and Canonical homes.
First a son to the Manningtrees, whom they named
Oliver. Then a daughter to the Conovers. Then
a son, named James Marmaduke, after the late
Bidhop Jessup, was bom to the Trevors. The
profane say mat Canon Trevor, a profound patri-
stic theologian and an enthusiastic palaeontologist,
couldn't nmke head or tail of it all, and, unable to
decide whether James Marmaduke should be attri-
buted to the TertuHian or the NeoKthic period,
expired in an agony of dubiety. At any rate the
poor man died. The widow, of necessity, moved
Irom the Close, in order to make way for the new
Canon, and betook herself with her babe to Denby
Hall, ibe comfortable house on the outskhts of the
town in which she had dwelt before her marriage.
The saturated essence of Durdelbury ran in Maiv
maduke's blood: an honourable essence, a proud
essence; an essence of all that is statically beau-
tuful and dignified in English life; but an essence
which, without admixture of wilder and more fluid
elements, is apt to run thick and clog the arteries.
Marmaduke was coddled from his birth. The
Dean, then a breezy, energetic man, protested.
Sarah Marmingtree protested. But when the Dean's
eldesVbom died of diphtheria, Mrs. Trevor, in her
heart, set down the death as a judgement on Sophia
for criminal carelessness; and when yoimg Ouver
Manningtree grew up to be an intolerable young
Turk and savage, she looked on Marmaduke, and,
thanking heaven that he was not as other boys were,
enfolded him more than ever beneath her motherly
wing. When Ohver went to school in the town
and tore his clothes and roUed in mud and punched
other boys' heads, Marmaduke remained at home
under the educational charge of a governess. Oliver,
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THE ROUGH ROAD 11
lean and lanky and swift-eyed, swageered throu^
the streets unattended from ijie first day they sent
him to a neighbouring kindergarten. As the mouQiB
and years of nis childi^ life passed, he grew more and
more independent and va^ibond. He swore blood
brotherhood with a butcher-boy and, unknown to
his pious parents, became the leader of a ferocious
gang of pirates. Mannaduke, on the other hand,
was never allowed to cross the road without femi-
nine escort. Oliver had the profouudest contempt
for Mannaduke. Being two years older, be kicked
him whenever he had a chance. Mannaduke
loathed him. Marmaduke shrank into Miss Gunter
the governess's skirts whenever he saw him. Mib.
Trevor therefore regarded Oliver as the youthful
incarnation of Beelzebub, and quarrelled bitterly
with her sister-in-law.
One day Ohvo*, with three or four of his piratical
friends, met Marmaduke and Miss Gunter and a
little toy terrier in the High Street. The toy
terrier was attached by a lead to Miss Gunter on'
the one side, Marmaduke by a hand on the other.
Oliver straddled rudely across the path.
"Hallo! Look at the two httle doggiesl" he
cried. He snapped his fingers at the terrier. "Come
along. Tiny!" The terrier yapped. Oliver grinned
and turned to Marmaduke. Come along, Fido,
dear little doggie."
"You're a nasty, rude, horrid boy, and I shall tell
your mother," declared Miss Gunter, indignantly.
But Oliver and his pirates laughed with the tni-
culence befitting' their vocation, and bowing with
ironical politeness, let their victim depart to the
parody of a popular song: "Good-bye, Doggie,
we shall miss you."
From that day onwards Marmaduke was known
as "Dc^gie" tbroughout all Durdlebury, save to
his mother and Miss Gunter. The Dean himself
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jea
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12 THE ROUGH ROAD
grew to think of him as "Doggie." People to
this day cfill him Doggie without any notion of the
ormn of the name.
To preserve him from prasecution Mrs. Trevor
iealously guarded him &om association with other
wys. He neither learned nor played any boyi^
games. In defiance of the doctor, whom she re-
garded as a membtir of the brutal anti-Marmaduke
League, Mrs. Trevor proclaimed Marmaduke's deli-
cacy of constitution. ^ He must not go out into the
rain lest be should get damp, nor into the hot sun-
shine lest he should perspue. She kept him like
a precious plant in a carefully warmed conservatory.
Doggie, u^ to it from birth, looked cm it as his
natiu^ environment. Under feminine guidance
and tuition be embroidered and paicted screens
and played the piano and the mandolin, and read
Miss Charlotte Yonge and learned history from the
late Mrs. Markman. Without doubt his life was
a happy one. All that he asked for was seques-
tration from Oliver and his associates.
Now and then the cousins were forced to meet —
at occasional children's parties, for instance. A
httle daughter, Peggy, bad neen bom in the Deanery,
replacing the lost nirat-bom, and festivals, to which
came the extreme VQuth of Durdlebury, were given
in her honour. She liked Marmaduke, who was
five years her senior, because he was gentle and
clean and wore such beautiful clothes and brushed
his hair so nicely ; whereas she detested Ofiver, who,
even at an afternoon party, looked as if he had just
come out of a rabbit-hole. Besides, Marmaduke
danced beautifully; Ofiver couldn't and wouldn't,
disdaining such efi'eminate sports. His great joy
was to put out a sly leg and send Doggie and his
partner sprawling. Once the Dean caught him at
it and called him a horrid Uttle beast, and threatened
him with neck and crop expulsion if he ever did
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TEIE ROUGH ROAD 13
it again. Doggie, who had picked himself op and
listened to the rebuke, said:
** I'm very glad to hear you talk to him like that.
Uncle. I thmk his behaviour is perfectly detes-
table."
The Dean's lips twitdied and he turned away
abruptly. Oliver glared at Doggie.
"Oh, my holy Auntl" he whispered hoarsely.
"Just you wait till I get you alonel"
Oliver ^t him alone, an hour later, in a passage,
haviDg lain in ambush for him, and, after a few busy
moments, contemplated a bruised and bleeding
Dog^e blubbering in a comer.
"Do you think my behaviour is detestable now?"
"Yes," whimpered Doggie.
" I've a good mind to go on Ucking you until you
say 'no,'" said Oliver.
"You're a great big bully," said Doggie.
Oliver reflected. He did not like to be called a
bully. "Look here," said he. "I'll stick my right
arm down inside the back of my trousers and ^ht
you with my left."
" I don't want to fight, I can't %ht," cried Doggie.
Oliver put his hands in his pockets.
"Will you come and play Kiss-in-the-Ring, then?"
be asked sarcastically.
" No," rephed Doggie.
"Wdll, don't say I haven't made you generous
offers," said Oliver, and stalked away.
It was all very well for the Rev. Vernon Manning-
tree, when discussing this incident with the Dean,
to dismiss Doggie with a contemptuous shrug and
call him a little worm without any spirit. The
unfortunate Doggie remained a human soul with
a human destiny before him. As to his lack of
spirit.
"Where," said the Dean, a man of wider sym-
pathies, "do you suppose he could get any firom?
: C jOOf^ IC
14 THE ROUGH ROAD
Look at his parentage. Look at his upbringing
by that idiot wranan.'
" If he belonged to me I'd drown him," said the
Rector.
"If I had my way with Oliver," said the Dean,
"I'd skin him alive. '
"I'm afraid he's a young devil," said the Rector,
not without patemsu pnde. "But he has the
makings of a man."
"Sonas Marmaduke," rephed the Dean.
"Bo^l" said Mr. Mannmgtree.
When Oliver went to Rugby happier days than
ever dawned for Marmaduke. Tnere were only
the holidays to fear. But as time went on the
haughty contempt of Oliver, the public school-boy,
for the home-bred Doggie forbade him to notice
the little creature's existence; so that even the hoh-
days lost their gloomy menace and became like
the normal halcyontide. Meanwhile Doggie grew
up. When he reached the age of fourteen the Dean,
by strenuous endeavour, rescued him from the
unavailing tuition of Miss Gunter. But school
for Marmaduke Mrs. Trevor would not hear of.
It was brutal of Edward — the Dean — to suggest
such a thing. Marmaduke — so sensitive and deli-
cate— sdiool would kill him. It would undo all
the results of her unceasing care. It would make
him coarse and vul^ like other horrid boys. She
would sooner see bun dead at her feet than at a
public school. It was true that he oiJ^t to have
the education of a gentleman. She did not need
Edward to point out her duty. She would engage
a private tutor.
"All right. I'll ^t you one," stiid the Dean.
The Master of ms old college at Cambridge sent
him an excellent youth who had just taken his
degree — a second class in the ClaMical Tripos —
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THE ROUGH ROAD IS
an all-round athlete and a gentleman. The first
thing he did was to take Marmaduke on the lazy
river that flowed through the Durdlebunr meadows,
thereby endanfferioe hiB life, wofully busterine his
hands, aad mELKing him ache all over his poor little
body. After a quarter of an hour's interview with
Mrs. Trevor, the indignant young man threw up
his p(»t and departed.
Mrs. Trevor determined to sdect a tutor herself.
A scholastic agency sent her a dozen candidates.
She went to London and interviewed them all. A
woman, even of the most limited intelhgence, in-
variably knows what she wants, and invariably
gets it. Mrs. Trevor got Phiaeas McPhail, MA.
Glasgow, BA. Oxford (Third Class Mathematical
Greats), reading for Holy Orders.
" I was training for the ministry in the Free Kirk
of Scotland," said he, "when I gradually became
aware of the error of my ways, until I saw that
tiiere could only be salvation in the episcopal form
of Church government. As the daughter of a
Wshop, Mrs. Trevor, you will appreciate my con-
scientious position. Aji open scholarship and the
remainder of my little patrimony enabled me to
get my Oxford degree. You would -have no objec-
tion to my continuing my theological studies
while I undertake the education of your sonP'*
Phineas McPhail pleased Mrs. Trevor. He had
what she called a rugged, honest Scotch face, with
a very big nose in the middle of it, and Uttle grey
eyes overhung by brown and shaggy eyebrows.
He spoke with the mere captivating suggestion of
an accent. The son of decayed, proud, and now
extinct gentlefolk, he presented personal testimonials
of an unexceptionable quahty.
PhineM McPhail took to Doggie and Durdlebury
as a duck to water. He read for Holy Orders for
seven years. When the question of bis ordination
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16 THE ROUGH ROAD
arose, he wotjld declare impressively that his sacred
duty was the making of Marmaduke into a scholar
and a Christian. That duty accomplished, he
would begin to think of himself. Mre. Trevor
accounted him tbe most devoted and selfless friend
that woman ever had. He saw eye to eye with
her in every detail of Marmaduke's upbringing.
He certainly taught the boy, who was naturally
intelhgent, a great deal, and repaired the terrible
gaps m Miss Gunter's system of education. Mc-
Phail had started life with many eager curiosities,
under the impulse of which he had amassed consid-
erable knowledge of a superficial kind which, loUin?
in £Ui armchair with a pipe in bis mouth, be found
easy to impart. To the credit side of Mrs. Trevor's
queer account it may be put that she did not object
to smoking. The late Canon smoked incessantly.
Perhaps the odour of tobacco was the only keen
memory of her honeymoon and brief married life.
During his seven years of soft living Phiueas
McPhail scientifically developed an oriemal taste
io.- whisky. He seethed himself in it €is the ancients
seethed a kid in its mother's milk. He had the art
to do himself to perfection. Mrs. Trevor beheld
in him the mellowest and blandest of men. Never
liad she the slightest suspicion of evil courses. To
^uch a pitch of cunmng in the observance of the
nroprieties had he arrived, that the very servants
knew not of his doings. It was only later — after
Mrs. Trevor's death — when a surveyor was called
in by Marmaduke to put the old house in order,
that a disused well at the back of the house was
found to be half filled with thousands of whisky
bottles secretly thrown in by Phineas McPhail.
The Dean and Mr. Manningtree, although ig-
norant of McPhail's habits, agreed in calling him a
lazy hound and a parasite on their fond sister-in-
law. And they wctc rigjit. But Mrs. Trevor
r:.i,2.c I!, Google
THE ROUGH ROAD 17
turned a deaf ear to their slaoders. They were
unworthy to be called Qmstian men, let alone
ministers of the Gospel. Were it not for the sacred
associations of her father and her husband, she
would never enter the Cathedral again. Mr. Mo-
Phail was exactly the kind of tutor that Manna-
duke needed. Mr. McPhail did not encourage
him to play rou^ games, or take long walks, or
row on the river, berause he appreciated his consti-
tutional delicacy. He was the only man in the
world during her unhappy widowhood who under-
stood Marmaduke. He was a treasure beyond
price.
When Doggie was sixteen, fate, fortune, chance,
or whatever you like to call it, did him a good turn.
It made his mother ill and sent him away with her
to foreign health resorts. Doggie and McPhail
travelled luxuriously, Hved in luxurious hotels, and
visited in luxurious ease various picture galleries
and monuments of historic or aesthetic mterest.
The boy, artistically inclined and guided by the
idle yet well-informed Phineas, profited greatly.
Phineas sought profit to them both in other ways.
"Mrs. Trevor," said he, "don't you think it a
sinful shame for Marmaduke to waste his time over
Latin and Mathematics, and such things as he can
learn at home, instead of taking advantage of his
residence in a foreign country to perfect himself in the
idiomatic and conversational use of the language? "
Mrs. Trevor, as usual, agreed. So thenceforward,
whenever they were abroad, which was for three or
four months of each year, Phineas revelled in sheer
idleness, nicotine, and the skilful consumption of
alcohol, while highly paid professors tau^t Mar-
maduke, and incidentally himself, French and
Italian.
Of the world, however, and of the facts, grim or
seductive, of liife. Doggie learned little. Whether
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18 THE ROUGH ROAD
by force of some streak of honesty, whether through
sheer Uiziness, whether through canny self-mterest,
Phineas McPhail conspired with Mrs. Trevor to
keep Doggie in darkest ignorance. His reading was
selected uke that of a young girl in a convent : he
was taken only to the most innocent of plays;
foreign theatres, casinos, and such like wells of
delectable depravity existed almost beyond his
ken. Until he vaa twenty it never occurred to biin
to sit up €ifter his mother had gone to bed. Of
stirange goddesses he knew nothmg. His mother
saw to that. He had a mild afifection for his cousin
Peggy, which his mother encouraged. She allowed
him to smoke cigarettes, drink mie claret, the re-
mains of the cellfir of her father the Bishop, a
connoisseur, and cr^e de menthe. And mitil she
died, that was €iU poor Doggie knew of the lustiness
ofUte.
Mrs. Trevor died, and Doggie, as soon as he had
recovered from the intensity of his raief, looked out
upon a lonely world. Phineas, like Mrs. Micawber,
swore he would never desert him. In the perils of
Polar exploration or the comforts of Denny Hall,
he would find Phineas McPhail ever by his side.
The first half dozen or so of these declarations con-
soled Doggie tremendously. He dreaded the Chinxih
swallowing up his only protector and leaving him
defenceless. Conscientiously, however, he said:
"I don't want your affection for me to stand in
your way, sir."
"'Sir'?" cried Phineas. "Is it not practicable
fw us to do away with the old relations of master
and pupil and become as brothers? You are now
a man and independent. Let us be Pylades and
Orestes. Let us share and share alike. Let us be
Marmaduke and Phineas."
D<^gie was touched by such devotion. "But
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THE ROUGH ROAD 19
your ambitions to take Holy Orders which you have
sacrificed for my sake?"
"I think it may be argued," said Phineas, "that
the really beautiful life is delight in continued sacri-
fice. Besides, my dear boy, I am not quite so sure
as I was when I was young, that by confining
oneself within the narrow limits of a sacerdotal pro-
fession, one can retain all one's wider sympathies
both with human infirmity and the gladder things
of existence."
"You're a true friend, Phineas," said Doggie.
"I am," replied Phineas.
It was just after this that Doggie wrote him a
cheque for a thousand pounds on account of a
vaguely indicated year's salary.
If Phineas had maintained the wily caution
which he had exercised for the past seven years,
all might have been well. But there came a time
when unneedfully he declared once more that he
would never desert Marmaduke, and declaring it
hiccoughed so horribly and stared so glassily, that
Doggie feared he might be ill. He had just lurched
into Doggie's own peacock-blue and ivory sitting-
room when he was mournfully playing the piano.
"You're unwell, Phineas. Let me get you some-
thing."
You're right, laddie," Phineas agreed, his legs
giving way tuarmiugly so that he collated on a
brocade-covered couch. "It's a touch of the sun,
which I would give you to understand," he con-
tinued with a self-preservatory flash, for it was an
overcast day in Jime, "is often magnified in power
when it is behind a cloud. A wee drop of whisky
is what I require for a complete recovery."
Doggie ran into the dining-room and returned
with a decanter of whisky, glass and siphon — an
adjunct to the sideboard since Mrs. Trevor's death.
Pmneas filled half the tumble with spirit, tossed
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20 THE ROUGH ROAD
it off, smiled fantastically, tried to rise, and rolled
upon the carpet. Doggie, frightened, rang the beU.
Peddle, the old butler, appeared.
"Mr. McPhail is ilL I can't think what can be
the matter with him."
Peddle looked at the happy Phineas with the
eyes of experience.
" If you will allow me to say so, sir," said he, " the
gentleman is dead drunk."
And that was the beginning of the end of Phineas.
He lost grip of himself. He became the scarlet
scandal of Durdlebury and the terror of Doggie's
life. The Dean came to the rescue of a grateful
nephew. A swift attack of delirimn tremens
crowned €md ended Phineas McPhaH's Durdlebury
career.
"My boy," said the Dean on the day of Phineas's
expulsion, "I don't want to rub it in unduly, but
I've warned your poor mother for years, and you
for months, against this bone-idle, worthless feUow.
Neither of you would listen to me. But you see
that I was right. Perhaps now you may be more
inclined to take my advice."
"Yes, Uncle," replied Doggie, submissively.
The Dean, a comfortable, florid man in the early
sixties, took up his parable and expounded it for
three-qnarters of an hour. If ever young man heard
that which was earnestly meant for his welfare.
Doggie heard it from his Very Reverend uncle's
Ups.
"And now, my dear boy," said the Dean by way
of peroration, "you cannot but understand that it
is your boimden duty to apply yourself to some
serious purpose in life. '
"I do," said Doggie. "I've been thinking over
it for a long time. I'm going to gather material
for a history of wall-papers."
ec by Google
CHAPTER II
THENCEFORWARD Dcwme, like Uie late
Mr. Matthew Arnold's kUow millions, lived
alone. He did not complain. There was
little to complain about. He owned a pleasant old
house set in fifteen acres of grounds. He had an
income of three thousand pomute a year. Old
Peddle, the butler, and his wife, the housekeeper,
saved him from domestic cares. Risii^ late and
retiring early, like the good King of Yvetot, he
cheated the hours that might have proved weary.
His meals, his toilet, his music, his wall-papers,
his drawing and embroidering — specimens of the last
he exhibited with great success at various shows
held by Arts and Crafts Guilds and such like high
and artistic fellowships — his sweet peas, his chrys-
anthemums, his postage stamps, his dilettante
reafling and his mild social engagements, filled
most satisfyingly the hours not clamied by slumber.
Now and then ^pointments with his tailor sum-
moned him to London. He stayed at the same
mildewed old family hotel in the neighbourhood of
Bond Street at which his mother and his grand-
foth^ lie Bishop, had stayed for uncountable
years. There he would lunch and dine stodgily in
musty state. In the evenings he would go to the
plays discussed in the less giddy of Durdlebury
ecclesiastical circles. The play over, it never oc-
curred to him to do otherwise than drive decorously
back to Sturrock's Hotel. Suppers at the Carlton
or the Savoy were outside his sphere of thought or
opportunity. His only acquaintance in jJondon
y/ere vague elderly female friends of his mother,
21
Diflitizec by Google
22 THE ROUGH ROAD
who invited him to chilly semi-suburban teas, and .
entertained him with tepid reminiBcence and caiti-
ciEan of their divers places of worship. The days
in London thus passed dretirily, and Doggie was
always glad to get home again.
In Durdlebmy he be^an to feel himself appre-
ciated. The sleepy society of the place accepted
him as a yomig man of unquestionable birth and
irreproachable morals. He could play the piano,
the harp, the viola, the flute, and the clarionette,
and sing a very true mild tenor. As secretary of
the Durdlebury Musical Association, he filled an
important position in the town. Dr. Flint —
Jo^ua Flint, Mus. Doc, organist of the Cath^al,
scattered broadcast golden opinions of Doggie.
There was once a concert en old English music
which the dramatic critics of the great newspapers
attended — and one of them mentioned Doggie
— "Mr. Marmuduke Trevor, who played the viol
da gamba as to the manner bom." Dc^gie cut
out the notice, framed it, and stuck it up in his
peacock-and-ivory sitting-room.
Besides music, Doggie had other social accomphsh-
ments. He could dance. He could escort young
ladies home of nights. Not a dragon in Durdle-
bury would not have trusted Doggie with untold
daughters. With women, old and young, he had
no shynesses. He had been bred among them,
understood their purely feminine interests, and
instinctively took their point of view. Chi his
visits to London he could be raitrusted with com-
missions. He could choose the exact shade of silk
for a drawing-room sofa cushion, and had an un-
erring taste m the selection of wedding presents.
Young men other than budding ecclesiastical digni-
taries were rare in Durdlebury, and Doggie had
little to fear from the competition of cotuser mas-
culine natures. In a word, Do^e was popular.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 23
Althongh of no mean or revengeful nature, he
was human enou^ to feel a little malicious satis-
faction when it was proved to Durdlebury that
Oliver had gone to the devil. His Aunt Sarah.
Mrs. Mamiiiijgtree, had died midway in the Phineas
McPhail period; Mr. Manningtree a year or so
later had accepted a Uving in the North of England
and died when Do^e was about four-tind-twenty.
Meanwhile Oliver, who had been withdrawn young
from Rugby, where he had been a thorn in the side
of the authorities, and had been pinned like a
cockchafer to a desk in a family counting-house
ia lothbury, E. C, had broken loose, quarrelled
with his father, eone off with paternal malediction
and a maternal heritage of a thousand pounds to
California, and was lost to the family ken. When
a man does not write to his famUy, what explana-
tion can thexe be save that he is a^amed to do soP
Oliver was tishamed of himself. He had taken to
desperate courses. He was an outlaw. He had
^one to the devil. His name was rarely mentioned
m Durdlebury — to Marmaduke Trevor's veiy
great and catlike satisfaction. Only to the Dean s
ripe and kindly wisdom was his name not utterly
"My dear," said he once to his wife, who was
deplormg her n(^hew's character and fate, — "I
have hopes of Ohver even yet. A man must have
something of the devil in mm if he wants to drive
the devil out."
Mrs. ConovCT was shocked.
"My dear Edward! "she cried.
"My dear Sophia," said he with a twinkle in his
mild blue eyes that had puzzled her from the day
when he first put a decorous eirm around her waist.
"My dear Sophia, if you knew what a ding-dong
scrap of fiends went on inside me before I coula
bring mysdf to vow to be a virtuous milk-and-water
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24 THE ROUGH ROAD
parson, your hair, which is as long and beautiful as
ever, would stand up straight on end."
Mrs. Conover sighed.
"I give you up.'
"It s too late, ' said the Dean.
The Manningtrees, father and mother and son,
were gone. Doggie bore the triple loss with equani-
mity. Then Peggy Conover, nitherto under the
eclipse of boarding-schools, finishing schools, and for-
eign travel, swam, at the age of twenty, within his
orbit. When first they met after a year's absence
she very ^acefuUy withered the symptoms of the
cousinly kiss, to which they had been accustomed all
their lives, by stretching out a long, frank, and defen-
sive arm. Perhaps, if she had tdlowed the salute,
th^e would have been an end of the matter. But
there came the phenomenon which, unless she was a
minx of craft and subtlety, she did not anticipate: for
the first time in his life be was possessed of a crazy
desire to kiss her. Doggie fell in love. It was not a
wild, consuming passion. He slept well, he ate well,
and he played the flute without a sigh causing him
to blow discordantlymto the holes of the instrument.
Peggy vowing that she would not marry a parson,
he nad no rivals. He knew not even the pinpricks of
jealousy. Peggy liked him. At first she delighted
m bim as in a new and animated toy. She could
puU strings and the figure worked amasngly and
amusingly. He proved himself to be a us^iu toy,
too. He was at ner beck all day long. He ran on
errands, he fetched and carried. Peggy realised bfiss-
fully that she owned him. He haunted the Deanery.
Qae evening after dinner the Dean said : .
"I am going to play the heavy father. How are
things between you and Peggy? '
Marmaduke, taken imawares, reddened violently.
He murmured that he didn't know.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 25
"You ou^t to," said the Dean. "Wh«i a young
man converts hinudf into a girl's shadow, even
alUiough he is her cousin Etnd Ima been brou^t up
with her from childhood, people begin to gossip.
They gossip even within the august precincts of a
stately cathedraL"
"I'm very sorry," said Marmadube. "I've had
the very best intentions."
The Dean smiled. "What were they?"
"To make her Uke me a little," replied Marma-
duke. Then, feeling that the Dean was kindly
diqM)sed, he blurted out awkwardly: "I hoped
that one day I mk;ht ask her to marry me."
"liiat's what I wanted to know," said the Dean.
"You haven't done it yet?"
**No," said Marmuduke.
"Why don't you?"
"It seems taking such a liberty," replied Mar-
maduke.
The Dean laughed. "Well, I'm not goin^ to do
it for you. My chief desire is to r^ulanse the
present situation. I can't have you two running
alwut t(wether all day and every da^. If you like
to ask Peggy, you have my pernussion and her
mother's."
"Thank you. Uncle Edward," said Marmaduke.
" Let us join the ladies," said the Dean.
In the drawii^-room the Dean exchanged glances
with his wife, ^le saw that he had done as he had
been bidden. Marmaduke was not an ideal husband
for a brisk, pleasure-loving, modem young woman.
But where was anoth^ husband to come from?
Peggy had banned the Church. Marmaduke was
we^thy, sound in health, and free from vice. It
was obvious to maternal eyes that he was in love
with Peggy. According to the Detm, if he wasn't,
he oughtn t to be forever at her heels. The young
woman herself seemed to take considerable pleasure
r:.l.:.cl:, Google
26 THE ROUdH ROAD
in his company. If she cared nothing for him, she
was acting m a reprehensible manner. So the Dean
had been deputed to sound Marmaduke.
Half an hour later the yoimg people were left
alone. First the Dean went to his study. Then
Mrs. Conover departed to write letters. Manna-
duke, advancing across the room from the door which
he had opened, met Peg^'s mocking eyes as she
stood on the hearthrug with her hands behind her
back. Doggie felt very uncomforttible. Never had
he said a word to her in betrayal of his feelings. He
had a vague idea that propriety required a young
man to get through some wooing before asking a
girl to marry him. To ask first and woo afterwEuds
seemed putting the cart before the horse. But
how to woo that remarkably cool and collected
young person standing there, passed his wit.
"Wal," she said. "The dear old birds seem very
fussy to-night. What's the matter?" And sis he
said nothing, but stood confused with his hands
in his pockets, she went on. "You too seem rather
rufEled. Look at your hair."
Doggie, turning to a mirror, perceived that an
agitated hand had disturbed the symmetry of his
sleek, black htur, brushed without a parting away
from the forehead over his head. Hastily he
smoothed down the cockatoo-like crest.
"I've been tfilking to your father, Peggy."
"Have you really P" she said with a laugh.
Marmaduke summoned his courage.
" He UAd me I might ask you to many me," he
said.
" Do you want to? "
"Of course I do," he declared.
"Then why not do it?"
But l>efore he could answer, she clapped her
hands on his shoulders and shook him and laughed
out loud.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 27
*'0h, you dear, silly old thingi What a way to
propose to a girll "
"I've never done such a thing b^ore," said
Doggie, as soon as he was released.
She resumed h^ attitude on the hearthrug.
" I'm in no great hurry to be married. Are you? "
He said, "I don't know. I've never thought of
it. Just whenever you like."
"All ri^t," she returned calmly. "Let it be a
year hence. Meanwhile we can be engaged. It'll
please the dear old birds. I know all the tabbies
in the town have b^n mewing about us. Now they
can mew about somebody else."
"That's awfully good of you, Peggy," said Mar-
maduke. "I'll go up to town to-morrow and get
you the jolliest ring you ever saw."
She sketched him a curtsey. "That's one thing,
at any rate, I can trust you in — your taste in
jewellery."
He moved nearer to her. "I suppose you know,
Peggy dear, I've been awfully fona of you for quite
alo^i time.".
"lue feeling is more or less reciprocated," she
rephed hghtly. ' Then, "You can kiss me if you
like. I assure you it's quite usual."
He kissed her somewhat shyly on the lips.
She whispered: "I do think I care for you, old
thing." Marmaduke replied sententiously: "You
have made me a very happy man." Then they sat
down side by side on the sofa, and for all Peggy's
mocking audacity, they could find nothing in
particular to say to each other.
"Let us play patience," she said at last.
And when Mrs. Conovw appeared a while later,
she found them poring over the cards in a state of
unruffled cahn. Peggy looked up, smiled and nodded.
"We've Sxed it up, Mummy; but we're not
going to be married for a year."
DiflitizecbyGoOglc
28 THE ROUGH ROAD
Doggie went borne that evening in a tepid glow.
It contented iW. He thoii^t hunself the ludtiest
of mortals. A young man with more passion or
imagination mirait have deplored the lack of ro-
mance in the betrothal. He might have desired
oa the part of the maiden either more shyness,
delicacy, and elusiveness or more resonant emotion,
lie finer tendrils of bis being might have shivered,
ready to stuivel, as at a toudi of frost, m the cool,
ironical atmosphere which the girl had created
around her. But Doggie was not such a young
man. Such passions as heredity had endowed
him with bad been drugged by training. No tales
of immortal love had ever fired his blood. Once,
somewhere abroad, the unprincipled McPhail found
him readW Manon Lescaut — he had bought a
cheap copy haphazard, — and taking the delectable
volume out of his band^, asked him what he thought
of it.
"It's like reading about a lunatic," replied the
bewildered Do^e. "Do such people as Des Grieux
eadst?"
"Ay, laddie," replied McPhail, greatly reUeved.
"Your acumen has pierced to the root of ^e matter.
They do exist, but nowadays we put them into
asylums. We must excuse the author for Hving in
the psychological obscurity of the eighteenth cen-
tury. It's just a silly, rotten book."
' I'm glad you're of the same opinion as myself,"
said Doggie, and thought no more of the absurd
but deal£less pair of lovers. The unprincipled
McPhail, not without pawky humour, immediately
gave him. Paul el Virgimte, which Doggie, after
reading it, thou^t the truest and most beautiful
story m the world. Even in later years, when his
inteUigence had ripened and his sphere of reading
expairaed, he looked upon the ptission of a Romeo
or an Othello as a conventional peg on which the
THE ROUGH ROAD 29
poet hupa his imagery, but having no more relation
to real life as it is lived by human beings than the
Uood-lust of the half-man, half-bull Jmnotaur, or
the uncomfortable riding conversation of the VeJ-
kyrie.
So Doggie Trevor went home perfectly contented
with him^lf, with Peg^ Conover, with his Uncle
and Aunt, of whom mtnerto he had been just a
little bit airaid, with Fortune, with Fate, with his
house, with his peacock-and-ivory room, with a
great clump of type script and a mass of coloured
proof-prints which represented a third of his pro-
jected history of wall-papers, with his feather-bed,
with Goliath, his almost microscopic Belgium griflFon,
with a set of Nile-green silk underwear that had
just come from his outfitters in London, with his
new Rolls-Royce car and his new chauffeur Briggins
— (parenthetically it may be remarked that a seven-
hour excursion in this vehicle, youth in the back
seat and Briggins at the helm, all ordained by Peggy,
Imd been the final cause of the evening's explana-
tions) — with the starry heavens tibove, with the
well-ordered earth beneath them, and with all
human beings on the earth, including Giermans,
Turks, Infidels and Heretics — all save one: and
that, as he learned from a letter deUvered by the
last post, was from a callous, hearUess London
manicurist who, giving no reasons, regretted that
she would be un£u>le to pay her usual weekly visit
to Durdl^ury on the morrow. Of all days in the
irear: just when it was essential that he diould
ook his bestl
"What the deuce am I going to do?" he cried
pitching the letter into the waste-pap^ basket.
He sat down to the piano in the peacock-and-
ivory room tuod tried to play the nasty, crumpled
rc^eleaf of a manicurist out of his mind. Suddenly
be rem^nbered, with a kind of shock, that he had
DiflitizecbyGoOgle
30 THE ROUGH ROAD
pledged himself to go up to London the next day
to buy an engagement ring. So, after all, the
manicurist's d^ection did not matter. All -was
again well with the world.
Then be went to bed and slept the sleep of the
just and perfect man living the just Eiad perfect
life in a just and perfect imiverse.
And the date of this happeoing was the fifteenth
day of July in the year of grace tme thousand nine
hundred and fourteen.
ec by Google
CHAPTER III
THE shadow cast by the great apse of the
Cathedral slanted over the end of the Deanery
garden, leaving the house in the blaze of the
afternoon sun, and divided the old red-brick wall
into a vivid contrast of times. The peace of cen-
turies brooded over the place. No outeide convul-
sions could ever cause a flutt^ of her calm wings.
As it was thirty years ago, when the Dean firet
came to Durdlebury, as it was three hundred, six
hundred years ago, so it was now; and so it would
be hundreds of years hence as long as that majestic
pile housing the Spirit of God should last.
Thus thou^t, thus, in some such words, pro-
claimed the Dean, sitting in the shade, with his
hands clasped behind his head. Tea was over.
Mrs. Conover, thin and faded, still sat by the little
table, wondering whether she might now blow out
the lamp beneath the silver kettle. Sir Archibald
Bruce, a neighbouring landowner, €ind his wife had
come, bringmg their daughter Dorothy to play
tennis. The game had already started on the court
some little distance off — the flayers being Dorothy,
Peggy, and a couple of athletic, flannel-clad parsons.
Marmaduke Trevor reposed' on a chair under the
lee of Lad^ Bruce. He looked very cool and spick
and span m a grey cashmere suit, n'ey shirt, socks
and tie, and grey swede shoes. He had a weak,
good-looking httle face and a little black moustache
turned up to the ends. He was discoursing to his
neighbour on Palestrina.
The Dean's proclamation had been elicited by
scone remark of Sir Archibald.
31
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32 THE ROUGH ROAD
"I wonder how you have stuck it for so long,"
said the latter. He had been a soldier in his youth
and an explorer, and had shot big same.
"I haven't your genius, my dear Bruce, for mtdting
myself uncomfortaole," replied the Dean.
"You were energetic enough when you first came
here," said Sir Archibald. ' "We all tiiought you a
desperate fellow who was going to rebuild the
Cathedral, turn the Close into industrial dwellings,
and generally play the deuce."
The Dean sighed pleasantly. He had snovry hair
fmd a genial, florid, clean-shaven face.
" I was appointed very yoxmg, — six and thirty,
— and I thought I could fight against the centuries.
As the years went on I foimd I couldn't. The
grey chajigelessness of things got hold of me, in-
corporated me into them. When I die — for I
hope I shan't have to resign through doddering
senility — my body will be buried there," — he
jerked his head slightly towards the Cathedral —
'and my dust will become part tmd parcel of the
fabric — like that of many of my predecessors."
"That's all very well,' said Sir Archibald, "but
they ought to have caught you before this petri-
faction set in, and made you a bishop."
It was somewhat of an old argument, for the two
were intimates. The Dean snuled and shook his
head.
"You know I declined — "
"After you had become petrified."
"Perhaps so. It is not a place where ambitions
can attain a riotous growth."
" I call it a rotten place," said the elderly worlding.
"I wouldn't live in it myself for twenty thousand
a year."
"Lots like you said the same in crusading times
— Sir Guy de Chevenix, for instance, who was the
LiOTd, perhaps, of your very manor, and an amazing
ru.:.ci:, Google
TEIE ROUGH ROAD 33
fire-eater — but — see the gentle irony of it — thCTe
his bones lie, at peace for ever, ta the rotten _place,
witii his effigy over them cross-I^^ed, and his dog
at bis feet, and his wife by liis side. I think he
must sometimes look out of Heaven's gate down
on the Cathedral and feel glad, grateful ^- perhaps
a bit wistful — if the attribution of wisuulness,
which inmlies regret, to a spirit in Paradise doesn't
savour of heresy — "
"I'm going to be cremated," interrupted Sir
Archibald, twirling his white moustache.
The Dean smiled and did not take up the cue.
The talk died. It was a drowsy day. The Dean
went off into a Kttle reverie. Perhaps his old friend's
reproach was just. Dean of a great cathedral at
thirty-six, be had the world of dioceses at his feet.
Had he used to the full the brilliant talents with
which he started? He had been a good Dean, a
capable, business-like Dean, There was not a
stone of the Cathedral that he did not know and
cherish. Under his care the stability of every
ptirt of the precious fabric had been assured for a
hundred years. Its financial position, de^terate
on his appointment, was now sound. He haa come
into a scene of petty discords and jealousies; for
many years there had been a no more united chapter
in any cathedral Close in England. As an admin-
istrator he had been a success. The devotion of
his life to the Cathedral had its roots deep in spiritual
things. For the greater glory of God had the vast
edifice been erected, and for the greater glory of
God had he, its guardian, reverently seen to its
preservation and perfect appointment. Would he
nave served God better by pursuing the ambitions
of youth? He could have had his bishopric: but
he knew that the choice lay between nim and
Cfaanways, a flaming ^irit, eager for power, who
hadn't the sacred charge of a cathedral, and be
I., Google
34 THE ROUGH ROAD
declined. And now Chanways was a force in the
church €ind the country, and waa maJdng things
hum. If he, Conover, after fifteen years of Durdle-
bury, had accepted, he would have lost the power
to make things hum. He would have made a very
ordinary, painstaking bishop, and his successor at
Durdlebury might p^sibly have regarded that time-
worn wonder of spiritual beauty merely as a steppii^-
stone to higher sacerdotal things. Such a man,
he considered, having once come under the holy
glamour of the Cathedral, would have been guilty
of the Unforgivable Sin. He had therefore saved
two unfortunate situations.
"You are quite 'an intelligent man, Bruce," he
said with a sudden whimsicahty, "but I don't
think you would ever understand."
The set of tennis being over, Peggy, flushed and
triumphant, rushed into me party in uie shade.
"Mr. Petherbridge and I have won — 6-3,"
she announced. The old gentl^nen smiled and
murmured their congratulations. She swimg to
the tea-table some paces away, and plucked Mar-
maduke by the sleeve, interrupting him in the
middle of an argument. He rose poHtely.
"Come and play."
" My dear," he sedd, " I'm such a dufifer at games."
"Never mind. You'll learn in time."
He drew out a grey silk handkerchief as if ready
to perspire at the first thought of it. "Tennis
makes one so dreadfully hot," said he.
Peggy tapped the point c£ her foot irritably,
but sne laugned as she turned to Lady Bruce.
"What's the good of being engaged to a man if
he can't play tennis with you?"
"There are other things in life besides tennis,
my dear," replied Lady Bruce.
The girl flushed, but being aware that a pert
answer tumeth away pleasant invitations, said
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THE ROUGH ROAD 35
nothmff. ^e nodded and went ofif to her none,
and imbrming Mr. Petberbridge that Lady Bruoe
was a platitudinous old tabby, flirted with him up
to the nice limits of his parsouical dignity. But
Marmaduke did not mind.
"Ckuues are childish and scnnewhat barbaric.
Don't you think so. Lady Bruce?"
"Most young people seem fond of them," replied
the lady. "Exercise keeps them in health."
"It all depends," he ar^ed. "CMten they get
exceedingly hot, then they sit about and catdi their
death of cold."
"That's very true," said Lady Bruce. "It's
what I'm always telling Sir Archibald about golf.
Only last week be caught a severe chill in that venr
way. I had to rub bis chest with camphorated oil. '
* Just as my poor dear mother used to do to me,"
said Marmaduke.
There followed a conversation on aihnents and
their treatment in which Mrs. Conover joined.
Marmaduke was quite happy. He knew that (be
two elderly ladies admired the soundness of his
views and talked to him as to one of themselves.
"I'm sure, my detu" Mannaduke, you're very
wise to take care of yourself," said Lady Bruce,
"especially now, when you have the responsibilities
of married life before you."
Marmaduke curled himself up comfortably in
his chair. If he had been a cat, he would have
purred. The old butler, grown as grey in the
service of the Deanay as the Cathedrd itseJf — he
had been page and footman to Dr. Conover's prede-
cessor, — removed the tea-thh^ and brought out
a tray of glasses and lemonade with ice clinking
refreshingly agsiinst the sides of the jug. When
the game was over the players came and drank and
sat about the lawn. The shadow of the apse had
spread over the garden to the steps of the porch.
:,CJOO(^IC
36 THE ROUGH ROAD
Anyone looking over the garden wall would have
beheld a scene typical of the heart of England —
a scene of peace, ease, and perfectly ordei^ com-
fort. The two -well-built young men; one a minor
canon, the other a curate, lounging in their flannels,
clever-faced, honest-eyed, comd have been bred
nowhere hut in E^lish puhhc schools and at O^dovd
or Camhridge. liie two elderly ladies were of the
fine flower of Provincial England; the two old
men, so different outwardly, one burly, Qarid,
exquisitely ecclesiastical, the other thin, nervous,
soldierly, each was an expression of high Kn gliph
tradition. The two yoimg girls, unerringly correct
and dainty for all their modem abandonment of
attitude, pretty, flushed of cheek, frank of glance,
were two of a hundred thousand flowers of girlhood
that could have been picked that afternoon in lazy
English gardens. And Marmaduke's impeccable
grey costume struck a harmonizing English note
of Bond Street and the Burlington Arcade. The
scent of the roses massed in delicate splendour
against the wall, and breathing now that the cool
shade had fallen on them, crept through the still
air to the flying buttresses and the window muUions
and trareries and the pinnacles of the great English
cathedral. And in the midst of the shaven lawn
gleamed the old cut-glass jug on its sflver tray.
Someone did look over the waU and survey the
scene: a man, apparently supporting himself with
tense, straightened arms on the coping; a man
with a lean, bronzed, clean-shaven face, wefiring
an old soft felt hat at a swa^ring angle; a man
with a snule on his face and a humorous twinkle in
his eyes. By chance he had leisure to survey the
scene for some time unobserved. At last he shouted :
"HeUo! Have none of you ever moved for the
last ten years?"
At the summons everyone was startled. The
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THE ROUGH ROAD 37
youi^ men scrambled to their feet. The Dean
rose and glared at the intruder, who sprang over the .
wall, recklessly broke throuffh the rose-bushes and
advanced with outstretched nand to meet him.
"HeUcUncleEdwaidl"
"Gioodness gracious mel'* cried the Dean, "it's
Oliver I"
"Right first time," said the young man, gripping
him by the hand. "You're not loo^ng a day older.
And Aunt Sophia — " he strode up to Sirs. Conover
and kissed her. "Do you know," he went on.
holding her at arms' length and looking round at
the astonished company, "the last time I saw you
all you were doing just the same? I peeped over
the wall just before I went away, just such a smnmer
afternoon as this, and you were all sitting round
drinking the same old lemonade out of the same old
jug — and, Lady Bruce, you were here, and you.
Sir Archibald" — he shook hands with them rapidly.
"You havai't changed a bit. And you — good
LordI Is this PeggyP" He put his hand on the
Dean's shoulder €uid jK)inted' at the girl.
" That's Peggy," said the Dean.
"You're the only thing that's grown. I used
to gallop with you on my shoulders all roimd the
lawn, i suppose you remember? How do you
do?"
And without waiting for an answer he kissed her
soundly. It was all done with whirlwind suddenness.
The tempestuous young man had scattered every-
one's wits. All stared at him.
Releasing Peggy, "My holy AuntI" he cried.
"There's another of 'em. It's Doggie 1 You were
in the old picture, and I'm blessed if you wer^a't
wearing the same beautiful grey suit. How do.
Doggie? "
He gripped Doggie's hand. Doggie's Ups grew
white.
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38 THE ROUGH ROAD
"I'm glad to welcome you back, Oliver," he said.
"But I would have you to know that my name is
Marmaduke."
"Sooner be called Do^e myself, old chap,"
said Ohver.
He stepped back, smilioe at them all, a handsome,
devil-may-care fellow, tall, tough, and supple, his
hands ia the pockets of a sun-stained, double-
breasted blue jacket.
"We're indeed glad to see you, my dear fellow,"
said the Dean, recov^ing equetnimity, "but what
have you been doing all this time, and where on
earth have you come from?"
"I've just come from the South Seeis. Arrived
in London last evening. This morning I thought
I'd come and look you up."
"But if you had let us know you were coming,
we should have met you at the station with the car.
Where's yoiu- luggage?"
He jerked a hand. "In the road. My man's
sitting on it. Oh, don't worry about him," he cried
airily to the protesting Dean. "He's well trained.
He'll go on sitting on it all night."
"You've broi^t a man — a valet?" asked
Peggy.
It seems so.
"Then you must be getting on."
"I don t think he turns you out very well," said
Doggie.
"You must really let one of the servants see
about your things, Oliver," said Mrs. Conover,
moving towards the porch. " What will people say?"
He strode after her and kissed her. ' Oh, you
dear old Durdelbury Auntt Now I know I'm in
England again. I haven't heard those words for
years!"
Mrs. Conover's hospitable intentions were an-
ticipated by the old butler, who advanced to meet
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THE ROUGH ROAD 39
ihem with the news that Sir Archibald's car had
beeti brought round. As soon as he recognized
Oliver he started back, mouth agape.
"Yes, it's me all right, Burford," laughed Oliver.
"How did I get here? I dropped from the moon."
He shook hands with Buiford, of whose life he
had been the plague during hiis childhood, pro-
claimed him as hardy and imchangiog as a gargoyle,
and instructed him where to find man and luggage.
The Bruces €ind the two clerical tennis players
departed. Marmaduke was for taking his leave,
too. All his old loatiiing of Oliver had suddenly
returned. His cousin stood for everything he
detested, — swagger, arrogance, self-assurance. He
hated the shabby rakisbness of bis attire, tlie self-
assertive aquiline beak of a nose which he bad
inherited from his father, the Rector. He dreaded
his aggressive masculinity. He had come back
with the same insidting speech on his Hps. His
finger-nails were dreadful. Marmaduke desired as
little as possible of his odious company. But bis
Aunt Sophia cried out, "You'll surely dine with
us to-night, Marmaduke, to celebrate Oliver's
retmn?"
And Oliver chimed in, "Do. And don't worry
about changing. I can't. I've no evening togs.
My old ones fell to bits when I was trying to put
them on, on board the steams, imd I had to chuck
'em overboard. They turned up a shark who went
for 'em. So don't you worry. Doggie, old chap-
You look as pretty as paint as you are. Doesn't he,
P^y?"
Peggy, with a sUgbt flush on her cheek, came to
the rescue and linked her arm in Marmaduke's.
"You haven't had time to learn everything yet,
Oliver; but I think you ought to know tiiat we are
engaged."
Holy Geel Is that sot* My complim^its.
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40 THE ROUGH ROAD
He swept them a low bow. "God bless you, my
children."
" Of course hell stay to dinner," said Peggy. And
she looked at Oliver as who should say "Touch
hitn at your peril. He belongs to me."
So Doggie had to yield. Mrs. Conover went
into the house to arrange for Oliver's comfort, and
the others strolled round the garden.
"Well, my boy," said the Dean, "so you're back
in the old countxy."
"Turned up again like a bad pemiy."
The Dean's kmdly face clouded. " I hope you'll
soon be eible to find somelliing to do."
" It's money I want, not work," said Oliver.
"Ahl" said the Dean, in a tone so thoughtful €is
just to suggest a lack of sympathy.
Oliver looked over his shoulder — the Dean and
himself were preceding Maimaduke and Peggy
on the trim gravel path. "Do you care to lend me
a few thousands. Doggie?"
"Certainly not," replied Marmaduke.
"There's family affection for you. Uncle Edward I
I've come half way round the earth to see him and
— say, will you lend me a fiver? "
"It you need it," said Marmaduke in a dignified
way, "I shall be very happy to advance you five
pounds."
Oliver brought the little party to a halt and burst
into laughter.
"I bt^eve you good people think I've come badL
broke to the world. The black sheep returned
like a wolf to the fold. Only Peggy drew a correct
inference from the valet — wait tul you see him I
As Peggy said, I've been gettii^ on. ' He laid a
light hand on the Dean's shoulder. "While all
you folks in Dx^dlebury, especially my dear Doggie,
for the last ten years have neen dtirdling, I've been
doing. I've not come all this way to tap relations
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THE ROUGH ROAD 41
for five-pound notes. Fm swaggering into the
Gty of London for Capital — with a great big C."
Uannaduke twirled his little moustache. "You've
taken to company promoting," he ramaiked acidly.
"] have. And a damn — I b^ your [Kirdon,
Uncle Edward' — we poor Pacific Mulders lisp in
damiB for want of deans to hold us up — and a
jolly good company too. We — that's I and an-
other man — that's all the company as yet — two's
company, you know — own a trading-fleet."
"You own shipsi" cried Peggy.
"Rather. Own 'em, sail 'em, navigate 'em,
stoke 'em, clean out the boilers, sit on the safety
valves when we want to make q>eed, do every old
thing—"
^nd what do you trade in?" asked the Dean.
" Copra, bSche de mer, mother of jpearl — "
"Mother of pearlt How awfully romanticl"
cried Peggy.
"We've got a fishery. At any rate, tbe con-
ceission. To work it properly we require capital.
That's why I'm here — to turn the concern into a
limited company."
"And where is this wonderful pUtceP" asked the
Dean.
"Huaheine."
"What a beautiful word!"
"Isn't it?" said Oliver. "Uke the sigh of a girl
in faer sleep."
TTie old Dean shot a swift glance at his nephew;
then took bis arm and walk«] on, and looked at
the vast mass of the Cathedral and at tbe quiet
En glish garden in its evening shadow.
' Copra, McAc cfe mer, mother of pearl, Huaheine,"
be murmured. "And these strange foreign things
are the commonplaces of your life I"
Peggy and M armaduke lagged behind a little. She
pressed his arm.
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42 THE ROUGH ROAD
"I'm so glad you're staying fcff dinner. I
shouldn't like to think you were running away from
him."
"I was only afraid of losing my temper and mak-
ing a scene," replied Doggie with dlgmty.
'His manners are odious," said Peggy. "You
leave him to me."
Suddenly the Dean, taking a turn that brought
him into view of the porch, stopped short.
" Goodness graciousi " he cried, "who in the world
is that?"
He pointed to a cmious object slouching across
the lawn; a short, hirsute man wearing a sailor's
jersey, and smokii^ a stump of a blackened pipe.
His tousled head was bare; ne had very long arms
and great powerful hands protruded at the end of
long sinewy wrists from inadequate sleeves. A
pair of bright eyes shone out of his dark, shaggy
face, like a Dtindy Dimnont's. His nose was large
and red. He rolled as he walked. Such a si^t
had never been seen before in the Detinery garden.
"That's my mtin. Peggy's valet," said OUver,
airily. "His name is Chipmunk. A beauty, isn't
he?
"like master, like man," murmured Doggie.
Oliver's quick ears caught the words intended
wily for Peggy. He smiled brightly.
' If you knew what a compliment you were paying
me, Df^gie, you wouldn't have said such a thing."
llie man, seeing the company stare at him, halted,
took his pipe out of his mouth, and scratched his
head.
"But — er — forgive me, my dear Oliver," said
the Dean. "No doubt he is an excellent fellow —
but don't you think he might smoke his pipe some-
where else?"
"Of course he might," said Oliver. "And he
jolly well shaU." He put his hand to his mouth,
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,THE ROUGH ROAD 43
sea-fashion — tiiey were about thirty yards apart
— and rfiouted. "Here, youl What the etmial
blazes are you doing here? "
: f Please don't hurt the poor man's feelings,"
said the kindly Dean.
Oliver turned a blank look on his uncle. "His
what? Ain't got any. Not that kind of feelinaB."
He proceeded: "Now then, look hvelyl Clear
out; dudool"
llie valet touched his forehead in salute and
"Where am I to go to, Cap'en?"
"Goto—"
OUver checked himself in time and turned to
the Dean.
"Where shall I tell faun to goP" be asked sweetly.
"The kitchen g^en wouM be the best place,"
repUed the Dean.
^'I think I'd better go and fix him up myself,"
said Oliver. "A Uttle conversation in his own lan-
guage might be beneficial."
"But isn't he English?" asked Peggy.
"Bom and bred in Wapping," said Oliver.
He marched off across the lawn; and, could they
have heard it, the friendly talk that he bad with
Chipmunk would have made the Saint and the
Divmes, tmd even the Crusader, Sir Guy de Chevenix,
who were buried in the Cathedral, turn in their
tombs.
Doggie, watching the disappearing Chipmunk,
OUver's knuckles in his neck, said: "I think it
monstrous of OUver to bring such a disreputable
creature down here."
Said the Dean: "At any rate, it brings a certain
excitement into our quiet surroundings. *
"They must be having the time of their lives in
the SOTvants' hall," said Peggy.
ec by Google
CHAPTER IV
AFTEIR breakfast the next mormng Doggie,
attired in a green, shot-silk dressing-gown
entered his own particular room and sat
down to think. In its way it was a very beautiful
room, — high, spacious, well proportioned, facing
southeast. Ilie wall-paper, which he had designed
himself, was ivory white, with veinings of peacock
blue. Into the ivory silk curtains were woven
peacocks in full pride. The cushions were ivory and
peacock-blue. The chairs, the writing table, the
couch, the bookcases, were pure Sheraton and
Hepplewhite. Vellum-bound books filled the cases
— Doggie was very particular about his bindings.
DeUcate water-colours alone adorned the walls.
On his neatly set out writing table lay an ivory
set — inkstand, pen-tray, blotter and calendar.
Bits of old embroidery harmonising with the pea-
cock shades were spread here and there. A pretty
collection of eighteenth-century Itahan ivory stat-
uettes were grouped about me room. A spinet
inlaid with ebony and ivory formed a centre for
the arrangement of many other musical instruments,
a viol, mandolins gay with ribbons, a theorbo,
flutes, and clarionettes. Through the curtains
nearly drawn across an alcove could be guessed
the modem monstrosity of a grand piano. One
tall, closed cabinet was devoted to his collection of
wall-papers. Another, oprai, to a collection of
little dogs in china, porcelain, faience, — thousands
of them; he got them through dealers from all over
the world. He had the finest collection in existence.
THE ROUGH ROAD 45
and maintamed a friendly and learned coirespon'-
denoe with the other collector, an elderly, diullu-
'sioaed Russian Prince who Uved Bomewhere near
Nijni-Novgarod. On the spinet and on the writing
table were great bowls of golden rayon (Tor roses.
Doggie sat down to think. An unwonted frown
creased his brow. Several problems distracted
him. The morning sun streaming into the room
disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains,
and streaks on the wall-paper. It would have to
be renewed. Already he had decided to design
something to take its place. But last night Pe^^
had declared her intention to tiun this €i!bode of
bachelor comfort into the drawing-room, and to
hand over to his personEil use some other apartment,
possibly the present drawing-room, which received
all the blaze and glare of the afternoon sun. What
should he doP Live in the sordidness of discoloured
waU-paper for another year, or go through the .anx-
iety of artistic effort and manufacturer s stupidity
and delay, to say nothing of the expense, only to
have the whole uung scrapped before the wedding.
Doggie had a foretaste of the dilemmEm of matn-
' mony. He had a gnawing suspicion that the trim
and perfect life was difficult of attainment.
Then, meandering through this wilderness of
dubiety, ran thoughts of Oliver. Everyone seemed
to have gone crazy over the fellow. Uncle Edward
and Aunt Sophia had hung on his hps while he lied
unblushingly about his adventures. Even P^gy
had l^tened op^i-eyed and open-mouthed when
be had told a tale of shipwreck in the South Seas:
how the schooner had heea caught in some beastly
wind, and the masts had been torn out and the
rudder carried away, and how it had struck a reef,
and how something had hit him on the head and
he knew no more till he woke up on a beach and
found that the unspeakable Chipmunk had swum
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46 THE ROUGH ROAD
with him for a week — or whatever the time was —
until they got to land. If hulking, brainless dolts
like Oliver, thought Dc^gie, like to fool around
in schooners and typhoons, they must take the
conset^ences. There was nothing to brag about.
The higher man was the intellectual, the aesthetic,
the artistic being. What did Oliver know of Lydian
modes or Louis Treize decoration or Aztec clay
dogsP Nothing. He couldn't even keep his socks
&oin slopping about over his shoes. And there
was Peggy all over the fellow, although before
dinner she had said she couldn't bear the sight of
him. Doggie was perturbed. On bidding bim
good-night she had kissed him in the most perfunc-
tory manner — merely the cousinly peck of a dozen
years ago — and had given no thought to the fact
that he was driving home in an open car without an
overcoat. He had felt distinctly chilly on his
arrived and had taken a dose of ammoniated quinine.
Weis Peggy's indifTerence a sign that she had ceased
to care tor himP That she was attracted by the
buccaneering OhverP
Now suppose the engagement was broken off he
would be free to do as he chose with the redecora-
tion of the room. But suppose, as he sincerely
and devoutly hoped, it wasn't? Dilemma on
dilemma. Added to all this, GroUath, the minia-
ture Belgian griffon, having probably overeaten
himself, had complicated pains inside, and the
callous vet. could or would not come round till
the evening. In the meantime Goliath might die.
He was at this point of his reflections when, to
his horror, he heard a famiUar voice outside the
door.
"All right. Peddle. Don't worry. I'll show
myself in. Look after that man of mine. Quite
easy. Give him some beer in a bucket and leave
him to it."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 47
Then the door burst open and Oliver, pipe in
mouth and hat on one side, came into the room.
"Hallo, Doggiel Thought I'd look you up.
Hope I'm not disturbing you."
' Not at all," said Doggie. "Do sit down."
But Oliver walked about and looked at things.
"I like your water-colours. Did you collect
them yourself?"
"Yea."
"I coi^atulate you on your taste. This is a
beauty. Who is it by?"
Tlie appreciation brought Dc^^e at once to his
side. Ofiver the connoisseur was showing himself
in a new and agreeable light. Doggie took him
delightedly round the pictiu'es, eimounding Uieir
merits and their little histories. He found that
Oliver, although unlearned, had a true sense of
light and colour and tone. He was just beginning
to like him, when the tactless fellow, stopping before
the collection of httle dogs, spoiled everything.
"My holy AuntI" he cried — an objurgation
which Doggie had abhorred from boyhood — and
he doubled with lauditer in his horrid schoolboy
fashion. "My dear Doggie — is that your family?
How many litters? "
" It's the finest collection of tbe kind in the world,"
replied Doggie, stiffly, "and is worth several thou-
sand pounds."
Oliver heaved himself into a chair — that was'
D(M;gie'B impression of his method of sitting down —
a Sheraton chair with delicate arms and legs.
"Forgive me," he said, "but you're sudi a funny
devil." Doggie gaped. The conception of him-
self as a funny devil was new. "Pictures and music
I can understand. But what the deuce is the point
of these danm fittle dogsP"
But Doggie was hurt. "It would be useless to
try to expEun," said be.
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48 THE ROUGH ROAD
Oliver took off his hat and sent it wtiniTning on
to the couch.
"Look here, old chap," he said. "I seem to
have put my foot into it again. I didn't mean to,
really. Peggy gave me hell this morning for not
treating you as a man and a brother, am I came
round to try to put things ri^t."
" It's very considerate of Peggy, I'm sure," said
Marmaduke.
"Now, look hra«, old Doggie — "
"I told you when we firet met yesterday that I
vehemently object to being called Doggie."
"But why?" asked Oliver. "I've made enquiries
and find that all your pals — "
"I haven't any pals, as you call them."
"Well, all our male contemporaries in tiie place
who have the honour of your aquaintance — they
all call you Doggie, and you don't seem to mind."
"I do mind, ' replied Marmaduke, angrily, "but
as I avoid their company as much as possible, it
doesn't very much matter."
Ohver stretched out his legs and put his hands
behind his back' — then wriggled to his feet. "What
a beast of a chairl Anyhow," he went on, puffing
at his pipe, "don't let us quarrel. I'll call you
Marmaduke, if you like, when I can remember —
it's a beast of a name — like the cdiair. I'm a
rough sort of chap. I've had ten years' pretty
tough training. I've slept on boards. I've slept
in me open without a cent to hire a board. I've
gone cold and I've gone hungry, and men have
knocked me about and I've knocked men about
— and I've lost the Durdlebury sense of social
values. In the wil(k if a man once gets the name,
say, of Duck-Eyed Joe, it sticks to him, and he
accepts it and answers to it and signs 'Duck-Eyed
Joe' on an I. 0. U. and honours the signature."
"But I'm not in the wilds," said Marmaduke,
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THE ROUGH ROAD 49
**aiid haven't the djehtest mtentioa of ever leading
the mmatm-al and frightful life you describe. So
what yo\i say doesn't apply to me."
"Ouite so," replied Obver. "That wasn't the
moral of my discourse. The habit of mind engen-
dered in the wilds applies to me. Just as I could
never think of Duck-Eyed Joe as George Wilkinson,
so you, James Marmaduke Trevor, will live im-
periabably in my mind as Doggie. I was making
a sort of apology, old chap, for my habit of mind."
"If it is an apology," said Marmaduke.
OUver, lai^hmg, clapped him boisterously on the
shoulder. "Oh, you solemn, comic cussi" He
strode to a rose-bowl and knocked the ashes of his
pipe into the water — Dog^e trembled lest he
might n«ct squirt tobacco juice over the ivory
curtains. "You don't give a fdlow a chance.
Look hrae, tell me, ds man to man, what are you
going to do'with your life? I don't mean it in the
high-brow sense of people who live in imsuccessful
plays and garden cities, but in the ordinary common-
sense way of the world. Here you are, young,
strong, educated, inteUigent ■ — "
"I'm not strong," said Doggie.
"Oh, shucks [ A month's exercise would make
you as strong as a mule. Here you are — what
the blazes are you going to do with yourself?"
" I don't admit that you have any right to ques-
tion me," said Doggie, lighting a curette.
"Peggy has given it to me. We had a heart to
heart talk this morning, I assure you. She called
me a swaggering, hectoring barbarian. So I told
her what Td do. I said I'd come here and squeak
like a little mouse and eat out of your hand. I also
said I'd take you out with me to the Islcinds and
give you a taste for fresh air and salt water and ex-
ercise. 111 teach you how to sail a schoon^ and
bow to go cd>out barefoot and swab decks. It's &
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so THE ROUGH ROAD
Kfe for a man, out there, I tell you.. If you've noth-
ing better to do than living here snug like a flea on
a dog's back, until you get married, you'd better
cOTue."
Doggie Emailed pitying^, but said politely, "Your
offer IS very kind, Oliver, but I don't tlunk that
kind of life would suit me."
"Oh, yes, it would," said Oliver. "It would,
make you healthy, wealthy, — if you took a fancy
to put some money into the pearl fishery, — and
wise. I'd show you the world, make a man of you,
for Peggy's sake, and teach you how men talk to
one anouier in a gale of wind.'
The door opened and Peddle appeared.
"I b^ your pardon, Mr. Oliver, out your man — "
"YesP that about himP Is he midiehaving
himself P Kissing the maidsP"
"No, sir," said Peddle, "but none of them can
get on with their work. He has drunk two quart
jugs of beer and wants a third."
'Well, give it to him."
"I shouldn't like to see the man intoxicated, sir,"
said Peddle.
"You won't. No one has or ever wilL"
"He is also standing on his head, sir, in the
middle of the kitchen table."
" It's his great parlour-trick. You just try to do
it. Peddle — especially after two quarts of beer.
He's showing his gratitude, poor chap, just like the
juggler of Notre Dame in the story. And I'm
sure everybody's enjoying themselves?"
" The maids are nearly in hysterics, sir."
"But they're quite happy?"
"Too happy, sir."
"LordI" cried Oliver, "what a lot of stuffy owls
you are! What do you want me to do? What
would you like me to do. Doggie? It's your house."
"I don't know," said Doggie. "I've nad nothing.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 51
to do with such people. Perhaps you mi^t go
and speak to him. '
"No, I won't do that. I tell you what. Peddle,"
said Oliver brightly. "You lure him out into the
stable yard with a great hunk of pie — he adores
me — Euid tell him to sit there and eat it till I come.
Tell him I said so."
"I'll see what can be done, sir," said Peddle.
"I don't mean to be inhospitable," said Dc^gie,
after the butler had gone, "but why do you take
this extraordinary person alxmt with you?"
"I wanted him to see Durdelbury and Durdle-
bury to see him. Do it good," replied Oliver.
"Now, what about my proposition? Out there of
course you'll be my guest. Put yourself in charge
of Chipmunk and me for eight months, and you 11
never regret it. What Chipmunk doesn't know
about ships and drink and hard living isn't knowl-
edge. We'll let you down easy — treat you kindly
— word of honoiur."
Doggie, being a man of intelligence, realised that
Oliver's offer arose from a genuine desire to do him
some kind of service. But if a &iendly bull out of
the fulness of its affection invited you to acconroany
him to the meadow and eat grass, what could you
do but courteously decline the invitation? This is
what Doggie did. After a further attempt at
persuasion, Oliver grew impatient, and picking up
his hat, stuck it on the side of his head. He was a
simple-natured, impulsive man. Peggy's spirited
attack had caused him to realize that he had
treated Doggie with unprovoked rudenras; but
then Doggie was such a httle worm. Suddenly the
mat scheme for Doggie's rM;eneration had entered
his head, and generously he had rushed to begin to
put it into execution. The -pair were his blood
relations, after all. He saw his way to doing th^n
a good turn. Peggy, with all her go, — exemplified
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52 THE ROUGH ROAD
by the maimer in which she had gone for him, —
was worth the trouble be proposed to take with
Doggie. It realty was a hai^some offer. Most
fellows would have jumped at the prospect of being
down round the islands with an old hand who
knew the whole thing backwards, from company-
promoting to beach-combing. He had not ex-
pected such a point-blank, bland refusaL It made
him angry.
"I'm realW most obliged to you, CUver," said
Dmj^e, finally. "But our ideals are so entir^y
difla:«nt. You're primitive, you know. You seem
to find your happiness in defying the elements,
whereas I find mme in adopting the resources of
civilisation to circumvent them.'
He snuled, pleased with his httle epigram.
"Which means," said Oliver, "that you're afraid
to roughen yoiu' hands and spoil your complexion."
" If you Uke to put it that way — symbohcally."
"Symbolically be hangedl" cried Oliver, losmg
his temper. "You're an effeminate little rottCT
and I'm through with you. Go on and wag yom*
tail and sit up and b^ for biscuits — "
"StopI" snouted Doggie, white with sudden
anger which shook him from head to foot. He
marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown
flapping round his legs, and threw it wide open.
"This is my house. I'm sorry to have to ask you
to get out of it."
Oliver looked intently for a few seconds into the
flaming little dark eyes. Then he said gravely:
" I'm a beast to have said that. I take it all
back. Good-bye."
"Good day to you," said Doggie; and when the
door was dut he went and thi^w himseff, shaken,
on the couch, bating Oliver and all his works more
tlian ever. Go about barefoot and swab decksl
It was Bedlam madness. Besides being dangerous
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THE ROUGH ROAD 53
to health, it would be excruciating discomfort. And
to be insulted for not grasping at such martyrdom.
It was intolerable.
Dog^e stayed away from the Deanery all that
day. On the morrow he heard, to his mief, that
Ohver had returned to London with the unedifylng
Chipmmik. He took Peggy for a drive in the
Rolls-Royce, and told her of Oliver's high-handed
methods. She sympathised. She said, however:
"Ohver's a rough diamond."
"He's one of Nature's non-gentlemen," said
Doggie.
She laughed and patted his arm. "Clever ladl"
^lesaid.
So Doggie's wounded vanity was healed. He
confided to her some of his difficulties as to the
peacock-and-ivory room.
"Bear with the old paper for my sake," she said.
"It's something you can do for me. In the mean-
while you and I can put our heads together and
design a topping scheme of decoration. It's not
too early to sttirt in right now, for it'll take months
and months to get the house just as we want it."
"You're the best girl in the world," said Doggie;
"€uid the way you understand me is simply won-
derful."
"Dear old thing," smiled Pe^fy; "you're no
great conundrum."
Happiness once more settled on Doggie Trevor.
For the next two or three days he and Peggy tackled
the serious problem of the reorganization of Denby
Hall. Peggy had the large ideas of a limited thougn
acute brfiin stimulated by social ambitions. When
she became mistress of Denby Hall, she intended
to reverse the invisible boundary that included it
in Durdlebury and excluded it from the Coimty.
It was to be County — of the fine, inner Arcanum
of county — and omy Durdlebury by tiie grace of
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54 THE ROUGH ROAD
Pegey Trevor. No "durdlmg," as OHvct called it,
for ner. Denby Hall was going to be the veiy
latest thing of September, 1915, when she propcwed,
the honeymoon concluded, to take smart and
startling possession. Lots of Mrs. Trevor's rotten
old stuiry furniture would have to go. Marmaduke
would have to revolutionise bis habits. As ^e
would have all kinds of jolly people down to stay,
additions must be made to the house. Withm
a week after her engagement she had devised all
the improvements. Maimaduke's room, with a
neat bay thereout, would be the drawing-room.
The present drawing-room, nucleus of a new wing,
would be a dancing-room, with parquet flooring;
when not used for tangos and the fashionable
negroid dances, it would be called the morning-room;
beyond that there would be a billiard-room. Above
this first floor there could easfly be buflt a series of
guest chambers. As for Marmaduke's library,
or study, or den, any old room would do. There
were a couple of bedrooms overlooking the stable-
yard which, thrown into one, would do beautifuUy.
With feminine tact she dangled th^e splendours
before Doggie's infatuated eyes, instinctively choos-
ing the opportunity of his gratitude for soothing
tr^tment. Doggie tel^rapbed for Sir Owen Julius,
R. A., surveyor to the Cathedral, the only architect
of his acquaintance. The great man sent his
partner, plain John Fox, who undertook to prepare
a design.
Mr. Fox came down to Durdlebtuy on the 28th
of July. There had been a lot of silly talk in the
newspapers about Austria and Serbia to which
Doggie bad given Uttle heed. There was always
trouble in the Balkcui States. Recently they had
gone to war. It had left Dog^e quite cold. They
were all "Merry Widow," nresponsible people.
They dressed in queer imiforms and picturesque
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THE ROUGH ROAD 55
costumes, and thou^t themselves tremraidoasly
important, and were always squabbling amonc
themselves and would go on doing it till we day en
Doom. Now there wets more fuss. He had read
in the Morning Post that Sir Edward Grey had
proposed a Conference of the Great Powers. Only
sensible thing to do, thought Doggie. He dis-
missed the trivial matter (rom his naind. On the
morning of the 29th he learned that Austria had
declared war on Serbia. StiU, what did it matterP
Do^e had held aloof from poUtics. He re-
garded them as somewhat vulgar. Conservative
by caste, he had once, when the opportunity was
ahnost forced on him, voted for the Conservative
candidate of the constituency. European politics
on the grand scale did not arouse his interest at alL
Eloglana, save as the wise Mentor, had nothing
to do with them. Still, if Russia fought, France
would have to join her ally. It was not till he went
to the Deanery that he began to contemplate the
possiblity of a genial European war. For the
next day or two he read his newspapers very care-
fully.
Chi Saturday, the 1st August, Oliver suddenly
reappeared, proposing to stay over the Bank HoKday.
He Drought news and rumours of war from the great
city. He had found money very tight. Capital with
a big C impossible to obtain. Everyone told hi m
to come back when the present European cloud had
blown over. In the opinion of the judicious it
would not blow over. There was going to be war,
and England could not stay out of it. The Sunday
morning papers confirmed all he said. Germany
had declared war on Russia. France v/as involved.
Would Great Britain come in, or for ever lose her
honour?
That warm, beautiful Sunday afternoon tiiey sat
on the peacefid lawn under the shadow of the great
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56 THE ROUGH ROAD
Cathedral. Burford brought out the tea-tray and
Mrs. Couover poured out tea. Sir Archibald and
Lady Bruce and their daughter Dorothy were there
and Doggie, impeccable in dark purple. Nothing
clouded the centuries-old serenity of the place. Yet
they asked tbe question that was ask^ on eveiy
ouiet lawn, every UtUe scrap of shaded garden
um>ugbout the land that day: Would En^and go
to war?
And if she came in, as come she must, what would
be the resultP All had premonitions of strange
shifting of destinies. As it was yesterday so it was
to-day in that gracious shrine of immutability. But
everyone knew in his heart that as it was to-day so
would it not be to-morrow. The ver^ word "war"
seemed as out of place as the suggestion of Hell in
Paradise. Yet the throb of the War Drum came
over tbe broad land of France and over the sea and
half over England, and its echo fell upon the Deanery
garden, flung by ihe flying buttresses and piers and
towers of the grey Cathedral.
On the morning of Wednesday, the 5th of August,
it thundered all over Uie Close. The ultimatum to
Germany eis to Belgium had expired the night before.
We yrere at war.
"Thank God," said the Dean, at breakfast, "we
needn't cast down our eyes and slink by when we
meet a Frenchman."
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CHAPTER V
THE first thii^ that brought the seriousness
of the war home to Doggie was a letter from
John Fox. John Fox, a Major in a Terri-
torial Regiment, was mobilised. He regretted that
he could not give his personal attention to the
proposed alterations at Denby Hall. Should the
plans be proceeded with in Ins absence from the
office, or would Mr. Trevor care to wait till liie end
of the war, which, from the nature of things, could
not last very longp Do^e trotted off to Peggy.
She was greatly annoyed.
"What awful rot!' she cried. "Fox, a Major of
Artilleryl I'd just as soon trust you with a gun.
Why do^n't he stick to his architecture?"
"He'd be shot or something, if he refused to go,"
said Doggie. "Rut why can't we turn it over to
Sir Owen Julius?"
"That old archaeological fossil?"
Pe^y, womanlike, forgot that they had ap-
IMXjadied him in the first place. "He'd never be-
gin to understand what we want. Fox hinted as
mud). Now, Fox is modem €tnd up-to-date and
sympathetic. If I can't have Fox, 1 won't have
Sir Owen. Why, he's older than Dad! He's
decrepit. Can't we get another architect?"
"Do you think, dear," stud Doggie, "that, in the
circumstances it would be a nice thmg to do?"
She flashed a glance at him. She had woven no
O girl's romantic illusions around Marmaduke.
1 necessity have arisen, she could have fur-
nished you with a merciless analysts of his character.
But in that analysis she would have frankly included
57
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58 THE ROUGH ROAD
a very fine sense of honour. If he said a Uung
WEisn't quite" nice — well, it wasn't quite nice.
"I suppose it wouldn't," she admitted. "We
shall have to wait. But it's a rotten nuisance all
the same."
Hundreds of thousands of not very intelligent,
but at the same time by no means unpatriotic
people like Peggy, at the beginning of the war
thought trivial disappointmraits "rotten nuisances."
We had all waxed too fat during the opening years
of the Twentieth Centtiry, and, not having a spiritual
ideal in God's universe, we were in danger of perish-
ing from Fatty Degeneration of the Soul. As it
was, it took a year or more of war to cure us.
It took Peggy quite a month to appreciate the
meaning c^ the mobilisation of Major Fox, H. F. A.
A Brigade of Territorial Artillery flowed ovct
Durdelbury, and the sacred and sleepy meadows
becEime a mass of guns and horse-Unes and men in
khaki, and waggons and din^ canvas tents — and
the old, quiet streets were thick with imaccustomed
soldiery. The Dean cedled on the Colonel and
officers, and soon the house was full of eager young
men holding the King's commission. Doggie ad-
mired their patriotism, but disliked their whole-
hearted embodiment of the mihtaiy spirit. They
seemed to have no ideas beyond their new trade.
The way they clanked about in their great boots
and spurs got on his nerves. He dreaded also lest
Peggy should be affected by the meretricious attrac-
tion of a uniform. There were fine, hefty fellows
among tibe visitors at the Deanery, on whom Peggy
looked with natural admiration. Doggie bitterly
confided to Goliath that it was the 'glamour of
brawn." It never entered his head dming those
early days that all the brawn of all the manhood
of me nation would be needed. We had our well
orgEinized Army and Navy, composed of peculiarly
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THE ROUGH ROAD 59
constituted men whose duty it was to fi^t; just
as we had our well oi^anised National Church, also
compcMed of pecuharly constituted men, whose
duty it was to preach. He regarded himself as
r^note from one as &om the other.
Oliver, who had made a sort of peace with Doggie
and remained at the Deanery, very quickly grew
One day, walking with Pegey and Marmaduke in
the garden, he said: "I wish I could get hold of
that confounded fellow, ChipmunkI"
Partly through deference to the good Dean's
delicately hint^ distaste for that upsetter of de-
corous households, and partly to allow his follower
to attend to his own domestic affairs, be had leit
Chipmunk in London. Fifteen years ago Chipmunk
had parted from a wife somewhere in the neighbour-
hood of the Elast India Docks. Both being illiterate,
neither had since communicated with the other.
As he had left her earning good money in a factory,
his fifteen years' separation had been relieved from
anxiety as to her material welfare. A prudent,
although a beer-loving man, be had amassed con-
siderable savings, and it was the dual motive of
sharing these with his wife and of protecting bis
patron from the ever-lurking perils of London, that
had brought him across the seas. When Oliver had
set him free in town, be was going in quest of his
wife. But as he had forgotten the name of the
street near the East India Docks where his wife
lived, and the name of the factory in which she
worked, the successful issue of thequest, in Oliver's
opinion, seemed problematical. The simple Chip-
munk, however, was quite sanguine. He would
run into her all right. As soon as he had found her
he would let the Captain know. Up to the pr^ent
he bad not conununicated with the Captain. He
could give the Captain no definite address, so the
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60 THE ROUGH ROAD
Captain could not communicate with him. Chip-
munk had disappeared into the unknown.
" Isn't he qmte capable of taking care of himself P "
asked Peggy.
"I'm not so sure," replied Oliver. "Besides,
he's hanging me up. I'm kmd of responsible for him,
and I've got sixty pounds of his money. It's all
I could do to persuade him not to stow the lot in
hi3 pocket, so as to divide it with Mrs. Chipmunk
as soon as he saw her. I must find out wtmt has
become of the beggar before I move."
"I suppose," said Doggie, "you're anxious now
to get back to the South Seas?"
Oliver stared at him. "No, sonny, not till the
war's over."
"Why, you wouldn't be in any great danger out
there, would you?"
Oliver laughed. "You're the funniest duck that
ever was. Doggie. I'll never get to the end of you."
And he strolled away.
"What does he mean?" asked the bewildered
Doggie.
1 think," replied Peggy, smiling, "that he means
he's goiog to fig^t."
"On," said Doggie. Then after a pause he added,
" He's just the sort of chap for a soldier, isn't he? "
The next day Oliver's anxiety as to Chipmunk
was relieved by the appearance of the man himself,
incredibly dirty and dusty €ind thirsty. Having
found no trace of his wife, and having been robbed
of the money he carried about him, he had tramped
to Durdlebiiry, where he reported himself to his
master as if nothing out of the way had happened.
"You silly blighter," said Oliver. "Suppose I had
let you go with your other sixty pounds, you woiild
have been pretty well in the soup, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, Cap'en," said Chipmui^.
"And you're not going on any blethering idiot
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THE ROUGH ROAD 61
wild goose chases after wives and such like truck
again, are you?"
"No, Cap'en," said Chipmunk.
This was in tiie stable-yfurd, after Chipmunk had
^aken some of the dust out of his hair and clothes
and had eaten and dnmk voraciously. He was now
sittLog on an upturned bucket fuid smoking his clay
pipe with an air of solid content. Oliver, lean and
supple, his hands in his pockets, looked humorously
down upon him.
"And you've got to stick to me for the future,
like a roseate leech."
"Yes, Cap'en."
"You're going to ride a horae."
"A wot? roared Chipmunk.
"A thing on four le^ that kicks like hell."
"WotevCT for? I am't never ridden no 'osses.'*
"You're going to learn, you unmilittuy-lookii^,
worm-eaten serf). You've got to be a ruddy
soldier."
"GorbUmel" said Chipmunk. "That's the first
I *eard of it. A 'oss soIdierP You're not kiddin'
are you, Cap'en?"
"Certainly not."
"GrtDrblimet Who would ha* thou^t it?" Then
he spat lustUy and sucked at his pi^.
"You've nothing to say against it, have you?"
"No, Cap'en."
"All right. And look here, when we're in the
army you must chuck calling me 'Cap'en.'"
"Wnat shall I have to call yer? Gineral?"
Chipmunk asked simply.
"Mate, Bill, Joe — any old name."
"Rw-istl" said Chipmunk.
"Do you know why we're going to enlist?"
" Can t say as 'ow I does, Cap'en."
"You chuckle-headed swabl don't you know
we're at war?"
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62 THE ROUGH ROAD
" I did 'ear some talk about it in a pub one night,"
Chipmunk admitted. *"0o are we fighting?
Dutchmen or Dagoes? "
"Dutchmen."
Chipmunk spat in his homy hands, rubbed them
together and smiled. As each individual hair on
his face seemed to enter into the smile, the result
was sinister.
"Do you remember that Dutchman at Samoa,
Cap'en? '
Oliver smiled back. He remembered the hulking,
truculent Grermau merchant whom Chipmunk, hav-
ing half strangled, threw into the sea. He also
remembered tbe amount of accomi)lished lying
he had to practise in order to save Chipmunk from
the clutches of the law and get away with the
schooner.
"We leave here to-morrow," said Oliver. "In
the meanwhile you'll have to ahave your ugjy face."
For the first time Chipmunk was really staggeired.
He gaped at Oliver's retiring figure. Even his
limited and timewom vocabulary lailed him. The
desp^ute meaning of the war has flashed suddenly
on nullions of men in miUions of different ways.
This is the way in which it flashed on Chipmunk.
He sat on his bucket pondering over me awful-
ness of it, and sucking his pipe long after it had been
smoked out. The Dean's car drove into the yard
and the chauffeur, stripping off his coat, prepared to
clean it down.
"Say, Guv'nor," said Chipmunk hoarsely, "what
do you think of this 'ere war? '
"Same as most people," replied the chauffeur
tersely. He shared in the general disapproval of
Chipnunk.
"But see 'ere. Cap'en he tells me I must shave
me face and be a 'oss-soldier. I never shaved me
face in me life, and I diumo 'ow to do it, just as I
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THE ROUGH ROAD 63
duimo 'ow to ride a 'oss. I'm a Bailorman, I am,
and seulormen don't shave their fac^ and ride
'osses. That's why I araked yer what yer thou(^t
of this 'ere war."
The chauffeur struggled into his jeans and adjusted
tiiem before replying.
" If you're a sailor, the place for you is the navy,"
he remarked in a superior manner. "As for the
cavalry, the Cap'en, as you^call him, ought to have
more sense — "
Chipmunk rose and swung his long arms threaten-
ingly.
Look'(
L 'ere, young feller, do you want to have your
blinkin' 'ead knocked orf? Where the Cap'en goes,
I goes, and don't you make any mistake Eibout it I"
'I didn't say anything," the chauffeur expostu-
lated.
"Then don't say it. See? Keep your blinkin'
*ead shut and mind your own business. ' '
And, scowling fiercely and thrusting his empty
pipe into his trousers pocket. Chipmunk rolled away.
A few hours later Oliver, entering his room to
dress for dinner, found bim standing in the light of
the window laboriously fitting studs into a shirt.
The devoted fellow having gone to report to his
mast», had found Burfora engaged in bis accus-
tomed task of laying out his master's evening
clothes — Oliver during his stay in London baa
provided himself with these necessaries. A jealous
snarl had sent Burford flying. So intent was he
on his work, that he did not hear Ohver enter.
Oliver stood and watched bim. Chipmunk was
swearing wholesomely under his breath. Oliver
saw him take up the tail of the shirt, spit on it and
begin to rub something.
'Ker-istI" said Chipmunk.
"What in the thundering blazes are you doing
there?" cried Oliver.
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64 THE ROUGH ROAD
Chipmunk turned.
"On, my God t" said Oliver.
Then he sank on a chair and laughed and laughed,
and the more he looked at Chipmunk the more he
laughed. And Chipmunk stood stoUd, holding
the shirt of the amul, wet, thumb-marked front.
But it was not at the ^urt that Ohver laughed.
"Good Godl" he cried. "Were you bom like
that?"
For Chipmunk, having gone to ihe barber's was
clean-shaven, and revealed himself as one of the
most comically ugly of the sons of men.
"Never mind,' said Oliver, after a while, "you've
made the sacrifice for your country."
"And wot if I get the face-ache?"
"I'd get something that looked like a face be-
fore I'd talk of it," gnnned Oliver.
At the family dinner-table, Doggie being present,
he announced his intentions. It was the duty of
every able-bodied man to fight for the Empire. Had
not half a million just been caUed for? We should
want a jolly sight more than that before we got
through with it. Anyway he was off to-morrow.
"To-morrow?" echoed the Dean.
Burford, who was handing him potatoes, arched
his eyebrows in sdarm. He was fond of OKver.
"With Chipmunk."
Burford uttered an unheard sigh of rehef.
"We're going to enlist in King Edward's Horse.
Tliey're our kind. Overseas men. Lots of 'em what
you dear good people would call bad eggs. There
you make the mistake. Perhaps they mayn't be
fresh enough raw for a dainty palate — but for cook-
ing, good hard cooking, by Gosh I nothing can touch
'em.
"You talk of enlisting, dear," said Mrs. Conover.
" Does that mean as a pnvate soldier? "
"Yes — a trooper. Why not?"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 65
"You're a gentleman, dear. And getaflemen in
the Anny are officers."
"Not now, my dear So^thia," said the Dean.
"Grentlemen are crowding mto the ranks. They
are setting a noble example."
They argued it out in their gentle, old-fashioned
■way. The Dean quoted examples of sons of Family
who had served as privates in me South Africiui war.
"And that to this," said he, "is but an eddy to a
maelstrcHU."
"Come and join us, James Marmaduke," said
Oliver across the table. "Chipmunk and me.
Three 'sworn brothers to France. '
Doggie smiled easily. " Fm afraid I can't mider-
take to swear a fraternal affection for Chipmunk.
He and I would have neither habits nor ideals in
common."
Oliver turned to Peggy. "I widi," said he, with
rare restraint, "he wouldn't talk like a book on
deportment."
'Marmaduke talks the language of civilisation,"
laughed Peggy. "He's not a savage like you."
"Don't you jolly weU wish he wasl" said Oliver.
Pe^y flushed. "No, I don'tl" she declared.
The Dean being called away on business immedi-
ately after dinner, the young men were left alone
in the dining-room when the ladies had departed.
Oliver pourra himself out a glass of port and filled
his pipe — an inelegimt proceeding of whidi Doggie
disapproved. A pipe alone was barbaric, a pipe
with old port was criminal. He held his peace,
however.
"James Marmaduke," sdd Oliver, after a while,
"what are you going to do?" Mudi as Marma-
duke disliked the name of "Doggie," he winced
under the irony of the new appellation.
"I don't see that I'm called upon to do anything,"
he repUed.
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66 THE ROUGH ROAD
Oliver smoked and sipped his port. "I don't
want to hurt your feelings any more,' said he gravely,
"though sometimes I'd like to scrag you — I sup-
pose because you're so difTerent from me. It was
80 when we were childem together. Now I've
grown very fond of Peggy. Put on the right track,
she might turn into a very fine woman."
"I don't think we need discuss Peggy, OUver,"
said Marmaduke.
"I do. She is sticking to you very loyally."
Oliver was a bit of an idealist. "The time may
come when she'll be up the devil's own tree. She'fi
develop a patriotic conscience. If she sticks to
you while you do nothing, she'll be miserable.
If she chucks you, as she probably will, she'll be no
happier. It's all up to you, James Doggie Mar-
maduke, old son. You'll have to gird up your
loins and take sword and buckler and march away
like the rest. I don't want Peggy to be unhappy.
I want her to marry a man. Tnat's why I pro-
posed to take you out with me to Huaheine and try
to make you one. But that's over. Now here's
the real chance. Better take it sooner than later.
You'll have to be a soldier. Doggie."
His pipe not drawing, he was preparing to dig
it with the point of a dessert-knife when Doggie
interposed hurriedly .
"For goodness' sake, don't do that! It makes
cold shivers run down my back I ' '
OUver looked at him oddly, put the extinct pipe
in his dinner-jacket pocket and rose.
"A flaw in the dainty and divine ordering of
things makes you shiver now, old Doggie. What
win you do when you see a fellow digging out an-
other fellow's intestines with the point of a bayonet?
A bigger flaw there somehow!"
"Don't talk like that — you make me wck,"
said Doggie.
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CHAPTER VI
DURING the next few months there hap-
pened terrible and marvelloua things -whioi
are aU set down in the myriad c^onicles
of the time; which shook the world and brought
the miknown phenomenon of change into the Close
of Durdlebmy. Folks of strange nabit and speech
walked it in, and gazing at the Gothic splendour
of the place, saw through the mist of autumn and
the mist of tears not Durdlebury but Louvctin.
More than one of those grey bouses flanking the
Cathedral and sharing with it the continuity of
its venerable life, was a house of mourning; not
for loss in the inevitable and not imkindly way of
human destiny as understood and accepted with
lon^ discipline resignation — but for loss sudden,
awnil, devastating; for the gallant lad who had left
it but a few weeks before, with a smile on his lips,
and a new and dancing hght of manhood in his
eyes, now with those eyes unclosed atod glazed
staring at the pitiless Flanders sky. Not one of
those houses but was linked with a battlefield.
Beyond the memory of man the reader of the Litany
had droned the accustomed invocation on behalf
of the Soveremi and the Royal Family, the Bishops,
Priests and Deacons, the Lords of the Council,
and all prisoners and captives, and the congrega-
tion had lumped them all together in their responses
with an undifl'erentiating convention of fervour.
What had prisoners and captives, any more than
the Lords of the Council, to do with their hves,
their hearts, their personal emotionsP But now —
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68 TEIE ROUGH ROAD
Durdlebury men were ■ known to be priaoners in
Gterman hands, and after "all prisoners and captives"
there was a long and pregnant silence, in which was
felt the Tev^beratiou of war against pier and vaulted
arch and groined roof of the cathedral, which was
broken too, now and then, by the stifled sob of a
woman, before the choir came in with the response
so new and significant in its appeal — "We be-
seech thee to hear us, O LordI"
And in every home the knitting-needles of women
clicked as they did throughout the length and
breadth of the land. And the young men left
shop and trade and counting house. And young
parsons fretted and some (M)tained the Bishop's
permission to become Army chaplains, and others,
snapping their fingers (figuratively) under the
Bishop's nose, threw their cassocks to the nettles
and put on the full (though in modem times not
very splendiferous) panoply of war. And in course
of time the Brigade of Artillery rolled away and
new troops took their place: and Marmaduke
Trevor, Esquire, of Denby Hall, was called upon
to billet a couple of officers and twenty men.
Dog^e was both patriotic and poHte. Having
a fra^ent of the British Anny in his house, he
did his best to make them coimortable. By Jan-
uary 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 superi-
ority over mere brawn. Doggie saw the necessity
of brawn. The more the better. It was every
patrio!,ic Englishman's duty to encourage brawn.
If the two officers had allowed him, he would have
fed his billeted men every two hours on prime beef-
steaks and Burgundy. He threw himself heart and
soul into the reorganisation of his household.
Officers and men found themselves in clover. The
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THE ROUGH ROAD 69
officers had champagne every night for dinner.
They thought Doggie a capital feUow.
"My dear chap,' they ■would say, "you're spoil-
ing us. I don't say we don't like it and aren't
grateful. We joUy well are. But we're supposed
to rough it — to lead the simple life — what?
You're doing us too weU."
"Impossible!" Do^e would reply, filling up
the speaker's glass. Don't I know what we owe
to you fellows? In what other way can a helpless,
dehcate crodt like myself show his gratitude and
in some sort of little way serve his country?"
When the sympathetic and wine-filled guest
would ask what was the nature of his malady, he
would tap his chest vaguely and reply:
"Constitutional. I've never been able to do
things like other fellows. The least tiling howls
me out."
"Damn hard lines — especially just now."
"Yes, isn't it?" Doggie would answer. And
once he found himself adding, "I'm fed up with
doing nothing."
Here can Ttie noted a distinct stage in Dogc^e's
development. He realised the brutahty of lact.
When great German guns were ■yawni^ open-
mouthed at you, it was no use saying "Take the
nasty, horrid things away. I don't like them."
They woiildn't go unless you took other big guns
and fired at them. And more guns were re<juired
than could be meumed by the peculiarly constituted
fellows who made up me artillery of the original
British Army. New fellows not at all warlike,
peaceful citizens who had never killed a cat in anger,
were being driven by patrioti^n and by conscience
to man mem. Against Blood and Iron now su-
preme, the superior, aesthetic, and artistic being
was of no avail. You might lament the fall in
rdative values of collections of wall-papers and little
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70 THE ROUGH ROAD
clay dogs, £is much as you liked; but you could not
deny the fall; they had gone down vnth something
of an w^ioble "wallop." Doggie began to set a
high value on guns and rifles and such like deadly-
engines and to enquire petulantly why the Glovem-
ment werec^aot providii^ them at greater numbers
and at greater speed. On his periodic visits to
London he wandered round by Trafalgar Square
and Whitehall, to see for himself how the recruiting
was going on. At the Deanery he joined in ardent
discussions of the campaign in Flanders. On the
walls of his peacock €ind ivory room were maps
stuck all over with HttJe pins. When he told the
young ofhcer that he was wearied of inaction, he
spoke ihe truth. He began to feel mightily ' ag-
grieved against Providence for keeping him out-
side this tr^nendous national League of Youth.
He never questioned his physical incapacity. It
was as real a fact as the German guns. He went
about pitying himself and seeking pity.
The months peissed. The regiment moved away
from Durdlebuiy, and Doggie was left alone in
Denhy Hall. He felt soHtf^y and restless. News
came from OHver that he had been offered and
had accepted an infantry commission, and that
Chipmunk, having none of the special quaUties of
a " OSS soldier," had, by certain skilful wire-pullings,
been transfered to his regiment and bad once more
become his devoted servant. "A month of this
sort of thing," he wrote, "would make om dear old
Doggie sit up." Doggie sighed. If only he had
been blessed with Ohver's constitution!
One morning Rriggins, his chauffeur, announced
that he could stick it no longer and was going to
join up. Then Doggie remembered a talk he had
had with one of the young officers who bad expressed
astonishment at his not being able to drive a car.
"I shouldn't have the nerve," he had repUed.
THE ROUGH ROAD 71
"My nerves are all wrong — and I shouldn't have
the strei^th to change tyres and things." ... If
his chauffeur went, he would find it very difficult
to get another. Who would drive the Rolls-Royce.
' Why not learn to drive yourself, sir?" said
Briggins. "Not the Rolls-Royce. I would put
it up or get rid (^ it, if I were you. If you engage
a second-rate man, as you'll nave to, who isn't
used to this make of car, he'll do it in for you pretty
quick. Gret a smaller one in its place Euid ^ive
it youraelf. I'll imdertake to teach you enough
before I go."
So Doggie, following Briggins's advice, took
lessons and, to his amazement, found that he did
not die of nervous collapse when a dog crossed the
road in front of the car, and that the fitting of de-
tachable wheels did not require the strength of a
Hercules. The first time he took Peggy out in
the two-seater, he swelled with pride.
"I'm so glad to see you can do somethingi" she
said.
Although she was kind and as mildly affectionate
as ever, he had noticed of late a curious reserve in
her manner. Conversation did not flow easily.
There seemed to be sconething at the back of her
'mind. She had fits of abstraction from which,
when rallied, she roused herself with an effort.
"It's the war," she would declare. "It's affect-
ing everybody that way."
Gradually Doggie began to realise that she spoke
truly. Most people of his acquaintance, when he
was by, seemed to be thus afuicted. The lack of
interest they manifested in his delicacy of constitu-
tion was almost impolite. At last he received an
anonymous letter, ' For Uttle Doggie Trevor from
the girls of Durdlebury," enclosing a white feather.
The cruelty of it broke Doggie down. He sat
in his ivory and peacock room and nearly wept.
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72 THE ROUGH ROAD
Then he plucked up courage and went to Peggy.
She was rather white about the lips as she listened.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I expected Bomething
of the sort to happen."
"It's brutal and unjust."
"Yes, it's brutal," she admitted, coldly.
"I thought you, at any rate, would sympathise
with me," he cried.
She turned on him. "And what about me?
Who sympathises with me? Do you ever give a
moment's thought to what I've had to go tmough
the last few months?"
" I don't quite know what you mean," he stam-
mered.
"I should have thought it was obvious. You
can't be such an innocent babe as to suppose people
don't talk about you. They don't talk to you
because they don't like to be rude. They send
you white feathers instead. But they talk to me.
Why isn't Marmaduke in khaki?' 'Why isn't
Doggie fighting?' 'I wonder how you can allow
him to slack about like thatl' — I've had a pretty
rough time fighting your battles, I can tell you,
amd I deserve some credit. I want sympathy just
as much as you do."
"My dear," said Do^e, feeling very much
humiliated, "I never knew. I never thought. I
do see now the unpleasant position you've been in.
People are brutes. But," he added eagerly, "you
tola them the real reason?"
"Wliat's that?" she asked, looking at him with
cold eyes.
Then Doggie knew that the wide world was
against him. "I'm not fit. I've no constitution.
I m fui impossibihty."
"You thought you had nerves until you learned
to drive the car. Then you discovered that you
hadn't.. You fdncy you've a weak heart. Perhaps
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THE ROUGH ROAD 73
if you learned to walk thirty miles a day, you would
discover you hadn't that either. And so with the
rest of it.'
"This is very painful," he said, going to the
window and stanng out. "Very painful. You
are of the same opinion as the young women who
sent me that ahoniinahle liiing."
She had been on the strain for a long while and
something inside her had snapped. At his woe-
b^one attitude she relented, however, and came
up and touched his shoulder.
"A girl wants to feel some pride in the man
she's going to marry. It's horrible to have to be
always drfendhig him — especially when she's not
sure she's telling the truth in his defence."
He swung round horrified. " Do you think I'm
diaming so as to get out of serving in the army?"
"Not consciously. Unconsciously I think you
are. What does your doctor say?"
Doggie was taken ahack. He had no doctor.
He had not consulted one for years, having no
cause for medical advice. The old family physician
who had attended hk mother in her last illness
and had prescribed Gregory powders for him as a
child, had retired from Durdlebury long ago. There
was only one person living familiar with his con-
stitution, and that was himself. He made confes-
sion of the surprising fact. Pe^y made a little
gesture.
"That proves it. I don't believe you have any-
thing wrong with you. The nerves business made
me sceptical. This is straight talking. It's horrid,
I know. Rut it's best to get through with it once
and for all."
Some men would have taken deep offence and,
consigning P^ggy to the devil, have walked out of
the room. But Do^e, a conscientious, even
though a futile human being, was -gnawed, for the
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74 THE ROUGH ROAD
first time by the suspicion that Pe^y might pos-
sihly be right. He desired to act honourably.
"I'll do," said he, "whatever you think proper."
Peggy was swift to smite the malleable iron. To
use me conventional phrase might give an incorrect
impression of redhot martial ardoiu" on the part of
' she said, with the first smile of the day.
"I'll hold you to it. But it will be an honourable
bargain. Get Dr. Murdock to overhaul you
thoFou^y with a view to the army. If he pass^
you, take a commission. Dad says he can easily
get you one through his old friend General Gadsby
at the War Office. If he doesn't, and you're unfit,
I'll stick to you through thick and thin, and make
the young women of Durdlebury wish they'd never
been bom."
She put out her hand. Doggie took it.
"Very well," said he, "I agree."
She laughed and ran to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the telephone — to ring up Dr. Murdoch for
an appointment."
"You're flabby," said Dr. Murdoch, the nert
morning, to an anxious Doggie in pink pyjamas;
"but mat's merely a matter of unused muscles.
Physical training will set it right in no time. Other-
wise, my dear Trevor, you re in splendid health.
I was afraid your family history mi^t he against
you — the child of elderly parents, and so forth.
But nothing of the sort. Not only are you a first
class life for an insurance company, but you're a
first class life for the Army — and that's saying
a good deal. There's not a flaw in your whole
constitution."
He put away his stethoscope and smiled at Dogaie,
who regarded him blankly as the Pronouncer of a
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THE ROUGH ROAD 75
Doom. He went on to prescribe a corase of physi-
cal exercises, so many miles a day walking, such and
such back-breaking and contortional performances
in his bath-room, if possible a skilfully graduated
career in a gymnasium — but his words fell on the
ears of a Doggie in a dream; and when he had ended,
Doggie said:
' Fm afraid, Doctor, you'll have to write all that
out for me."
"With pleasure," smiled the Doctor, and gripped
him by the hand. And seeing Doggie wince, he
said heartily: "Ah I I'll soon set toat right for
you. I'll get you something — an india-rubber
contrivance to practise with for half an hour a day,
and you'll develop a hand like a gorilla's."
Dr. Murdoch grinned his way, in bis httle car,
to his next patient. Here was this young slacker,
coddled from birth, absolutely horse-strong and
utterly confounded at being told so. He grinned
and (buckled so much that he nearly killed his
most valuable old lady patient, who wm crossing
the roadway in the High Street.
But Doggie crept out of bed and put on a violet
dressing-gown that clashed horribly with his pink
pyjamas, and WEmdered like a mim in a nightmare
to his breakfast. But he could not eat. He
swallowed a cup of coffee and sought refuge in
his own room. He was frightened. Horribly
frightened, caught in a net from whidi there was
no esca^, not the tiniest break of a mesh. He had
given ha word — and in justice to Doggie be it
said that he held his word sacred — he nad given
his word to join the Army if he should be passal by
Murdoch. He had been ptissed — more than passed.
He would have to join. He would have to fight.
He would have to hve in a muddy trench, sleep in
mud, eat in mud, plough through mud, in the
midst of falling diells and other instruments of
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76 THE ROUGH ROAD
death. And he would be an officer, with all kinds
of strange and vidgar men under him, men like
Chipmunk, for Instance, whom he would never
und^stand. He was almost physically sick with
apprehension. He realised that he had never
commanded a man in his life. He had been mor-
tally afraid of Briggins, his late chauffeur.* He
had heard that men at the frvint lived f>n some
solid horror called bully-beef dug out of tins, and
some hquid horror called cocoa also drunk out of
tins; that men kept on their clothes, even their
boots, for weeks at a time; that rats rjin over them
while they tried to sleep; that Uce, hitherto asso-
ciated in his mind with the most revolting type of
tramp, out there made no distinction of persons.
They were the common lot of the lowest Tommy
and the finest gentleman.
And then the fighting. The noise of the horrid
guns. The disgusting sights of men shattered to
bloody bits. Tne horrible stench. The terror of
having one's face shot half away and being an
object of revolt and horror to all beholders for the
rest of life. Death. Feverishly he ruffled his
comely hair. Death. He was surprised that the
contonplation of it did not freeze the blood in his
veiiw. Yes. He put it clearly before him. He
had given bis word to Peggy that he would go and
expose himself to Death. Death. What did it
meanP He bad been brought up in orthodox,
Church of England Christiamty. His flaccid mind
had never questioned the truth of its dogmas. He
believed, in a general sort of way, that good people
wait to Heaven and bad people went to Hell.
His conscience was clear. He had never done any
harm to anybody. As far as he knew, he had broken
none of the Ten Conunandments. In a technical
sense he was a miserable sinner, and so proclaimed
himself once a week. But though, perhaps, he
THE ROUGH ROAD 77
had done nothing in his life to merit eternal bliss
in Paradise, yet, on the other hand, he had com-
mitted no action which would justify a kindly aiid
just Creator in consigning hioi to the eternal ilajnes
of Hell. Somehow the thought of Death did not
worry him. It faded from his mind, being far less
terrible than life under prospective conditions.
Discomfort, hunger, thirst, cold, fatigue, pain, above
all the terror of his fellows — these were the soul-
racking anticipations of this new Ufe into which it
was a matter of honour for him to plimge. And
to an essential gentleman like Doggie a matter of
honour was a matter of life. And so, dressed in
his pink pyjamas and violet dressing-gown, amid
the peacock blue and ivory hangings of his boudoir
room, fuid stared at by the countless unsympatbe-
tic eyes of his little china dogs. Doggie Trevor
passed through his first Gethsemane.
His decision was greeted with joy at the Deanery.
Peggy tbrew her arms round his neck and gave
him the very first real kiss be bad ever received.
It revived hiin considerably. His Aunt Sophia also
embraced him. The Dean shook bim warmly by
the hand, and talked eloquent patriotism. Doggie
already felt a hero. He left the house in a glow,
but the drive home in the two-seater was cold,
and the pitch dark ni^t pr^aged other nights of
merdlessness in the futivre; and when Doggie sat
alone by bis fire, sipping the hot milk which Peddle
presented him on a silver tray, the doubts and fears
of the morning racked him again. An ignoble
possibility occurred to bim. Murdoch mi^t be
wrong. Murdoch might be prejudiced by local
gossip. Would it not be better to go up to London
and obtain the opinion of a first-class man to whom
he was unknownP There was also another alterna-
tive. Flight. He might go to America, and do
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78 THE ROUGH ROAD
nothing. To the South of France and help in some
sort of way with hoq>itals for French and wounded.
He caught himself up short as these thoughts passed
through his mind, Emd he shuddered. He took up
the glass of hot Ttiillc and put- it down again. Milk?
No. He needed something stronger. A glance
in a minor showed him his sleek hair tousled into
an upstanding wig. In a kind of horror of himself
he went to the dini^e-room and for the first time
in his life drank a stiff whisky and soda for the sake
of the 8timul€int. Reaction came. He felt a man
once more. Rather suicide at once than such dam-
nable dishonour. According to the directions which
the Dean, a man of afifairs, had given him, he sat
down and wrote his appUcation to the War OflBce
for a commissi<Hi. Tnen -^ unique adventure I —
he stole out of the haired and bolted house, without
thought of hat and overcoat (let the traducers of
alcohol mark it well), rtm down the drive and posted
the letter in the box some few yards beyond his
entrance gates.
The Dean had already posted hk letter to his
old friend Greneral Gadsby at the War OflBce.
So the die was cast. The Rubicon was crossed.
The bridges were bmnt. The irrevocable step
was taken. Dr. Murdoch turned up the next
morning with his prescription for physical training.
And then Doggie trained assiduously, monoto-
nously, wearily. He grew appalled by the sense-
lessness of tlus apparently unnecessary exertion.
Now and then Peggy accompanied turn on his
prescribed walks; but the charm of her company
was discounted by the glaring superiority of her
powers of endurance. When he was achmg with
fatigue, she pressed along as fresh as Atalanta at
the beginning of her race. When they parted by
the Deanery door, she would stand fludiea, radiant
in her youui and health, and say:
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THE ROUGH ROAD 79
"We've had a topping walk, old dear. Now
isn't it a glorious thing to feel oneself aUve?"
But poor Doggie ca the flabby muscles felt half
dead.
The fateful letter burdening Doggie with the
King's commission arrived a few weeks lat^: a
second lieutenancy in a Fusilier battalion of the
New Army. Dates and instructions were given.
The impress of the Royal Arms at the head of ^e
paper, with its grotesque, perky hon and unicorn,
conveyed to Dog^ a sense of the grip of some
uncanny power. The type-written words scarcely
mattered. The impress fascinated him. There
was no gettii^ away from it. Those two pawing
beasts held him in their clutch. They headed a
Death Warrant from which there was no appeal.
Doggie put his house in order, disnmeed with
bounty those of bis servants who would be no longer
needed, and kept the Peddles, husband and wife,
to look after his interests. On his last night at
home he went wistfully throu^ the famihar place,
the drawing-room sacred to Ms mother's memory,
the dining-room so sohd in its half-century of com-
fort, bis own peacock and ivory room so intensely
himself, so expressive of his every taste, every
mood, every ^notion. Those strange, old-world
musical instruments — he could play ^em all
with the touch or breath of a master and a lover.
The old Itfdian theorbo. He took it up. How
few to-day knew its melodious secret I He looked
around. All these daintinesses and prettinesses
had a meaning. They signified the magical httle
beauties of life — things which asserted a range of
spiritual truths, none the less real and consolatory
because vice and crime and ugliness and misery
and war co-existed in ghastly fact on other facets
of the planet Earth. The sweetness here exprrased
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80 THE ROUGH ROAD
was as essential to the world's spiritual life as the
sweet elements of foodstuffs to its physical life.
To the getting together of all these articles of beauty
he had devoted the years of his youth . . . And —
another point of view — was he not the guardian by
inheritance — in other words, by Divine Providence
— of this beautiful English home, the trustee of
English comfort, of the sacred traditions of sweet
Ei^lish life that had made England the only coun-
try, the only country, he thought, that could call
itself a Country and not a Compromise, in the world?
And he was going to leave it all. All that it
meant in beauty and dignity and ease of life. For
what? For horror tuid mthiness and ugliness,
for everything agednst which his beautiful peacock
and ivory room protrated. Doggie's last night
at Denby Hall was a troubled one.
Aunt Sophia and Peggv accompanied him to
London and stayed with him at his stuffy little
hotel off Bond Street, while Doggie got his kitt
together. They bought everything in every West
End shop that any salesmiin assured them was
essential for active service. Swords, revolvers,
field-glasses, pociet-knives (for Gargantuan pockets),
compasses, mess-tins, cooking-batteries, sleeping-
bags, waterproofs, boots innumerable, toilet acces-
sories, drinking cups, thermos flasks, field sta-
tionery cEises, periscopes, tinted glasses, Gieve
waistcoats, colera belts, portable medicine cases,
ear-plugs, tin-openers, cork-screws, notebooks, pen-
cils, luminous watches, electric torches, pins,
housewives, patent seat walking-sticks — every-
thing that the man of commercial instincts had
dev^ed for the prosecution of the war.
The amount of warlike equipment with which
Doggie, with the aid of his Aunt Sophia and Peggy,
encmid>ered the narrow little passages of Stuntx^L s
Hotel must have weighed about a ton.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 81
At last Dole's uniforms, several suits, came
home. He had devoted enormous care to their fit.
Attired in one he looked beautifuL Peggy decreed a
dinner at the Carlton. She and Doggie alone. Her
mother could get some stufiFy old relation to spend
the evening with her at Sturrock's. She wanted
Doggie all to herself, so as to realise the dream of
many disgusting and humiliating months. And as
she swept through the pahn court and up the broad
stairs and wound through the crowded tables of the
restaurant with the khakiclad Doggie by her side,
she felt proud and uplifted. Here was her soldi^
whmn she had made. Her ver^ own man in khaki.
"Dear old thing," she whispered, pressing his
arm as they trekked to their table. 'Don't you
feel gloriousP Don't you feel as if you could face
the universe?"
Peggy drank one glass of the quart of champagne.
Doggie drank the rest. On getting into bed he
wondered why this unprecedented quantity of
wine had not affected his sobriety. Its only effect
had been to stifle thought. He wrait to bed and
slept happily, for Peggy's parting kiss had been
such as would conduce to any young man's felicity.
The next morning Aunt Sophia and P^gy saw
him off to bis dep6t, with bis ton of luggage. He
leaned out of the cfuriage window and exchanged
hand kisses with Peggy until the curve of the hne
cut her off. Then he settled down in his comer
with the Morning Post. But he could not conc^i-
trate his attention on the morning news. This
strange costume in which he was dothed seemed
unrecd, monstrous, no longer the natty diess in
which he had been proud to prink the night brfore,
but a nightmare, Nessus-like investiture, signifying
some abominable, burning doom.
The train swept him into a world that was upside
down.
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CHAPTER VII
THOSE were proud days for Peggy. Shd went
about Durdlebury with her head in the air,
and her st^ was as martifil as though ahe
herself wore the King's uniform, and she regarded
the other girls of the town with a defiant eye. If
only she could discover, she thought, the sender
of the abominable featherl In Timpany's drapery
establishment she raked the girls at tlie counter
with a searching glance. At the Cathedral services
she studied the demure faces of her contemporaries.
Now that Doggie was a soldier she held the anony-
mous exploit to be cowardly and brutal. What
did people know of the thousand and one reasons
that kept eligible yoimg men out of the army?
What had they known of Marmaduke? As soon
as the illusion of his life had been dispelled, he had
marched away with as gallant a tread as anybody;
EUid though Doggie had kept to himself his shrinkings
and his terrors, she knew that what to the average
hardily bred young man was a gay adventure, was
to him an ordeal of considerable difficulty. She
longed for his first leave so that she could parade
him before the town, in the event of there being a
lurkm^ sceptic who still refused to believe that he
had jomed the army.
Conspicuous in the drawing-room, framed in
silver, stood a large, full-lei^lb photograph of
Doggie in his new umform.
She wrote to him daily, chronicling the little
doings of the town, at times reviling it for its dulness.
Dad, on nuonberless committees, was scarcely ever
in the house, except for hurried meals. Most of
THE ROUGH ROAD 83
the pleasfint young clergy had gone. Many of
the girls had gone too; Dorothy Bruce to be a
probationer in a V. A. D. hospital. If Durdlebury
were not such a rotten, out-of-the-world place,
the infirmary would be full of wounded soldiers
and she could do her turn at nursing. As tbii^
were, she could only knit socks for Tonunies and a
silk khaki tie for her own boy. But when every-
body was doing their bit, these occupations were
not enou^ to prevent her feeling a uttle slacker.
He would have to do the patriotic work for both of
them, tell her all about himself, and let her share
everyUiing with him in imagination. She also
expressed her affection for him in ahy and slangy
tarms.
Doggie wrote regularly. His .letters were as
shy €uid conveyed less information. The work was
hard, the hours long, his accommodation Spartan.
They were in huts on SaUsbiuT' Plain. Sometimes
he confessed himself too tired to write more than
a few lines. He had a bad cold in the bead. He
was better. They had inoculated bim against
typhoid and had allowed him two or three slack
days. The first time he had unaccountably fainted;
but he had seen some of the men do the same, and
the doctor bad assured him that it had nothing to
do with cowardice. He had gone for a route march
and had returned a dusty lump of fatigue. But
after having shaken the dust out of his moustache
— Doggie had a playful turn of phrase now and
then — and drunk a guart of shandy gaff, he had
felt refreshed. Then it rained hard and they were
all but washed out of the huts. It was a vray
strange life — one which he never dreamed could
have existed. "FanCT me," he wrote, "glad to
sleep on a drenched bed!" There was the riding
school. Why hadn't he learned to ride as a boy?
He had been told that the horse was a noble animal
84 THE ROUGH ROAD
and the Mend of man. He was afraid he would
retuni to his dear P^gy with many of his young
illusions shattered. The horse was the most ignoble,
malevtJent beast that ever walked, except the
Sergeant-Major in the ri<hng school. Peggy was
filled with adiniration for his philosophic endurance
of hardships. It was real courage. His letters
contained sunple statrauents of fact, but not a word
of complaint. On the other hand, they were not
ebuUient with joy; but then, Peggy reflected, there
was not much to be joyous about in a ramshackle
hut on Salisbury Plain. "Dear old thing," she
would write, "althou^ you don't grouse, 1 know
you must be having a pretty tmn tirne. But
you're bucking up splendidly, and when you get
your leave I'D do a girl's very d dest (Don't
be shocked, I'm sure you're learning far worse
language in the army) to make it up to you." Her
heart was very full of him.
Then there came a time when his letters grew
rarer and shorter. At last they ceased altogether.
After a week's waiting she sent an anxious telegram.
The answer came back. "Quite well. Will write
soon." She waited. He did not write. One even-
ing an unstamped envelope addressed to her in a
feminine hand which she recognised as that of
Marmaduke's anonymous correspondent, was found
in the Deanery letter-box. The envelope endosed
a copy of a cutting from the "Gazette" of the
morning paper, and a sentence was imderlined and
adorned wim exclamation marks at the sides.
"R. Fusiliers. Tempy 2Tid Lieutenant J. M.
TreDor resigns his commission."
The Cofonel dealt with him as genlly as he could
in that final interview. He put his hand in a
fatherW way on Doggie's shoulder and bade him
not take it too much to heart. He had done his
best; but he was not cut out for an officer. Tltese
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««re merdless times. In mattars of life and death
we could not afford weak links in the chain. Soldiers
in high command, with great reputations, had al-
ready been scrapped. In Doggie's case thwe was
no personal discredit. He had always conducted
hin^elf like a gentlemstn and a man of honour, but
he had not the qualities necessary for the command-
ing of men. He must send in his resignation.
*But what can I do, sirP" asked Dcwgie in a
choking voice. "I am disgraced forever.'
The Colonel reflected for a moment. He knew
that Doggie's life had been a httle hell on earth
from the first day he bad joined. He was very
sorry for the poor little Toy Pom in his pack. <n
boimds. It was .scarcely the Toy Poms fault
that he had failed. But the Great Htmt could
have no use for Toy Poms. At last he took a sheet
of regimental notepaper and wrote:
"Deab Trevor,
"I am full of admiralion for the plucky vacey in
which you have striven to overcome your physitxil
disabililies, and I am only too sorry tiuit they shouid
have compelled the resignation of your commission
and your severance from the raiment.
Yours sincerely,
L. G. Caird,
Lt. Col."
He banded it to Doa^e.
" That's all I can do for you, my poor boy," said he.
"Thank you, sir," said Doggie.
Doggie took a room at the Savoy Hotel, and sat
there most of the day, the pulp of a man. He had
gone to the Savoy, not daring to show his face at
the familiar Sturrock's. At the Savoy he was but
a nmnber imknown, unquestioned. He wcne civil-
ian clothes. Such of his imiforms and martial
paraphenmlia as he had been allowed to retain in
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86 THE ROUGH ROAD
camp — for one can't house a ton of kit in a hut —
he had given to his batnuin. His one desire now was
to escape from the eyes of his fellow men. He
felt that he bore upon him the stigmata of his dis-
grace, obvious to any casual glance. He was the
man who had been turned out of the army as a
hopeless incompetent. Even worse than the slacker
— for the slacker might have latent the quahties
that he lacked. Even at the best and brightest,
he could only be mistaken for a slacker, once more
the likely reapient of white feathers from any damsel
patriotically indiscreet. The colonel's letter brought
him httle consolation. It is true that he earned
it aix>ut with him in his pocket-book; but the
gibing eyes of observers had not the X-ray power
to read it there. And he could not pin it on his
hat. Besides, he knew that the kindly Colonel
had stretched a point of veracity. No longer
could he take refuge in hh cherished delicacy of
constitution. It would be a lie.
Peggy, in her softest and most pitying mood,
never guessed the nature of Doggie's ordeal. Those
letters so brave, sometimes so playful, had been
written with shaky hand, misty eyes, throbbing
head, despairing heart. Looking back, it seemed to
him one blurred dream of pain. His brother ofBcers
were no worse than those in any other Kitchener
raiment. Indeed, the Colonel was immensely
proud of them and sang their praises to €iny fellow
dugout who would listen to him at the NavtJ and
Military Club. But how were a crowd of young
men trained in the rough and tuanble of public
schools, universities, and sport, and now throbbing
under the stress of the new deadly game, to under-
stand poor Doggie Trevor? They had no time to
take hun seriously, save to curse him when he did
wrong, and in their leisure time he became naturally
a butt for their amusement.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 87
"Suidy I don't have to sleep in tborei'" he asked
the subaltern who was taking him round on the
day of bis arrival in camp, and showed him his
squalid little cubby-hole of a hut with its dirty
boards, its cheap table and chair, its narrow, sleep-
dispelUog Uttle bedstead.
Yes it's a beastly hole isn't it? Until last
month we were under canvas."
"Sleeping on the bare ground?"
"Wallowing in the mud like pigs, not one of us
without a cold. Never had such a filthy time in
my life."
Doggie looked about him helplessly while the
comforter smiled grimly. Abeady his disconsolate
attitude towards the dmgy hutments of the camp
and the layer of thick mud on his beautiful new
boot^ had diverted his companion.
"Couldn't I have this furnished at my own ex-
pense? A carpet and a proper bed, and a few
pictures — "
" I wouldn't try."
"Why not?"
"Some of it might get Inoken — not quite acci-
dentally."
"But surely," gasped Doggie, "the soldiers would
not be allowed to come in here and touch my fur-
niture?"
"It seems," said the subaltern, after a bewildered
stare, "that you have quite a lot to leam."
Dc^gie had. The subaltern reported a new kind
of animal to the mess. The mess saw to it that
Doggie should be crammed with information — but
information wholly incorrect and misleading, which
added to his many difficulties. When his ton of
kit arrived he held an unwiUing reception in the
hut and found himself obliged to explam to gravely
curioiis men the use for wnich the various articles
were designed.
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88 THE ROUGH ROAD
"This, I suppose, isanew type of gas-mask?"
No. It was a patent cx>oker. Doggie politely
showed how it worked. He also demonstrated
that a sleeping-bag was not a kit sack of a size
unauthorised by the regulations, and that a huge
steel-pointed walkmg-stick had nothing to do with
agriculture.
He was very weary of his visitors by the time they
had gone. The next day the Adjutant advised
hkn to scrap the lot. So sorrowfully he sent back
most of hu purchases to London.
Then the Imp of Mischance brought as a visitor
to the mess a sub from another regiment who
belonged to Doggie's part of the country.
"Wny — I'm mowed, if it isn't Doggie Trevorl"
he exclaimed carelessly.. "How d'ye do. Doggie?"
So thenceforward he was known in the regiment
by the hated name.
There were rags, in which, as he was often the
victim, he was forced to join. His fastidiousness
loathed the coarse personal contact of arms and
l^s and bodies. His imdevelop^ strec^th could
not cojpe with the muscle of nis young brother
barbarians. Aching with the day s fatigue, he
would plead, to no avail, to be left alone. Com-
paied with these feared and detested scraps, he
considered, in after times, battles to be agreeable
recreations.
Had be been otherwise competent, be might have
won through the teasing and the ragging of tiie mess.
No one d^liked him. He wiis pleasant mannered,
food-natured £md appeared to bear no malice,
'rue his ignorance not only of the ways of the army
but of the ways of their old hearty world, was
colossal, his mode of ei^ression rather that of a
precise old Church digmtary than of a sub in a
regiment of Fusiliers, his habits, including a nervous
shrinking from untidiness and dirt, those of a dear
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THE ROUGH ROAD 89
old maid; but the mess thought, honestly, that he
could be knocked into their own social smipe, and
in the process of knocking carried out their own
traditions. They might have succeeded if Doggie
had discovered any reserve source of pride from
which to draw. But Doggie was hopeless at his
work. The mechanism of a rifle filled him with
dismay. He could not help shutting his eyes be-
fore he pulled the trigger. Inured all his life to
lethai^c action, he found the smart, crisp move-
ments of drill almost impossible to attain. The
Riding School was a terror and a torture. Every
second he deemed himself in imminent p^ of
death. Said the Sergetuit-Major :
"Now, Mr. Trevor, you're sitting on a 'orse and
not a 'oUy-bush."
And Doggie would wish the horse and the Ser-
geant-Major in hell.
Again, what notion could poor Doggie have of
commandP He had never raised his mOd tenor
voice to damn anybody in his life. At first the
tone in which the officers ordered the men about
shocked him. So rough, so unmannerly, so unkind.
He could not imderstand the cheery lack of resent-
ment with which the men obeyed. He could not
get into the way of military directness, could never
check the polite "Do you mind" that came instinc-
tively to his lips. Now if you ask a private soldiCT
whether he mmds doing a thing instead of teUing
him to do it, his brain Ibegins to get confused. Ai
one defaulter whose confusion of brain had led him
into trouble observed to his mates; "What can
you do with a blighter who's a cross between a
blinking Archbishop and a ruddy dicky-bird? "
What else save show in divers and ingenious ways
that they mocked at his authority? Doggie had
the nervous dread of the men that he had antici-
pated. During his training on parade wcnrds of
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90 THE ROUGH ROAD
command stuck in his throat. When forced out,
th^ grotesquely mixed themselves together.
'nie adjutant gave advice.
"Speak out, mein. BawL You're dealing with
soldiers at drill, not saying sweet nothings to old
ladies in a drawing-room."
And D^gie tried. Doggie tried very hard. He
was mortified by hia own stupidity. Little points
of drill and duty that the others of his own st^ding
seemed to pick up at once, almost by instinct, he
could only grasp Etfter long and tedious toil. No
one Fetilised that his brain was stupefied by the
awful and unaccustomed physical fatigue.
And then came the inevitable end.
So D(^gie crept into the Savoy Hotel and hid
himself there, wishing he were dead. It was some
time before he could wire the terrible letter to
P^ggy. He did so on the day when he saw that
his resignation was gazetted. He wrote after many
anguished attempts :
"Deab Peggy,
"/ haven't written before about the dreadful thing
that has happened, f)ecause I simply couldn't. I have
resigned my commission. Not of my own free will,
for, believe me, I tvould have gone through anything
for your sake, to say nothing of the country and my
own self-respect. To put it brutally, I have been
thrown out for sheer incompetence.
"I neither hope, nor expect, nor want you to con-
tinue your engagement to a disgraced man. I release
you from every obligation your pity and generosity
may think binding. I want you to forget me arid
marry a man who can do the toorti of this new world.
"What I shall do I don't know. I have scarcely
yet been able to think. Possibly I shall go abroad.
At any rate I shan't return to Durdkbury. If woman
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THE ROUGH ROAD 91
serU me white feathers before J joined, what would they
send me now? It will always he my consolation to
know that yea once gaxe me your love, in spite of the
pain of r&ilising thai I have forfeited it oy my un-
worthiness.
"Please tell Uncle Edward that I f^l k^nly his
position, for he loas responsible for getting me the
commission through General Gadsby. Give my love
to my Aunt if she will have ii.
Yoars always affediorxately,
J. Marhadukb Tbevor."
By return of post came the answer.
"Dearest,
"We are all desperately disappointed. Perhaps
toe hurried on things too quickly, and tried you loo
high all at once. I ought to have known. Oh, my
poor, dear boy, you must have had a dreadful time.
Why didn't yoa tell me? The news in the gazette
came upon me like a Ihanderbolt. I didn't know
what to think. Fm afraid I thought the worst, the very
vx>rsl — that you hm got tired of it and resigned
of your own accord. How was one to know? Your
letter was almost a relief.
"In offering to release me from my engagement you
are acting like the honourable gentleman you are. Of
coarse I can understand your feelings. But I should
be a little beast to accept right away like that. If
there are any feathers aoout, I should deserve to have
them stuck on to me with tar. Don't think of going
abroad or doing anything foolish, dear, like thai, iiU you
ham seen me — that is to say us, for Dad is bringing
Mother and me up to town by the first train to-morrow.
Dad feels sure that everything is not lost. He'll dig
out General Gadsby and fix up something for you.
In the meantime get us rooms at the Savoy, though
Mother is worried as to whether its a respectaf^ place
for Deans to stay at But I know you wouUbi'l like
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92 THE ROUGH ROAD
to meet us at Sturtxxk^s — otherwise you looald have
been there yourself . Meet oar trairu All love from
Peggy."
Do^e en^tged the rooms, but he did not meet
the train. He did not even stay in the hotel to
meet them. He could not meet them. He could
not meet the pity in their eyes. He read in Peggy's
note a desire to pet and soothe him and call nim
"Poor little Doggie," and he writhed. He could
not even take up an heroic attitude and say to
Peggy: "When I have retrieved the past and can
bring you an unsullied reputation, I wul return and
dajra you. Till then larewell." There was no
retrieving the past. Other men might fail at first
and then make good; but he was not like them.
His was the fall of Humpty Dumpty. Final,
irretrievable.
He packed up his things in a fright and, leaving
no address at the Savoy, drove to the Russell Hotd
in Bloomsbury. But he wrote Pe^y a letter "to
await arrival. ' If time had permitted he would
have sent a telegram, stating that he was off for
Tobolsk or Tierra del Fuego, and thereby prevent-
ing their useless journey; but they had already
started when he recraved P^igy's message.
Nothing could be done, he wrote, in effect, to
her, nothing in the way of redranption. He would
not put her father to the risk oi any other such
humiliation. He had learned by the most bitter
experience that the men who counted now in ^e
world's respect and in woman's love were men of a
type to which, with all the goodwill in the world,
he could not make himseK belong — he did not say
to which he wished he could belong with all the
agony and yearning of his soul. Peggy must for-
get him. Ine only thing he could do was to act
up to her generous estimate of him as an honour-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 93
able gentleman. As such it was his duty to with-
draw for ever from her life. His exact words,
however, were: "You know how I have always
hated aUing, how it has jarred upon me, often to
rour amusement, when you have used it. But
have learned in the past months how expressive
it may be. Through slang I've leam^i what I am.
I am a bom 'rotter.' A girl like you can't possibly
love and marry a rotter. So the rotter, having a
Ihigering &ei»e of decencv, makes his bow and
exits — God knows where. '
Peggy, red-eyed, adrift, rudderless on a frighten-
ing sea, called her father into her bedroom at the
Savoy and showed him the letter. He drew out
and adjusted his round tortoise-shell rimmed read-
mg passes, and read it.
That's a miraculously new Doggie," said he.
Peggy clutched the edges of his coat.
"I ve never heard you call him that before."
**It has never been worth whUe," said the Dean.
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CHAPTER VIII
AT the Savoy, during the first stupefaction of
his misery, Doggie had not noticed particu-
larly the prevalence of khaid. At the Russell
it dwelt insistent, like the mud on Salisbury Plain.
Men that might have been the twin brethren of his
late brother officers were everywhere, free, careless,
efficient. The sight of them added the gnaw of
envy to his heart^ache. Even in his bedroom he
could hear the jindle of their spurs and their cheery
voices as they danked along the corridor. On
the third day after his miction he took a bold
step and moved into lodgmgs in Wobum Place.
Here at least he could find quiet, untroubled by
heartrending sights and sounds. He spent most of
his time in dull reading and dispirited walking.
For he could walk now — so much had his training
done for him — and walk for many miles without
fatigue. For all the enjoyment he got out of it,
he might as well have marched round a prison
yard. Indeed there were some who tramp^ the
prison yards with keener zest. They were buoyed
up with the hope of freedom, they could look
forward to the ever-approaching day when they
should be thrown once more into the glad whirl of
Ufe. But the miraculously new Do^e had no
hope. He felt foi ever imprisoned in his shame.
His failure preyed on his mind.
He dalliea with thoughts of suicide. Why hadn't
he saved at any rate, his service revolver? Then
he remembered the ugly habits of the luunanage-
able thing — how it always kicked its muzzle up
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THE ROUGH ROAD 95
in tbe air. Would he have been able even to shoot
bimself with itP And he smiled in self-derision.
Drowning was not so difficult. Any fool could
throw himself into the water. With a view to the
inspection of a suitable spot. Doggie wandered idly,
in the dusk of one evening, to Waterloo Bridge,
and turning his back to the ceaseless traffic, leaned
bia elbows on the parapet and stared in £ront of
him. A few lights already gleamed from Somerset
House and the more dimly seen buildings of the
Touple. The dcsne of St. Paul's loomed a dark
shadow on a mist. The river stretched below very
peaceful, very inviting. The parapet would be
easy to climb. He did not know whether he could
dive in the approved manner, hands joined over
head. He had never learned to swim, let alone
dive. At any rate he could fall off. In that art
the Riding &:hool had proved him a past-master.
But the spot had its disadvanta^. It was too
public. Perhaps other bridges nu^t afford more
privacy. He would inspect them all. It would
be something to do. There was no hurry. As
he was not WEinted in this world, so he had no
assurance of being welcome in the next. He had
a morbid vision of avatar after avatar being kicked
from sphere to sphere.
At mia point of bis reflections he became aware
of a presence by bis side. He turned his head and
found a soldier, an ordiniuy private, very close to
him, also leaning on tbe pfurapet.
"I thought I wasn't mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke
Trevor."
Doggie started away, on the point of ffight,
dreading the possible insolence of one of the men of
his late regiment. But the voice of the speaker
rang in bis ears with a strange familiarity, and the
great fleshy nose, the high cheekbones and the little
■grey eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested
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96 THE ROUGH ROAD
vaguely someone of the long ago. His dairuing
reccwmtioQ amused the soldier.
" Yea, laddie. Ye're right. It's your tJd Phineas.
Phineas McPhail, Esq., M.A., defunct Now 33702
■ Private P. McPhail redivivas."
He warmly wrung the hand of the semi-bewildered
Doggie, who munmired: "Very glad to meet you,
I'm sure."
Phineas, ^auut and bony, took his Einn.
"Would it not just be possible," he said, in his
old half-pedantic, half-ironic intonation, "to find
a locality less exposed to the roar of traffic and the
rude jostling of pedestrians and the inclemency of
the elements, in which we can enjoy the amenities
of a httle refined conversation?"
It was like a breath from the past. Doggie smiled.
"Which way are you goineP
" Your way, my dear Marmaduke, was ever
mine, until I was swept, I thought for ever, out of
your path by a torrential spate of whisky."
He laughed, as though it had been' a playful
freak of destiny. Doggie laughed too. But for
the words he had addr^Bed to hotel and lodging-
house folk, he had spoken to no one for over a forU
night. The instinctive craving for companiooship
made Phineas suddenly welcome.
"Yes. Let us have a talk," said he. "Come
to my rooms, if you have the time. There'll be
some dinner."
"WiU I come? Will I have dinner? Will I
re-enter once more the Paradise of the afiSuent?
Laddie, I will."
In the Strand they hailed a taxi and drove to
Bloomsbury. On the way Phineas asked:
"You mention your rooms. Are you residing
permanently in London?'*
"Yes," said Doggie.
"And Durdlehury?"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 91
"I'm not going back."
"London's a place full of tomptations for Hxwe
without experience," Phineas observed sagely.
"I've not noticed any," Doggie replied. On
which Phineas laughed and slapi^d him on tJae
knee.
"Man," said he, "when I first saw you I thought
you had changed into a disillusioned misanthropist.
But I'm wrong. You haven't chained a bit."
A few minutes later they readied Wobum Place.
Doggie ^owed him into the sitting-room on the
drawing-room floor. A fire was bumii^ in the grate,
for though it was only early autumn, the even-
ing was cold. The table was set for Dole's
dinn^. Phineas looked round him in surprise.
The hetraxtgeneous and tastdess furniture, the
dreadful mid-Victorian prints on the walls — one
was the "Return of the Guards from the Crimea,"
representii^ the landing from the troopship, re-
pellent in its smug unreality, the coarse glass and
well-used plate on the table, the crumpled napkin
in a ring (for Marmaduke, who in his mother's
house had never been taught to dream that a napkin
could possibly be used for two consecutive meals I),
the general air of sUpshod Philistinism, — aU came
as a shock to Phineas, who had expected to find in
Marmaduke's "rooms" a repUca of the fastidious
grettineas of the peacock and ivory room at Denby
[all. He scratched his head covered with a thick
brovm thatch.
"Laddie," said he gravdy. "You must raccuse
me if I take a liberty; but Fcanna fit you into this
environment."
Doggie looked about him also. "Se^ns funny,
doesnt it?"
"It cannot be that you've crane down in the
world? "
"To bed-rock," said Doggie.
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98 THE ROUGH ROAD
"No?" said Pliineaa, with an air of concern.
"Man, I'm awful sorry. I know what the coniing
down feels like. And I, finding it not abhorrent to a
sophisticated and well-trained conscience, and think-
ing you could well afford it, extracted a thousand
pounds from your fortune. My dear lad, if Pfainects
McPhail could return the money — "
Doggie broke in with a laugh. "Pray don't
distress yourself, Phineas. It's not a question of
money. I've as much as ever 1 had. The last
thing in the world I've had to think of has been
mouCT'"
"llien what in the holy names of Thunder and
Beauty," cried f%ineas, throwing out one hand
to an ancient saddle-bEig sofa whose ends were
covered by flimsy n^is, and the other to the de-
cayed ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, "what
in the name of conunon sense are you doing in this
awful, inelegant lodging-houae? "
"I don't know," replied Doggie. "It's a fact,"
he continued after a pause. "The scheme of deco-
ration is revolting to every aesthetic sense which
I've spent my life in cultivating. Its futile pre-
tentiousness is the rasping irritation of every hour.
Yet here I am. Quite comfortable. And nere I
propose to stay."
Phineas McPhail, MA., late of Glasgow and
Cambridge, looked at Doggie with his keen little
frey eyes beneath bent and bristling eyebrows,
n the language of 33702 Private McPhail, he
asked:
"What the blazes is it all about?"
"That's a long story," said Doggie, lookii^ at
his watch. "In the meantime I bad better give
s(mie orders about dinner. And you would like
to wash."
He threw open a wing of the folding doors, once
in Geoifiian times separating drawing-room from
THE ROUGH ROAD 99
withdrawing-room, and now separating living-room
(rotca bedroom, and switching on the light, mvited
McPhail to follow.
" I think you'll find everything you want," Sfiid he.
Phineas McPhail, left alone to his ablutions,
again looked round, and be had more reason than
ever to ask what it was all about. Marmaduke's
bedroom at Denby Hall bad been a dream of satin
wood and dull blue silk. The furniture and hanginra
had been Mrs. Trevor's present to Marmaduke
on his sixteenth birthday. He remembered how
be had been bored to death bv that stupendous ass
of an old woman — for so he bad characterised W
— during the process of selection and installation.
The present room, although far more luxurious
than any that Phineas McPhail had slept in for
years, formed a striking contrast with liiat reman-
bered nest of effeminacy.
"I'll have to give it up," he said to himself.
Rut just as he had put the finishing touches to his
hair an idea occurred to him. He flung open the
door.
"Laddie, I've got it. It's a woman."
But Dog^e laughed and shook his head, and,
leaving McPhail, took bis turn in the bedroom.
For the first time since his return to civil life he
ceased for a few moments to brood over bis troubles.
McPhail's mystification amused him. McPhail's
personality and address, viewed in the light of tjie
past, were full of interest. Obviously he was a man
who Hved unashamed on low levels. Doggie won-
dered how he could have regarded him for years
with a respect €Jmost amounting to veneration.
In a curious unformulated way Doggie felt that he
had authority over this man so much older thtui
himself, who had once been his master. It tidded
into some kind of life his deadened self-esteem.
Hare, at last, was a man with whom he could con-
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100 THE ROUGH ROAD
verse on sure ground. The khaki imifonn caused
him no envy.
"The poet is not altogether incorrect," said
McPhail, when they sat down to dinner, "in point-
ing out tiie sweet uses of adversity. If it had not
been for the adversity of a wee bit operation, I
should not now be on sick furlough. And if I had
not been on furlough I shotddn't have the pleasure
of this €igreeable reconciliation. Here's to you,
laddie, and to our lasting friendship." He sipped
his claret. "It's not like the Lantte in the old
cellar — Ehea fugaces anni el — what the plague
is the Latin for vintages? But 'twill serve. He
drank again and smacked his lips. "It will even
serve very satisfactorily. Good wine at a perfect
temperature is not the daily drink of the firitMi
soldier."
"By the way," said Doggie, "you haven't told
me why you became a soldier."
"A series of vicissitudes dating from the hour I
left your house," said Phineas, "vicissitudes the
recital of which would wring your heart, laddie,
and make angels weep if their lachrymal glands
were not too busily engaged by the horrors of war,
culminated four months ago in an attack of fervid
and penniless patriotism. No one seemed to want
me except my country. She clamoured for me
on every hoarding and every omnibus. A recruit-
ing sergeant in Trafalgar Square tapped me on the
arm and said, 'Young man, your country wants
you.' Said I, with my Scottish caution, 'Can you
take your affidavit that you got the information
straight from the War Office? 'I can,' said he.
Then I threw myself on his bosom and bade him
take me to her. That's how I became 33702 Private
Phineas McPhail, A Company 10th Wessex Rangers,
at the remuneration of one shilling and twopence
per diem."
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"Do you like it?" asked Doggie.
Phineas rubbed the side of bis thick nose thought-
fully.
"There you come to the metaphysical concep-
tion of human happiness," he replied. "In itself
it is a vile life. To a man of thirty-four — "
"Good Lordl" cried Doggie, "I always thought
you were about fifty!"
"Your mother caught me young, laddie. To a
man of thirty-four, a graduate of imcient and
honourable universities and a whilom candidate
for Holy Orders, it is a life tiiat would seem to have
no attraction whatever. The hours are absurd,
the work distasteful and the mode of living re-
pulsive. But Strang to say, it fully contents me.
The secret of happmess lies in the supple adapta-
bility to conditions. When I found mat it was
necessary to perform ridiculous antics with my lees
and arms, I entered into the comicality of the
idea and performed them with an indulgent zest
which soon won me tbe precious encomiums of
my superiors in rank. Wnen I found that the
language of the canteen was not that of the pulpit
or the drawing-room, I quickly acquired the new
vocabulary and won the pleasant esteem of my
equals. By means of this faculty of adaptability
I can suck enjoyment out of everything. But, at
the same time, mind you, keeping in reserve a
Uttle secret fount of pleasure."
"What do you call a little secret fount of pleas-
ure?" asked Doggie.
"I'll give you an illustration — and if you're
the man I consider you to be, you'll take a hum-
orous view of my frankness. At present I adapt
myself to a rough atmosphere of coarseness and
lustiness in which nothing coarse or lusty I could
do would produce the slightest ripple of a convul-
uon: but I have my store of a cultivated mind
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102 THE ROUGH ROAD
and cheap editions of the classics, my little secret
fount of Castaly to drink frcon whenever I so please.
On the other hand, when I had the honour of being
responsible for your education, I adapted mysen
to a .hothouse atmosphere in which RespectabiUty
and the concomitant virtues of Supineness and
Sloth were cultivated like rare ordiids, but in my
bedroom I kept a secret fount which had its source
in some good Scots distillery."
Whereupon he attacked his plateful of chicken
with vehement gusto.
"You're a Hedonist, Phineas," said Doggie,
after a thoughtful pause.
"Man," said Phineas, laying down his knife and
fork, "you've just hit it. I tun. I'm an accom-
plished Hedonist. An early recognition of the
fact saved me from the Church."
"And the Church from you," said Doggie quietly.
Phineas shot a swift glance at him beneath Ins
shaggy brown eyebrows.
"Ay," stiid he. "Though, mark you, if I had
followed my original vocation, the Bench of Bishops
could not have surpassed me in the unction in which
I would have wallowed. If I had been bom a bee
in a desert, laddie, I would have sucked honey
out of a dead camel."
With easy and picturesque cynicism, and in a
Glasgow accent wnich had cxuiously broadened
since this spell of oriental ease at Denhy Hedl, he
developed his philosophy, illustrating it by inci-
dents more or less reputable in his later career. At
first, possessor of tne ill-gotten thousand poimds
and of considerable savings &om a substantial
salary, he had enjoyed the short wild riot of the
Prodigal's life. Paris saw most of his money —
the Paris which under his auspices Doggie never
knew. Plentiful claret set his tongue wagging in
Rabelaisian reminiscence. After Paris came husks.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 103
Not bad huaks if you know how to cook them.
Borrowed salt and pepper and a little stolen butter
worked wonders. But tbey were Irritating to
the stomadi. He lay on the floor, said he, and
yelled for fatted calf; but there was no soft-headed
parent to supply it. Phineas McPhail must be a
s^ve again and work for his living. Then came
private coachir^, free lance journalism, hunting
for secretaryships: the commonplace story hu-
morously told of the wastrel's decUue; then a gor-
geous efflorescence in light green and gold as the
man outside a picture palace in Camberwell —
and lastly, the penniless patriot throwing himself
into the arms of his desirous country.
"Have you any whisky in the house, laddie?"
he asked after the dinner things had been taken
iway.
"No,"
'," said Doggie. "But I could easily get
you some."
"Pray don't," said McPhail. "If you had, I
^was going to ask you to be kind enough not to let
your excellent landlord, whom I recognize as a
butler of the old school, produce it. Butlers of
the old school are apt, like Peddle, to bring in a
maddening tray of decanters, syphons and glasses.
You may not believe me, but I haven't touched a
drop of whisky since I joined the army."
"Why?" a^ed Doggie.
McPhail looked at the long, carefully preserved
ash of one of Doggie's excellent cigars.
"It's all a part of the doctrine of adaptability.
In order to attain happiness in the army, the first
step is to avoid differences of opinion with the civil
and military police and non-commissioned officers,
and such like sycophantic myrmidons of authority.
Being a man of academic education, it is with diffi-
culty liiat I agree with them when I'm sober. If
I were dnmk, my bonuie laddie — " he waved a
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104 THE ROUGH ROAD
hand — "wdl — I don't get dnrnk. And as I
have no use for whisky as merely an agreeable
beverage, I have struck whisky out of my hedo-
nistic scheme of existence. But if you have any
more of that pleasant claret — "
Doggie rang the bell and gave the order. The
landlord brought in bottle and glasses.
"And now, my dear Marmaduke," said McPhail,
after an appreciative sip, "now that I have told
you the story of my life, may I without impertinent
curiosity again ask you what you meant when you
said you had come down to bed-rockP "
The sight of the man, smug, cynical, shameless,
sprawling luxuriously on the sofa, with his tunic
unbuttoned, filled him with sudden fiury: such
fury as Oliver's insult had aroused, such as had
impelled him during a vicious rag in the mess to
clutch a man's hair and almost pull it out by the
roots.
"Yes, you may, and III tell you," he cried,
starting to his feet. "I've reached the bed-rock
of myself — the bed-rock of humiUation and dis-
grace. And it's all your fault. Instead of training
me to be a man, you pandered to my poor mother's
weaknesses and brought me up like a little toy dog
— the infernal name still sticks to me wherever I
go. Vou made a helpless fool of me, and let me go
out a helpless fool into the world. And when you
came across me I was thinking whether it wouldn't
be best to throw myself over the parapet. A month
ago you would have saluted me in the street and
stood before me at attention when I spoke to you — "
"Eh? What's that, laddie?" interrupted Phineas,
sitting up. "You've held a commission in the
iumy?"
"Yes," said Doggie fiercely. "And I've been
chucked. I've been thrown out as a hopeless rotter.
And who is most to blame — you or I? It's you.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 105
You've brought me to this infi^iial place. I'm
here in hiding — hiding from my family and the
decent folk Fm ashamed to meet. And it's all,
your fault, and now you have iti"
"Laddie, laddie,' said Phiueas reproachfuUy,
"the facts d my being a guest beneath your roof
and my humble military rank, render it difficult
for me to make an appropriate r^ly."
Doggie's rage bad spent itseu. These rare fits
were short-Uv^ and left him somewhat unnerved.
"I'm sorry, Phineas. As you say, you're my
guest. And aa to your uniform, God knows I
onour every man who wears it."
"That's taking things in the ri^ht spirit," Phineaa
conceded ^aciously, helping lumsetf to another
glass of wme. "And the ngbt spirit is a great
healer of differences. I'll not go so far as to deny
that there is an elonent of justice in your appor-
tionment of blame. There may, on various occa-
sions, have been some small derehction of duty.
But you'll have been observing that in the recent
expo^tion of my philosophy f have not laboured
Ihe point of duty to dispropcaiionate exaggeration."
Doggie ht a cigarette. His fingers were still
shaking. "I'm glad you own up. It's a sign of
grace.'
"Ay," said Phineaa. "No man is altogether
bad. In apite of everything I've always enter-
tained a warm affection for you, laddie, and when
I saw you staring at bogies round about the dome
of St. Paul's cathedral, my heart went out to you.
You didn't look over happy."
Doggie, always respon^ve to human kindness,
W€i8 touched. He felt a note of sincerity in McPbail's
tone. Perhaps he had judged him harshly, over-
looking Ihe plea in extenuation which McPhail
had set up — that in every man there must be some
saving remnant of goodness.
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106 THE ROUGH ROAD
"I wasn't happy, Phineas," he said. "I was as
miserable an outcast as could be found in London,
and when a fellow's down and out, you must for-
give him for speaking more bitterly than he ought."
"Don't I Know, laddie? Don't I know?" said
Phineas, sympathetically. He reached for the cigar-
box. "Do you mind if I take another!* Perhaps
two — one to smoke afterwards in memory of tins
meeting. It is a long time since my hps touched
a thing bo gracious as a reeil Heibaoa."
"Take a lot," said Doggie generously. "I don't
really like cigars. I only bought them because I
thought they might be stronger Uian cigarettes."
Phmeas filled his pockets. "You can pay no
greater compliment to a man's honesty of purpose,"
said he, "than by taking him at his word. And
now," he continued when he had carefully lit the -
cigar he had first chosen, "let us review the entire
situation. What about our good friends at Durdle-
bury? What about your uncle, the Very Rev-
erend the Dean, against whom I bear no ill-will,
though I do not say that bis ultimate treatment of
me was not over hasty — what about him? If
you call upon me to put my almost fantastically
variegated experience of life at your disposal and
advise you in this msis, so I must ask you to let
me know the exact conditions in which you find
yourself."
Doggie smiled once again, finding somethiog
diverting and yet stimulating in the caLtn assurance
of Private McPhail.
"I'm not aware that I've asked you for advice,
Phineas."
"The fact that you're not aware of many things
that you do is no proof that you don't do them —
and do them in a manner perfectly obvious to
another party," replied Phmeas, sententiously.
"You're asking for advice and consolation from
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THE ROUGH ROAD 107
any friendly human creature to whom you're not
ashamed to speak. YouVe had an awful sorrowful
time, laddie."
Doggie roamed about the room, with McPhail's
little grey eyes fixed on him. Yes, Phineas was
right. He would have giv^i most of his possessions
to be able, these later da^s, to pour out his tor-
tured soul into sympathetic ears. But shame had
kept him, still kept him, would always keep him
from the ears of those he loved. Yes, Pnineas
had said the diaholically right thing. He could
not be ashamed to speak to Phineas. And th^e
was something good in Phineas which he had noticed
with surprise. How easy for him, in response to
bitter accusation, to cast the blame on his mother?
He himself had given the opening. How easy for
him to point to his predecessor's short tenure of
office and plead the tdtemative of carrying out
Mrs. Trevor's theory of education or of resigning
his position in favour of some sycophant even more
time-serving? But he had kept silent. . . . Doggie
stopped short and looked at Phinesis with eyes
dumbly questionii^ and quivering lips.
Phineas rose and put his himds on the boy's
shoulders and said very gentiy:
"Tell me EtU about it, laddie."
Then Doggie broke down, and with a gu£2i of
unminded tetirs found expression for his stony
despair. His story took a long time in the telling;
and Phineas interjecting an occasional sympa-
thetic "Ay, ayl" and a delicately hinted question
extracted from Doggie all there was to tell, from
the outbreak of war to their meeting on Waterloo
Bridge.
"And now," cried he, at last, a dismally txagic
figure, his young face ^torted and reddened, his
sleek hair rufileid from the back into unsightly
perpendicularities (an invariable sign of distracted
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108 THE ROUGH ROAD
emotion) and bis hands appealingly outstretched,
— "what the hell am I going to do?"
"Laddie," said Phineas, standing on the hearth-
rug, his hands on his hips, "if you had posed the
Siestion in the polite languf^e of the precincts of
urdelbury Cathedral, I might have been at a
loss to reply. But the manly invocation of hell
shows me that your foot is already on the upward
path. If you had prefaced it by tbe adjective that
gives colour to all the aspirations of the British
Army, it would have been better. But I'm not
reproaching you, laddie. Poco a poco. It is enough.
It ^ows me you are not going to run away to a
neutral country and OTcsent the unedifying spec-
tacle of a mangy little British lion at the mercy of a
menagerie of healthy hyenas and such like imerior
though truculent beasties."
"My Godl" cried Doggie, "haven't I thou^t of
it tiU I'm half madP It would be just as you say
— unendurable." He began to pace the room
again. "And I can't go to France. It would be
I'ust the same as England. Everyone would be
ooking white feathers at me. "Die only thing I can
do is to go out of the world. I'm not fit for it. Oh,
I don't mean suicide. I've not enough pluck.
That's off. But I could go and bury myself ' in
the wilderness somewhere, where no one would
ever find me."
"Laddie," said McPhail, "I misdoubt that you're
going to settle down in any wilderness. You
haven't the faculty of adaptabihty of which I have
spoken to-night at some length. And your heart
is young and not coated wim the holy varnish of
callousness, which is a secret preparation known
only to those who have served a long apprentice-
ship in a severe school of egotism."
That's all very well," cried Doggie, "but what
the—"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 109
Pbineas waved an interrupting hand. "You've
got to go back, laddie. You've got to whip all
Uie mosral courage in you and go back to Durdle-
buiy. The Dean, with his influence, and the letter
you have shown me from your Colonel, can ea^ly
get you some honourable employment in either
Service not so exacting as the one which you have
recenUy found yourself unable to perform."
Doggie threw a newly-lighted ci^rette into the
fire and turned passionately on McPhail.
" I won't. You're talking drivelling rot. I can't,
I'd sooner die than go back there with my tail be-
tween my legs. I'd sooner enlist as a private soldier."
"Enlist?' stud Phineas, and he drew himself up
strf^ht and gaunt. "Well, why not?"
"Enlist?" echoed Doggie in a dull tone.
" Have you never contemplated such a possibility?"
"GJood God, no!" stud Doggie.
"I have enlisted. And I am a man of ancient
Uneage as honourable, so as not to enter into un-
productive ai^ument, as yours. And I am a Master
of Arts of the two Universities of Glasgow and Cam-
bridge. Yet I fail to find, anythir^ dishonourable
in my present estate as 33702 Private Phineas
McPhail in the British Army."
Doggie seemed not to hear him. He stared at
him wildly.
"Enli8t?"he repeated. "As a Tommy?"
"Even as a Tommy," said Phineas. He glanced
at the armolu clock. "It is past one. 'The re-
e)ectable widow woman near the Elephant and
astle who has let me a bedroom, will be worn by
fumety as to my non-return. Marmaduke, mv
dear, dear laddie, I must leave you. If you will
be lunching here twelve hoxns hence, nothing will
give me greater pleasure than to join you. Laddie,
do you think you could manage a fried sole and a
sweetbread?"
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110 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Enlist?" said Do^e, following him out to the
&ont door in a dream.
He opened the door. Phineas shook hands.
"Fried sole and a sweetbread at one-thirtyt>"
"Of course, with pleasure," said Doggie.
Phineas fumbled m his pockets.
" It's a long cry to this time of night from Rlooms-
bury to the Elephant and Castle. You haven't
the price of a taxi fare about you, laddie — two or
three pounds — ? "
Doggie drew from his patent notecase a ^eaf of
One Pound and Ten Shilling treasury notes and
handed them over to McPbail s vulture clutch.
"Good-night, laddie!"
" Good-night."
Phineas strode away into the blackness. Doggie
shut the front door and put up the chain and went
back into his sitting-room. He wound his fingers
in his hair.
"Enhst? MyGodI"
He ht a cigarette and after a few pufis flung it
into the grate. He stared at the alternatives.
Flight, which W£is craven, — a lifetime of self-
contempt. Durdlebury, which was impossible.
Enlistment — ?
Yet what was a man incapable yet able-bodied,
honourable though disgraced, to do?
His landlord found him at seven o'clock in the
morning asleep in an armchair.
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CHAPTER IX
AFTER a bath and a change and breakfast,
Do^e went out for one of nis solitary walks.
At Durdlebury such a night as the last would
have kept him in bed in a darkened room for most
of the following day. But he bad spent many (ai,
far worse on Salisbury Plain, and the inexorable
reveille had dragged him out into the raw, dreadful
morning, heedless of his headache and yearning
for slumber, until at last the process of hardening
had begun. To-day Doggie was as unfatigued
a young man as walked the streets of London; a
fact which his mind was too confusedly occupied
to appreciate. Once more was he beset less by the
perplexities of the future than by a sense of certain
unpending doom. For to Phineas McPbail's "Why
uotP" he bad been able to give no answer. He
could give no answer now, as he marched with
swinging step, automatically, down Oxford Street
and the Bayswater Road in the direction of Ken-
sington Gardens. He could give no answer as he
stood sightlessly staring at the Peter Pan statue.
A one-armed man m a khaki cap and hospital
blue came and stood by his side and looked m a
pleased yet puzzled way at the exquisite poem in
marbel. At Itist he spoke — in a rich Irish accent.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but could you be telling
me the meaning of it, at all?"
Doggie awoke and smiled.
"Do you like it?"
" I do," said the soldier.
"It is about Peter Pan. A kind of Fairy Tale.
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112 THE ROUGH ROAD
You can see the 'little people' peeping out — I
think you call them so in Ireland."
"We do that," said the soldier.
So Doggie sketched the outline of the immortal
story of the Boy Who Will Never Grow Old, and
the Irishman listened with deep interest.
"Indeed," said he after a tune, "it is good to
come back to the true thii^ after the things out
there." He waved his one arm in the vague direction
of the War.
"Why do you call them true things?" Doggie
asked quickly.
They turned away and Dog^e found himself
sitting on a bench by the man's side.
" It a not me that can tell you that," said he,
"and my wife and children in Galway."
"Were you there at the outbreak of war?"
He was. A Reservist called back to the colours
after some years of retirement from the army. He
bad served in India and South Africa, a hard-
bitten old soldier, proud of the traditions of the old
Regiment. There were scarecly any of them left
— and that was all tLat was left of bun. He smiled
cheerily. Doggie condoled with him on the Ic^s of
his arm.
"Ah sure," he replied. "And it might keep me
out of a fight when I go into Ballinasloe."
"Who would you wEint to fight?" asked Doggie.
"The dirty Sinn Feiners that do be always tout-
ing 'Freedom for Ireland and to bell with freedom
for the rest of the world.' If I haven't lost my
arm in a glorious cause, what have I lost it for?
Can you tell me that?"
Doggie agreed that he bad fought for the greater
freedom of humanity and gave him a cigarette,
and they went on talking. The Irishman bad been
in the retreat from Mons, the first battle of Ypres,
and be bad lost his arm in no battle at all; just a
THE ROUGH ROAD 113
Btray shell over die road as they were marchiag
back to billets. They disoissed the war, the ethics
of it. Doggie still wanted to know why the realities
of blood and mud and destruction were not the
true things. Gradually he found that the Irish-
man meant that Uie true things were the spiritual,
undying things; that the grim realities would pass
away; that from these dead realities would arise
the noble ideals of the future which would be sym-
bolised in song and marble, that all be had endured
and sacrificed was but a part of the Great Sacrifice
we were making for the Freedom of the World.
Bein^ a man roughly educated on a Galway farm
and m an infantry regiment, he had great difficulty
in co-ordinating his ideeis, but he bad a curious
power of vision that enabled him to pierce to the
heart of things, which he interpreted according to
his untrained sense of beauty.
They parted with expressions of mutual esteem.
Doggie struck across the gardens with a view to
returning home by Kensington Hi^ Street, Pic-
cadilly, and Shaft^bury Avenue. He strode along
with his thoughts filled with the Irish soldier. Here
was a man, maiued for life and quite content that
it should be so, who had reckoned all the horrors
through which he had passed as extemaU unworthy
of the consideration of his unconquerable soul;
a man simple, unassuming, expansive only through
his Celtic temperament, which allowed him to
talk easily to a stranger before whom his English
or Scotch comrade would have been dumb and
gaping as an oyster, obviously brave, sincere and
loyal. Perhaps something even higher. Perhaps
in essence, the very highest. The Poet Warrior.
The term struck Doegie s brain with a thud, like
the explosive fusion of two elements.
Dining his walk to Kensington Gardens a poison-
ous current had run at the back of his mind. Drift-
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114 THE ROUGH ROAD
ing on it, mi^ht he not escape? Was he not of too
fine a porcelain to mingle with the coarse and common
pottery of the ranks? Was it necessary to go into
the thick of tiae coarse clay vessels, just to be shat-
tered? It was easy for Phineas to proclaim that
he had found no derogation to his dignity as a man
of birth and a University graduate in identifying
himself with his fellow pnvates. Phineas had sys-
tematically brutalised himself into fitness for the
position. He bad armed himself in brass — aes
tr^lex. He smiled at his own wit. But he, James
Marmaduke Trevor, who had lived bis life as a clean
gentleman, was in a category apart.
Now, he found that bis talk with the Irishman
had been an antidote to the poison. He fdt
ashamed. Did he dare set hin^eli up to be finer
clay than that common soldier? Spiritually, was he
even of clay as fine? In a Great Judgment of Souls
which of the twain would be among the Elect? The
ultra-refined Mr. Marmaduke Trevor of Denby Hall,
or the ignorant Poet Wtirrior of Ballinasloe? "Not
Doggie Trevor," he said between his teetb. And
be went home in a chastened spirit.
Phineas McPbail appeared ptmctually at half-
past one, and feasted succulentty on fried sole and
sweetbread.
"Laddie," said be, "the man that can provide
such viands is a Thing of Beauty which, as the poet
says, is a Joy for ever. The lignt in his window is
a beacon to the hungry Tommy dragging himself
through the viscous wilderness of regulation stew."
" I'm afraid it won't be a beacon for very long,"
said Doggie.
"Eh? queried Phineas sharply. "You'd surely
not be thinking of refusing an old friend a stray
meal?"
Doggie coloured at the coarseness of the mis-
understanding. "How could I be such a brute?
THE ROUGH ROAD 115
There won't be a li^t in the window because I
shim't be here. I'm going to ^ilist."
Pbineas put his elbows on the table and regarded
him earnestly.
" I would not take too seriously words spoken in
the heat of midni^t revehy, even though the revel
was conducted on the genteelest principles. Have
you thought of the matter in the oool and sobOT
hours of the morning? "
"Yes."
" It's an unco' hard life, laddie."
"The one I'm leadinc is a harder," said Doggie.
"I've made up my mind."
"Then I've one piece of advice to give you,"
said McPhail. "Sink the name of Marmaduke,
which would only stimulate Ihe ignorant ribaldry
of the canteen, and adopt the name of James wbicn
your godfather and eodmother, with miraculous
foresight, considering their limitations in the matta
of common sense, have given you."
"That's a good idea," said Doggie.
"Also it would tend to the obliteration of class
prejudices if you gave up smoking Turkish cigarettes
at ten shillings a hxmdred and arrived in your pla-
toon as an amateur of 'Woodbines.' "
"I can't stand 'Woodbines,' " said Doggie.
"You can. The human organism is sO consti-
tuted that it can stand the sweepings of the ele-
gants' bouse in the Zoological Gardens. Try.
This time it's only Woodbines. '
Doggie took one from the crumpled paper packet
which was handed to him, and lit it. He made a wry
face, never before having smoked American tobacco.
"How do you like the flavour?" asked Pbineas.
"I think I'd prefer the elephants' house," said
Doggie, eying the thing with di^ust.
'nfou'll find it the flavour of the whole British
Army," said McPbail.
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116 THE ROUGH ROAD
A few days later the Dean received a letter bear-
ing the pencilled address of a camp on the South
Ccfflst, and written by 35792 p'^ James M. Trevor,
A Company, 2/10 th Wessex Rangers. It ran:
"/ hope you won't think it heartless of me to have
left you so long without Tiews of me; but until lately I
had the same reasons for remaining in seclusion as
when J last wrote. Even now I'm not asking for
^mpathy or reconsideration of my failure or desire
m any way to take advaniage of the generosity of you all.
"I have enlisted in the 10th Wessex. Phineas
McPhail, whom I met in London and whose character
for good or evil I can better gauge now than formerly,
is a private in the same haiialion. I don't pretend
to enjoy the life any more than I could enjoy living in
a kretu of savages in CenU^l Africa. But that is a
mailer of no account. I don't propose to return to
DurdUburv till the end of the weir. I left it as an
officer and I'm not coming back as a private soldier.
I enclose a cheque for £500. Perhaps Aunt Sophia
will be so kind as to use the money — (7 oi^ht to last
some time — for the general upkeep, xoages, etc., oj
Denby Halt. I feel sure she will not refuse me this
favour. Give Peggy my love, and tell her I hope she
will accept the two-seater as a parting gift. It will
make me happier to know that she is driving it.
" I am keeping on as a pied h terre in London the
Bhomsbury rooms in which I have been living, and
Fve written to Peddle to see about making them more
comfortf^le. Please ask anybody who might care to
write to address me as 'James M.' and not as 'Mar-
maduke.* "
The Dean read the letter — the family were at
breakfast; then he took off his tortoise ^ell spec-
tacles and wiped them.
"It's from Marmaduke at last," said he. "He
has carried out my prophecy and enlisted."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 117
I caught at her breath and ahot out her hand
for t^eTetter, whldi she read eagerly and then passed
over to her mother. Mrs. Conover began to cry.
"Oh, the poor boy! It will be worse thetn ever
for him."
"It will," said Pegg^. "But I think it splendid
of him to try. How did he bring himself to do itP"
"Breed tells," said the Dean. "That's what
everyone seems to have forgotten. He's a thorough-
bred Doggie. There's the old French proverb.
Bon chien chasse de race."
Peggy looked at him gratefidly. "You're very
comfortmg," she said.
"We must knit him some socks," observed Mrs.
Conover. "I hear those supplied to the anuy are
very rough and ready."
"My dear," smiled the Dean, "Marmaduke's
considerable income does not cease because his
pay in the army is one and twopence a day; and I
should think he would have the sense to provide
himself with adequate underclothing. Also, judg-
ing &om the account of your shoppii^ orgy in Lon-
don, he has already laid in a stock that would last
out several Antarctic winters."
The Dean tapped his egg gently.
"Then what can we do for the poor boy?" asked
his wife.
The De£ui scooped the top of his egg off with a
vicious thrust.
"We can cut out slanderous tongues," said he.
There had been much calumniating cackle in the
httle town; nay, more: cackle is ot geese; there
had been venom of the snakiest kind. The Deanery,
father and mother and daughter, each in their
several ways, had suffered greatly. It is hard to
stand up against poisoned ridicule.
"My dear," continued the Dean, "it will be om*
business to smite the Philistines, hip and thigh.
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118 THE ROUGH ROAD
The reasons which guided Marmaduke in the
resignation of his commission are the ■ concern of
nolwdy. The fact remains that Mr. Marmaduke
Trevor resigned his commisfflon in order to — "
Peg^ interrupted him with a smile. '"In ord^
to' — isn't that a bit Jesuitical, DaddyP"
*' I have a great respect for the Jesuits, my dear,"
said the Dean, holding out an impressive egg-spoon.
"The fact remains, in the eyes of the world, as I
remarked, that Mr. Marmaduke Trevor of Denby
Hall, a man of fortune and high position in the
county, resigned his commission in onler, for reasons
best known to himself, to serve his country more
effectively in the humbler ranks of the army, and
— my dear, this egg is far too full for war time — "
with a hazardous plunge of his spoon he had made
a yellow yelky horror of the egg-shell — "and I'm
going to proclaim the fact far and wide and —
indeed — rub it in."
"That'll be jolly decent of you, Daddy," said bis
daughter. " It will help a lot. '
In the failure of Marmaduke to retain his com-
mission the family honour bad not been concerned.
The boy bad done hia best. They blamed not him
but the disastrous trfiining that bad unfitted him
fOT the command of men. They reproached them-
selves for their haste in throwing him headlong
into the fiercest element of the national struggle
towards efficiency. They could have found an
easier school, in which he could have learned to do
bis share creditably in the national work. Many
young men of their acquaintance, far more capable
then Marmaduke, were wearing the uniform of a
less strenuous branch of the service. It had been
a blunder, a failure, but without lc»s of honour.
But when slaaderous tongues attacked poor Doggie
for running away with a yelp from a little hardship;
when a story or two of Doggie's career in the regi-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 119
ment arrived in Durdl^ury, highly flavoured in
tianait and more and more poisoned aa it went
from mouth to mouth; when a legend wets spread
abroad that he had holted from Salishury Plain
and was run to earth in a Turkish hath in London,
and was only saved from court-martial hy family
iniluence, then the family honour of the Couovers
was woimded to its proud English depths. And
they could say nothing. They nad only Doggie's
word to go upon; they accepted it unquestioningly,
but they knew no details. Doggie had disappeared.
Naturally they contradicted &ese evil rumours.
The good folks of Durdlebury expected them to do
so, and listened with well-bred incredulity. To
the question "Where is he now and what is he going
to do?" they could only answer, "We don't know.
They were helpless.
Peggy had a bitter quarrel with one of her inti-
mates, Nancy Murdoch, daughter of the doctor
who had proclaimed the soundness of Marmaduke's
constitution.
"He may have told you so, dear," said Nancy,
"but how do you know?"
"Because whatever else he may be, he's not a
liar," retorted Peggy.
Nancy gave the most delicate suspicion of a shrug
to her pretty shoulders.
That was the b^inning of it. Peggy, naturally
combative, armed for the fight and defended Mar-
maduke.
"You talk as though you were still engaged to
him," said Nancy.
"So I am," declared Peggy rashly.
"Then where's your engagement ring?"
"Where I choose to keep it."
The retort lacked originality and conviction.
"You can't send it back to him, because you
don't know wha« he is. And what did Mrs. Con-
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120 THE ROUGH ROAD
over mean by telling mother that Mr. Trevor had
broken off the engagement?"
"She never told her any such thmc," cried Peggy
mendaciously. For Mrs. Conover had committed
the indiscretion under assurance of silence.
"Pardon me," said Nancy, much on her dignity.
"Of course I understand your denying it. It isn t
pleasant to be thrown over by any man — but by a
man lite Doggie Trevor — '
"You're a spiteful beast, Nancy, and 111 never
speak to you a^ain. You've neither womanly
decency nor Christian feeling." And Peggy marched
out of the doctor's house.
As a result of the quarrel, however, she resumed
the wearing of the ring, which she flaunted defiantly
with left hand deliberately ungloved. Hitherto
she had not been certain of the continuance of the
eng£^ement. Marmaduke's repudiation was defi-
nite enough; but it had been dictated hy his sensi-
tive hraiour. It lay with her to agree or dedine.
She had passed through wearisome days of doubt.
A physically sound ^hting man sent about his
busmess as being unfit for war does not appear a
romantic figure m a girl's eyes. She was nitterly
disappointed with Doggie for the sudden withering
of her hopes. Had he fulfilled them she could have
loved him whole-heartedly after the simple way of
women; for her sex, exhilarated by the barbaric
convulsion of- the land, clamoured for something
heroic, something, at least, intensely masculine,
in which she could find feminine exultation. She
also felt resentment at his flight £rom the Savoy, his
silence and practical disappearance. Although not
blaming bim unjustly, she failed to realise the
spiritual piteousness of this plight. If the war
has done any thing in this country, it has saved
the young women of the gentler classes, at any
rate, from the abyss of scndid and cynical material-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 121
ism. Hesitating to announce the rupture of the
engagement, she allowed it to remain in a state of
suspended aoimation, and as a symbolic act, ceased
to wear the ring. Nancy's tamits had goaded her
to a more heroic attitude. The first person to whom
she showed the newly ringed hand was her mother.
"The engagement isnt off until I declare it's
off. I'm gomg to play the game."
"You know best, dear, ' said the gentle Mrs.
Conover. "But it's all very upsettir^.
Then Dole's letter brought comfort and glad-
ness to the Deanery. It reassured them as to his
fate. It healed the wounded family honour. It
justified Peggy in playing the game.
She took the letter round to Dr. Murdoch's and
thrust it into the hand of an astonished Nancy,
with whom, since the quarrel, she had not been on
speaking terms.
"This is in Marmaduke's handwriting. You
recogniae it. Just read the top line when I've
fold^ it. 'I have enlisted in Uie 10th Wessex.'
See?" She withdrew the letter. "Now, what
could a man, let alone an honourable gentleman,
do more? Say you're sorry for having said beastly
things about huu."
Nancy, who had regretted the loss of a lifeloi^
friendship, professed her sorrow.
"The least you can do, then, is to go round and
spread the news, and say you've seen the letter
with your own eyes."
To several others, on a triumphant round of
visits, did she ^ow the vindicating sentence. Any
soft young fool, she asserted, with the directness
and not imattractive truculence of her generation,
can get a commission and muddle through, but it
took a man to enlist as a private solilier.
"Everybody rea^tnises now, darling," said the
reconciled Nancy, a few days later, "that Do^e
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122 THE BOUGH ROAD
is a top-hole, splraidid chap. But I think I oueht
to tell you that you're all Boring Durdlebury stiff."
Peggy laughed. It was good to be engaged to a
man no longer under a cloud.
"It will all come right, dear old thing" she wrote to
Doggie. " If s a cinch, as the Americans say. You'll
soon get used to it — especially if you can realise what
it means to me. 'Saving face' has been an awfiU
business. Now it's all over. Of course I'll accept
the two-seater. I've had lessons in driving since you
went away — / had thoughts of going out to France
to drive Y. M. C. A. cars, bat that s off for the present.
I'll love the two-seater. Swank wont be the uxird.
But 'a parting gift' is all rot. The engagement stands
and all Durwebury knows it . . . " and so on, and
so on. She set herself out, honestly, loyally, to be
the kindest girl in the world to Doggie. Mrs.
Conover happened to come into the drawing-room
just as she was licking the stamp. She thumped it
on the envelope with her palm and, looking round
from the writing desk against the wall, showed
her mother a flushed and smiling face.
"If anybody says I'm not good — the goodeat
thing the Cathedral has turned out for half-a<dozen
centuries, I'll tear her horrid eyes out from their
sockets I"
" My dearl " cried her horrified mother.
Doggie kept the letter imopened in his tunic
pocket until he could find solitude io which to read
It. After morning parade he wandered to the
deserted trench at the end of the camp, where the
stuffed sacks, representing German defenders, were
hung for bayonet practise. It was a noon of grey
mist through which the alignments of huts and tents
were barely vivihle. Instinctively avoiding the
wet earth of the parados, he went round, and, tired
aft^ the recent q>ell of physical drill, sat down
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THE ROUGH ROAD 123
on the equally wet sandbags of the model parapet,
a pathetic, lonely little khaki figure, isolated ior
tiie moment by the kindly mist &om an uncompre-
hending world.
He read Peggy's letter several times. He recog-
nised her goodness, her loyalty. The gratd^ul
tears even came to his eyes, and ne brushy them
away hurriedly with a swift look round. But bis
heart beat none the faster. A long-faded memory
of childhood came back to him in regained colour.
Some quarrel with Peggy. What it was all abmit
he had entirely forgotten; but he remembered her
little flushed face and her angry words: "WeU,
I'm a sport and you ain'tl" He remembered also
rebuking her priggishly for unintelligible language
and mincing away. He read the letter again in the
light of this flash of memory. The only difference
between it and the childish speech lay in the fact
that instead of a declaration of contrasts, she now
uttered a declaration of similitudes. They were
both "sports." There she was wrong Doggie
shook bis head. In her sense of the word he was
not a "sport." A sport takes chances, plays the
game with a smile on his lips. There was no smile
on his. He loathed the game with a sickening,
shivering loathing. He was engaged in it be<:ause
a conglomeration of irresistible forces had driven
him tQto the melee. It never occurred to DoMe
that he was under orders of his own soul. Toia
simple yet stupendous fact never occurred to Peggy.
He sat on the wet sandbags and thoueht and
thought. Though he reproached himself tar base
ingratitude, the letter did not satisfy him. It left
his heart cold. What he sought in it he did not
know. It was something he could not find, some-
thing that was not there. The sea mist thickened
aroimd him. Peggy seemed very far away. . . .
He was still engagra to her — for it would be mon-
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124 THE ROUGH ROAD
strous to persist in his withdrawal. He must
accept the situation which she decreed. He owed
that to her loyalty. But how to continue the
correspondenceP It was hard enough to write
from Salishury Plain, from here it was well ni^h
impossible.
Thus was Doggie brought up against a New
Problem. He struggled desperately to d^er its
solution.
ec by Google
CHAPTER X
THE r^jments of the new armies have gathered
into their rank and file a mixed crowd tran-
scending the dreams of Democracy. At one
end of the social scale are men of refined minds and
gentle nurture, at the other creatures from' the
Slums, with slum minds and morals, and between
them the whole social gaunt is run. Experience
seems to show that neither of the extreme dements
tends, in the one case to elevate, or, in the other,
to debase the battaUon. Leading the common
life, sharing the common hardships, striving towards
common ideals, they inevitably, irresistibly tend
to merge themselves in the average. The highest
in the scale sink, the lowest rise. The process, so
far as the change of soul state is concerned, is infi-
nitely more to the amelioration of the lowest than
to the degradation of the highest. The one, also,
is more real, the other more apparent. In the one
case, it is merely the shuffling off of manners, of
habits, of prejudices and the assuming of others
horribly distasteful or humorouslv accepted accord-
ing to temperament; in the otner case, it is an
enforced education. And all the congeries of human
atoms that make up the battalion, learn new and
precious lessons and acquire new virtues — patience,
obedience, courage, endurance. . . . But from the
point of view of a decorous tea-party in a cathedral
town, the tone — or the standard of manners, or
whatever you would like by way of definition of
that vague and comforting word — ■ the tone of the
average is deplorably low. The hoohgan may be
kicked for excessive foulness; but the rider oi the
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126 THE ROUGH ROAD
high htHse is brutally dragged down into the mire.
The curious part of it all is that, the gutter dement
being eliminated altogether, the corporate standard
of the remaining majority is lower than the stan-
dard of each individual.
By developing a philosophical disquisition on
some such lines did Pluneas McPhail Beek to initiate
Doggie into the weird mysteries of the new social
life. Dogrie heard with his ears but thought id
terms of Durdlebury tea-parties. Nowhere in the
mass could he find the spiritual outlook of his Irish
Poet Warrior. The individuals that may have
had it kept it preciously to themselves. The out-
look, as conveyed in speech, was grossly material-
istic. From the language of the canteen he recoiled
in disgust. He could not reconcile it witii the
nohler attributes of the users. It was in vain for
Phineas to plead that he must accept the lingua
franca of the British Army like all other things
appertaining thereto. Doggie's stomach revoltra
against most of the other things. The disregard
(iTcan. this point of view) of personal cleanlmess
universal in the ranks, filled him with dismay.
Even on Salisbury Plain he had managed to get a
little hot water for his morning tuh. Here, save
in the officers' quarters, curiously remote, inacces-
sible paradise I — there was not such a thing as a
tub in the place, let alone hot water to fill it. The
men never dreamed of such a thing as a tub. As
a matter of fact, they were scrupulously clean
according to the lights of the British Tommy; but
the lights were not those of Marmaduke Trevor.
He had learned the supreme wisdom of keeping
lips closed on such matters and did not complain,
but all his fastidiousness rebelled. He hated the
sluice of head and shoulders with water from a
bucket in the raw open air. His hands swelled,
l^tered, and cracked; and his nails, once so beau-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 127
tifully manicured, erew rich black rims, and all the
icy watar in the buckets would not remove the
grime.
Now and then he w^it into the town and had a
hot bath; but very few of the othors ever seemed to
think of such a thing. The habit of the British
Army of going to bed in its day shirt and under-
clothes was peculiarly repellent. Yet Doggie knew
that to vary from the sacred ways of his fellow men
was to bring disaster on his head.
Some of the men slept under canvas still. But
Doggie, fortunately as he reckoned (for he had
begun to appreciate fine shades in misery) was ^ut
with a dozen others in a ramshackle hut of which
the woodwork had warped and let in the breezes
above, below, and all round the sides. Doggie,
though dismally cold, welcomed the air for obvious
reasons. They were fortunate, too, in having
straw palliasses — recently provided when it was
discovered that sleeping on badly boarded floors
with fierce draughts blowing upwards along human
spines was strangely fatal to human bodies — but
Doggie found his bed very hard lying. And it smelt
sour and sickly. For nights, in spite of fatigue,
be could not sleep. His mates sang and talked,
and bandied jests and sarcasms of esoteric meaning.
Some of the recruits from factories or farms satirised
their officers for peculiarities common to their
social caste, and gave grotesque imitations of their
mode of speech. Doggie wondered but held his
peace. The deadly stupidity and weariness of it
alll And when the talk stopped and they settled
to sleep, the snorings and mutterings and coughings
began and kept poor Doggie awake most of the night.
The irremediable, intimate propinquity with coarse
humanity oppressed him. He would have given
worlds to go out, even into the pouring rain, and
walk about the camp or sleep under a hedge, so
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128 THE ROUGH ROAD
long as he could be alone. And he would think
longingly of his satin-wood bedroom, with ite
luxurious bed and lavender-scented sheets, and of
bis beloved peacock and ivory room and its pictures
and extjuisite furniture and the great fire roaring
up the chinmey, and devise intricate tortures for
the Kaiser who had dragged bim down to this
squalour.
The meals — the rough cooking, the primitive
service — the table manners of nis companions,
offended his delicate senses. He missed napkins.
Never could he bring himself to wipe his mouth
with the back of his hand and the back of his hand
on the seat of his trousers. Nor could be watch with
equanimity an honest soul pick his teeth with bis
little finger. Rut Doggie Imew that acquiescence
was the way of happiness and protest the way of
woe.
At iirst he made few acquaintances beyond those
with whom he was intimately associated. It seemed
more poUtic to obey his instincts and remain un-
obtrusive in company and drift away inoffensively
when the chance occurred. One of the men with
whom be talked occasionally was a red-beaded
Uttle cockney by the name of Shendish. For some
reason or other — perhaps because his name con-
veyed a perfectly wrong suggestion of the Hebraic
— he was always called "Mo ' Shendish.
"Don't yer wish yer was back, mate?" he asked
one day, having weiited to speak till Doggie had
addressed and stamped a letter which be was writing
at the end of the canteen table.
"Where?" said Doggie.
"'Ome, sweet 'ome. In the family castle, where
gilded footmen 'ands sausage and mash about on
trays and quarts of beer all day long. I do."
* You're a lucky chap to have a castle," said
Doggie.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 129
Mo Shendish grinned. He showed little yellow
teeth heneath a little red moustache.
"I ain't 'alf got one," said he. "It's in Mare
Street, Hackney. I wish I was there now."
He sighed, and in an abstracted way he took a
half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear and relit it.
"What were yer before yer joined? Yer look
like a clerk." He pronouncwi it as if it were spelt
with a "u."
" Something of the sort," replied Doggie cautiously.
"One can always tell you eddicated blokes.
Making your five quid a week easy, I suppose?"
"About that," said Doggie. ' What were you?"
"I was making my thirty bob a week r^i;ular.
I was in the fish business, I was. And now I'm
serving my ruddy country at one and twopence a
day. Funny life, Eiin't it?"
' I can't say it's very enjoyable," said Doggie.
"Not the same as sitting in a snug orfis all day
with a pen in your lilywhite 'and, and going 'ome
to your 'igh tea in a top 'at. What made you join
up?"
"The force of circumstances," said Doggie.
"Same 'ere," said Mo; "only I couldn't put it
into such fancy language. First my pals went
out one after the other. Then the gels began to
look saucy at me, and at last one particular bit of
skirt what I'd been walking out with, took to prome-
nading with a blighter in khaki. It'd have been
silly of me to go and knock his 'ead off, so I enlisted.
And it's all right now."
"Just the same sort of thing in my case," replied
Doggie. "I'm glad things are right with the young
lady."
' First class. She's straight, she is, and no mis-
take abaht it. She's a — '
He paused for a word to express the inexpressive
she.
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130 THE ROUGH ROAD
" — ^A. paragon — a peach?" — Do^e corrected
himself. Then, as the sudden frown of perplexed
suspicion was swiftly replaced by a grin of content,
he was struck by a bright idea.
"What's her name? '
"Aggie. What's yoors?"
"Gladys," rephed Doggie with miraculous readi-
ness of invention.
"I've got her photograph," Shendish confided in
a whisper, and ^d his hand on his tunic pocket.
Then he looked round at the half-filled canteen to
see that he was unobserved. "You won't give me
away if I show it yer, will yer?"
Doggie swore secrecy. The photograph of A^ie,
an angular, square-browed damsel, who looked as
though she could guide the most recalcitrant of
fishmongers into the paths of duty, was produced
and thrust into Doggie's hand. He inspected it
with poUte appreciation, while his red-headed friend
regarded him with fatuous anxiety.
' Charming 1 charming t " said Doggie in his
pleasantest way. "What's her colouring?"
"Fair hair and blue eyes," said Sfaendi^.
The kindly question, half idle yet unconsciously
tactful, was one of those human things which cost
so little but ore worth so much. It gave Doggie a
friend for life.
"Mo," said he, a day or two later, "you're such a
decent chap. Why do you use such abominable
language? "
' Gawd knows," smiled Mo, unabashed. "I
suppose it's friendly like." He wrinkled his brow
in thought for an instant. "That's where I think
you're making a mistake, old pal, if you don't mind
my mentioning it. I know what yer are, but the
others don't. You're not friendly enough. See
what I mean? Supposin' you say as you would in a
city restoorang when you're aving yer lunch.
THE ROUGH ROAD 131
'Will yra" kindly pass me the salt?' — well, that's
atandnaffish — they say 'Come off itl' But if
you look about and say, 'Where's the B.Y. salt?'
that's friendly. They understand. They chuck
it at you'."
Said Doggie, "It's very — I mean B.Y. — diffi-
cult."
So he tried to be friendly; and if he met with no
freat positive success, he at least scaped animosity,
n his spare time he mooned about by hims elf, shy,
disgusted, and miserable. Once, when a group of
men were kicking a footbedl about, the ball rolled
his way. Instead of kicking it back to the expec-
tant piayers, he picked it up and advanced to tJie
nearest man and handed it to him politely.
"Thanks, mate," said the astonished man, "but
why didn't you kick it?"
He turned away without waiting for a reply.
DiMigie had not kicked it because he had never
kicked a football in his life, and shT anlt from an
exhibition of incompetence.
At drills things were easier than on Salisbury
Plain, his actions being veiled in the obscurity of
squad or platoon or company. Many others besides
hunself were cursed by sergeants and rated by sub-
alterns and drastically entreated by captains. He
had ihe consolation of community in suGTering.
As a trembling officer he had been the only one,
the only one marked tmd labelled as a freak ptut,
the only one stuck in the eternal pillory. Here
were fools and incapables even more dull and in-
effective than he. A ploughboy fellow-recruit from
Dorsetshire, Pugsley by name, did not know ri^t
from left, and having mastered the art of forming
fours, could not get into his brain the reverse process
of forming front. He wept under the lash of the
corporal's tongue, and to Doggie these tears were
healing dews of Heaven's distLJlation. By degrees
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132 THE ROUGH ROAD
he learned the many arts of war as taught to the
private soldier in England. He could refrain firom
shutting liis eyes when he pressed the trigger of
his rifle, but to the end of his career his footing
was erratic. He could perform with the weapon
the other tricks of precision. Unemcunbered he
could march with the best. The torture of the
heavy pack nearly killed him; but in time, as his
muscles developed, he was able to slog along under
the burden. He even learned to dig. That was
the worst and most back-breaking art of all.
Now and then Phineas McPhail and hitDself
would get together and walk into the UtUe seaside
town. It was out of the season, and there was little
to look at save the deserted shops and the squall-
fretted pier and the maidens of the place, who usually
were in company with lads in klmki. Sometimes
a girl alone would give Dogme an unmistakable
glance of shy invitation, for Doggie in his short
Eiight way was not a bad-looking fellow, carrying
himself well and wearing his uniform with instinc-
tive grace. But the damsel ogled in vain.
On one such occasion Phineas hurst into a guffaw.
"Why don't you talk to the poor body? She's
a respectable girl enough. Where s the harm?"
"Go 'square-pushing'?" said Doggie contemp-
tuously, using the soldiers' slang for walking about
with a young woman. "No, thank you."
"And why not? I'm not coimselling you, laddie,
to plunge into a course of sensual debauchery. But
a wee bit gossip with a pretty, innocent girl — "
"My dear, good chap, ' Doggie interrupted,
"what on earth should I have in common with her?"
"Youth."
"I feel as old as hell," said Doggie bitterly.
"You'U be feeling older soon," said Phineas,
"and able to look down on hell with feelings of
superiority."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 133
ie walked on in silence for a few paces.
Then"te said;
"K thing I can't understand is this mania for
picking up girls — Just to walk about the streets
with them. It's so mane. It's a disease."
"Did you ever consider," said Phineas, "how in
a station less exalted than that which you used to
adorn, the young of opposite sexes manage to meet,
select and marry P Man, the British Anny's going
to be a grand education for you in sociology."
"Wefl, at any rate you don't suppose I'm going^
to select and marry out of the streets '
"You might do worse," said Phineas. Then,
after a slight pause he Eisked: "Have you any news
lately from Durdlebury? "
"Confound Durdleburyl" said Doggie.
Phineas checked him with one hand and waved
the other towards a hostelry on the other side of
the street. "If you will give me the tmmey in
advance, so as to evade the ungenerous spirit of
the no-treating law, you can stand me a quart of
ale at the Crown and Sceptre and join me in drink-
ing to its confusion."
So ^ey entered the saloon bar of the public
house, and Doggie drank a glass of beer whfle
Phineas swallowed a couple of pints. Two or
three other soldiers were there, in whose artless
talk McPhail joined lustily. Doggie, unobtrusive
at the end of the bar, maintained a desultory and
uncomfortable conversation with the beirmaid, who
was of the florid and hearty type, about the weather.
Some days later, McPhail again made allusion to
Durdlebury. Doggie eigain confounded it.
"I don't want to hear of it or think of it," he
exclaimed, in his nervous way, "until this filthy
horror is over. They want me to get leave and go
down and stay. They're making my Ufe miserable
with kindness. I wish they'd let me alone. They
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134 THE ROUGH ROAD
don't understand a little bit. I want to get through
this thing alone, all by myself."
" I'm sorry I persuaded you to join a regiment
in which you were inflicted with the disadvantage
of my society," said Phineas.
Doggie threw out an impatient arm., " Oh,
you don't count," said he.
A few minutes afterwards, repenting his brus-
queness, he tried to explain to Phineas why he did
not count. The others knew nothing about him.
Phineiis knew everything.
"And you know everything about Phineas,"
said McPhail, grimly. "Ay, ay, laddie," he sighed.
"I ken it all. When you re in Tophet, a sympa-
thetic Tophetuan with a wee drop of the niilk of
human kindness is more comfort than a radiant
angel who showers down upon you from Ihe celestial
Fortnum and Mason's potted shrimps and caviare."
The Bombreness cleared for a moment &om
Dt^gie's young brow.
' I never can make up my. mind, Phineas," said
he, "whether you're a very wise man or an awful
fraud."
"Give me the benefit of the doubt, laddie,"
rephed McPhail. "It's the grand theological prin-
ciple of Christianity."
Time went on. The regiment was moved to the
East Coast. On the journey a Zeppelin raid
paralysed the railway service. Doggie spent the
night under the lee of the bookstaU at Waterloo
Station. Men huddled up near him, their heads
on their kit bags, slept and snored. Doggie almost
wept with pain and cold and hatred of the Eais^.
On the East coast much the same life as on the
South, save that the wind, as if Hun-sent, found
its way more savagely to the skin.
Then suddenly came the news of a lar^ draft
for France, which included both McPhail and
THE ROUGH ROAD 135
Shendish. They went away on leave. The ^d-
ness with which he welcomed their return showed
Doggie how great a part they played in his new
life. In a day or two they would depart God knew
whither, and he would be left in dreadful loneliness.
Through him the two men, the sentimental Cockney
fishmonger and the wastrel graduate of Glasgow
and Cambridge, had become friends. He spent
with them all his leisure time.
Then one of the silly tragi-'Comedies of life occurred.
McPhail got drunk m the crowded bar of a little
public house in the village. It was the last possible
drink together of the draft and their pals. The
draft was to entrain before daybreak on the morrow.
It wfis a foolish, singing, shouting khaki throng.
McPhaU, who had borrowed ten pounds from Doggie,
in order to see him through the hardships of the
front, established himself cuose by the bar and was
drinking whisky. He was also distributing siu*-
reptitious sixpences and shillings into eager hands
which would convert them into alcohol for eager
throats. Doggie, anxious, stood by his side. Tne
spirit from which McPhEtil had for so long abstained,
mounted to his unaccustcHned brain. He began
to hector, and, master of picturesmie speech, he
ctanpeiled an admiring audience. Dog^e did not
realise the extent of his drunkenne^ untd, vaunting
himself as a Scot and therefore the salt of the army,
he picked a quarrel with a stohd Hampshire giant
who professed to have no use for Phineas's fellow-
countrymen. The men clewed. Suddenly some-
one shouted from the doorway.
"Be quiet, you fools! The A. P. M.'s coming
down the road,"
Now the Assistant Provost Marshal, if he heard
hell's delight going on in a tavern, would naturally
make an inquisitorial appearance. The combat-
ants were sqwirated. McPhail threw a shilling
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136 THE ROUGH ROAD
on the bar counter and demanded another whisky.
He was about to lift the glass to his lips when Doggie,
terrified as to what might happen, knocked the glass
out of his hand.
"Don't be an aas," he cried.
Phineas was very drunk. He ^ed at his old
pupU, took ofT his cap and, stretchmg over ^e bar,
hung it on the handle of a beer<pull; then, stagger-
ing back, he pointed an accusing finger.
' He has the audacity to call me an ass. Little
blinking Marmaduke Doggie Trevor. Little Doggie
Trevor whom I trained up from infancy in the way
he shouldn't go — "
"Why Doggie Trevor?" someone shouted in
enquiry.
' Never mind," replied Phineas with drunken
impressiveness. "My old friend Marmaduke has
spilled my whisky and called me an ass. I call him
Doggie, httle Dog^e Trevor. You all bear witness
he kuocked the <mnk out of my mouth. I'll never
forgive him. He doesn't like being called Doggie
— and I've no — no pred'lex'n to be called an ass.
I'll be thinking I'm going just to strangle him."
He struck out his bony claws towards the shrink-
ing Dc^e; but stout arms closed round him and a
horny hand was clamped over his mouth, luid they
got him through the bar and the back parlour iato
the yard, where they pumped water on his head.
And when the A. P. M. and his satellites passed by,
the quiet of The Whip in Hand was the holy peace
of a nunnery.
Do^e and Mo Shendish and a few other staunch
souls got McPbail back to quarters without much
trouble. On parting, the deUnquent, semi-sobered,
shook Doggie by the hand and smiled with an air
of great affection.
' I've been verra drunk, laddie. And I've been
angry with you for the firat' time in my life. But
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THE, ROUGH ROAD 137
when you knocked the glass out of my hand I
thought ^ou were m dai^r of losing your good
manners m the army. Well have many a pow-wow
together when you join me out there."
The matter would have drifted out of Doggie's
mind as one of no importance, had not the detested
appellation hy which Phineaa hailed him struck the
imagination of his comrades. It filled a tong-felt
want, no nickname for Private J. M. Trevor having
yet been invented. Doggie Trevor he was and
Doggie Trevor he remained for the rest of his period
of service. He resigned himself to the inevitable.
The stiug had gone out of the nanie throiigh his
ctonrades ignorance of its origin. But he loathed
it as much as ever; it sounded in his ears an ever-
lasting reproach.
In spite of the ill turn done in drunkenness. Doggie
missed McPhaU. He missed Mo Shendish, his more
constant companion, even more. Their place was
in some degree taken, or rather usurped, for it was
without Doggie's volition, hy "Taffy" Jones, once
clerk to a mrn of outside bookmakers. As Do^e
had never seen a race-course, had never made a
bet, and was entirely ignorant of the names even
of famous Derby winners, Taffy redded him as an
astonishing freak worth the attention of a student
of human nature. He began to cultivate Doggie's
virgin mind by aid of reminiscence, and of such
racmg news as was to be found in the Sportsman.
He was a garrulous person and Doggie a good
listener. To please him Doggie ba^ed horses,
through the old firm, for small sums. The fact of
his being a man of large independent means both
be and Pnineas (to his credit) had kept a close secret,
his clerkly origin divined and promulgated by Mo
Shendish being unquestioningly accepted, so the
bets proposed by Taffy were of a modest nature.
(hice he brought off a forty to one chiuice. Taffy
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138 THE ROUGH ROAD
rushed to him with the news, dancing with excite-
ment. Doggie's stoical indifference to the winning
of twenty pounds, a year's army pay, gave him
cause for great wonder. As Doggie showed similar
equanimity when he lost, Taffy put him down as a
bom sportsman. He began to admire him tre-
mendously.
This friendship with Taffy is worth special record,
for it was indirectly the cause of a little revolution
in Dog^e's regimental life. Taffy was an earnest
though indifferent performer on the penny whistle.
It was his constant companion, the solace of his
leisure moments and one of the minor tortures of
Doggie's existence. His version of the Marseillaise
was peculiarly excruciating.
One day when Taffy was playing it with dreadful
variations of his own to an adminng group in the
Y. M. C. A. hut, Doggie, his nerves rasped to the
raw by the fedse notes and maddening intervals,
snatched it out of his hand and began to play him-
self. Hitherto, shrinking morbidly from any form
of notoriety, he had shown no sign of musical ao-
compUshment. Rut to-day the musicians' impulse
was irresistible. He playeid the Marseillaise as no
one there had heard it on penny whistle before.
The hut recognised a master's touch, for Doggie was
a fine executeint musician. When he stopped there
was a roar: "Go onl" Doggie went on. They
kept him whistling till the hut was crowded.
Thenceforward he was penny-whistler, by ex-
cellence, to the battalion. He whistled lumself
into quite a useful popularity.
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w
CHAPTER XI
'RE all very proud of you, Marmaduke,"
said the Dean.
"I think you're just splendid," said Pe^y.
They were sitting in Doggie's rooms in Wobum
Place, Doggie having been given his three days'
leave before going to France. Once again DurdJe-
bury had come to Doggie and not Doggie to Durdle-
bury. Aunt Sophia, however, somewhat ailing,
had stayed at home.
Doggie stood awkwardly before them, conscious
of swdlen hands and broken nails, shapeless ammu-
nition boots and ill-fitting slacks, morbidly conscious,
too, of his original failure.
"You're about ten inches more round the chest
than you were," said the Dean admiringly.
"And the picture of health," cried Peggy.
"For anyone who has a sound constitution,"
answered Doggie, "it is quite a healthy life."
"Now that you've got into the way, I'm sure
you must really love it," said Peggy with an en-
couraging smile.
" It isn't so bad," he replied.
"What none of us can 4^te understand, my dear
fellow," said the Dean, "is your shying at Durdle-
bury. As we have written you, everybody's ang-
ing your praises. Not a soul but would have given
you a hearty welcome."
"Besides, ' Peggy chimed in, "you needn't have
made an exhibition of yourself in the town if you
didn't want to. The poor Peddles are woefully
disappointed."
139 ^ ,
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140 THE ROUGH ROAD
"There's a war going on. They must bear up —
like lots of other people," replied Domie.
"He's becoming quite cynical," Peggy lauded.
"But, ajpart from we Peddles, there 8 your own
beautiful house waiting for you. It seems so funny
not to go to it, instead oi moping in these fusty
lodgings."
"Perhaps," said Doggie quietly, "if I went th^re
I should nevra: want to come back. '
"There's something to be said from that point
of view," the Dean admitted. "A solution of
continuity is never quite without its dangers. Even
Oliver confessed as much."
"Oliver?"
"Yes, didn't Peegy tell youP"
"I didn't think Mannaduke would be interested,"
said Peggy quickly. "He and Ohver have never
been wlwit you might call bosom friends."
" I shouldn't have minded about hearing of him,'*
said Dc^gie. "Why should I? What's he doing?"
The Dean gave mformation. Oliver, now a cap-
tain, had come home on leave a month ago, and liad
spent some of it at the Deanery. He had seen a good
deal of fighting, and had one or two narrow escapes.
"Was he keen to get back?" asked Doggie.
The Dean smiled. "I instanced his case in my
remarks on the dangers of the solution of continuity. '
"Oh, rubbish, Daddy," cried his daughter, with a
flush. "OHver is as keen fis mustard.' The Dean
made a little gesture of siibmission. She continued.
"Pie doesn't like the beastliness out there for its
own sake, any more than Mannaduke will. But
he simply loves his job. He has improved tre-
mendous^. Once he thought he was the only man
in the country who had seen Life stark naked, and
he put on frills accordingly. Now that he's just
one of a million who have been up against Life
stripped to its skeleton, he's a bit subdued."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 141
"I'm glad of that," said Doggie.
The Dean, urbanely indulgent, joined his finger-
tips together and smiled. ' Peggy is right," said
he, "although I don't wholly approve of her modem
lack of reticence in metaphor. OUver is coming
out true gold from the fire. He's a capital fellow.
And he spoke of you, my dear Marmaduke, in the
kindest way in the world. He has a tremendous
admiration for your pluck. ' '
"That's awfully good of him, I'm sure," said
Doggie.
Presently the Dean, good, tactful man, discovered
that he must go out and have a prescription made
up at a chemist's. That arch-Hun enemy the
fout, against whidi he must never be unprepared.
le womd be back in time for dinner. The engaged
couple were left alone.
"Well?" said Pe^gy.
"Well, dear?" said Doggie.
Her lips invited. He responded. She drew him
to the saddle-bag sofa and they sat down side by
side.
"I quite understand, dear old thing," she said.
" I know the resignation and the rest of it hurt you
awfully. It hurt me. But it's no use grousing
over spilt milk. You've already mopped it all up.
It's no disgrace to be a private. Its an honour.
There are thousands of gentlemen in the ranks.
Besides — you'U work your way up and they'll
offer you another commission in no time."
"You're very good and sweet, dear," said Doggie,
"to have such faith in me. But I've had a year — "
"A yearl" cried Peggy. "Good Lordl so it is."
She counted on her fingers. "Not quite. But
eleven months. It's eleven months since I've seen
you. Do you realise that? The war has put a
stop to time. It is just one endless da^."
' One awful, endless day," Doggie acquiesced
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142 THE ROUGH ROAD
with a smile. "But I wtis saying — I've had a
year, or an endlras day of eleven months, in which
to leam myself. And what I don't know about
m^elf isn't knowledge."
Peggy interrupted with a laugh. "You must be
a wonder. Dad's always preaching about s^-
knowledge. Tell me all about it."
Doggie shook his head, at the same time passing
his hand over it in a familiar gesture. Then Peggy
cried:
"I knew there was something wrong with you.
Why didn't you tell me? You've had your hair
cut — cut quite diflferently."
It was McPhail, careful godfather, who had taken
him as a recruit to the regimental barber and pre-
scribed a transformation from the sleek long hair
brushed back over the head to a conventional mili-
tary crop with a rudiment of a side parting. On
the crown a few bristles stood up as if uncertain
which way to go.
"It's adyisable," Doggie rephed, "for a Tommy's
hair to be cut as short as possible. The Germans
are sheared like convicts."
Peggy regarded him open-eyed and puzzle-browed.
He enlightened h^ no further, but pursued the
main proposition.
"I wouldn't take a commission," said be, "if the
War Office went mad and sank on its knees and beat
its head in the dust before me."
"In heaven's name, why not?"
"I've learned my place in the world," said Doggie.
Peggy shook him by the shoulder and turned on
him her young, eager face.
"Your place in the world is that of a cultivated
fentleman of old family, Marmaduke Trevor of
»enby Hall."
"That was the funny old world," said he, "that
stood an its legs — legs wide apart with its hands
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THE ROUGH ROAD 143
beneath the tails of its evening coat, in front c^ the
drawing-room fire. The present world's standing
on its head. Everything s upside down. It has
no sort of use for Marmaduke Trevor of Denby Hall.
No more use than for Gofiatb. By the way, now is
the poor httle beast getting on?"
Peggy laughed. ' Oh, Goliath is perfectly assured
of his position. He has got it rammed into his
mind that he drives the two-seater." She retmned
to the attack. "Do you intend ahvays to remain a
private?"
"I do," said he. "Not even a corporal — not
even a bombardier. You see, I've learned to be a
private of sorts, and that satisfies my ambition."
"Well, I give it up," said Peggy. "Though why
you woijdn t let Dad get you a nice cushy job is
a thii^ I can't understand. For the life of me I
can't.'
" I've made my bed and I must lie on it," he said,
quietly.
" I don't believe you've got such a thing as a bed."
Doggie smiled. "Oh, yes, a bed of a sort."
Then noting her puzzled face, he said consolingly;
" It'll all come right when the war's over."
"But when wul that be? And who knows, my
dear man, what may happen to you.^"
" If I'm knocked out, I ra knocked out, and there's
an end of it," rephed Doggie philosophically.
She put her hand on his. 'But what's to become
ofmeP '
"We needn't cry over my corpse yet," said Doggie.
The Dean, after a while, returned with his bottle
of medicine which he displayed with conscientious
ostentation. They dined. Peggy agaxa went over
the ground of the possible commission.
"I'm afraid she has set her heart on it, my boy,"
said the Dean.
Peggy cried a httle on ptirting. This time Doggie
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144 THE ROUGH ROAD
was going, not to the fringe, but to the heart of the
Great Adventure. Into the thick of the carnage.
A year ago, she said through her tears, die would
have thought herself much more fitted fw it than
Maimaduke.
"Perhaps you are still, dear," said Doggie, with
his patient Euuile.
lie saw them to the taxi which was to take them
to the familiar Sturrocks's. Before getting in,
Peggy embraced him.
' Keep out of the way of shells and bullets as
much as you can."
The Dean blew his nose, God-blessed him, and
murmured something incoherent about fitting
for the glory of old Ejjgland.
" Good luck," cried Peggy from the window.
She blew him a kiss. The taxi drove off and
Doggie went back into the house with leaden feet.
The meeting, which he had morbidly dreaded, had
brought him no comfort. It had not removed the
invisible barrier between Peggy and himself. But
Peggy seemed so unconscious of it that he began to,
wonder whether it only existed in his diseased
imagination. Though by his silences and reserves
he had given her cause for resentment and reproach,
her attitude was nothing less than angehc. He
sat down moodily in an armchair, his bands deep
in his trousers pockets and his legs stretched out.
The fault lay in himself, he argued. What was the
matter with himP He seemed to have lost all
human feeling, like the man with the stone heart in
the old legend. Otherwise why had he felt no prick
of jealousy at Peggy's admiring comprehension of
Oliver? Of course he loved her. Of course he
wanted to marry her when this nightmare was over.
That went without saying. But why couldn't he
look to the glowing future? A poet had called a
lover's mistress "me lode-star oi his one desire."
THE ROUGH ROAD 145
That to him Peggy ought to be. Lode-star. One
desire. The words coniused him. He had no lode-
star. His one desire was to be left alone. Without
doubt he was sufTeriug from some process of moral
petrifaction.
Doggie was no psycholog^t. He had never
acquired the habit ol turning himself inside out and
gloating over the horrid spectacle. All his life he
had been a simple soul with simple motives and a
simple though possibly selfish standard to measure
them. But now his soul was knocked into a
chaotic state of complexity, and his poor little
standards were no manner of use. He saw himself
as in a glass darkly, mystified by unknown change.
He rose, sighed, shook himself.
" I give it up," said he, and went to bed.
Dc^gie wCTit to France: a France hitherto un-
drefuuM of either by him or by any young English-
man; a France clean swept and garnished for war,
a France, save for the ubiquitous English soldiery,
of silent towns and empty villages and deserted
roads; a France of smiling fields and sorrowful
faces of women and drawn, patient faces of old men
— and even then, the women and old men were
rarely met by day, for they were at work on the
land, sohttu*y figures on the landscape, with vast
spaces between them. In the quiet townships Eng-
lish street signs and placarcfe conflicted with their
sense of being in friendly provincial France, and gave
the impression of foreign domination. For beyond
that long, grim line of eternal thunder, away over
there in the distance, which was called the Front,
street signs and placards in yet another ahen tongue
also outraged the serene genius of French urban
life. Yet our signs were a symbol of a mighty
Empire's brotherhood and the dimmed eyes that
bdheld the Place de la Fontaine transformed into
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146 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Holbom Circus" and the Grande Roe into "Pic-
cadilly," smiled, and the owners with eager courtesy
directed the stray Toromy to "Recent Street '
which they had known all their life as the Rue
FeuilUmaisnil — a word which Tommy could not
remember, still less pronounce. It was as much
as Tommy could do to get hold of an approximation
to the name of the town. And besides these re-
namings, other inscriptioDS flamed about the streets;
alphabetical hieroglyphs in which the mystic letters
H. Q. most often appeared; "This way to Uie
Y. M. C. A. hut"; in many hmnble windows the
startling announcement, "Washing done here."
British motor lorries and ambulances crowding
the little Place and ahgned along the avenues.
British faces, British voices, everywhere. The blue
uniform and blue helmet of a French soldier seemed
as incongruous though as welcome as in London.
And Uie straight, endless roads, so French with
their infinite border of poplars, their patient htUe
stones marking every hundred metres until the
tenth rose into the proud kilometre stone proclaim-
ing the distance to the next stately town, rang too
with the soimd of British voices, and the tramp of
British feet and the clatter of British transport,
and the screech and whiir of cars, reveahng as th^
passed the flash of red and gold of the British staff.
Yet the finely cultivated land remained to show
that it was France; and the little whitewashed
viflag^; the cur6 in shovel hat and rusty cassock;
the children in blue or black blouses, who stared as
the British troops went by; the patient, elderly
Territorials in their old pre-war uniforms, guarding
unthreatened culverta or repairing the roads; the
helpful signs set up in happier days by the Touring
Club of France.
Into this strange anomaly of a land came Doggie
with his draft, stiU half stup^ed by the remorse-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 147
lesffliess of the stupendous machine in which he had
been caught, in spite of his many months of training
in England. He had loathed the East Coast camp.
When he landed at Boulogne in the dark and pouring
retin, and hunched his pack with the others who
went off singing to the rest camp, he regretted East
' Give us a turn on the whistle, Doggie," said a
corporal.
' I was sea-sick into it and threw it overboard,"
he growled, stumbling over the rails of the quay.
' Oh, you holy young liarl" said the man next
him.
But Doggie did not trouble to reply, his neighbonr
being only a private like himself.
Then the draft joined its unit. In his youth
Doggie had often wondered at the meaning of the
faimuEir inscription on every goods-van in France:
"40 Hommes. 8 chevaux. ' Now he ceased to
wonder. He was one of the forty men. ... At
the rail-head he began to march and at last joined
the r^nnant of ms battahon. They had been
through hard fighting Emd were now in billets.
Until he joined them, he had not realised the drain
there had been on the reserves at home. Very
many famihar faces of officers were missing. New
men had taken their place. And ver^ many of
his old comrades had gone, some to Bbghty, some
West of that Island of Desire; and those who
remained had the eyes of children who had passed
throurfi the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
McPbail and Mo Shendish had passed through
unscathed. In the reconstruction of the regiment
chance willed that the three of them found them-
selves in the same platoon of A Company. Doggie
almost embraced them when they met.
"Laddie," said McPhail to him, as he was drink-
ing a mahogany coloured liquid, that was known
.ioogic
148 THE ROUGH ROAD
by the name of tea, out of a tin mug, and eating a
hunk of bread and jam, "I don't know whemer
or not I'm pleased to see you. You were safer in
England. Once I misspent many months of my
life in shielding you from the dangers of France.
But France is a much more dangerous place nowa-
days, and I can't help you. You ve oome right into
the thick of it. Just listen to the hell's delight
that's going on over yonder."
llie easterly wind brought them the roar streaked
with stridence of the aruUery duel in progress on
the nearest sector of the front.
They were sitting in the cellar entrance to a house
in a little town which had already been somewhat
mauled. Just opposite was a shuttered house on
the ground floor of which had been a hatter and
hosier's shop, and there still swui^ bravely on an
iron rod llie red brim of what once had been a mon-
strous red hat. Next door, the facade of the uppCT
stories had been shelled away, and the naked in-
teriors ^ve the impression of a pathetic doll's
house. Women's garments still swung on pe^.
A cottage piano lurched forward dnmkenly on
three legs, with the keyboard ripped open, the treble
notes on the ground, the bass mcongruously in the
air. In the attic, ironically secure, hung a cheap
Glerman print of blowsy children feeding a pig.
The wide, flag-stoned street smelt sour. At various
cavern diwrs sat groups of the billeted soldiers.
Now Emd then squads marched up and down,
monotonously clad in khaki and dun-coloured hel-
mets. Officers, some only recognisable by the
Sam Browne belt, others spruce and point-device,
passed by. Here and there a shop was open, and
the elderly proprietor and his wife stood by the
doorway to get the afternoon air. Women and
children straggled rarely through the streets. The
Boche had left the little town alone for some time;
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THE ROUGH ROAD 149
they had other things to do with their heavy guns;
and all the French population, save those whose
homes were reduced to nothin^ess, had remained..
Ihey took no notice of the distant bombardment.
It had grown to be a phenomenon of nature like
the wind and the rain.
Rut to Doggie it was new — r just as the si^t of
the wrecked house opposite, with its sturdy, crown-
less hat-brim of a sign, was new. He listened, as
McPhail had bidden him, to the artillery duel with
an odd little spasm of his heart.
" What do you think of that, nowP " asked McPhail
grandly, as ii it was The Greatest Show on Elartb,
run by him, 'the Proprietor.
"It's rather noisy,' said Doggie, with a little
ironical twist of his hps that was growing habituEd.
"Do they keep it up at nightP"
"Theydo."^
"I don't think it's fair to interfere with on^*s
sleep like that," said Doggie.
"You've got to adapt yourself to it," said McPhail
sagely. "No doubt you'll be remembering my
theory of adaptahiHty. Through that I've made
myseu into a very brave man. When I wanted to
run away — a very natural desire considering the
scrupulous attention I've always pedd to my bodily
well-being — I reflected on the preposterous ob-
stacles put in the way of flight by a boweUess
mihtary syatem, and adapted myself to the static
and dynamic conditions of the trenches."
"Gorblimel" said Mo Shendi^, stretched out by
his side; "listen to him!"
"I suppose you'll say you sucked 'honey out of
the shells, " remarked Doggie.
" I'm no great hand at mixing metaphors — "
"What about drinks?" asked Mo.
"Nor drinks either," replied McPhaiL "Both
are bad for the brain. Rut as to what you wtxe
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ISO THE ROUGH ROAD
saying, laddie, I'll not deny that I've derived cod-
Biderable interest and amusement from a bom-
baidment. Yet it has its sad aspect." He paused
for a moment or two. "Man," he continued,
"what an awful waste of moneyl"
"I don't know what old Mac is jawing about,"
said Mo Shendish, "but you can take it from me
he's a holy terror with the bayonet. One moment
he's talking to a Boche through his hat, and the
next the Boche is wriggling like a worm on a bent
pin."
Mo winked at Phineas. The temptation to "tell
the tale " to the new-comer was too strong.
Doggie grew very serious. "You've been killing
men like thatP"
"Thousands, laddie," replied Phineas, the picture
of unboastful veracity. 'And so hse our iron-
gutted — I would have said steel-inviscerated, but
he wouldn't understand it — comrade by my side."
Mo Shendish, helmeted, browned, dried, tough-
ened, a very different Mo from the paUid ferret
whom Aggie had driven into the ranks of war,
hunched hunself up, his hands clasping his knees.
"I don't mind doing it, when you're so excited
you don't know where you are," said he, "but I
don't like thinking of it afterwards."
As a matter of tact he had only once got home with
the bayonet, and the memory was very unpleasant.
" But you've just thought of it," said Phineas.
"It was you, not me, ' said Mo. "That makes
all the difference. "
"It's astcHiishing," Phineas remarked senten-
tiously, "how many people not only refuse to
catch pleasure as it flies, but spurn it when it sits
up and begs at them. Laddie," he turned to
Doggie, "the more one wallows in Hedonism, the
more one realises its unplumbed depths."
A little girl of ten, neatly pig-taued but piteously
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THE ROUGH ROAD 151
shod, came near, and seemed to cast a child's en-
vious eye on Dole's bread and jam.
"Approach, my little one, ' Phineas cried in
Frencn words but with the accent of Sauchiehall
Street. " If I gave you a &anc, what would you do
with it?"
"I should buy nourishment {de la noarritare)
for maman"
"Lend me a franc, laddie," said McPhail, and when
Doggie had slipped the coin into his pahn, he ad-
dr^sed the child in uninteUigihIe grandiloquence,
and sent her on her way mystified but rejoicing.
Ces bans droles d" Anglais!
"Ah, laddie," cned Phineas, stretching himself
out comfortably by the lintel of the door. "You've
got to learn to savour the exquisite pleasure of a
genuinely kindly act."
"Hold onl" cried Mo. "It was Doggie's money
you were fling tng about."
McPhail withered him with a glance.
"You're an unphilosophical ignoramus," said he.
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CHAPTER XII
PERHAPS one of the greatest influencee which
transformed Do^e into a fairly efficient
tliough imdistinffuiahed infEiutry-man was a
morbid sodeil terror ctf his ofBcers. It saved him
from many a guard-room, and from many a heart
to heart talk wherein the zealous lieutenant gets
to know his men. He lived in dread lest military
delinquence or civil accomplishment should be the
means of revealing the disgrace which bit like an
acid into his soul. His undisguisable air of superior
breeding could not fail to attract notice. Often
his officers a^ed him what he was in civil life.
His r^ly, "A clerk, sb," had to satisfy them. He
had developed a curious sdf-protective faculty of
shutting himself up like a hedgehog at the approach
o{ danger. Once a breezy subaltern had selected
him as his batman; but Doggie's agonised "It
woidd be awfully good of you, su", if you wouldn't
mind not thinking of it," and the appeal in his
eyes, established the freemasonry of caste and saved
huu from dreaded intimate relations.
"All right, if you'd rather not, Trevor," said the
subaltern. "But why doesn't a chap like you try
for a commission?"
"I'm much happier as I am, sir," replied Doggie,
and that was the end of the matter.
But Phineas when he heard of it — it was on the
East Coast — began: "If you still consider your-
self too fine to clean another man's boots — "
Do^e, in one of his quick fits of anger, inter-
rupted: "If you think I'm just a dirty httle snob.
THE ROUGH ROAD 153
if you don't understand why I begged to be let off,
you're the thickest-headed fool in crealioni"
" I'm nae that, laddie," replied Phineas, with his
usual ironic submissiveness. "Haven't I kept your
secret all this timeP"
Thus it was Doggie's fixed idea to lose himself
in the locust swarm, to be prominent neither for
good nor evU, even in the little clot of fifty, out^
wardly, abnost identical locusts that fonned hia
Elatoon. It braced him to the performance of
ideous tasks; it restrained him from display of
superior intellectual power or artistic capabuity.
The world upheaval had thrown him from his pea-
cock and ivory room, with its finest collection on
earth of little china dogs, into a horrible, fetid hole
in the ground in Northern France. It had thrown
not the average young Englishman of comfortable
position who had toyed with aesthetic superfidah-
lies as an amusement, but a poor httle by-product
of cloistered life who had been brought up from
babyhood to regard these things as the nervous
texture of his very existence. He was wrapped
from head to heel m fine net, to every tiny me^
of which he was acutely sensitive.
A hole in the ground in N'orthem France. The
regiment, after its rest, moved on and took its turn
in the trenches. Four days on; four days off.
Four days on of misery inconceivable. Four days
on, during which the officers watdied the men with
the unwavering vigilance of kindly cats.
"How are you getting along, Trevor?"
"Nicely, thank you, sir."
"Feet all right? '
"Yes, thank you, sir."
"Sure? If you want to grouse, grouse away.
That's what I'm talking to you for."
"I'm perfectly happy, sir."
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154 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Dam si^t more than I ami" laughed the sub-
altern and with a cheery nod in acknowledgment of
D^gie's salute, splashed down the muddy trench.
But Doggie was chilled to the bone, and he had
no feeling in his feet which were under six^inches of
water, and his woollen gloves, being wet throuj^,
were useless, and prevented his numbed hands
from feeling the sandbiigs with which he and the
rest of the platoon were repairing the parapet; for
the Germans had just consecrated an hour's general
hate to the vicinity of the trench, and its exquisite
symmetry, the pride of the platoon commander,
had been disturbed. There had also been a few
ghastly casualties. A sheU had fallen and burst
in the traverse at the far end of the trench. Stmie-
thing that looked like half a man's head and a bit
of shoulder had drc^ped just in front of the dug-out
where Dof^e and his section was sheltering. Doggie
staring at it was violently sick. In a stupefied way
he found himself minglmg with others who were
engaged in clearing up the horror. A murmur
reached him that it was Taffy Jones who had then
been dismembered. . . . The bombtu^meat over,
he had taken his place with the rest in the repara-
tion of the parapet; and as he happened to be at
an end of the Ime, the officer had spoken to him.
If he had been suffering tortures imknown to Attila
and unimagined by his successors, he would have
answered just the same.
But he lamented Taffy's death to Phineas, who
listened sympathetically. Such a cheery comrade,
such a smart soldier, such a kindly soul.
" Not a black spot in him," said Doggie.
"A year ago, laddie," said McPhail, 'what would
have been your opinion of a bookmak^'s cla'kP"
"I know," r^^ed Doggie. "But this isn't a
year ago. Just look round. '
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THE ROUGH ROAD 155
He lauded somewhat hysterically, for the fate
of Taffy had unstrung him for the time. Phineas
contemplated the length of deep, nairow ditch, with
its planks half swimming on filthy hquid, its wire
revetment holding up the oozing sides, the dingy
parapet above which it was death to put one's
head, the grey, free sky, the only thing free alone
that awful row of parallel ditches that stretched
from the Relgian coast to Switzerland, the clay-
covered, shapeless figures of men, their fdlows,
ahnost tmdistii^:uishable even by features from
"It has been borne upon me lately," said Phineas,
" that patriotism is an flTHflzing virtue."
Dt^gie drew a foot out of the mud so as to find
a less precarious purchase higher up the slope.
"And I've been thinking, Phineas, whether it's
really patriotisoi that has brought you and me into
this — what can we call it? Dante's Infrano is
child's play to it."
"Dante had no more ima^nation," said Phineas,
"than a Free Kirk precentor in Kirkcudbright."
"But is it patriotism?" Doggie persisted. "If
I thought it was, I should be happier. If we had
orders to go over the top and attack and I could
shout 'England for everl' and lose myself just in the
thick of it^"
"There's a brass hat coniing down the trench,"
said Phineas, "and brass hats have no use for
rhapsodical privates."
They stood to attention as the staff-ofScer passed
by. Then Doggie broke in impatiently:
"I widi to goodness you could understand what
I'm trying to get at."
A smile illuminated the gaunt, unshaven, mud-
caked face of Phine^ McPhaiL
"Laddie," 3£iid he, "let England as an abstraction
lead for itself. But you've a bonny English soul
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156 THE ROUGH ROAD
within you, and for that you are fifj^ting. And so
had poor Taffy Jones. And I have a bonny Scottish
thirst, the poignancy of which both of you have
been happily spared. I will leave you, laddie, to
seek in slumber a surcease irom martyrdom."
After one of the speUs ia the trenches, the worst
he had experienced, A Company was marched Lato
new billets some miles below the lines, in the once
prosperous village of Frelus. They had slouched
along dead tired, drooping under their packs, sodden
with mud and sleeplessness, silent, with not a note of
a song among them — but at the entrance to the
village, quickened by a word or two of exhortation
from officers and s^geants, they pulled themselves
together and marched in, heads up, forward, in fault-
less step. The G. O. was jealous of the honour of
Ids men. He assumed that his predecessors in the
village had been a "rotten lot," and was detenniaed
to snow the inhabitants of Frelus what a crack
English regiment weis really like. Frelus was an
unimportant, unheard of vuleige; but the opinion
of a thousand Freluses made up France's opinion
of the British Army. Doggie, although half stu-
pe6ed with fat^e, responded to the sentiment,
uke the rest. Ke was conscious of mnlciTig part of
a gallant show. It was only when they hsJted and
stood easy that he lost count of things. The wide
main street of the village swam characterless before
his eyes. He followed, not directions, but directed
men, with a sheeplike instinct, and found himself
stumbling through an archway down a narrow path.
He had a dim consciousness of lurching sideways
and confusedly apologising to a woman who sup-
ported him back to equilibrium. Then the next
thing he saw was a bam full of fresh straw, and when
somebody pointed to a vacant strip, he fell down,
with many others, and went to sleep.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 157
The reveille sounded a minute afterwards, though
a whole night had passed; and there was the bleaaed
dean water to wash in — he had long since ceased
to be fastidious in his ablutions — and there was
breakfast, sizzling bacon and bread and jam. And
there, in front of the kitchen, aiding with hot water
for the tea, moved a slim girl, with dark, and as
Doggie thought, tragic eyes.
Kit inspecticm, feet inspection, all the duties of
the day and dinner were over. Most of the men
returned to their billets to sleep. Some, induding
Dc^gie, wandered about the vills^, taking tlie air,
and visitiog the little modest caf<§s and talking with
indifferent success, so far as the interchange of
articulate ideas was concerned, with shy children.
McPhail and Mo Shendisb being among the sleepers,
Doggie mooned about by himself in his usual self-
effacing way. There was little to interest him in
the long, straggling village. He had passed throu^
a hundred such. Low, whitewashea houses int^-
spersed with perky, balconied buildings, given over
to httle shops on the ground floor, with here and
there a discreet iron gate shutting off the doctor's
or the attorney's villa, and bearing the oval plate
indicating the name and pursuit of the tenant;
with here and there, too, long, whitewashed walls
enclosing a dairy or a timber yard, stretched on each
side pf the great high road, and the village gradually
dwindled away at each end into the gently undulat-
ing country. There were just a bye lane or two, one
leading up to the htUe grey church and presbytery,
and another to the Uttle c^netery with its trim paths
and black and white wooden crosses and wirework
{rious offerings. At open doors the British soldiers
ounged at ease, and in the dim interiors behind
them the forms of the women of the house, blue
aproned, moved to and £ro. The early aftemorai
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158 THE ROUGH ROAD
-was warm, a westerly breeze deadened the sound of
the distant bombardment to an unheeded drone,
and a holy peace settled over the place.
Doggie, clean, refreshed, comfortably drowsy,
having explored the village, retmned to his billet,
and lookii^ at it from the opposite side of the way,
for the first time realised its natm«. The lane into
which he had stumbled the night before ran under
an archway supporting some kind of overhead
diamber, and separated the dwelling house from a
a warehouse wall on which vast letters proclaimed the
fact that Veuve Morio et Fils carried on therein
the business of hay and com dealers. Hence,
Doggie reflected, the fresh, deep straw on whit^
he emd his fortunate comrades had wallowed.
The double gate under the archway was held back
by iron stancheons. The two^toried house looked
fairly large and comfortable. The front door stood
wide open, giving the view of a neat, stiff httle hall
or living-room. An article of furniture caught his
idle eye. He crossed the road in order to have a
nearer view. It was a huge, polished nudiogany
cask standing about four feet high, bound with
shining brass bands, such as he remembered having
seen once in Brittany. He advanced still closer,
Emd suddenly the shm, dark girl appeared and stood
in the doorway and looked frankly and somewhat
rebukingly into bis inquisitive eyes. Doggie flushed
as one caught in an unmannerly act. A crying
fault of the British Army is that it prescribes for
the rank and file no form of polite recognition of the
existence of civilians. It is contrary to Army Order
to salute or to take off their caps. They can only
jerk their heads and grin, a gauche proceeding whim
^aces them at a disadvantage with the fair sex.
Do^e, therefore, sketched a vague salutation
hfdfway between a salute and a bow, and began a
profuse apology. Mademoiselle must pardon his
THE ROUGH ROAD 159
curiosity, but as a lover of old things he had been
struck by the beautiful toimeau.
An amused light came into her sombre eyes, and a
smile flickered round her lips. Do^e noted in-
stantly how pale she was, and how tmy, faint, little
lines persisted at the comers of those Hpa, in spite
of the smile.
"There is no -reason for excuses. Monsieur," she
said. "The door was open to the view of everybody."
"Pourtonf," said Doggie, "c'^taiiunpeumal&lhL"
She laughed. "Pardon. Hut it's droll. First
to find an English soldier apolt^ising for looking
into a house, and then to find bun talking French
like a poila"
Doggie said, with a little touch of national jeal-
ousy and a reversion to Durdlebury punctilio: "I
hope, Mademoiselle, you have always foimd the
English soldier conduct himself like a gentleman."
* Mais oui, mais oui!" she cried. 'They are €ill
charming. lis sonl doux comme des mouions. But
this is a question of delicacy ^ somewhat exag-
gerated."
" It's good of you. Mademoiselle, to fo^ve me,"
said Doggie.
By all the rules of pohte intercoiu-se, either Doggie
shoidd have made his bow and exit, or the maiden,
exercising her prerogative, should have given him
the opportunity of graceful withdrawal. But they
remained where they were, the girl framed by the
doorway, the lithe httle figure in kbakl and lichen-
coloured helmet looking up to her from the foot of
the two front steps.
At last he said in some embarrassment: "That's
a very beautiful cask of yours."
She wavered for a few seconds. Then she said:
"You can enter. Monsieur, and examine it, if
you like."
Mademoiaelle was very amiable, said Doggie.
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160 THE ROUGH ROAD
MademoiseDe moved aside Eind Doggie eatered,
taking off his helmet and holding it under his arm
like an opera-hat. There was nothing much to see
in the little vestibule-parlour: a stiff, tasselled
chair or two, a great old lioen press, taking up most
of one side of a wall, a cheap table covered with a
chenille tablecloth, and the resplendent old cask,
about which he lingered. He mentioned Britttiny.
Her tramc face lif^ted up aeain. Monsieur was
right Her aunt, Madame Moriu, was Breton,
and had brought the cask with her as part of
her dowry, t<^ether with the press and other
furniture. Doggie alluded to the vtistly lettered
inscri^ptioa, "Veuve Morin et Fils." Madame Morin
was, m a sense, his hostessP And the son?
"Alas, Monsieurl"
And Doggie knew what that "alasl" meant.
" Where, MademoiselleP "
"The Argonne."
"And Madame your aunt?"
She shrugged her thin though shapely shouldo^
"It nearly killed her. She is a little old Eind an
. invalid. She has been in bed for the last three
weeks."
"Then what becomes of the buMness?"
"It is I, Monsieur, who am the busioess. And I
know nothing about it." She sighed. Then with
her blue apron — otherwise she was dressed in
unrelieved black — she rubbed an imaginary speck
from the brass banding of the cask. "This, I
suppose you know, was for the best brandy. Mon-
sieur."
"And now?" he asked.
"A memory. A sentiment. A thing of beauty."
In a feminine way which he understood she herded
him to tiie door, by way of dismissal. Durdlebury
helped him. A tiny French village has as many
slanderous tongues as an English cathedral dty.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 161
He was preparing to take pdite leave when she
looked swifUy at nim, and made the faintest gesture
of a detaining hand.
"Now I remember. It was you who nearly fell
into me last night, when you were entering through
Uiegate."
The dim recolIectioQ came back — the firm
woman's arm round him for the few tottering seconds.
"It se^ns I am always bound to be impolite, for
I don't think I thanked you," uniled Dc^gie.
"You were at the end of your tet£er," Then
very gently, "Paaore gar^on!"
"The sales Baches had kept us awake for four
nights," said Doggie. "That was why."
'And you are rested now?"
He lauded. "Almost."
They wwe at the doca". He looked out and drew
back. A knot of men were gathered by the gate
of the yard. Apparently she had seen them too,
for a fli^ rose to ner pale cheeks.
"Mademoiselle," said Doggie, "I should like to
creep back to the bam and sleep. K I pass my
comrades they'll want to detain me."
"That would be a pity," she said domu^ly.
"Come this way. Monsieur."
She led him through a room and a passage to the
kitchen. They shared a pleasurable sense of adven-
ture and secrecy. At the kitchen door she paused
and spoke to an old womEin chopping up vegetables.
"Toinette, let Monsieur pass." To Doggie she
said: "Au remir. Monsieur, ' and disappeared.
The old woman looked at him at first with dis-
favour. She did not hold with Tommies needlessly
tramping over the dean flags of her kitchen. But
Doggie's pohte apology for disturbing b^, and a
youthful grace of manner — he still lield his tin-
hat imder his arm — caused her features to relax.
"You are English?"
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162 THE ROUGH ROAD
With a smile he indicated his uniform. "Why,
yes, Madame."
"How comes it then that you speak Frendi?'*
"Because I have always loved your beautiful
France, Madame."
"France — ah! la paavre France!" She sighed,
drew a wisp of what had been a comet of snuff from
her pocket, opened it, dipped in a tentative fin^r
and thumb and, finding it ranpty, eazed at it with
disappointment, sighed again, and with the me-
thodical hopelessness of age folded it up into the
neatest of Uttle squares and thrust it l^ck in her
pocket. Then she went on with her ve^tables.
Dogffje took his leave emd emerged mto the yard.
He dozed pleastintly on the straw of the bam, but
it was not the dead ^eep of the night. Bits of his
recent little adventure fitted into the semi-con-
scious intervals. He heard the girl's voice saying
so gently: "Paavre gargon!" and it was very com-
forting.
He was finally aroused by Phineas and Mo Shen-
dish, who, having slept like tired dogs some distance
off down the b^rn, now desired his company for a
stroll round the village. Doggie good-naturedly
assented. As they pa^ed the house door be cast
a quick glance. It was open, but the slim figure in
black with the blue apron was not visible within.
The shining cask, however, seemed to smile a friendly
greeting.
" If you beheved the London papers," said Phia^us,
"you'd Uiink that the war-worn soldier coming
from the trenches is met behind the lines with
luxurious Turkish baths, comfortable warm canteens,
and Picture Palaces and theatrical entertainments.
Can you perceive here any of those amenities of
modem waifareP "
They looked around them and admitted that
they did not.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 163
"Apparraitly," said Phineas, "the Colonel, good
but IJinited man, has missed all the proper places,
and dumps us in localities unrecogmsed by the
London Press."
'"Put me on the pier at Brighton,'" sang Mo
Shendish. "But I'd sooner have Margit or Yar-
mouth any day. Brighton's too tofBsh for whelks.
My! and cockles I I wonder whether we shall
ever eat 'em again." A far-away, dreamy look
crept into his eyes.
' Does your young lady like cocklesP" Doggie
asked sympathetically.
"Aggie? Funny thing, I was just thinking of
her. She fair dotes on 'em. We had a day at
Southend just before the war — "
He launched into tinecdote. His companions
listened, Phineas ironically carrying out his theory
of adaptability. Doggie with finer instinct. It
appeared there bad been an altercation over right
of choice with an itinerant vendor in which, to
Aggie's admiration. Mo had come off triumphant.
* You see," he explained, "being in the fish trade
myself, I could spot the winners."
James Marmaduke Trevor of Denby Hall laughed
and slapped him on the back, and said indulgently :
"Good old Mo I"
At the httle sdiool-house they stopped to gossip
with some of their friends who were billeted there,
and they sang the praises of the Veuve Morin's
bam.
" I wonder you don't have the house full of officers,
if it's so wonderful," said someone.
An omniscient corporal, in the confidence of the
Quarter Master, explained that the landlady being
iU in bed £md the place run by a young girl, the house
had been purposely missed. Doggie drew a breath of
relief at the news, and attribute Madame Morin's
malady to the intervention of a kindly providence.
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164 THE ROUGH ROAD
ScHuebow he did not fancy officers having the run
of the house.
They strolled on and came to a forlorn little DS}it
de TtuxK, showing in its small window some day
pipes and a few flyblown i>icture postcards. Now
Doggie, in spite of his training in adversity, had
never resigned himself to "Woodbines" and other
such brands supplied to the British Army, and,
Egyptian and Turkish being beyond his social pale,
he had taken to smoking French R6gie tobacco, of
which he laid in a stock whenever he had the chance.
So now he entered the shop, leaving Phii^eas and
Mo outside. As they looked on French cigarettes
with sturdy British contempt, they were not in-
terested in Doggie's purchases. A wan girl of thir-
teen rose from behind the counter,
" Vous desirez. Monsieur?"
Doggie stated his desire. The girl was calculating
the price of the packets before wrapping them up,
when his eyes feU upon a neat little pile of cornets m
a pigeon-hole at the back. They directly suggested
to him one of the great luminous ideas of his life.
It was only afterwards that he realised its effulgence.
For the moment he was merely concerned with the
needs of a poor old womEui who had sighed lament-
ably over an empty paper of comfort.
' Do you sell snufif?"
"But yes, Monsieur."
" Give me some of the best quality."
"How much does Monsieur desire?"
"A lot," said Doggie.
And he bought a great package, enough to set
the whole vill^e Nieezing to the end of the war,
and peering round the tiny shop and espying in the
recesses of a glass case a little mive-wood box, orna-
mented on the top with pansies and forget-me-nots,
purchased that also. He had just paid when his
companions put their heads in the doorway. Mo
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THE ROUGH ROAD 165
pointiiiK wa^ishly to Doggie, warned the little girl
against his depravity.
"Mauvy, mauvyl" aaid he.
"Qu'esi-ce qu'il dit?" Eisked the diild.
"He's the idiot of the regiment whom I have to
look after and feed with pap," said Doggie, "and,
being hur^ry, he is begging you not to detain me."
"Mon, Diea!" cried the child.
Doggie, always courteous, went out with a "Bon
soir. Mademoiselle," and joined his friends.
"What were you jabbering to her about?" Mo
asked suspiciously.
Doggie gave him the literal translation of bis
speech. Phineas burst into loud laughter.
"Laddie," said he, "I've never heard you make a
joke before. The idiot of the regiment and you're
lus keeper I Man, that's fine. Wnat has come over
you toAiay?"
"If he'd a-said a thing like that in Mare Street,
Hackney, I'd have knocked his blinking 'ead orf,"
declared Mo Shendish.
Doggie stopped and put bis parcel-filled hands
behind his back.
"Have a try now. Mo."
But Mo bade him fry his ugly face, and thus
established harmony.
It was late that evening before Doggie could find
an opportunity of shppmg, unobserved, through
the open door into the house kitchen dimly illumi-
nated by an oil lamp.
"Madame," said ne to Toinette, "I observed to-
day that you had come to the end of your snuff.
Wm you permit an English soldier to give you someP
Also a little box to keep it in?"
The old woman, spare, myriad-wrinkled beneath
her peasant's coiffe, yet looking as if carved out of
weather-beaten elm, glanced from the gift to the
donof and from the donor to the gift.
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166 THE ROUGH ROAD
"But, Monsieur — Monaieur — why?" she be-
gan quaveringly.
"You surely have someone — Ih-bas — over yon-
derP" said Dog^e with a sweep of his hand.
"Maisoui? How did you know? My grandson.
A/or petioi — "
"It is he, my comrade, who sends the snu£F to the
grantTn^re."
And Doggie bolted.
ec by Google
CHAPTER XIII
AT breakfast next morning Doggie searched
the courtyard in vjiin for the sum figure of
the girl. Yesterday she had stood just out-
aide the kitchen door. ToKlay her office was usun»ed
by a hefty cook with the sleeves of his grey shirt
rolled up and his collar open, and vast and tight-
hitdied braces unromantlcally strapped all over
him. Doggie felt a p£ing of disappointment, and
abused the tea. Mo Snendish stared and asked what
was wrong with it.
"Rotten," said Doggie.
"You can't expect yer ^p-up City A. B. C.
8hm)8 in France," said Mo.
Dc^gie, who was beginning to acquire a sense of
rueful tumour, smiled and was appeased.
It was only in the afternoon that he saw the girl
again. She was standing in the doorway of the
bouse, with her hand on her bosom, as though she
had just come out to breathe Iresh air, when Doggie
and his two friends emerged Irom the yard. As
their eyes met, she greeted him with her sad little
smile. Emboldened, he stepped forward.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle*'
"Bonjour, monsieur."
" I hope, madame, your aunt is better to-day."
She seemed to derive some dry amusement from
his solicitude.
"Alas, no, monsieur."
"Was that why I had not the pleasure of seeing
you this morning?"
"Where?"
"Yesterday yoa filled our tea-kettles."
167
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168 THE ROUGH ROAD
"But, monsieur," she replied primly, "I am not
the vivandi^re of the regiment."
"That's a pity," laughed Doggie.
Then he became aware of the adjacent fonns and
staring eyes of Pbineas and Mo, who for the first time
in their military career beheld turn on easy terms with
a strange and prepossessing youi^ woman. After a
second's thougnt ne came to a diplomatic decision.
"Mademoiselle," said he in his best Durdlebury
manner, "may I dare to present my two comrades,
my best friends in the battalion. Monsieur McPhail,
Monsieur Shendish?"
She made them each a Httle formal bow, and then
somewhat maliciously, addressii^ McPhail, as the
bigger and the elder of the two.
' I don't yet know the name of your friend."
Phineas put his great hand on Doggie's shoulda*.
"James Marmaduke Trevor."
"Otherwise called Doggie, Miss," said Mo.
She made a little graceful gesture of non-cran-
prehension.
"Non compree?" asked Mo.
"No, Monsieur."
Pbineas explained in his rasping and ccauciously
translated French.
" It is a nickname of the regiment. Doggie."
The flushed and embarrassed subject of the dis-
cussion saw her lips move silently to the word.
"But his name is Trevor. Monsieur Trevor,"
said Phineas.
She smiled again. And the strange tbii^ about
her smile was uiat it was a matter of her ups and
rarely of her eyes, which always maintaii^ the
haunting sadness of their tragic depths.
"Monsieur Trevor," die repeated, imitatively.
"And yours. Monsieur?"
"McPhail."
"McFSle; c'est asgez difficile. And yours?"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 169
Mo guessed. "Shendish," said be.
She repeated that also, whereat Mo griimed
fatuously, showing his little yellow teeth beneath
his scrubby red moustache.
"My friends call me Mo," said he.
Sbe grasped his meaning. "Mo," she said; and
she said it so fimnily and Boftly, and with ever so
little a touch of ouizzicality, that the sentimental
warrior roared with delight.
"You've got it right fust time. Miss."
From her two steps height of vantage, she looked
down on the three upturned British faces — and
her eyes went calmly from one to the other.
She turned to Doggie. "One would say, Mon-
sieur, that you were the Three Musketeers, '
"Possibly, Mademoiselle," laughed Doggie. He
had not felt so ligbt-hearted for many months.
"But we lack a d'Artagnan."
"When you find him, bring him to me," said tibie
girl.
"Mademoiselle," said Phineas gallantly, "we
would not be such imbeciles."
At that moment the voice of Toinette came from
within.
"Ma'amselle Jeannel Ma'amselle Jeanne!"
"Out, out, j'y viens," she cried. Bon soir.
Messieurs," and she was gone.
Doggie looked into the empty vestibule and
smiled at the friendly brandy cask. Provided it is
pronounced correctly so as to rhyme with the
English "Anne," it is a very pretty name. Doggie
thought she looked like Jeanne — a Jeanne d'Arc
of this modem war.
" Yon's a very fascinating lassie," Phineas remarked
soberly, as they started on their stroll. "Did you
happen to observe that €ill the time ^e was tallung
so prettily she was looking at ghosts behind us? "
Do you think so?" asked Doggie, startled.
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170 THE ROUGH ROAD
" Man, I know it," replied Phlneas.
"Ghosts be blowedl" cried Mo Shendish. "She's
a bit of orl ri^t, she is. What I cfiU class. Do^n't
chuck 'CTself at yer 'ead, like some of 'em, and, on
the other 'and, has none of yer blooming stand-
orfishness. See what I meanP' He clutched them
each by an arm — he was between them. "Look
'ere. How do you think I could pick up this blink-
ii^ lingo — quick? "
'Make violent love to Toinette and ask her to
teach you. There's nothing like it," said Doggie.
"Who's Toinette?"
"The nice old lady in the kitchen."
Mo flung his arm away. "Oh, go and boil your-
self I "said he.
But the niflking of love to the old woman in the
kitdien led to possibihties of which Mo Shendish
never dreamed. They never dawned on Doggie
until he found himself at it that evening.
It was dusk. The men were lounging and smoking
Etbout the coiutyard. Doggie, who had long since
exchanged poor Taffy Jones's imperfect penny
whistle for a scientific musical instrument ordered
from Bond Street, was playing, with his sensitive
skill, the airs they loved. He had just finished
"Annie Laurie" — "Man," Phineets used to declare,
"when Doggie Trevor plays 'Annie Laurie,' he has
the pow^ to take your heart by the strings and drag
it out through your eyes" — he had just come to
the end of this popular and gizzard-piercing tune
and received his meed of applause, when Toinette
came out of the kitchen, two great ziuc crocs in her
hands, and crossed to Ibe pump in the comer of the
yard. Three or four would-be pumpers, among
them Do^e, went to her aid.
"All n^t, mother, we'll see to it," said one of
them.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 171
So they pumped and filled the crocs, and one man
got hold of one and Doggie bold of another, and they
carried them to the kitchen steps.
"Merci, Monsieur" said Toinette to the first;
and he went away with a friendly nod. But to
Doggie she said ' Bnlrez, Monsieur." And Mon-
sieur carried the two crocs over the threshold and
Toinette shut the door behind him. And there,
sitting over some needlework in a comer of the
kitchen by a lamp, sat Jeanne.
She looked up rather startled, frowned for the
brief part of a second and regarded him enquiringly.
"I Drought in Monsieur to show him the photo-
gra^ of mon petiot, the comrade who sent me the
snuif," explained Toinette, rummaging in a cup-
board.
"May I stay and look at it?" asked Do^e,
buttoning up his tunic.
" Mais parfailement, Monsieur," said Jeanne.
" It is Toinette's kitchen. "
"Bien s&r," said the old woman, turning with the
^olograph, that of a sohd young infantryman.
Doggie made polite r^narks. Toinette put on a
pair of silver-rimmed spectacles and scanned the
picture. Th^i she handed it to Jeanne.
"Don't you think there is a great deal of resem-
blance?"
Jeanne directed a comparing glance at Doggie
and smiled.
" Like two little soldiers in a pod," she said.
Toinette talked of her peliol who was at St. Mlhiel.
It was far away, v^y far. She sighed as though
he were fighting remote in the Caucasus.
Presently came the sharp ring of a bell. Jeanne
put aside her work and rose.
" It is my aunt who has awakened."
But Toinette was already at the door. " I will go
up, Ma'amselle Jeanne. Do not derange yourself."
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172 THE ROUGH ROAD
She bustled away. Once more the pair found
themselves alone together.
"If you don't continue your sewing, Madanoi-
selle," said Doggie, "I shall think that I am dis-
turbing you, and must bid you good-night."
Jeanne sat down and resumed her work. A sen-
sation more like laughter than anything else fluttered
round Doggie's heart.
" Voulez-^x)us vous asseoir, Monsieur — Trewr?"
" Vous iles bien aimable, Mademoiselle Jeanne,"
said Doggie, sitting down on a straight backed chair
by the oil-cloth covered kitchen table which was
between them.
"May I move the lamp slightly?" he asked, for
it hid her from his view.
He moved it somewhat to her left. It threw
shadows over her features, accentuating their
appealing sadness. He watched her and thought
ca McPDaQ's words about the ghosts. He noted
too, as ihe needle went in and out of the fab-
ric, that her hands, though roughened by coarse
work, were fiu^ made, with long fingers and
delicate wrists. He broke a silence that grew em-
barrassing.
"You seem to have suffered greatly, Mademoiselle
Jeanne," he sfiid softly.
Her lips quivered. " Mais oui, Monsieur."
" Monsieur Trevor," he said.
She put her hands and needlework in her lap and
looked at him full.
"And you too have suffered."
"I? Oh, no."
" But yes, I have seen too much of it not to know.
I see in the eyes. Your two comrades to-day —
they are good fellows — but they have not suffered.
You are different."
"Not a bit," he dedared. "We're just little in-
distinguishable bits of the conglomerate Tommy."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 173
"And I, Monsieur, have the honour to say that
you are different."
This was very flattering. More — it was sweet
unction, grateful to many a Imilse.
"How?" said he.
"You do not belong to their world. Your Tom-
mies are wonderful in their kindness and chivalry —
until I met them I had never seen an Fngliahnmn in
my life — I had imbecile ideas — I thought they
would be without manners — un pea insidlants.
I found I could walk among them, without fear, as
if I were a princess. It is true."
"It is because you have the air of a princess,"
said Doggie; "a sad, httle disguised princess of a
fairy tale, who is recognised by aJl the wild boars
and rabbits in the wood."
She glanced aside. "There isn't a woman in
Fr^lus who is differently treated. I am only an
ignorant girl, half bourgeoise, half peasant. Mon-
sieur, but I have my woman's knowledge — and I
know there is a difference between you and the
others. You are a son of good family. It is
evident. You have a delicacy of mind and of feeling.
You wCTe not bom to be a soldier."
"Mademoiselle Jeanne," cried Doggie, "do I
appear as bad as thatP Do you take me for an
enwusqu^ manque?"
Now an ert^usqui is a slacker who Ues in the safe
ambush of a soft job. And an endmsqui manquk is
a slacker who fortuitously has failed to win the
fungus wreath of slackerdom.
She flushed deep red.
"Je ne sais pas maUtormSk, Monsieur."
Doggie spread himself elbow-wise over the table.
The girl's visible register of moods was fasci-
nating.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle Jeanne. You are quite
right. But it's not a question of what I was bom
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174 THE ROUGH ROAD
to be — but what I was trained to be. I waEoi't
trained to be a soldier. But I do my best."
She looked at him waveringly.
"Forgive me, Mademoiselle. '
"But you fladi out on the point of honour."
Doggie laughed. "Which shows that I have the
essential of the soldier."
Doggie's manner was not without charm. She
relented.
"You know very well what I mean," she said re-
bukingly. "And you don't deserve that I should
tell it to you. It was my intention to say that you
have samficed many things to make yourself a
simple soldier."
"Only a few idle habits," said Doggie.
"You joined, like the rest, as a volunteCT?"
"Of course."
"You abandoned everything to fight for your
country?"
Under the spell of her dark eyes Doggie said, as
he had said to Phineas after] the going West of
Taffy Jones, "I think. Mademoiselle Jeanne, it
was rather to fight for my soul."
She resumed ner sewing. "That's what I meant
long ago," she remarked with the first draw of the
needle. "No one could fight for his soul without
passing through suffering.' She went on sewing.
Doggie, shrinking from a reply that might have
sounded fatuous, remained silent; but he realised a
wonderful faculty of aanprehension in Jeanne.
After a while he said: "Where did you learn all
your wisdom. Mademoiselle Jeanne?"
"At the convent, I suppose. My father gave me
a good education."
* An Enghsh poet has said * Knowledge comes, but
wisdom lingers " — Doggie had rather a fight to
express the meaning exactly in French — "You
don't gatlier wisdcon in convents."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 175
" It is true. Since then I have seen many things."
She stared across the room, not at Doggie, and
he thought again of the ghosts.
"Tell me some of them. Mademoiselle Jeanne,"
he said in a low voice.
She shot a swift glance at him, and met his honest
brown eyes.
"I saw my father killed in firont of me," she said
in a strange, narsh voice.
"My Godl" said Do^e.
"It was on the Retreat. We lived in Cambrai,
my father and mother and I. He was an awaL
Wnen we heard the Germans were coming, father,
somewhat of an invahd, decided to fly. He had
heard of what they had already done in Belgium.
We tried to go by train. Pas moyen. We took to
the road, with many others. We could not get a
horse — we had postponed our flight till too late.
Only a hand cart with a few necessaries and precious
thii^. And we walked until we nearly died of
heat and dust and gnef. For our hearts were very
heavy. Monsieur. The roads, too, were full of the
Engl^ in retreat. I shall not tell you what I saw
of the wounded by the roadside. 1 sometimes see
th^n now in my dreams. And we were helpless.
We thought we would leave the main roads, and at
last we got lost fmd found ourselves in a Httle wood.
We sat down to rest and to eat. It was cool and
pleasant, and I laughed, to cheer my parents, for
they knew how I loved to eat imder the freshness of
the trees." She shivered. "I hope I diaU never
have to eat a meal in a wood again. We had scarcely
b^un when a body of cavalry with strange pointed
helmets rode along the path and, seeing us, halted.
My mother, half dead with terror, cried out, ' Mon
Dieu, ce soni des Uhlans !' The leader, I suppose an
officer, called out something in German. My
father replied. I do not understand German, so
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176 THE ROUGH ROAD
I did not know Etnd shall never know what they
said. But my father protested in anger, and stood
in front of the horse making gestures. And then
the ofBcer took out his revolver and shot him through
the heart, and he fell dead. And the murderer
turned his horse's head round and he laughed. He
laud^ed. Monsieur."
"Danm himi" said Doggie, in Knglish. "Damn
himl"
He gazed deep into Jeanne's dark, tearless eyes.
She continued in the same even voice:
" My mother became mad. She was a peasant, a
Bretonne, where the blood is fierce, and she screamed
and clung to the bridle of the horse. And he rode
her down and the horse trampled on her. Then he
pointed at me, who was supporting the body of my
father, and three men dismounted. But suddenly
he heard something, gave an order and the men
momited again, and they all rode away laughing and
jeering, and the last man, in bad French, shouted
at me a foul insult. And I was there. Monsieur
Trevor, with my father dead and my mother stunned
and bruised and bleeding."
Doggie, sensitive, quivered to the girl's tragedy.
He said with tense face :
"God give me strength to kill every Grennan I
seel" She nodded eJowIy. "No German is a human
being. If I were God, I wouM extenninate the
accursed race like wolves."
"You are right," said Doggie. A short dlence
fell. He asked: "What happened thenP"
"Mon Dieu, I almost forget. I was overwhelmed
with grief and horror. Some hours afterwards a
small body of F.n glish infantry came — many of them
had bloodstainea bandages. An oflBcer, who spoke
a little French, questioned me. I told hhn what had
happened. He spoke with another officer, and be-
cause I recognised the word 'Uhlans,' I knew tiiey
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THE ROUGH ROAD 177
were aimous about the patrol. They asked me
the way to srane place — I forget where. But I
was lost. They lo^ed at a map. Meanwhile my
mother had recovered consdouisuess. I gave her a
little wine from the bottle we had opened for our
repast. I happened to look at the officer and saw
him pass his tongue over his cracked hps. All the
men had thrown themselves down by the side of the
Toad. I handed him the bottle and the httle tin
cup. To my surprise he did not drink. He said
'Mademoiselle, this is W£ir, and we are all in very
freat peril. My men are dying of thirst, and if you
ave any more of the wine, give it to them, and they
will do their utmost to conduct your mother ana
yourself to a place of safety.' Alas! there were only
three bottles in our httle panier of provisions. Natu-
rally I gave it all — t(^ther with the food. He
called a sergeant, who took the provisions and dis-
tributed them, while I was tending my mother.
But I noticed that the two officers took neither bite
nor sup. It was only afterwards. Monsieur Trevor,
that I realised I had seen your great English gentle-
men. . . . Then they dug a little grave, & pomte des
baianneUes, for my father. ... It was soon
finished . . . the deinger was grave . . . and some
soldiers took a rope imd pulled the hand cart, with
my mother lying on top of our little possessions,
and I walked with them, until the whole of my life
was blotted out with fatigue. We got on to the
Route Nationale again and mingled again with the
Retreat. And in the nu;ht, as we were still march-
ing, there was a halt. I went to my mother. She
was cold, Monsieur, cold and stiff. She was dead."
She paused tragically. After a few moments
shecontmued:
"I fainted. I do not know what happened till I
recovered consciousness at dawn. I found myself
wrai^>ed in one of our blankets lying under the
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178 THE ROUGH ROAD
handcart. It was the market square of a UtUe
town. And there were many — old men and women
and children, refugees like me. I rose and found a
paper — a leaf torn from a notebook — fixed to
the handcart. It was from the oflBcer, bidding me
farewell. MiHtary necessity forced him to go on
with bis men — but be bad kept his word and brouj^t
me to a place of safety. . . . That is bow I m^t
met the English, Monsieur Trevor. They had
carried me, I suppose, on the handcart, all night,
they who were broken with weariness. I owe
them my life and my reason."
"And your mother?"
"How should I know? EUe esl resIM lA-has"
abe rephed simply.
She went on with her sewing. Dogae wondered
how her hand could be so steady. There was a
long silence. What words, save vain imprecations
on the accursed race, were adequate? Presently
her glance rested for a second or two on his sensitive
face.
"Why do you not smoke, Monsieur Trevor?"
"May I?"
"Of course. It cahns the nerves. I ought not to
have saddened you with my griefs."
Doggie took out bis pink packet and ht a cigarette.
"You are very understanding. Mademoiselle
Jeanne. Rut it does a selfish man like me good to be
saddened by a story like yours. I have not had
much opportunity in my life of feeling for another's
suffering. And smce the war — I am abruti."
"You? Do you think if I had not found you
sympatiqae, I should have told you all this?"
"You have paid me a great compliment, Made-
moiselle Jeanne." Then, after a while he asked,
"From the market square of the little town you
found means to come here?"
"Alas, no!" she said, putting h^ work in her lap
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THE ROUGH ROAD 179
again. "I made my way, with my charreUe — it
was easy — to om' original destination, a little fann
belonging to the eldest brother of my father. The
Farm of La Folette. He lived there alone, a
widower, with his farm servants. He had no
children. We thought we were safe. Alas! news
came that the Germans were always advancing.
We had time to fly. All the farmhands fled, except
P^re Grigou, who loved him. But my imcle was
obstiaate. To a Frendiman the soil he possesses is
his flesh and his hlood. He would die rather than
leave it. And my uncle had the murder of my father
and mother on his hrsdn. He told P^ Grigou to
take me away, but I stayed with him. It was P^re
Grigou who forced ns to hide. That lasted two
days. There was a well in the farm, and one night
P^re Grigou tied up my money and my mother's
jewelry and my father's papers, enfin, aU the precious
things we had, in a packet of waterproof and sank
it with a long string down the well so that the
Germans could not und It. It was foolish, but he
insisted. One day my imcle and P^re .Grigou went
out of the little copse where we had been mding, in
order to reconnoitre, for he thought the Germans
might be going away; and my imcle, who would
not listen to me, took his gun. Presentiy I heard
a shot — and then another. You can guess what
it meimt. And soon P^ Grigou came, white
and shaking with terror. 'II en a Uii an, el on Fa
tui!'"
"MyGodI" said Dc^^e again.
"It was terrible," ^e stiid. "But they were in
their right."
"And then?"
"We lay hidden imtil it was dark — how they did
not find us I don't know — and then we escaped
across country. I thought of coming here to my
Aunt Morin, which is not far from I^ Folette, but
180 THE ROUGH ROAD
I reflected that soon the Boches would be here
also. And we went on. We got to a high road —
and once more I was among troops and r^ugees. I
met some kind folks in a carriage, a Monsieur and
Madame Tarride, and they took me in. And so
I got to Paris, where I had the hoapitality of a friend
of the Convent, who was married.
"And P^re Grigou?"
"He insisted on going back to bury my uncle.
Nothing could move him. He had not parted from
him aU his life. They were foster-brothers. Where
he is now, who knowsP " She mused, looked again
at her ghosts, and continued: "That is all. Monsieur
TVevor. The Germans passed through here and re-
passed on their retreat, and, as soon as it was safe,
I came to help my aunt, who was souffrarUe, and had
lost her son. Also because I could not live on charity
on my friend, for, wyez-vous, I was without a sou —
all my money having been hidden in the well by
P^ Grigou.'
Do^e leant his elbows on the table.
"And you have come through all that, Mademoi-
selle Jeanne, just as you are — ? "
"How, just as I am?"
"So gentle and kind and comprehendingp"
Her cheek flushed. "I am not the only French-
woman who has passed through such things and
kept herself proud. But the struggle has been very
hard."
Doggie rose and clenched his fists and rubbed his
head from front to back in his old indecisive way,
and began to swear incoherently in English, She
smiled sadly.
"Ah, mon pauvre ami!"
He wheel^ round; "Why do you call me 'mon
pauvre ami?'"
"Because I see that you would like to help me.
and you can't."
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"Jeanne," cried Doggie, bending half over the
table which was between them.
She rose, too, startled, on quick defensive. He
SEiid, in reply to her glance:
"Why shouldn't I call you Jeanne?"
"You haven't the rirfit."
"What if I gam it?'^
"How?"
"I don't know," smd Doggie.
The door hurst suddenly open, and the anxious
face of Mo Shendish appeared.
"'Ere, you silly cuctoo, don't yer know you're
on guard to-night? You've just got about thirty
seconds."
"Good Lord!" cried Dogme, "I forgot. Bon soir.
Mademoiselle. Service mUUaire" and he rushed
out.
Mo lingered, with a grin, and jerked a backward
thumb.
" If it weren't for old Mo, Miss, I don't know what
would happen to our friend Doggie. I got to look
after him like a baby, I 'ave. He's on to reheve
guard, and if old Mac — that's McPhail — " she
nodded recognition of the name — "and I hadn't
remembered. Miss, he'd 'ave been in what yer
might call a 'ole. Compree?"
* Out. Yes," she said. "Garde. SerUineUe."
"Sentinel. Sentry. Right."
"He — was — late," she said, picking out her
few English words from memory.
"Yuss," grinned Mo.
"He — guard — house?"
"Bless you. Miss, you talk Kngliwh as well as I
do," cried the admiring Mo. " luss. When his
tmn comes, up and down in the street, by the ^te."
He saw her puzzled look. "Roo. Port," said he.
"Ah, ocii, je comprends" smiled Jeanne. "Merci,
Monsiear, et ban soir.^'
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182 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Giood ni^t. Miss," said Mo.
Some time later, he disturbed Phiueas, by whose
side he slept, from his initial preparation for dumber.
"Mad Is there any book I could learn this
blinking lingo firtan?"
"Try E^zddel," replied Phineas deepily.
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CHAPTER XIV
THE spell of night sentry duty had ahvrays been
Doggie's black hour. To most of the other
mihtary routine he had grown hardened or
deadened. In the depths of his heart he hated the
life as much as ever. He had schooled himself to
go through it with the dull fatalism of a convict.
It was no use railing at inexorable laws, irremediahle
conditions. The only alternative to the acceptance
of his position was mihtary punishment, which was
far worse — to say nothing of the outrage of his
pride. It was pnde that kept the httle ironical
smile on his lips while his nerves were almost break-
ing with strain. The first time he came tmder fire
he was physically sick — not from fear, for he stood
it better than most, keeping an eye on his captain
whose function it was to show an imconcemed face
— but from sheer nervous reaction against the
hideous noise, the stendi, the ghastly upheaval of
the earth, the sight of mangj^ men. When the
bombardment was over, if he had been alone, he
would have sat down and cried. Never had he
grown accustomed to the foulness of the trenches.
The sounder his ^ysical condition, the more did
his delicately tramed senses revolt. It was only
when fierce animal cravings dulled these senses,
that he could throw himself down anywhere and
sleep, that he could swallow anything in the way of
food or drink. The rats nearly drove nim crazy. . . .
Yet, what had once been to him a torture, the in-
decent, nerve-rasping puhhcity of the soldier's life,
had now become a compensation. It yfaa not so
much in companionship, hke his friendly intercourse
183
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184 THE ROUGH ROAD
with I^uueas and Mo, that he found an anodyne,
but ia the consciousness of being magneti<Mlly
affected' by the crowd of his fellows. They offered
him protection against himself. Whatever pangs
of self-pity be felt, whatever wan httle pleadings
for the bit of fine porcelain compelled to a rough
usage which vrasels of coarser clay could disregara,
came lingeiio^ly into his mind, he dared not express
them to a living soul around. On the contrary, be
set himself assiduously to cultivate the earthenware
habit of spirit; not to feel, not to think, only to
endure. To a humorously incredulous Jeanne be
proclaimed himself abnUL Finally, the ceaseless
grind of the military machine left mm httle time to
tbink.
Rut in the solitary sleepless hours of sentry duty
there was nothing to do but tbink; nothing where-
with to while away the time but an orgy of intro-
spection. First came the almost paralysing sense
01 rentonsibiUty. He must keep, not only awake,
but alert to the slightest sound, the shghtest move-
ment. Lives of men dependeid on Ins vigilance.
A man can't screw himself up to this beautifully
emotional pitch for very long and be an efl&cient
sentry. If be did, be would challenge mice and
shoot at cloud-shadows and bring the deuce of a
commotion about his ears. And this Dc^^gie, who
did not lack ordinary intelligence, retried. So
he strove to think of other things. And the other
things all focussed down upon his Doggie self.
And he never knew what to make of h^ Doggie
self at all. For he would curse the thin^ that he
once loved as being the cause of his mexpiable
shame, and at the same time yearn for them with an
agony of longing.
And he would force himself to think of Peggy and
her tmswerving loyalty. Of her weekly parcel of
dainty food which bad turived that moming. Of
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THE ROUGH ROAD 185
the jo^ of Phineas and the disappomtment of the
unsophisticated Mo over ihepdleae foie gras. But
his mind wandered back to his Doggie self etnd its
humiliations and its needs and its yearnings. He
welcomed enemy flares and star-shells and excur-
sions and alarms. They kept him &om thinking,
enabled bim to pass the time. But in the dead,
lonely, silent dark, the hours were like centuries.
He dreaded them.
To-night they fled like minutes. It was a pitch
black night, spitting fine rain. It was one of Doggie's
private grievances that it invariably rained when he
was on outpost duty. One of Heaven's httle ways
of strafing him for Doggieism. But to-night he
did not heed it. Often the passage of transport
had been a distraction for which he had longed and
which, when it came, was warmly welcome. But
to-night, during his spell, the roadway of the village
was as still as death, and he loved the stillness and
the blackness. Once he had wdoomed familiar
am)roaching steps. Now he resented th^oa.
'Who goes there?"
"Rounds."
And the officer, recognised, flashing an electric
torch, passed on. The diminuendo of his footsteps
was agreeable to Doggie's ear. The rain dripped
monotonously off bis helmet on to bis sodden
should^^, but Doggie did not mind. Now and then
he strained an eye upwards to that part of the livings
house that was above the gateway. Little streaks
of light came downwards t&ough the shutter slats.
Now it required no great intellectual effort to sui>
mise that the light proceeded, not &om the bedroom
of the invalid Madame Morin, who would naturally
have the best bedroom situated in the comfortable
main block of the house, but from that of somebody
else. Madame Morin was therefore ruled out. So
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186 THE ROUGH ROAD
was Toinette — ridiculous to think of her keeping
all-night vigiL There remained only Jeanne.
It was supremely silly of him to march with
super-martiahty of tread up the pavement; but
then it is often the way of young men to do su-
premely silly things.
The next day was fuss and bustle, from the pri-
vate soldier's point of view. They were marcmng
back to the trenches that night, and a crack compemy
must take over with flawless equipment ana in
flawless bodily health. In the afternoon Doggie
had a breathing spell of leisure. He walked boldly
into the kitthen.
"Madame," said he to Toinette, "I suppose you
know that we are leaving to-nig^t?"
The old woman sighed. " It is always Uke that.
They come, they make friends, they go, and they
never return."
"You mustn't make the little soldier weep,
graTuTm^re" said Doggie.
"No. It is the gram^mkres who weep," repUed
Toinette.
"I'll come back all right," said he. "Where is
Mademoiselle Jeanne? "
"She is upstairs. Monsieur."
" If she had gone out, I should have been disap-
pointed," smiled Doggie.
"You desire to see her, Monsieur?"
"To thank her before I go for her kindness to me."
The old face wrinkled into a smile.
"It was not then for the ftcoux yeux of the gratuT-
mkre that you entered?"
"Si, si! Of course it was," he protested. "But
one, nevertheless, must be polite to Mademoiselle."
"Ale! ale!" said the old woman, bustling out.
"I'll call her."
Presently Jeanne came in alone, cahn, cool, and
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THE ROUGH ROAD 187
in hec plain black dress, looking like a sweet Fate.
From the top of her dark brown hair to her trim,
stout shoes, she gave the impression of being ex-
quisitely ordered, Dodily and spiritually,
" It was good of you to come," he cried, and they
shook hands instinctively, scarcely realising it was
for the first time. But he was sensitive to tne irank
grip of her long and slender fingers.
'Toinette said you wished to see me."
"We are going to-night. I had to come and bid
youaarevoir."
"Is the compfuiy returning?"
"So I hear the Quarter Master says. Are you
glad?"
" Yes, I am glad. One doesn't like to lose friends."
"You r^ard me as a friend, Jeanne?"
"Pour sur," she repUed simply.
"Then you don't mind my calling you Jeanne?"
said he.
"What does it matter? Th«re are grava- ques-
tions at stake in the world."
She crossed the kitchen and opened the yard
door which Doggie had closed behind him. Meeting
a query in his glance, she said:
'I like the fresh air, and I d
[ don't like secrecy."
She leaned against the edge of the table, and
Dog^e emboldened, seated himself on the comer,
by her side, and they looked out into the little
flagged courtyard in which the men, some in grey
shirtsleeves, some in tunics, were lounging about
among the httle piles of accoutrements and packs.
Here and there a man was shaving by the aid of a
little mirror supported on a handcart. Jests and
laughter were flimg in the quiet afternoon air. A
little group were feeding pigeons which, at the sight
of crumbs, had swarmed iridescent from the tall
colombier in the far comer near the gabled bam.
As Jeanne did not speak, at last Doggie bent forward
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188 THE ROUGH ROAD
and, looking into her eyes, found them moist with
tears.
"What is the matter, JeanneP" he asked in a low
voice.
"The war, mon ami," she replied, turning her face
towards him, "the haunting tragedy of the war.
I don't know how to express what I mean. If all
those brave fellows there went about with serious
faces, I should not be affected. Mais, voyez-vous,
leur gaieti fait pew.''
Their laughter frigblened her. Dogcie, with his
quick responsiveness, understood. She had put
into a phrase the haunting tragedy of the war.
The eternal lau^ter of youm qumiched in a gurgle
of the throat.
He said admiringly: "You are a wonderful woman,
Jeanne."
Her deUcate shoulders moved, ever so little.
"A womani* I suppose I am. The day before we
fled from Cambrai it was my jour de fUe. I was
ei^teen."
Doegie drew in bis breath with a little gasp. He
had thought she wfis older than he.
"I am twenty-seven," he said.
She looked at him calmly and critically. "Yes.
Now I see. Until now I should have given you
more. But the war ages people. Isn't it true ? ' '
"I suppose so," said Doggie. Then he had a
brilliant idea. "But when the war is over, we'll
remain the same age for ever and ever."
"Do you think so?"
" I'm sure of it. We'll still botii be in our twenties.
Let us suppose the war puts ten years of experieuce
and suffering, and what not, on to our lives. We'll
only then be in our thirties — and nothing possibly
can happen to make us grow emy older. At seventy
we shall still be thirty,"
"You are consoling," she admitted. "But what
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THE ROUGH ROAD 189
if the war had added thirty years to one's life?
What if I felt now an old woman of fiftyp Rut
yes, it is quite true. I have the feelings and the
disregard of convention of a woman of fifty. If
there had been no war, do you think I could have
gone among an English army — sans gSne — like
an old matronP Do you think a jeune fiUe frangaise
bien elevie could have talked to you alone as I have
done the past two daysP Absurd. The explana-
tion is the war."
Dog^e laughed. " Vive la guerre!" said he.
"Mais non! Re serious. We must come to an
understanding."
In her preoccupation she forgot the ndes laid
down for the guidance of jeanes fiUes bien ilevies,
and unthinkingly perched herself full on the kitchen
table on the comer of which Doggie sat in a one-
legged way. Doggie gasped again. All her assumed
age fell from her uke a gannent. Youth pro-
claimed itself in her attitude and the supple Ones
of her figure. She was but a girl Eifter all, a girl
with a steadfast soul that had been tried in un-
utterable fires; but a girl appealing, desirable. He
felt mighty protective.
"An understanding? All right," said he.
"I don't want you to go away and think ill of me
— that I am one of those women — les affranchies,
I think they call them — who think themselves
above social laws. I am not. I am bourgeoise to
my finger-tips, and I reverence all the old maxims
and prejudices in which I was bom. Rut condi-
tions are different. It is just like the priests who
have been called into the ranks. To look at them
from the outside, you would never dream they were
priests — but their hearts and their souls are un-
touched."
She was so earnest, in her pathetic youthfulness,
to put herself right with him, so unlike the English
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190 THE ROUGH ROAD
girls of his acquaintance, who would have tak^i
thk chance companionship as a matter of course,
that his face lost the smile and became grave, and
he met her sad eyes.
"That was very bravely said, Jeanne. To me
you will be always the most wonderful woman I
have ever known.'
"What caused you to speak to me the first day?"
she asked, after a pause.
"I explained to you — to apologise for staring
rudely into your house."
"It was not because you said to yourself, 'Here
is a pretty girl looking at me. I'll go and talk to
her'?"
Doggie threw his leg over the comer of the table
and stood on indignant feet.
"Jeannel How could you — ?" he cried.
She leaned back, her open palms on the table.
The rare Ught came into her eyes.
"That's what I wanted to uiow. Now we imder-
stand each other, Monsieur Trevor."
"I wish you wouldn't call me Monsieur Trevor,"
said he.
"What else can I call you? I know no other
name."
Now he had in his pocket a letter from Peggy,
received that morning, beginning " My dearest
Maimaduke." Peggy seemed far away and the
name still further. He was deliberating whether
he should say " Appelez-moi James" or "Appelez-
moi Jacques,' and mclining to the latter as being
morepicturesque and intimate, when she went on;
" Tenez, what is it your comrades call you? 'Dog-
gie?'"
"Say that again."
"Dog-gie."
He had never dreamed that the hated appellation
could sound so adorable. Well — no one except
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THE ROUGH ROAD 191
his officers called him by any other name, and it
came with a visible charm from her hps. It brought
about the most fascinating fla^ of the tii» of her
white teeth. He laughed.
"AUi guerre comme h la gaerre. If you call me
that, you belong to the regiment. And I promise
you it is a fine regiment."
"Eh bien, Monsieur Dog-gie — "
"There's no Monsieur about it," he declared,
very happily. "Tommies are not Messieurs."
" I know one who is," 86ud Jeanne.
So they talked in a yoimg and foolish way, and
Jeanne for a while forgot me tragedies that bad
gone and the tragedies that might come; and Doggie
forgot both the peacock and ivory room and the
fetid hole into which he would have to cre^ when
tbe night's march was over. They talked of simple
thin^. Of Toinette, who had been with Aimt
Morm ever since she could remember.
"You have won her heart with your snuff."
"She has won mine with her discretion."
"Oh-hl" said Jeanne, shocked.
And so on and so forth, while they sat side by
side on the kitchen table, swinging then* feet. After
a while they drifted to graver questions.
"What will happen to you, Jeanne, if your aunt
dies?"
"Mon Dku!" said Jeanne —
"Hut you will inherit the property, and the
business? '
"By no means." Aunt Morin had still a son,
who was already very old. He must be forty-six.
He had expatriated himself many years ago and was
in Madagascar. The son who was killed was her
Benjamin, the child of her old £^. But aU her
little fortune would go to the colonial Craspard
whom Jeanne had never seen.
But the Farm of La FoletteP
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192 THE ROUGH ROAD
"It has been taken and retaken by Gennans and
French and English, man paavre ami, until there is
no fE^rm left. You ought to understand that."
It was a thing that Doggie most pCTfectly under-
stood: a patch of hideous wilderness, of poisoned,
shell-scarred, ditch-defiled, barren, loathsome earth.
And her other relatiousP Only an uncle, her
father's youngest brother, a cur^ in Douai in enemy
occupation. She had not heard of him since the
flight from Cfunbrai.
'But what is going to become of you?"
"So long as one keeps a brave heart what does
it matter? I am strong. I have a good enough
education. I can earn my living. Oh, don't make
any mistake. I have no pity for myself. Those
who waste efforts in pitying themselves are not of
the stuff to make France victorious."
"I am afraid I have done a lot of self-pitying,
Jeanne."
"Don't do it any more," eiie said gently.
"I won't," said he.
"If you keep to the soul you have gained, you
can't," said Jeanne.
" Toujours la sagesse."
"You are laugmn^ at me."
"God forbid, ' said Doggie.
Phinetis €ind Mo came strolling towards the
kitchen door.
"My two friends, to pay their visit of adieu,"
said he.
Jeanne slid from the table and welcomed the new-
comers in her calm, dignified way. Once more
Doggie found himself regarding her as his senior
in age and wisdom and coiuluct of life. The pathetic
girl^hness which she had revealed to him had gone.
The age-investing ghosts had returned. *
Mo grinned, interjected a Britisli army French
word now and then, and manifested delight when
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THE ROUGH ROAD 193
Jeetime understood. Phineas talked laboriously,
endeavouring to expound his re^xinslbility for
Doggie's w^are. He had been his tutor. He
used the word "tuteur."
"That's a guardian, you silly ass," cried Doggie.
"He means ' imliluteur. Go on. Or, rather, don't
go on. The lady isn't interested."
" Mais oui," said Jeanne, catching at the leist
English word. "It interests me greatly."
"Merci, Mademoiselle" said Phineas, grjindly.
"I only wish to explain to you that while I live you
need have no fear for Doggie. I will protect him
with my body from shells, and promise to bring
him safe back to you. And so will Monsieur
Shendish."
"What's that?" asked Mo.
Phineas translated.
"Oui, oui, oui!" said Mo, nodding vigorously.
A spot of colour burned on Jeanne's pale cheek,
and Doggie grew red under bis tannea skin. He
cursed Phineas below bis breath, and exchanged
a significant glance with Mo. Jeanne said in ner
even voice:
" I hope all the Three Muleteers will come back
safe."
Mo extended a grimy hand. "Well, good-bye.
Miss. McPhail here and I must be going.
She shook bands with both, wishm^ them bonne
chance, and they strolled away. Dog^e lingered.
"You mustnt mind what McPhail says. He's
only an old imbecile."
' You have two comrades who love you. That
is the principal thing."
"I mink they do, each in his way. As for Mo — "
"Mo?" She lauded. "He is delicious."
"Well — "said he, reluctantly, after a pause,
"good-bye, Jeanne."
"Aa revoir — Dog-gie."
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194 THE ROUGH ROAD
"If I shouldn't come back — I mean if we were
billeted somewhere else — I should like to write
to you."
' Well — Mademoiselle BoisaSre, chez Madame
Morin, Frelus. That is the address."
"And will you write too?"
Without waiting for a r^ly, he scribbled what
was necessary on a ^eet torn from a notebook and
gave it to her. Their hands met.
"Au revoir, Jeanne."
"Au rewir, Dog^gie. But I shall see you again
to-night."
"Where?"
" It is my secret. Bonne chance."
She smiled and turned to leave the kitchen,
gie clattered into the yard.
Been doin' a fine bit o' coartin'. Doggie," said
Private Appleyard from Taunton, who was sitting
on a box near by and writing a letter on his knees.
"Not so muo) of your courting. Spud," replied
Doggie cheerfully. " Who are you writing to?
Your best girl?"
"I be writin' to my own lawful mizzus," rephed
Spud Appleyard.
"Then ^ve her my love. Doggie Trevor's love,"
said Doggie, and marched away liux>ugh the groups
of men.
At the entrance to the bam he fell in with Phiueas
and Mo.
"Laddie," said the former, "although I meant it
at the time as a testimony of my affection, I've
been thinking that what I said to the young leddy
may not have been over tactful."
It was taking it too much for granted," explained
Mo, " that you and her were sort of keeping company.
"You're a pair of idiots," said Doggie, sitting
down between them, and taking out his pink packet
of Caporal. "Have a cigarette?"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 195
"Not if I W08 d^ing of — Look 'ere," said Mo,
with the l^ht oa ms face of the earnest seeker i^ter
Truth. "If a chap ain't got no food, he's dying of
'unger. If he ain't got no drink, he's dying of thirst.
What the 'ell is he dying of if he alut got no
tobakker?"
"Army Service Corps," said Phineas, pulling
out his pipe.
It was dark when A Company marched away.
Doggie had seen nothing more of Jeanne. He was
just a little disappoint^; for she had promised.
He could not associate her with light words. Yet
perhaps she had kept her promise. She had said
'Jc vous verrais." She had not undertaken to
exhihit herself to him. He derived comfort from
the thought. There was, indeed, something deUcate
and subtle and enchanting in the notion. As on
the previous day, the fine weather had changed
with the night and a fine rain was falling. Doggie,
an indistinguishable, pack-laden ant in the middle of
the four abreast ribbon of similar pack-laden ants,
tramped on, in silence, thinking his own 'thoughts.
A regiment going back to the trenches ,'in the night is,
from the point oif view of the pomp and circumstance
of glorious war, a very lugubrious procession. The
sight of it would have rather hurt an old-time poet.
An experienced regiment has no lovely illusions.
It knows what it is going to, and the knowledge
makes it serious. It wouM much rather be in bed
or on snug straw than plodding through the rain
to four days and nights of eternal mud and stinking
high explosive shell. It sets its teeth and is a very
stem, fuleut, ugly conglomeration of men.
" (The adjective) night," growled Doggie's
right hand nekhbour.
" (The adjective)" Doggie responded, me-
chanically.
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196 THE ROUGH ROAD
But to Doggie it was less "— — ~" (adjective as
b^ore) than usual. Jeanne's denunciation of self-
pity had struck deep. Compared with her calamities,
half of whic^ would have been the sUx^-in-trade
of a Greek dramatist wherewith to wring tears from
mankind for a couple of thousand years, what were
his own piffling grievances? As for the " "
night, instead of a drizzle, he would have welcraned
a waterspout. Something that really mattCTed. . . .
Let the Heavens or the Hun rain molten lead. Some-
thing that would put him on an equality with
Jeanne . . . Jeanne, with her dark, haunting eyes
and mobile Ups, and the slim, young figure and her
splendid courage. A girl apart from the girls he
had known, apart firom the women he had known,
the women whom he had imagiaed — and he had
not imagined many — his traming had atrophied
such imaginings of youth. Jeanne. Agaui her
name conjured up visions of the Great Jeanne of
Domremy. If only he could have seen her once
^;ainl
At the north end of the village the road took a
sharp twist, skirting a bit of rising ground. There
was just a glimmer of a wamii^ light which streamed
athwart the turning ribbon of laden ants. And as
Doggie wheeled through the dim ray, he heard a
voice that rang out clear,
"Bonne chance!"
He looked up swiftly. Caught the shadow of a
shadow. But it was enou^. It was Jeanne.
She had kept her promise. The men responded
incoherently, waving their hands, and Dole's
shout of "Merci!" was lost. But though he knew,
with a wonderful throbbing knowledge, that Jeanne's
cry was meant for him alone, he was thrilled by his
comrades' instant response to Jeanne's voice. Not
a man but he knew that it was Jeiume. But no
matter. The company paid homage to Jeanne.
THE ROUGH ROAD 197
Jeanne who had come out in the irain and the dark,
and had waited, waited, to redeem her promise.
"C'est mon secret"
He ploughed on. Left, right! Thud, thudl Left,
right I Jeanne, Jeanne I
ec by Google
CHAPTER XV
IN the village of Fr^lus life went on as before.
The same men, though a different regiment,
filled its streets and its houses; for by what
si^ns could the inhabitants distinguish one horde
of Kngliah iofantrymen fh)m anothert* Once a
Highland battalion had been billeted on them,
and for the first day or so they derived some ex-
citement from the novelty of the costume; ^e
historic Franco-Scottish tradition still lii^ered and
they welcomed the old allies of France with special
kindliness; but they found that the habits and
customs of the men in kilts were identical, in their
French eyes, with those of the men in trousers. It
is true the Scotch had bagpipes. The village tiuned
out to hsten to them in whole-eyed and whole-eared
wonder. And the memory of the skirling music
remained indelible. Otherwise there was Uttle dif-
ference. And when a Midland regiment succeeded
a South Coast regiment, where was the difT^ence
at all? They might be the same men.
Jefume, standiii^ by the kitchen door, watching
the familiar scene in the courtyard, could scarcely
believe there had been a change. Now and again,
she caught herself wondering why she could not
pick out any one of her Three Musketeers. There
were two or three soldiers, as usual, helping Toinette
with her crocs at the well. There she was, herself,
moving among them, as courteously treated as
thou^ she were a princess. Perhaps these men,
whom she beard had come from manufacturing
cenlxes, were a trifle rougher in their manners than
her late guests; but the intention of civility and rude
THE ROUGH ROAD 199
chivalry was no less sincere. They came and asked
for od^ and ends very politely. To all intents and
purposes they were the same set of men. Why was
not Doggie among themP It seemed very strange.
After a while she made some sort of an acquain-
tance with a sergeant who had a few words of French
and appeared anxious to improve his knowledge of
the language. He explained that he had been a
teacher in what corre^Kinded to the French Scales
Normales. He came from Birmingham, which he
gave her to understand was glonfied Lille. She
fomid him very earnest, very self-centred in his
worship of efficiency. As he had striven for his class
of boys, so now was he striving for his platoon of
men. In a dogmatic way he expounded to her
idetJs severely practical. In their few casual con-
versations he mterested her. The English, from
the first terrible day of their association with her,
had commanded her deep admiration. But until
lately — in the most recent past — her sex, her
national aloofness, and her ignorance of English, had
restrained her from familiiu- talk with the British
Army. But now she keenly desired to understand
this strange, imperturbable, kindly race. She put
many questions to the Sergeant — always at the
kitchen door, in full view of the courtyeml, for she
never thought of admitting him into the house —
and his answers, even when he managed to make
himself intelligible, puzzled her exceedingly. One
of his remarks led her to ask for what he was fight-
ing, beyond his apparently fixed idea of the efficiency
of the men under bis controL What w£ls the
spiritual idea at the back of himP
"The democratisation of the world and the uni-
versal brotherhood of mankind."
"When the BritifQi Lion shall lie down with the
German Lamb?"
He flashed a suspicious glance. Strenuous schot^
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200 THE ROUGH ROAD
masters in primary schools have Uttle time for the
cultivation of a sense of humour.
"Something of the sort must be the ultimate
result of the war."
"But in the meantime you have got to change the
Gierman wolf into the petit mmtion. How are you
gou^ to do it?"
"By British efficiency. By proving to him that
we are superior to him in every way. We'll teach
him that it doesn't pay to be a wolf."
"And do you think he will like being trans-
formed into a lamb, while you remain a lionP '
"I don't suppose so, but we'll give him his chance
to try to become a lion, too."
Jeaone shook her head. "No, Monsieur, wolf
he is and wolf he will remain. A wolf with venomous
teeth. The civilised world must see that the teeth
are always drawn."
"I'm speaking of fifty years hence," said the Sei^
geant.
■ "And I of three hundred years hence."
"You're mistaken, Mademoiselle."
Jeanne shook her head. " No. I'm not mistaken.
Tell me. Why do you want to become brother to
the Boche? "
"I'm not going to be his brother till the war is
over," said the Sergeant stolidly. "At present I
am devoting all my faculties to killing as many of
him as I can."
She smiled. "Sufficient for the day is the good
thereof. Go on killing them. Monsieur. The more
you kill, the fewer there will be for your children
and yoiu" grandchildren to lie down with."
She left him and tried to puzzle out his philosoph;^ .
For the ordinary French philosophy of the war is
very simple. They have no high-falutin', altruistic
ideas of miproving the Boche. They don't care a
tinker's curse what happens to the unholy brood
THE ROUGH ROAD 201
beyond the Rhine, so long as they are beaten,
humiliated, subjected: so long as Ibere is no chance
of their ever deftowering a^in with their brutality
the sacred soil of France. The French mind cannot
conceive the idea of this beautiful brotherhood;
but, on the contrary, rejects it £is something loath-
some, something bordering on spiritual incest. . . .
No; Jeanne could not accept the theory that we
were waging war for the ultunate chastening and
beatification of Germany. She preferred Doggie's
reason for fighting. For his soul. There was some-
tiling which she could grip. And having gripped
it, it was something around which her imaemation
could weave a wd) of noble fancy. After all, when
she came to think of it, every one of the allies must
be fighting for his soul. For his soul's sake had not
her father diedP Althoudi she knew no word of
German, it w£m obvious that the Uhlan officer had
murderoi him because he had refused to betray
his country. And her uncle. To fight for his soul,
had he not gone out with this heroic but futile
sporting gunP And this pragmatical sei^eant?
What &se had led him from his schoolroom to the
battlefield? Why couldn't he be honest about it
like Doggie?
She missed Doggie. He ought to be there, as she
had often seen nim unobserved, talking with his
friends or going Eibout his military duties, or playing
the flageolet with the magical touch of the musician.
She knew far more of D<^gie than he was aware of.
. . . And at night she prayed for the little English
soldier who was facing DeaUi.
She had much time to think of him during the
hours when she sat by the bedside of Aunt Morin,
■frtio talked incessantly of Francois-Miuie who was
killed on the Argonne, and Gaspard who, m a
ierrUarial, was no doubt defending Madsigascar
irom invasion. And it was pleasant to think of him
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202 THE ROUGH ROAD
because he was a new dUtraction from tragical
memories. He seemed to lay the ghosts. ... He
was different from all the Englishmea she had met.
The young officers who had helped her in her flight,
had very much the same charm of breeding, very
much the same intonation of voice: instinctively
she knew him to be of the same social cfiste: but
they, and the officers whom she saw about the street
and in the courtyard, when duty called them there,
had the mihtary air of command. And this h^
little English soldier had not. Of course he was
only a private, and privates are trained to obedience.
She knew that perfectly welL But why was he not
commanding instead of obeying? Inere was a
reason for it. She had seen it in his eyes. She
wished she had made him talk more about himself.
Perhaps she had been unsympathetic and selfish.
He assumed, she reflected, a certain cr&nerie wiUi
his fellows — and cranerU is "swagger" bereft of
vulgarity — we have no word to connote its con-
cation in a French mind — and she admired it;
but her swift intuition pierced the assum^ption.
She divined a world of hesitancies behind the Mus-
keteer swing of the shoulders. He was so gentle, so
sensitive, so quick to understand. And yet so
Sroud. And yet again so tmconfessedly dependent,
[er womtm's protective instinct responded to a
mute appeal.
"But, Ma'amselle Jeanne, you are wet through,
you are perished with cold. What folly have you
been committing?" Toinette scolded when she
returned after wishing Doggie the last *' hoime
chance"
"TTie folly of putting my Frenchwoman's heart
{mon cceur de Francatse) into the hands of a brave
little soldier to fight with him ta the trenches."
"Mon Dieu, Ma'amselle, you had better go
strai^t to bed, and I will bnng you a bon tUleai
r.:.t,z.cf, Google
THE ROUGH ROAD 203
which will calm your nerves and produce a good
perspiration."
So Toinette put Jeanne to bed and administered
the infallible mft^on of lime-Ieaves, and Jeanne
was never the worse for her adventure. But the
next day she wondered a httle why she had under-
taken it. She had a vague idea that it paid a btUe
debt of sympathy.
An evening or two afterwards, Jeanne was sewing
in the kitchen when Toinette, sitting in the aim-
chair by the extinct fire, fished out of her pocket the
little olive-wood box with the pansies and forget-
me-nots on the lid, and took a long pinch of snuff.
She did it with somewhat of an air which caused
Jeanne to smile.
"Diles done, Toinette, you are insupportable with
your aouff-box. One would say a Marquise of tbe
old school."
"Ah, Ma'amselle Jeanne," said the old wtonan,
"you must not laugh at me. I was just thinltiTig
that, if anything happened to the petit Monsieur,
I couldn't have liie heart to go on putting his snuff
up my old nose."
"Nothing will happen to him," said Jeanne.
The old woman sighed and re-engulfed the snuff-
box. "Who knowsP From one minute to another
who knows whether the little ones who are dear to
us are alive or dead?"
"And this petit Monsieur is dear to you, Toinette? "
Jeanne asked, in hCT even voice, without looking up
fnHU her sewing.
" Since he res^nbles my peiwi"
"He will come back," said Jeanne.
"I hope so," said the old woman mournfully.
In spite of manifold duties, Jeanne found the days
curiously long. She slept badly. The tramp of the
sentry below her window over the archway brought
her no sense of comfort, as it had done iai months
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204 THE JIOUGH ROAD
before the ccaning of Doggie. All the less did it
produce the queer little thrill of happiness which
was hers when, looking down through the shutter
data, she had identified in the darkness, on a change
oi guard, the little Knglish soldier to whom she had
sp^en so intimately. And when he had challenged
the Rounds, she had recognised his voice. ... If
she had obeyed an imbecile and unmaidenly impulse,
she would mye drawn open the shutter and revealed
herself. But apart from maidenly shrinkings, fa-
miliarity with war had made her realise the sacred
duties of a sentry, and she had remained in discreet
seclusion, awake until his spell w£is over. But now
the rhythmical beat of the heavy boots kept hex
from keeping, and would have irritated her nerves
intolerably had not her sound conunon-sense told
her that ihe stout fellow who wore them was pro-
tecting her from the Hun, together with a million
or so of his fellow-oountrymen.
She found herself counting the days to Dog^e's
retmn.
"At last, it is to-morrowl" she said to Toinette.
"What is it to-monow?" asked the old woman.
"The return of our regiment," replied Jeanne.
"That is good. We have a raiment now," said
Toinette, ironically.
The Midland company marched away — as so
many had marched away before; but Jeanne did
not go to the little gnbankment at the txuTi of the
road to wish anyone good luck. She stood at the
house door, as she had always done, to watch them
pass in the darkness; for there is always something
m the sight of men going into battle which gives
you a lump in the throat. For Jeanne it had almost
grown into a religious practise.
The Sergeant had told her that the newcomers
would arrive at dawn. She slept a Uttle; awoke
with a start as day began to break; dressed swiftly,
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THE ROUGH ROAD 205
and went downstairs to wait. And then her ear
caught liie rumble and the tramp of the approach-
ing battalion. Presently transport rolled by, and
squads of men, haggard in the grey light, bending
double under their packs, staggered along to their
billets. And then came a rusty crew, among whom
she recognised McPbail's tall, gaunt figure. She
stood by the gateway, bareheaded, in her black
dress and blue apron, defying the sharp morning
air, and watched tbem pass through. She saw
Mo Shendish, his eyes on the heels of the man in
iront. She recognised nearly all. But the man she
looked for was not there.
He could not have pE^sed without her seeing him;
but as soon as the gateway was clear, she ran into
the courtyard and fled across it to cut off the men.
There was no Doggie. Blank disappointment was
succeeded by sudden terror. .
Phineas saw her coming. He stumbled up to her,
dropped his pack at her feet, and spread out both
his hands. She lost sight of the horde of weary, clay-
covered men around her. She cried:
"Where is he?"
" I don't know."
"He is dead?"
"No one knows."
"But you must know, you!" cried Jeanne, with
a new fear in her eyes which PhineaB could not bear
to meet, "You promised to bring him back."
"It was not my fault," said Phineas. "He was
out on patrol last night — no, the night before, this
is morning — repairing barbed wire. I was not
with him.'
"Mow, mon Diea, why notP"
"Because the duties of soldiers are arranged for
them by their officers. Mademoiselle."
"It is true. Pardon. But continue."
"A party went out to repair wire. It was quite
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206 THE ROUGH ROAD
dark. Suddenly a German rifle-shot gave the
alarm. The enemy threw up star'^ells and the
boat trenches on each side opened fire. The wiring
party of course lay flat on the ground. One of them
was wounded. When it was all over, — it didn't
last long, — our men got back bringing the wounded
man."
"He is severely wounded? Speak," cried Jeanne.
"The woundM man was not Doggie. Doggie
went out with the patrol, but he did not come back.
That's why I said no one knows whwe he is."
She stinened. "He is lying out tiiere. He is
dead."
"Shendish and I and Corporal Wilson, over there,
who was with the party, got permission to go out and
search. We searched all round where the repairs
had been going on. But we could not find him.'
"Merci! I ou^t not to have reproached you,"
she said steadily. " Cest un grand malheur."
"You £u^ rignt. Life for me is no longer of much
value."
She looked at him in her penetrating way.
"I heUeve you," she said. "For the moment,
aa revoir. You must be worn out with fatigue."
She left him and walked through the straggling
men, who made re^>ectful w^ for her. All knew
of her friendship with Dog^e Trevor, and all realised
the nature of this interview. They liked Doggie
because he was good-natured and plucky, and never
complained and would play the whistle on march
as long as breath enough remained in his body. As
his uncle, the Dean, bad said, breed told. In a
ciuious, half-drudging way they recognised the fact.
They^ laughed at his singular inefficiency in the
multitudinous arts of the h^dy man, proficiency in
which is expected from the modem private, but
they knew that be would go on till he dropped.
And knowing that, they saved him from many a
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THE ROUGH ROAD 207
r«)rimand which his ahsurd ^orts in the arte
aforesaid would have brought upon him. And now
that Dogcie was gone, they deplored his losa. But
so many had gone. So many had been deplored.
Human nature is only captible of a certain amount
of deploring while retaimng its sanity. The men
let the pale French girl, who was Doggie Trevor's
fiiend, peiss by in respectful silence — and that for
them was their final tribute to Doggie Trevor.
Jeaime passed into the kitchen. Toinette drew
a sharp breath at the sight of her face.
"Quoi? II n'estpas id?"
"No," said Jeanne. "He is wounded," It was
impossible to explain to Toinette.
^Badly?"
"They don't know."
"Okj la, la!" sighed Toinette. "That always
happens. That is what I told you."
'We have no time to think of such things," said
Jeanne.
The regimental cooks came up for the hot water,
and soon the hungry, weary, nerve-racked men
were served with the morning meal. And Jeanne
stood in the courtyard in front of the kitchen door,
and helped with the filling of the tea-kettles, as
though no Uttle English soldier called "Dog-gie"
had ever existed in the regiment.
The first pale shaft of sxuilkht fell w^n the
kitdien side of the courtyard, and in it Jeanne stood
illuminated. It toudied the shades of gold in her
dark brown hair, and Kt up her pale face and great
unsmiling eyes. But her lips smiled valiantly.
"What do yer think, Mac," said Mo Shendiah,
squatting on the flagstones "do you think she was
really sweet on himP '
"Man," replied Pluneas, "all I know is that she
has added him to her collection of ghoste. It's not
an over braw competny for a lassie to live with."
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208 THE ROUGH ROAD
And then, soon afterwards, the trench-broken
m^i stumbled into the bam to sleep, and all was
quiet again, and Jeanne went about her daily tasks
with the familiar luind of death once more closing
icily around her heart.
ec by Google
CHAPTER XVI
THE sick room was very hot and Aunt Morin
very querulous. Jeanne opened a windofr,
but Aunt Morin complained of coirents <^
air. Did Jeanne want to Kill her? So Jeanne
closed the window. The jntemal malady from wfaidt
Aunt Morin suffered, and from which it was nnlikety
that she would recov^, caused her considerable
pain from time to time; and on these occasions she
grew fractious and hard to bear with. The retired
septuagenarian village doctor who had tt^en the
modest practise of nis son, now far away with the
army, advised an operation. But Aunt Morin,
with her peasant's prejudice, declined flatly. She
knew what happened in those hospitals where they
cut people up just for the pleasure of looking at
their inside^ She was not going to let a lot of
butchers amuse themselves with fier old carcase.
Oh, non! When it pleased the bon Dteu to take her,
she was ready: the bon Dieu required no as^s-
tance from ces messieurs. And even if she had con-
sented, how to take her to Paris, and once there, how
to get the operation performed, with all the hospitals
full and all the sui^eons at the frontP The old
doctor shrugged his shoulders and kept life in her
as best he nu^t.
To-day, in the close room, she told a long story
of the doctor's neglect, lie medicine he gave
her was water and nothing else — water with noUbing
in it. And to ask people to pay for that I She would
not miy. What would Jeanne advise?
"Out, ma larUe," said Jeanne.
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210 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Oui, ma tanie? But you are not listening to
what I say. At least one can be polite."
"I am Lsteninx. ma tarUe"
"You should be grateful to those who lodge and
nourish you."
' "I am grateful, ma tante," said Jeanne patiently.
Aunt Moria complained of being robbed on all
udes. The doctor, Toinette, Jeanne, the English
soldiers — the last the worst of all. Besides not
paying sufficiently for what they had, they were so
wasteful in the things they took for nothing. If
they b^ged for a few faggots to make a fire, they
walked away with the whole wood-stack. She
knew them. But all soldiers were the same. They
thought that, in time of war, dvihans had no
rights. One of these days she would get up and
come downstairs and see for herself the robbery that
was going on.
The windows were tightly sealed. The sxmlight
hurting Aunt Morin's eyes, the outside shutters
were half closed. The room felt like a stuffy, over-
heated, over-crowded sepulchre. An enormous oak
press, part of her Breton dowry, took up most of
the side of one wall. This, together with a great
handsome IxUmt, a couple of tables, a stiff armchair,
were all too big for the moderately-sized apartment.
Coloured prints of sacred subjects, tilted at violent
angles, seemed eager to occupy as much air space
as pos^le. And m the middle of the floor sprawled
the vast oaken bed, with its heavy green brocade
curtains falling tentwue &om a great tarnished
gilt crown in the ceiling.
Jeanne said nothing. What was the good? She
shifted the invalid's hot pillow and gave her a drink
of tisane, moving about the over-funushed, airless
room in her cahn and, eflScient way. Her face
showed no sign of trouble, but an iron band clamped
hst forehead above her burning eyes. She could
DiMzeobv Google
oT
THE ROUGH ROAD 211
perform her nurse's duties, but it was beyond her
power to concentrate h^ mind on the sick woman's
unending litany of grievances. Far away beyond
t^t darkened room, beyond that fretful voice, she
saw vividly a hot waste, hideous with hdea
and rusted wire and shapes of horror; and in the
middle of it lay huddled up a Httle kbaki>clad
figure with the sun blazing fiercely in his nn hlinlcing
'es. And his very body was beyond the ream
' man, even of the most lion-hearted.
"Mats qu'as-tu, ma Mle?" asked Aunt Morin.
"You do not speak. When people are ill they need
to be amused.'
"I am sorry, ma tanie, but I am not feeling very
well to-day. It will pass."
" I hope so. Young people have no business not
to feel well. Otherwise what is the good of youth? "
"It is true," Jetinne assented.
But what, she thought, was indeed the good of
youth, in these terrible days of war? Her own was
but a panorama of death. . . . And now one more
figure, this time one of youth, too, had joined it.
Toinette came in.
"Ma'amselle Jeanne, there are two "Kngliwh
officers downstairs who wish to speak to you."
"What do they want?" Jeanne asked wearily.
"They do not say. They just ask for Ma'am-
selle Boissiere."
"They never leave one in peace, ces gens-ld,"
grumbled Aunt Morin. "If they want more con-
cessions in price, do ,not let them frighten you.
Go to Monsieur le Maire to have it arranged with
J"uBtice. These people would eat the skin off your
lack. Remember, Jeanne."
"Bien, ma lante" said Jeanne.
She went downstairs, conscious of gripping hei^
self in order to discuss with the officers whatever
business of billeting was in hand. For she lutd dealt
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212 THE ROUGH ROAD
with all such matters dnce her airival in Frflus.
^e reached the front door and saw a dusty car
with a military chauffeur at the wheel, ana two
officeiB standing on the pavement at the foot of ihe
steps. One she recoemsed as the commands of
the company to whim her hilleted men belonged.
The other was a stranger, a heutenant, with a
different badge on his cap. They were talking and
laughing together, like old firiends newly met, which,
by one of the myriad coincidences of the war, was
r^lly the case. On the appearance of Jeanne, liiey
drew themselves up and saluted politely.
"Mademoiselle Boissiere?"
"Oai, Monsieur." Then, "Will you enter, Mes-
sieurs?"
They entered the vestibule where the great cask
gleamed in its policed mahogany and brass. She
bade them be seated.
"Mademoiselle, Captain WiUoug^y here tells
me that you had billeted here last week a soldier by
the name of Trevor," said the stranger, in excellent
Fraich, taking out notebook and pencil.
Jeanne's hps grew white. She nad not suspected
their errand.
"Oai, Monsieur."
"Did you have much talk with him?"
"Much, Monsiem-."
"Pardon my indiscretion, Mademoiselle — it is
military service, and I am an InteUigence Officer —
but did you tell him about your private affairs?"
"Very intimately," said Jeanne.
The Intelligence officer made a note or two and
smiled pleasantly — but Jeanne could have struck
him for daring to smile. "You had every reason
for thinking bun a man of honourP"
"What's the good of asking her that, Smith-
ers?'* Captain Willoughby interrupted in English.
"Haven't I given you my word!* The man's a
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THE ROUGH ROAD 213
m^^t^oos tittle devO, but any fool can see that
he s a gentleman."
"What do you say?" Jeanne €tsk.ed tensely.
"Je parte Francois trh pen," reptied Captain
Willouenby with an air of r^ret.
Smimers explained. "Mon^eur le Capitaine
says that he guarantees the honesty of the soldier
Trevor."
Jeanne flashed, rigid. "Who could doubt it,
MoosieurP He was a gentleman, a Jils de famille, of
the T^ nglisb £iristocracy."
"Excuse me for a moment," said Smithers.
He went out. Jeanne, uncomprehending, sat
silent. Captain Willoughby, cursing an idiot edu-
cation, composed in his head a polite Frendi sentence
concerning the weather, but before he had finished
Smithers rea^rpeared with a strange twisted packet
in his hand. He held it out to Jeanne.
"Mademoiselle, do you recognise this?"
She looked at it dully for a moment; then sud-
denly sprang to her feet and clenched her hands and
stared open-mouthed. She nodded. She could not
speak. Her brain swam. They had come to her
anout Doggie who was dead, and they showed her
P^ Grigou's packet. What was the connection
between the two?
Willoughby rose impulsively. "For God's sake,
Smithers, let her down efisy. She'll be fainting fill
over the place in a minute. '
"If this is your property. Mademoiselle," said
Smithers, laying the packet on the chenille covered
table, "you have to thank yoxu- friend Trevor for
restoring it to you."
She put up both hands to her reeling head.
"But he is dead, Monsieurl"
"Not a bit of it. He's just as much alive as yon
or I."
Jeanne swayed, tried to laugh, threw herself half
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214 THE ROUGH ROAD
on a chair, half over the great cask, and broke
down in a passion of tears.
The two men looked at each other uncomfortably.
"For exquisite tact," said Willoughby, "commeml
me to an InteUigence Mein."
"But how the deuce was I to know?" ^nithers
muttered, with an injured air. "My instructions
were to find out the truth of a cock-and-bull story —
for that's what it seemed to come to. And a girl
in billets — w^ — how was I to know what die
was like?"
"Anyhow, here we've got hysterics," said Will-
lou^iby.
' But who told her the fellow was dead? "
"Why, his pals. I thought so myself. When a
man's missing, where's one to suppose him to be —
havii^ supper at the Savoy?"
"WeU, I give women up," said Smithers. "I
thought she'd be glad."
"I believe you're a married man,"
"Yes, of course."
" Well, I ain't," said Willou^iby. And in a couple
of strides he stood close to Jeanne. He laid a gentle
hand on her heaving shoulders.
"Pas tui! Soobnong hlessk" he shouted.
She sprang, as it were, to attention, like a fright-
ened recruit.
"He is wounded?"
"Not vtry seriously. Mademoiselle." Smithers
casting an indignant glance at his superior officer's
complacent snme, reassumed masteiy of the situa-
tiom "A Boche sniper got him in the leg. It will
put him out of service for a month or two. But
there is no danger."
"Gr&ee & Dieu!" said Jeanne.
She leaned, for a while, against the cask, her
hands behind her, looking away from the two men.
And the two young men stood, somewhat em-
THE ROUGH ROAD 215
bairassed, looking away bom fa^ and from eadi
other. At last she said, with an obvious striving
for the even note in her voice:
"I ask your pardon, Messieurs, but sometimes
sudden happiness is more overwhehning than mis-
fortune. I am now quite at your service."
"My God I she's a wonder," murmured WS.-
loughby, who was fair, unmarried and impression-
able. "Go on with your dirty work."
Smithers, dark and lean — in civil life he had
been concerned with the wine trade in Bordeaux —
proceeded to carry out his instructicms. He turned
over a leaf in his notebook and poised a ready pencil.
"I must ask you. Mademoiselle, some formal
questions."
" Perfectly, Monsieur," said Jeanne.
"Where was this packet when last you saw it?"
She made her statement, calmly.
"Can you tell me its contents? '
"Not all, Monsieur. I, as a young giil, was not
in the full confidence of my parente. But I re-
member my imcle saying there were about twenty
thousand francs in notes, some gold, I know not
how mudi, some jewellery of my mother's — oh,
a big handfull — rings t— one a hoop of emeralds
and diamonds — a brooch with a butck pearl be~
lonmng to my great grandmother — "
"It is enough, Mademoiselle," said &m1ii@B,
jotting down notes. "Anything else besides money
and jewellery?"
"There were papws of my father, ebon certifi-
cates, bonds, — que sais-je, moC? "
Captain Smithers opened the packet which had
already been examined.
"You're a witness, Willoughby, to the identifi-
cation of the property."
"No," said Willoughby. "I'm just a baby
captain of infantry, and wonder why the brainy
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216 THE ROUGH ROAD
Intelligence department doesn't hand the girl her
belongrngs and decently clear out."
" I've got to make my report, Sir," said &mthers,
stiffly.
So the schedule was produced and the notes were
solemnly coxmted, twenty-one thousand five hun-
dred francs, and the gold four hundred francs, and
the jewels were identified, and the bonds, of T^ch
Jeanne knew nothing, were checked by a list in her
father's handwriting, and Jeanne signed a paper with
Smithers's fountain pen, and Willoughby witnessed
her sigoature, and thus she entered mto possession
of her heritage.
The officers were about to depart, but Jeanne
detained them.
"Messieurs, you must pardon me, but I am quite
bewildered. As far as I can understand. Monsieur
Trevor rescued the packet from the well at my uncle's
farm of La Folette, and got wounded in doing so."
"That is quite so," said Smithers.
"But, Monsieur, they tell me he was with a
party In front of his trendi, mending wire. How
did he reach the well of La Folette? I don't cran-
prehend at alL"
Smitho^ turned to Willoughby. " Yes. How
the dickens did he know the exact spot to go for? "
"We had taken over a new sector and I was getting
the topography right with a map. Trevor was
near by doing nothmg, and as he's a man of educa-
tion, I asked him to help me. There wfis the site
of the farm marked by name, and the ruined well
away over to the left in No Man's Land. I re-
member, the beggar calliiw out 'La Folettel' in a
startled voice, and when Tasked him what was the
matter, he said ' Nothing, sir. ' "
Smithers translated and continued: "You see,
MademoisdQe, this is what happened as far as I am
oonoemed. I am attached to the Lancashire Fusi-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 217
liere. Our battalion is in the trenches about three
miles furth^ up the line than our friends. Well,
just before dawn yesterday morning, a man rolled
over the parapet into our trench, and promptly
fainted. He had been wounded in the leg sad was
half dead from loss of blood. Under his tunic was
this package. We identified him and his regiment,
and fixed nim up and took him to the dressing-
station. But things looked very suspicious. Here
was a man who did not belong to us with a little
fortune in loot on his person. As soon Eis he was
fit to be intOTogated, the C. 0. took him in hand.
He told the G. O. about you and your story. He
regarded the nearness of the well as Bomething to
do with Destiny, and r^olved to get you back your
property — if it was atill there. The opportuoity
occurred when the wiring party was alaimed.
He crept out to the ruins by the well, fished out the
packet, and a sniper got hun. He managed to get
oadi to our lines, having lost his way a bit, and
tumbled into our trench."
"But he was in danger of death all the time,"
said Jeanne, losing the steadiness of her voice.
"He was. Every second. It was one of the
most dare-devil, scatter-brained things I've ever
heard of. And I've heard of many. Mademoiselle.
The only pity is that, instead of being rewarded, he
will be pimished."
"Pumshed?" cried Jeanne.
"Not very severely," lauded Smithers. "Cap-
tain Willoughby will see to that. But reOect,
Mademoiselle. His military duty was to remain
with his comrades, not to go and risk his life to
get your property. Anyhow, it is clear that he
was not out for toot. ... Of course they sent
me here as InteUigence OfEicer, to get ccnrobcoration
of his story." He paused for a moment. Then
he added. "Mad^noiselle, I must congratulat«
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218 THE ROUGH ROAD
you on the restoration of your fortune and the
possession of a very brave friend."
For the first time the red spot3 burned on Jeanne's
pale face.
"Je vous remercie injinimeni. Monsieur."
"II sera all right," said Willourfiby.
The officers saluted and went tneir ways. Jeanne
took up her packet and mounted to her httle room
in a dream. Then she sat down on her bed, the
unopened packet by her side, and strove to realise
it all. But the only articulate thought came to
her in the words which she repeated over and over
again:
"II a fait cela pour moi! II a fait ceJa pour moi!"
He had done that for her. It was incredible,
fantastic, thrillingly true, like the fairy-tales of her
childhood. The little, sensitive English soldier,
whom his comrades protected, whom ^e herself in
a feminine way longed to protect, had done this
for her. In a shy, almost reverent way, she opened
out the waterproof covering, as though to reassure
herself of the reafity of things. For the first time
since she left Cambrai a snme came into her eyes*
together with grateful tears.
' // a fait ceia pour moi! II a fait ceUi pour moi! "
A while lat^ she relieved Toinette's guard in the
sick room.
"Eh bien? And the two officers," queried Aunt
Morin after Toinette had gone. "They have stayed
a long time. What did they want?"
Jeanne was young. She had eaten the bread of
dependence which Aunt Morin, by reason of racial
instinct and the stress of sorrow and infirmity had
contrived to render very bitter. She could not
repress an exultant note m her voice. Doggie, too,
accounted for something, for much.
"They came to bring good news, ma tanle. The
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THE ROUGH ROAD 219
English have found all the money and the jewels
and the ^lare certificates that P^ Grigou siuik in
the well of La Folette."
"Man Dieu! It is true?"
"Oui, ma tanleJ"
"And lliey have restored them to you?"
"Yes."
"It is extraordinary. It is truly extraordinary!
At last these English sccto to be good for something.
And they found that and gave it to you without
taking anythii^?"
"Without taking anything," said Jeanne.
Aunt Morin reflected for a few moments, then
she stretched out a thin hand.
"Ma petite Jeanne chhie, you sire rich now."
"I don't know exactly," rephed Jeanne with a
mingling of truth and caution. "I have enough for
the present."
"How did it all happen?"
"It was part of a nuhtary operation," said Jeanne.
Perhaps later she might tell Aunt Morin about
Doggie. But now the thing was to sacred. Aimt
Morm would question, question maddeningly, until
the rainbow of her fairy-tale was unwoven. The
sahent fact of the recovery of her fortune was enough
for Aunt Morin. It was. The old woman of the
paiu-pinched features looked at her wistfully from
sunken grey eyes.
"And now that you are rich, my Uttle Jeanne, you
will not leave the poor old axmt who loves you so
much, to die alone?"
" Ah^maisnoni maisnon! maisnon!" cried Jeanne
indignantly. "What do you think I am made of?"
"Ahl" breathed Aunt Morin, comforted.
"Also," said Jeanne, in the matter-of-fact French
way, "si ta veux, I will henceforward pay for my
lodrang and nourishment."
' You are very good, my little Jeanne," said Aunt
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220 THE ROUGH ROAD
M(ffm. "That will be a great help, for Dois-tu, we are
veiy poor."
* (mi, ma tante. It is the war."
"Ah, the war, the war, this awful warl One has
nothing left."
Jeanne smiled. Aunt Morin had a very com-
fort^le invested fortune left, for the late Monsieiir
Morin, com, hay and seed merchant, had been a
very astute person. It would make little flifFerenoe -
to me comfort trf Aunt Morin, or to the prospects of
Cousin Gaspard in Madagascar, whether the present
business of Veuve M<Hin et Fils went on or not.
Of this Aunt Morin, in lighter moods, had boasted
many times.
"Everyone must do what he can," said Jeanne.
"Perfectly," said Aunt Morin. "You are a
young giri who well understands thin^ And now
— it is not good for young people to stay in a sick
room — one needs the fireah air. Va te distraire,
ma petite. I am quite comfortable."
So Jeanne went out to distract a self already
distiaught with great wonder, great pride, and
great fear.
He had done that for her. The wonder of it be-
wildered hsTy the pride of it thrilled her. But he
was wounded. Fear smothered h^ joy. They
had said there was no danger. But soldiers always
made light of wounds. It was their way in tins
horrible war, in the intimate midst of which she had
ho- being. If a man was not dead, he was alive,
and thereby accounted lucky. In their gay op-
timism they had given him a mimth <» two of ah-
sence from the raiment. But even in a month
or two — whwe would the raiment be? Far,
far away from Fr^us. Would she ever see Dt^gie
agaiaP
To distract hers^ she went down the village
street, bareheaded, and up the lane that led to the
THE ROUGH ROAD 221
little church. The church was empty, cool, and
smelt of the hillside. Before the tiBsel-crowned,
mild-faced image of the Vii%in were spread the poor
votive offerings of the village. And Jeanne sank
on her knees and bowed h^ head, and, without
special prayer or formula of devotion, gave herself
into the hajids of the Mother of Sorrows.
She walked back comforted, vaguely conscious
of a atrengthening of soul. In the vast cataclysm
of things her own hopes and fears and destiny
mattered very UtUe. If she never saw Doggie
again, if Doggie recovered and returned to the war
and was killed, her own grief mattered very little.
She was but a stray straw and mattered very little.
But what mattered infinitely, what shone with an
immortal flame, though it were nevCT so tiny, was
the Wonderful Spiritual Something that guided
Doggie through the jaws of death.
That evening she had a long talk in the kitchen
with Phineas. The news of Doggie's safety had
been given out by Willoughby, without any details.
Mo Shendish had leaped about her like a fox-terrier,
and she had laushed, with difficulty restraining her
tears. But to Phineas, alone, she told her whole
story. He listened in bewilderment. And the
g eater his bewilderment, the worse his crude trans-
tioDs of English into French. She wound up a
long, eager speech by saying:
"He has done this for me. Why?"
"Amour," replied Phineas, bluntly.
"It is more than love," said Jeanne, thinking of
the Wonderful Spiritual Something.
"If you could understand Engl^," said Phineas,
*' I would enter into the metaphysics of the stdiject
with pleasure, but in French it is beyond me."
Jeanne smiled, and turned to the matter-of-fact.
"He will go to England now that he is wounded?"
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222 THE ROUGH ROAD
"He's on the way now," said Phineas.
"Has he many uiends thereP I ask, because he
talks so httle of himself. He is so modest."
" Oh, many friends. You see, Mademoiselle,"
said Phineas, with a view to setting her mind at rest,
"Doggie's an important person in his part of the
country. He was brought up in luxury. I know
because I hved with him as his tutor for seven yecirs.
His father and mother are dead and he could go on
living in luxury now, if he liked."
"He is then rich — Doggie?"
"He has a fine house of his own in the country,
with many servants fuid automobiles and — wait
— " he made a swift arithmetical calculation, "and
an income of eighty thousand francs a year."
"Comment?" cned Jeanne sharply, with a little
firown.
Phineas McPhail was enjoying himself, basking
in the simshine of Doggie s w^th. Ako, when
conversation in French resolved itself into the state-
' ment of simple facts, he could get along famously.
So the temptation of the glib phrase outran ms
discretion.
"D<^gie has a fortune of about two million
francs.
"II doitjaire un beau mariage," said Jeanne, with
stony calm.
Phineas suddenly became aware of pitfalls, and
summoned his craft and astuteness eind knowledge
of affairs. He smiled, as he thought, encouragingly.
"The only beau mariage is with the person one
loves."
"Not always. Monsieur," said Jeanne, who had
watched the rathering of the sagacities with her
de^ eyes. "In any case — " she rose and held
out her hand — "our friend will be well looked after
in England."
"like a prince," said Phineas.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 223
He strode away greatly pleased with himself,
and went and found Mo Shendish.
"Man," said he, "have you ever reflected tliat
the dispensing of happiness is the cheapest form
of human diversionP"
"What've you been doin' now?" asked Mo.
"I've iufit left a lassie tottering over with blissful
"Grorblimel" said Mo, "and to think that if I
could slin^ the lingo, I might've done the samel"
But Phineas had knocked all the dreams out of
Jeanne. The British happy-go-lucky ways of mar-
riage are not those of the French bourgeoisie, and
Jeanne had no notion of British happy-go-lucky
ways. Phineas had knocked the dream out of
Jeanne by kicking Do^e out of her sphere. And
there was a girl in Holland in Dog^e's qihere
whom he was to marry. She knew it. A man
does not gather his sagacities in order to answer
crookedly a direct challenge, unless there is some
necessity.
WeU. She would never see Doggie again. He
would pass out of her life. His destmy called him,
if he survived the slaughter of the war, to the shad-
owy girl in England. Yet he had done that for her.
For no other woman could he ever in this life do thai
a^in. It was past love. Her braia boggled at an
elusive spiritual idea. She was very young, flung
cleanly trained from the convent mto the war's
terrific tragedy, wherein maiden romantic fancies
were scorched in the tender bud. Only her honest
traditions ' of marriage remained. Cn love she
knew nothing. She leaped beyond it, seeking,
seeking. She would never see him t^ain. There
she met the Absolute. But he had done that for
her — that which, she knew not why, but she knew
— he would do for no other woman. The Splen-
dour of it would be her everlasting possession.
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224 THE ROUGH ROAD
She undreesed that night, proud, dry-eyed, heitHcal,
and went to bed, and listened to ^e rhythmic tramp
of the Bentry across the gateway below her window,
and suddenly a lump rose in her throat and ^e
fell to crying miserably.
ec by Google
CHAPTER XVII
HOW are you feeling, Trevor?"
"Nicely, thank you. Sister."
"Glad to be in Blighty again?"
Doggie smiled. " Good old Blighty!"
"L^ hurting you?"
"A bit, Sister, ' he replied with a little ^frimace.
"It's boimd to be stiff after the long journey,
but we'll soon fix it up for you."
*' I'm sure you will,' he said politely.
The nurse moved on. Doggie drew the cool,
clean sheet around his shoulders, and gave himself
up to the luxury of bed — real bed. The momine
sunlight poured through the open windows, attended
by a dehcious odour which after a while he recog-
nised as the scent of the sea. Where he was he had
no notion. He had absorbed so much of Tommy's
philosophy as not to care. He had arrived with a
convoy the night before, after much travel in am-
bulances by Umd and sea. If he had been a w€ilk-
ing case, he mi^t have taken more interest in
tbin^; but the sniper's bullet in his thigh had
touched the bone, and in spite of being cairi^ most
tenderly about like a baby, he had suffered great
pain, and longed for nothing and thought of nothing
oiit a permanent resting-place. Now, apparently,
he had found one, and, looking about Imn, he felt
pecuharly content. He seemed to have seen no
cleaner, whiter, brighter place in the world than
this airy ward swept by the sea-breezes. He
coimted seven beds besides his own. On a table
running down the ward stood a vase of sweet-peas
and a bowl of roses. He thought there was never
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226 THE ROUGH ROAD
in the world bo clean and cool a figure as the grey-
clad nurse in her spotless white apron, cuffs, and
cap.
When she pfissed near him again, he summoned
her. She came to his bedside.
"What do you call this particular region of fairy-
landP "
She stared at him for a moment, adjusting things
in her mind; for his name and style-were 35792
Private Trevor, J. M., but his voice and phrase were
those of her own social class. Then she smiled
and told him. The comer of fairyland was a
private auxiliary hospital in a Lancashire seaside
town.
"Lancashire," said Do^e, knitting his brow in a
puzzled way, "hut why have they sent me to Lan-
cashireP I belong to a West country regiment, and
all my friends are in the South."
"What's he grousing about. Sister?" suddenly
asked the occupant of the next bed. "He's the sort
of chap that doesn't know when he's in luck and
when he isn't. I'm in the Duke of Cornwall's
Light Infantry, I am, and when I was hit before,
they sent me to a niilitary hospittil in Inverness.
That'd teach you, my lad. This for me evCTy time.
You ought to have something to grouse at."
"I'm not grousing, you idiotl" said Doggie.
"'Ere — who's he calling an idjit?" cried the
Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantryman, raising
himself on his elbow.
The nurse intervened; explained that no one
could be said to grumble at a hospital when he called
it Fairyland. Trevor's question was that of one
in search of information. He did not realise that
in assigning men to the various ho^itals un the
United Eir^om, the authorities could not possibly
take into account an individual man's local asso-
ciation.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 227
"Oh, well, if it's only his bloomiiig ignorance — "
"That's just it, mate," smiled Doggie. "My
blooming ignorance."
"That's all right," said the nurse. "Now you're
friends."
"He had no right to call me an idjit," said the
Duke of ComwajU's Light Infantryman. He was
an aggressive, red-visaged man with bristly, black
hair and stubbly, black moustache.
"If you'll agree rfiat he wtisn't grousing, Pen-
worthy, I'm sure Trevor will apologise for calling
you an idiot."
And into the nurse's eyes crept the queer smile
of the woman learned in the ways of cbdldren.
"Didn't I say he wasn't grousing? It was only
his ignorance?'
Doggie responded. "I metuit no offence, mate,
inwhatlsaid."
The other growled an acceptance, whereupon
the nurse smiled an ironic benediction and moved
away.
"Where did you get it?" asked Penworthy.
Doggie gave the information, and, in his turn,
made the polite counter enquiry. Penworthy's
bit of shrapnel, which had broken a rib or two, liad
been acquired just north of Albert. When he left,
he said, we were putting it over in great quantities.
"That's where the great push is going to be in a
few days."
"Aren't you sorry you're out of it?"
"Me?" The Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry-
man shook his head. " I take things as I finds 'em,
and I finds this quite good enough."
So they chatted, and, in the soldier's way, became
friends. Later the surgeon arrived, and probed
Doggie's wound and hurt him exquisitely, so that
tiie perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his
jaws ached afterwards from his clenching of them.
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228 THE ROUGH ROAD
While his leg was being dressed he reflected that,
a couple of years ago, if anyone had inflicted a
twentieth part of such torture on him he would have
yelled the house down. He remembered, with an
mward grin, the anguished precautions on which
he had insisted whenever he sat down in the ex-
pensive London dentist's chair.
"It must have hurt like fun," said the nurse,
busily enea^ed with the gauze dressing.
" It's aB m the day's work," replied Doggie.
The nurse pinned the bandage and settled him
comfortably in bed.
" No one will worry you till dinner time. You'd
better try to have a sleep."
So Doggie nodded and smiled and curled up as
best he could, and slept the heavy sleep of the tired
young animal. It was only when he awoke, physi-
cally rested and comparatively free from pain, that
his mind, hitherto confused, began to work clearly,
to strai^ten out the three days' tangle. — Yes,
just three days. A fact ahnost impossible to realise.
Tilln • ■ '
U now it had seined an et^mty.
He lay with his arms crossed lihder his head and
stared at the blue sky. It seemed a soft, comforting,
English sky. The ward was silent. Only two beds
were occupied, one by a man asleep, the other b^ a
man reading a novel. His other roommates, in-
cluding his neighbour Penworthy, were so far conva-
lescent as to be up and away, presumably by the
hfe-giving sea, whose rhythmic murmur he could
hear. For the first time since he awoke to find
himself bandaged up in a strange dugout and sur-
rounded by strange faces, did the chaos of his ideas
resolve itself into anything like definite memories.
Yet many of them were still vague.
He had been out there, with the wiring party,
in the dark. He had been glad, he remanbered,
to escape from the prison of the trench into the
THE ROUGH ROAD 229
open air. He was Laving same difficulty frith a
recalcitrant bit of wire that refused to come straight
and jabbed him diabolically in unexpected places,
when a shot rang out and German flares w^it up
and everybody lay flat on the ground, while buUets
spat about them. As he lay on his stomach, a
mu'e lit up the ruined well of tLe farm of La Folette.
And the well and his nose and his heels were in a
bee-line. The realisation of the fact was the in-
ception of a fascinating idea. He remembered that
quite clearly. Of course his discovery, two days
before, of the spot where Jeanne's fortune lay bidden,
when his senior subaltern, with map and periscope,
had called him into consultation, had set his heart
beating and his imagination working. But not till
that moment of stark opportunity had he dreamed
of the mad adventure wnich he undertook. There,
in front of him, at the very fartbest five hundred
yards away, in bee-line with nose and heels — that
was the peculiar emd particular arresting fact — lay
Jeanne's fortune. In thinking of it he lost count
of shots and star-shells and heard no orders and saw
no dim forms creeping back to the safety of the
trench. And then all was darkness and silence.
Doggie lay on his back and stared at the English
sky and wondered how he did it. His attitude was
that of a man who cannot reconcile his sober self
with the idiot hero of a drunken freak. And yet,
at the time, the journey to the ruined wefl seemed the
simplest thing in the world. The thought of Jeanne's
delight shone uppermost in his mind. . . . OhI
he was forgetting the star, which hung low beneath
a canopy of cloud, the extreme point of the famous
feet, nose and weU bee-line. He made for it, now
and then walking low, now and then crawling. He
did not mind his clothes and hands being torn by
the unseen refuse of No Man's Land. His chief
sensation was one of utter loneliness, mii^Ied with
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230 THE ROUGH ROAD
exultance at freedom. He did not remember feeling
afraid: which was odd, because when the steur-
shells had gone up and the Grerman trenches had
opened fire on the wiring party, his blood had turned
to water and his heart bad sunk into bis boots, and
be had been deucedly frightened.
Heaven must have guided him straight to the
welL He had known all along that ne merely
would have to stick his hand down to find the rope
. . . and he felt no surprise when the rope actually
came in contact with his groping fingers; no sur-
prise when he pulled and pulled and fished up the
packet. R had till been pre-ordained. That was
the funny part of the busmess which Doggie now
could not understand. But he remembered that
when he had buttoned his tunic over the precious
packet, be had been possessed of an insane desire
to sing and dance. He repressed bis desire to sing,
but he leaped tibout and sttirted to run. Then the
star in which he trusted must have betrayed him. It
must have shed upon him a ray just strong enough
to make him a visible object; for, suddenly, ping!
something hit him violenUy on the leg and bowled
him over like a rabbit into a providential shell-
hole. And there he lay quaking for a long time,
while the lunacy of his adventure coarsely and un-
sentimentally revealed itself.
As to the rest, he was in a state of befogged mem-
ory. Only one incident in that endless, cruel crawl
home remained as leuidmark in his mind. He had
paused to take breath, ahnost ready to give up the
mipossible flight — it seemed as though be were
dragging behind him a ton of red-hot iron — when
he became conscious of a stench violent in his
nostrils. He put out a hand. It encountered a
horrible, once hiunan, face, and his fingers touched
a round, recognisable cap. Horror drove him
away from the dead Gennan and inspired him with
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THE ROUGH ROAD 231
the stren^ of despair. . . . Then all was fog and
dark again until he recovered consciousness in the
strange dug-out.
There the doctor had said to him: "You must
have a cast-iron constitution, my lad."
The memory caused a flicker round his lips. It
wasn't everybody who coiild crawl on his beUy
for nearly a quarter of a mile with a bullet through
his leg, and come up smiling at the end of it. A cast-
iron constitution! If he had only known it fifteen,
even ten years ago, what a different life he might
have ledl The great disgrace would never have
come upon him.
And JeanneP What of JeanneP After he had
told his story, they had given him to imderstand
that an officer would be sent to Fr^lus to corroborate
it, and, if he found it true, that Jeaime would enter
into possession of her packet. And that was all he
knew; for they had bundled him out of the front
trenches as quickly as possible; and once out he
had become a case, a stretcher case, and although
he had been treated, as a case, with almost super-
human tenderness, not a soul r^arded him as
a human being with a personality or a history —
not even with a military history. And this same
military history had vaguely worried him all the
time, and now that be could liiiiik clearly, worried
him with a very definite worry. In leaving his
firing party he had been guilty of a crime. Every
misdemeanour in the army is termed a crime — fcom
murder to appearing buttonless on parade. Was it
desertionP If so, he might be shot. He had not
Ibought of that when he started on his quest. It had
seemed so simple to account for half an hour's absence
by saying that he had lost bis way in the dark. But
now, that plausible excuse was iavahd. . . .
Doggie thought terribly hard that quiet, sea-
scentra morning. After all, it did not very much
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232 THE ROUGH ROAD
matter what they did to him. Sticking him up
against a wall and ^looting him w^ a remote
possihility ; he was in tiie British and not the German
Aimy. Field punishments of unpleasant kinds
were only inflicted on people convict«l of unpleasant
delinquencies. If he were a sergeant or a corporal
he doubtless would be broken. But sudi is the
fortunate position of a private, that he cannot be
degraded to an inferior rank. At the worst they
might give him cells when he recovered. Well,
he could stick it. It didn't matter. What really
mattered was Jeanne. Was she in imdisputed
possession of her packet? Whrai it was a question
t^ practical warfare, Doggie had blind faith in his
officers — a faith perhaps even more childhke than
that of his fellow-privates, for officers were the mea
who had come through the ordeal in which he had
so lamentably failed; but when it came to admin-
istrative affairs, he was more critical. He had
suffered during his military career from more than
one subaltern on whose arid consciousness the brain-
wave never beat. He had never met even a field
officer before whom, in the realm of intellect, he had
stood in awe. If any one of those dimly envisaged
and still more dimly remembered officers of the
Lancashire Fusiliers had ordered him to stand on
his head on top of the parapet, he would have obeyed
in cheerful confidence; but he was not at all certain
that, in the effort to deliver the packet to Jeanne,
they would not make an unholy mess of thii^
He saw stacks of dirty, yellowish bits of paper, with
A. F. No. something or the other, floating between
Frelus and the Lancashire Battahon H. Q. and the
Brigade H. Q. and the Divisional H. Q., and so on
through the migesty of G. H. Q. to the awful War
Office itself. In pesmuistic mood he thought that
if Jeanne recovered her property within a year, she
would be lucky.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 233
' What a wonderful creature was Jeaimel He
diut his eyes to the hlue sky and pictured her as
she stood in the light, on toe ragged escarpment,
with her garments beaten by wind and rain. And
he remembered the weary thud, thud of railway and
steamer, which had resolved itself, like tbe rhythmic
tramp <^ feet that night, into the ceaseless refrain:
"Jeannel Jeannel"
He opened his eyes again and frowned at the blue
English sky. It had no business to proclaim simple
s^enity when his mind was in such a state of com-
Slex tangle. It was all very well to think of Jeanne,
eanne, whom it was unlikely that Fate would ever '
allow him te see again, even supposing the war
ended during his lifetime; but there was Peggy —
Peggy, his future wife, who had stuck to him loyally
through good smd evil repute. Yes, there was Peggy
— not the faintest shadow of doubt about it. Doggie
kept on frowning at the blue sky. Blighty was a
very desirable countjy, but in it you were compelled
to think. And enforced thoi^ght was €in infernal
nuisance. The beastly trenches had their good
points, after all. There you were not called upon
to think of anything; the less you thought, the
better for your job; you just ate your bully-beef
and drank your tea and cursed whizz-bangs and
killed a rat or two, and thanked Grod you were alive.
Now that he came to look at it in proper per-
spective, it wasn't at £ill a bad life. When had he
been worried to death, as he was now? And there
were his friends: the humorous, genial, deboshed,
yet ever kindly Phineas; dear old Mo Shendish,
whose material feet were hankering after the vulgar
pavement of Mare Street, Hackney, but whose
spiritUEil tread rang on golden floors djmly imagined
by the Seer of Patmos; Barrett, the D. C. M., the
miniature Hercules, who, according to legend,
though, modestly, he would never own to it, seized
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234 THE ROUGH ROAD
two Boches by the neck and knocked their heads to-
gether till they died, and who, musically inclined,
would sit at his. Doggie's, feet while he played on
his penny whistle all the sentimental tunes he had
ever heard of; Sergeant Ballinghall, a tower of a
man, a champion amateur heavy-weight boxer with
a voice compared with which a megaphone sounded
like a maiden's prayer, and a Bardolphian nose and
an eagle eye and tbe heart of a broody hen, who
bad not only given him boxing lessons, but had
pulled ^im through difficult placra innumerable . • ■
and scores of others. He wondered what tbey
were doing. He also was foolish enough to wonder
whether they missed him, forgetting for the moment
that if a regiment took seriously to "missing" their
comrades sent to Kingdom Come or Blighty, they
would be more like weeping willows tlian destroyers
of Huns.
All the same, be knew that be would always live
in the hearts of two or three of them, and the knowl-
edge brought him considerable comfort. It was
strange to realise how the tentacles of his being
stretched out gropingly towards these (from the
old Durdlebury pmnt of view) impossible friends.
They had grafts] themselves on to his life. Or
was that a correct way of putting iti* Had they
not, rather, all grafted themselves on to a common
stock of life, so tnat the one common sap ran throu^
all their veinsP
It took him a long time to get this idea formulated,
fixed and acc^ted. But Doggie was not one to
boggle at the truth, as he saw it. And this was
the truth. He, James Maimaduke Trevor of Denby
Hall, was a Tommy of the Tommies. He had
lived the Tommy life intensely. He was hving
it now. And the extraordinary part of it was that
he didn't want to be anything else but a Tommy.
iWn the social or gregarious point of view his life
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THE ROUGH ROAD 235
for the past year had been one of unclouded hap-
piness. The realisation of it, now that he was
clearly sizing up the ramshackle thing which he
called his existence, hit him like the butt-end of a
riile. Hardship, cold, hunger, fatigue, stench, rats,
the dread of inefficiency — all these had been factors
of misery which he coxdd never eliminate from his
soldier's equation; but such free, joyous, intimate
companionship with real human beings he had
never enjoyed since he was bom. He longed to be
back among them, doing the same old weary, dreary
things, eating the same old Robinson Crusoe kind
of food, crouching with them in the same old
betiBtly hole in the ground, while the Boche let
loose hell on the trench: Mo Shendish's grin and
his "'Ere, get in art of the rain," and his grip on
his shoulder dragging him a few inches further into
shelter, were a spiritual compensation transcending
all physical discomfitures and perils.
"It's all dam' funny," he said half aloud.
But this was England, and although he was
hedged about, protected and restricted by War
Office Regulation Red Tape twisted round to the
strength of steel cables, yet he was in command of
telegraphs, of telephones and, in a secondary degree,
of me railway system of the United Kingdom.
He found lumself deprecating the compulsory
facilities of communication in the civilised world.
The Deanery must be informed of his homecoming.
As soon as he could secure the services of a nurse
he wrote out three telegrams: one addressed " Con-
over, the Deanery, Durdlebury"; one to Peddle
at Denby Hall; and one to Jeanne. The one to
Jeanne was the longest and was "Reply paid."
"This is going to cost a small fortune, young man,"
said the nurse. ; ■
Doggie smiled as he drew out a £1 treasury note
from his soldier's pocket-book, the pathetic object
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236 THE ROUGH ROAD
containing a form of Will on the rig^t hand flap,
and on the left the directions for the making of the
will, concluding with the world-famous typical
signature of Thomas Atkins.
"It's a bust, Sister," said he. "I've been saving
op for it for months."
Then, duty accomplished, he reconciled himself
to the comer of Fairyland in which he had awoke
that morning. Things must take their course,
and while they were taking it, why worry? So long
as they didnt commit the outrage of giving him
bully-beef for dinner, the present coolness and com-
fort sufiiced for his happiness.
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CHAPTER XVIII
THE replies to the telegrams were satisfactory.
Peg^, adjuring him to write a full account
of nimsel^ announced her intention of cam-
ing up to see him as soon as he could guarantee his
fitness to receive visitors. Jeanne wired: "Paquet
regu. Mille remerciements." The news cheered niTn
exceedingly. It was worth a hole in the leg. Hence-
forward Jeanne would be independent of Aunt
Morin, of whose generous afifection, in spite of
Jeanne's loyal reticence, he had formed but a poor
croinion. Now the old lady could die whenever
she liked, and so much the better for Jeanne. Jeanne
would then be freed from the imhealthy sick room,
from dreary little Frelus, and from enforced con-
sorting with the riff-raff (namely, all other regiments
except bis own) of the British Army. Even as it
was, he did not enjoy thinking of her as hail-fellow-
well-met with his own fellow-privates — perhaps
with the exception of Phineas and Mo, who were m
a different position, having been formally admitted
into a peculiar intimacy. Of course if Doggie had
possessed a more analytiod mind, he would have
been greatly surprised to discover that these feelings
arose from a healthy, barbaric sense of owner^p
of Jeanne; that Mo and Phineas were in a special
position because they humbly recognised this fact
of ownership and adopted a respectful attitude
towards his property, and that of all other predatory
men in imiform he was distrustful and jealous.
But Doggie was a simple soul, and went through a
great many elementary emotions, just fis Monsieur
237
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238 THE ROUGH ROAD
Jourdain spoke prose, sans le savoir. Without
knowing it, he would have gone to the ends of the
earth for Jeanne, have claimed over the head any
fellow savage who should seek to rob him of Jeanne.
It did not occur to him that savage instinct had
already sent him into the jaws of Death solely in
order to establish his primitive man's ownership of
Jeanne. When he came to reflect, in his Doggie-idi
way, on the motives of his exploit, be was some-
what baffled. Jeanne, with her tragic face, and het
tragic history, and her steadfast soul shining out
of ber eyes, was the most wonderful woman he bad
ever met. She personified the heroic womanhood
of France. The foul invader had robbed her of
her family and ber patrimony. The dead were dead
and could not be restored; but the material wealth,
God — who else? — bad given him this miraculous
chance to recover; and be had recovered it. Na-
tional pride helped to confuse issues. He, an
Englishman, haa saved this heroic daughter of
France from poverty. . . .
If only he could have won back to bis own trench,
and, later, when the company returned to Fr^us,
he could have handed her the packet and seen the
light come into those wonderful eyesl
Anyhow she bad received it. _She sent him a
thousand thanks. How did she look, what did
she say when she cut the string and undid the seals
and found her Httle fortune?
Translate Jeanne into a princess, the dirty water-
proof package into a golden casket, himself into
a knight disguised as a Squire of low degree, and
what more could you want for a first dass fairy-
tale? The idea struck Doggie at the moment of
"lights out," and he laughed aloud.
' It doesn't take muoi to amuse some people,"
growled his neighbour, Penworthy.
" Sign of a happy disposition," said Do^e.
A logic
THE ROUGH ROAD 239
"WhatVe you got to be happy about?"
"I was thinking how alive we are, and how dead
you and I might be," said Doggie.
"Well, I don't think it funny thinki n g how one
might be dead," rephed Penworthy. "It gives me
the creeps. It's all very well for you. You'U
stump around for the rest of your life hke a gentle-
man on a wooden leg. Chaps like you have all the
luck; but as soon as I get out of this, I'U he passed
fit for active service, . . . and not so much of your
larfii^ at not being dead- See? "
"AJl right, mate," said Domie. "Good-night."
Penworthy made no immediate reply; but pres-
ently he broke out :
"What d'you mean by talking like that? I'd
hate being dead."
A voice from the far end of the room luridly
requested that the (X}nveisation should cease. Sil^ice
A letter from Jeanne. The envelope bore a
French stamp with the Frelus postmark, and the
address was m a bold feminine hand. From whom
could it be but Jeanne? His heart gave a ridicu-
lous leap, and he tore the envelope open as he had
never torn open envelope of Pe^y's. But at the
£rst two words the leap segued to be one in mid
air, and ]m heart w^it down, down, down, like an
aero{dane done in, and arrived with a hideous bump
upon rocks.
"Cher Monsieur"
Cher iMonsieur from Jeanne — Jeanne who had
called him "Dog-gie" in accents that had rendered
adorable the once execrated syllables I Cher Mon-
sieur!
And the following, in formal French — it might
have been a convent exercise in composition — is
what she said:
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240 THE ROUGH ROAD
"The military (mthoritiet have remiUed into my
possession the package which you so heroically rescaed
from the well of the farm of La Folelie. It contains all
that my father was able to sate of his fortune, and on
consultation with Matire Ptpineau here, it appears
that 1 have sufficient to live modestly for the rest of my
life. For the marvelous devotion of you. Monsieur,
an English gentleman, to the poor interest of an obscure
young French girl, I can never be sufficiently grateful.
There will never be a prayer of mine, until I die, in
which you will not be mentioned. To me it will be
always a symbolic act of your chivalrous England in
the aid of my beloved France. That you mve been
wounded in this noble and selfless enterprise, is to me a
subject both of pride and terrifying dismay. I am
moved to the depths of my being. But I have been
assured, and your telegram confirms the assurance,
that yoar wound is not dangerous. If you had been
killed while rendering me this imnderful service, or
incapacitated so that you could no longer strike a blow
for your country ana mine, I should never have for-
given myself. I should have felt that I had robbed
France of a heroic defender. I pray God that you
may soon recover, and in fighting once more against
our common enemy, you may win the glory that no
English soldier can deserve more than you. Forgive
me if I express badly the emotions which overwhelm
me. It is impossible that we shall meet again. One
of the few English novels I have tried to r&jd k coups
de dictionnaire, was 'Ships that Pass in the Nigfd.'
In spite of the great thing that you have done for me,
it is inevilcdjle that we should be such passing vessels.
It is life. If, as I shall ceaselessly pray, you survive
this terrible war, you will follow your destiny as an
Englishman of high position and I that which God
marks out for me.
" I ask you to accept again the expression of my im-
perishable gratitude. Adieu.
Jeaitne Boissiere. "
THE ROUGH ROAD 241
The more often Doggie read this perfectly phrased
epistle, the greater waxed his puzzledom. The
gratitude was all there; more than enough. It was
gratitude and nothing else. He had longed for a
human story telling just how the thing had happened,
just how Jeanne tad felt. He had wanted W to
say: "Get well soon and come back and I'll tell
you all about it." But instead of that ^e dwelt
on the difference of their social status, loftilv an-
nounced that they would never meet again, ana that
they would follow different destinies, and bade him
the adieu which in French is the final leave-taking.
All of which to Doggie the unsophisticated would
have seemed ridiculous, had it not been so tragic.
He couldn't reconcUe the beautiful letter, written in
faultless handwriting and impeccable French, with
the rain-swept girl on the escarpment. What did
she mean? What had come over no'?
But the ways of Jeannes are not the wa^ of
Doggies. How was he to know of the boetstings
of Phineas McPhail, and the hopelessness wiui
which they filled Jeamie's heeirt? How was he to
know that she had sat up most of the night in her
little room over the gateway, drafting and re-
drfifting this piwious composition until, having
reduced it to soul-devastatmg correctitude, and,
with aching eyes and head, made a fair and faults
less copy, ^e had once more cried herself into mis-
erable slumberP
At once Doggie called for pad and pencil, and be-
gan to write;
"My dear Jeaejne. / dorCt understand. What
fly has slang you? (Quelle mouehe vous a piquee?)
Of course toe shall meet again. Do you suppose I
am going to lei you go out of my life ? ' '
He sucked his pencil. Jeanne must be spoken to
severely.
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242 THE ROUGH ROAD
"What rubbish are you talking about my social
position? My father was an English parson (pasteur
aiiglais), €oid yours a French lawyer. If I have a
lime money of my own, so have you. And we are not
ships, and we have not passed in the night. And thai
toe should wrf meet again is not Life. It is absurdity.
We are going to meet as soon as wounds and war will
let me, and I am not your ' Cher Monsieur,' bat your
'CherDog-gie,' and—"
"Here is a letter for you, brought by htind," said
the nxuse, buBtJing to his bedside.
It was irom Pe^gy.
"Oh, Lord I "said Doggie.
P^gy was there. She had arrived firom Durdle-
bury all alone, the night before, and was putting
up at €in hotel. The venerable idiot with red crosses
and bits of tin all over her who seemed to run the
hospital, wouldn't let her in to see him till the regu-
lation visiting hour of three o'clock. That me,
Peggy, was a Dean's daughter who had travelled
hundreds of miles to see the man ^e was engaged
to, did not se^n to imiuress the venerable idiot m the
least. "TiU three o clock, then. With love from
'The lady, I believe, is waiting for an answer,"
said the nurse.
"Oh, my hatt" said Doggie, below his breath.
To write the answer he had to strip from the
pad the page on which he had begun the letter to
Jeimne. He wrote: "Dearest Peggy." Then the
pencil point's impress through the thm paper stared
at him. Almost every word was decipherable.
Recklessly he tore the pad in half and on a virgin
Sage scribbled his message to Peggy. The nurse
eparted with it. He took up the flimsy sheet
containing his interrupted letter to Jeanne and
glanced at it in dismay. For the first time it struck
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THE ROUGH ROAD 243
him that such words, to a girl even of the lowest in-
teiligence, could only have one interpretation. Dog-
gie said "Oh, Lordl" and "Oh, my hatl" and Oh
all sorts of unprintable things that he had learned
in the Army. And he put to himself the essential
question: What the Hades was he playing atP
Obviously the first thing to do was to destroy the
letter to Jeanne and the tell-tale impress. liiis he
forthwith did. He tore the sheets mto ^e tiniest
fragments, stretched out his arm to put the handful
on the table by the bed, missed his auu and dropped
it on the floor. Whereby he incurred the just wrath
of the bard-worked nurse.
Again he took up Jeiume's letter. After all,
what was wrong with itP He must look at things
from her point m view. What had really happened?
Let him set out the facts judicially. They had
struck up a day or two's friendship. She had told
him, as she might have told any decent soul, her
sad and romantic story. The English during the
great retreat had rendered her unforgetable services.
She was a girl of a generously responsive nature.
She would pay her debt of gratitude to the English
soldier. Her fine vale on the memorable night of
rain was part payment of her debt to England.
Yes. Let him get tbin^ in the r^bt perspective.
. . . She bad made fnends with him because he
was one of the few private soldiers who could speak
her language. It was but natural that she should
tell bitn of the sunken packet. It was one of the
most vital facts of her life. But just an outside
fact; nothing to do with any shy, mysterious work-
ings of her woman's soul. She might have told the
story to any man in the company without deroga-
tion from her womanly dignity. And any man Jack
of them, having Jeanne s confidence, having the
knowledge of the situation of the ruined well,
having me God-sent opportunity of recovering the
nOOgIC
244 THE ROUGH ROAD
treasure, would, of absolute certainty, have done
exactly what he. Doggie, had done. Supposing
Mo Shendish had been the privileged person, instead
of himself. What, by way of thanks, could Jeanne
have written? A letter practically identical.
Practically. A very comfortable sort of word;
but Doggie s cultivated mind disliked it. It was
a slovenly word, a make-shift for the hard brotmi of
clean thought. This infernal "practically" begged
the whole question. Jeanne would not have sen-
timentalised to Mo Shendish about ships passii^
in the night. No, she wouldn't, in spite of all his
efforts to persuade faims^ that she would. Well,
perhaps dear old Mo was a rough, uneducated sort
of chap. He could not have established with
Jeanne such deUcate relations of friendship as exist
between social eqoab. Obviously the finer shades
of her letter would have varied according to the
personahty of the recipient. Jeanne and himsdf,
owing to the abnormal conditions of war, had
suddenly became very intimate friends. The war,
as she imagined, must part them for ever. She
bade him a touching and dignified farewell, and
that was the end of the matter. It had all been an
idyUic episode: beginning, middle and end; neatly
rounded off; a thing done, and done with — except
as a strange romantic memory. It was all over.
As long as he remained in the Army, a condition
for which, as a private soldier, he was not responsible,
how could he see Jeanne againP By the time he
re-joined, the regiment would be many miles away
from Fr^lus. Inis, in her clear, steady way, ^e
realised. Her letter must be final.
. It had to he finaL Was not Peggy coming at
three o'clock?
Again Doggie thought, somewhat wistfully, of the
old carefree, full physical life, and again he murmured :
"It's all dam' funny I"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 245
Peggy stood for a moment at the door scamiing
the ward; then, perceiving him, she marched down
with defiant glance at nurses and blue-miifonned
comrades and men in bed and other strangers,
swung a chair and established herself by his
"You dear old thing, I couldn't bear to think of
you lying here alone," she said with the hurry that
seeks to cover shyness. "I had to come. Mother's
gone Jut and can t travel, and Dad's running all the
parsons' shows in the district. Otherwise one of
them would have come too."
"It's awfully good of you, P^gy," he said, with
a smile, for fair and flushed, she was pleasant to
look upon. "But it must have been a fiendi^
journey."
"Rotten I" said Peggy. "But that's a trifle.
You're the all important thing. Tell me straight.
You're not badly nurt, are you?"
"Lord, no," he replied cheerfully. "Just the
fleshy iMirt of the leg — a clean bullet wound.
Bone touched; but they say I'll be fit quite soon."
"Sure? They're not going to cut off your leg
or do anything horrid?"
Helaughed. "Sure," said he.
"That^s all right."
There was a pause. Now that they had met they
seemed to have Uttle to say. She looked around.
Presently she remarked:
"Everything looks quite fresh and dean."
"It's perfect."
"Rather pubhc, though," said Peggy.
"Publicity is the piuradoxical omdition of the
private's life," lauded Doggie.
Another pause.
" WeU, how are you feeling?"
"FuBt rate," said Dt^gie. "It's nothing to fusa
over. I hope to be out again in a month or two."
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246 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Out where?"
" In France — with the iwiment."
Peggy drew a little breath of astonishment and
sat up on her chair. His surprising statement
seemed to have broken up the atmosphere of re-
straint.
"Do you mean to say you uwtni to go back to the
trenches?"
Conscientious Doggie knitted his brows. A fer-
vent "Yes" would proclaim him a modem Paladin
eager to slay Huns. Now, as a patriotic English-
man, he loved Huns to be slain, but as the survivor
of James Marmaduke Trevor, dilettante expert on
the theorbo and the viol da gamba and owner of
the peacock and ivory room in Denby Hall, to say
nothing of the collector of little china dogs, he could
not honestly declare that he enjoyed the various
processes of slaying them.
" I can't ejcplain, ' he repHed after a while. " When
I was out, I thought I hated every minute of it.
Now I look back, I find I've had qmte a good time.
I've not once really been sick or sorry. For instfuice,
I've often thought myself beastly miserable with
wet and mud and east wind — but I've never had
even a cold in the head. I never knew how ^ood
it was to feel fit. And there are other thmgs.
When I left Durdlebury, I hadn't a man friend in
the world. Now I have a lot of wonderful pals
who would go tbrou^ HeU for one another — and,
for me."
" TommiesP "
" Of course — Tommies."
"You mean gentlemen in the ranks?"
"Not a bit of it. Or yes. All are gentlemen in
the ranks. All sorts and conditions of men. The
man whom I honour and love more than anyone
else, comes from a fish-shop in Hackney. That's
the fascinating part of it. Do underhand me.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 247
Peggy," he continued, after a short silence, during
whim she regarded him ahnost uncomprehendingly.
" I don't say I'm yearning to sleep in a filthy dug-out,
or to wallow in the groimd under shell-fire, or any-
thing of that sort. That's beastly. There's only
one other word for it, which begins with the same
letter, and the superior kind of private doesn't use
it in ladies' soraety. . . . But while I'm lying here,
I wonder what all the other fellows are doing —
they're such good chaps — real, true, clean men —
out there you seem to get to essentials — all the
rest is leather and prunella — and I want to be
back among than again. Why should I be in clover
while they're in choking dust — a lot of it composed
of desiccated Boches?"
"How horrid!" cried Peggy with a Mttle shiver.
"Of course it's horrid. But they've got to stick
it, haven't they? And Uien there a anothw thing.
Out there one hasn't any worries."
Peggy pricked up her ears. "Worries? What
kind of worries? "
Doggie became conscious of indiscretion. He
temporised.
"Oh, all kinds. Every man with a sort of trained
intellect must have them. You remember James
Stuart Mill's problem: 'which would you sooner be
— a contented hog or a discontented philosopher?'
At the front you have all the joys of the contented
hog."
Instinctively he stretched out his hand for a
cigarette. She bent forward, gripped a matchbox
and lit the cigarette for him.
Doggie thanked her politely; but in a dim way
he felt conscious of something lacking in her little
act of helpfulness. It had been performed with the
nnsmiling perfunctoriness of the nurse; an act
of duty not of tenderness. As she blew out the
match, which she did with an odd air of delibera-
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248 THE ROUGH ROAD
ticoi, her face wore the same expression o£ hardness
it had done on that memorable day when ^e had
refused him her sympathy over the white feather
incident.
" I can't understand your wanting to go back at
all. Surely you've done your bit," she said.
"No one has done his bit who's alive and able to
carry on," rej^ed Doggie.
Peggy reflected. Yes. There was some truth in
that. But ahe thou^t it rather hard lines cm the
wounded to be sent back as soon as ^ey were
patched up. Most of them hated the prospect.
That was why she couldn't understand Doggie's
desire.
"Anyhow, it's ioUy noble of you, dear old thing,"
she declared with rather a spasmodic change of
manner, "and I'm very proud oi you."
"For Grod's sake, don t go irnqgining me a hero,"
cried Dcwgie in alarm; "for I'm not. I hate the
fighting Eke poison. The only reason I don't run
away is because I can't. It would be far more
dangerous than standing still. It woidd mean an
oflBcer's bullet through my head at once."
"Any man who is wounded in the defence of his
coimtry is a hero," said Peggy, defiantly.
"RotI" said Doggie.
"And all this time you haven't told me how you
got it. How did you? '
Do^e squirmed. The inevitable and dreaded
question had come at last.
" I just got sniped when I was out, at night, with
a wiring party," he said hurriedly.
"But thats no description at all," she objected.
"I'm afraid it's all I can give," Doggie replied.
Then, by way of salve to a sensitive conscience, he
added: "There was nothing brave or heroic fdxtut
it, at all — just a silly accident. It was as safe as
tying up hollyhocks in a garden. Only an idiot
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THE ROUGH ROAD 249
Bodie let off his gun on spec and got me. Doa't
let us talk about it."
But Peggy was insistent. "I'm not sudb a fool
as not to Know what mending barbed wire at night
means. And whatever you may say, you got
woimded in the service of your country. '
It was on Doggie's agitated lips to shout a- true
"I didn't I" For that was the devil of it. Had he
been so wounded, he could have purred contentedly
while accepting the genuine hero s meed of homage
and consolation. But he had left his country s
service to enter that of Jeanne. In her service
be had been shot through the leg. He had no bud-
ness to be wounded at aD. Jeanne saw that very
clearly. To have exposed himself to the risk of his
eiqploit was contrary to all his country's interests.
His wound had robbed her of a fighting man, not a
particularly valuable warrior, but a soldier in the
firing line all the same. If every man went off like
that on private missions of his own and got properly
potted, there would be the end of the army. It
was horrible to be an interesting hero under false
pretences.
Of course he might have been George- Wasbing-
tonian enough to ^out: "I cannot tell a lie. I
didn't." But that would have meant relating
the whole story of Jeanne. And would Peggy have
understood the story of Jeanne? Could Peggy,
in her plain-sailing, breezy British way, have ap-
Jreciated all the subtleties of his relations with
eanne? She would ask pointed, probably barbed,
questions about Jeanne. She would tear the whole
romance to shreds. Jeanne stood too exquisite a
symbol for him to permit the sacrilege of Peggy's
ruthless vivisection. For vivisect she would, with-
out shadow of doubt. His long find innocent
familiarity with womankind in Durdlebury had led
him instinctively to the conclusion formulated by
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250 THE ROUGH ROAD
one of the world's great cynics in his advice to a
young man: "If you care for happiness, never
speak to a woman about another woman."
Doggie felt uncomfortable as he looked into
Peggy's clear blue eyes; not conscience-stricken at
the realisation of himself as a scoundrelly Don Juan
— that never entered his ingenuous mind; but he
hated his enforced depeirture from veracity. The
one virtue that had dragged the Toy Pom success-
fully along the Rough Road of the soldier's life was
his uncompromisiug attitude to Truth. It cost
him a Bharpstniggle with his soul to reply to Peggy: —
"All right. Have it bo if it pleases you, my dear.
Rut it was an idiot fluke all the same."
"I wonder if you know how you've changed,"
she said, after a while.
"For better or worse?"
"The obvious thing to say would be 'for the bet-
ter.' Rut I wondo". Do you mind if I'm frankP "
"Not a hit."
" There's something hard about you, Marmaduke."
D<^gie wrinkled lips and brow in a curious smile.
"I'll be frank too. You see, I've been Hving among
men instead of a pack of old women."
"I suppose that's it," Peggy said thoughtfully.
"It's a dud sort of pkce, Dunllebury," said he.
"Dud?"
He laughed. "It never goes off."
"You used to say, in your lettws, that you longed
for it."
" Perhaps I do now — in a way. I don't know."
"I bet you'll settle down there, after the war,
just as though nothiiu had happened."
"I wonder," said Doggie.
"Of course you wiJtt. Do you remember our
plans for the reconstruction of Denhy Hall, which
were knocked on the head? All that 11 have to be
gone into again."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 251
"That doesn't mean that we need curl ourselves
up there forever like caterpillars in a cabbage."
She arched her eyebrows. "What would you
like to do?"
"I think I'll want to go round and round the
world till I'm dizzy."
At this amazing pronoimcement from Mfinna-
duke Trevor, Peggy gasped. It also astonished
Doggie himself. He bad not progressed so far on the
road to seif-emancipation as to dream of a rupture
of his engagement. His marriage was as much a
decree of destiny as bad been his enlistment when
he walked to Peter Pan's statue in Kensington
Gardens. But the war had made the prospect a
distant one. In the vague future he would marry
and settle down. But now Peggy brought it into
alarming nearness, thereby causing him considerable
agitation. To go back to vegetation in Durdlebury,
even with so desirable a companion cabbage as
Peggy, just when he was beginning to conjecture
what there might be of joy and thnll in life — the
thought dismayed him; and the sudden dismay
found expression in his rhetorical outburst.
" Oh, u you want to travel for a year or two, I'm
all for it,' cried Peggy. "I can't say I've seen
much of the world. But we'll soon get sick of it
and yearn for home. There'll be lots of things to
do. we'll take up our position as county people
— no more of the stuffy oM women you're so down
on — and you'll get into Parliament and sit on
committees, and so on, and altogether we'll have
a topping time."
Doggie bad an odd sensation that a stranger spoke
through Peggy's famihar lips. Well, perhaps, not
a stranger, but a half-forgotten dead and gone
acquaintance.
' Don't you think the war will change things —
if it hasn't changed them already P "
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252 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Not a bit," Peggy replied. "Dad's always
talking learnedly about social reconstruction, what-
ever that means. But if people have got money
and position and all that sort of thing, who's going
to take it away from themP You don't suppose
we're all going to turn socialists and pool the w^th
of the country, and everybody's gomg to live in a
garden-city Eim wear sandals and eat nuts?"
"Of course not," said Doggie.
"Well, how are people like ourselves going to feel
any difference in what you call social conditionsP "
Doggie lit another cigarette, chiefly in order to
gain tune for thought; but an odd mstinct made
him secure the matchbox before he picked out the
cigarette. Superficially Peggy's proposition was
incontrovertible. Unless there happened srane
social cataclysm involvin^g a newly democratised
world in ghastly chaos, which, after all, was a remote
possibility, the externals of gentle life would undergo
very shght modification. Yet there was something
fundamentally wrong in Pe^y's conception of
postrwar existence. Something wrong in essentials.
Now, a critical attitude towards Peggy, whose
presence was a proof of her splendid loyalty, seemed
hateful. But Uiere was something wrong, all the
same. Something wrong in P^gy herself that put
her into opposition. In one aspect, she was the
pre-war Peggy, with her cut and dried little social
ambitions, and her definite projects of attainment;
but in another she was not. The pre-war Peg^
had swiftly turned into the patriotic English gu-1
who had hounded him into tbe army. He found
himself face to face with an amorphous, character-
less sort of Peggy whom he did not know. It was
petplexiog, bammg. Before he could formulate
an idea, E^e went on:
"You silly old thing, what change is there likely
to be? What change is there now, after all?_ Tl^re's
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THE ROUGH ROAD 253
a scarcity of men. Naturally. They're out fight-
ing. But when they come home on leave, life ^pes
on just the same as before — tennis parties, little
dances, dinners. Of course, lots of people are hard
bit. Did I tell you that Jack Pounceby was killed
— the only son? The war's awful and dreadful, I
know — but if we don't go through with it cheer-
fully, what's the good of us?"
"I think I'm pretty cheerful," said Doggie.
"Oh, you're not grousing and you're making the
best of it. You're perfectly splendid. But you're
philosophising such a lot over it. The only thing
before us is to do in Germany, Prussian mihtarism,
and so on, find then there'll be peace, and we'll
all be happy again."
"Have you met many men who say that?" he
asked.
"Heaps. Ohver was ttiUdng about it only the
other day."
"Oliver?"
At his quick challenge he could not help noticing
a little cloud, as of vexation, pass over her face.
"Yes, Oliver," die replied with an unnecessary air
of defiance. "He has been over here on short leave.
Went badt a fortni^t ago. He's as cheerful as
cheerful can be. Jomer tbon ever he was. I took
him out in the dear old two-seater, and he insisted
on driving to show how they drove at the front —
and it's only because the Almi^ty must have kept
a special eye on a Dean's daughter that I'm here
to tell the tale."
"You saw a lot of him, I suppose," said Dog^e.
A flush rose on P^»y's dieet. "Of course. He
was staying at the Deanery most of his time. I
wrote to you about it. I've made a point of telling
you everything. I even told you anout the two-
seater."
"So you did," said Doggie. "I ranember."
254 THE ROUGH ROAD
He smiled. "Your description made me laugh.
Oliver's a Major now, isn't he?"
"Yes. And just before he eot his Majority they
gave him the Mihtary Cross.'
"He must he an amul swell," said Dogc;ie.
She replied with some heat. "He hasn t changed
the least Uttle hit in the world."
Doggie shook his head. "No one can go through
it, really go through it, and come back the same."
"You don't insinuate that Oliver hasn't really
gone through it?"
"Of course not, Peggy dear. They don't throw
M. C's about like Iron Crosses. In order to get it
Oliver must have looked into the jaws of Hell.
They all do. But no man is the same afterwards.
Oliver has what the French call panache — ' '
""WhaX'a panache?"
"The real heroic swe^^ — something spiritual
about it. Oliver's not gomg to let you notice the
change in him."
"We saw 'The Bing Boys' at the Alhambra, and
he laughed as if such a thing as war had never been
heard of."
" Naturally," said Doggie. "All that's part of the
panache."
"You're talking throi^h your hat, Mannaduke,"
she exclaimed with some irritation. "Oliver's a
straight, clean, English soldier."
"I ve been doing my best to tell you so," said
Doggie.
"But you seem to be critidsing him because he's
concealing something behind what you call his
panache.'
"Not criticising, dear. Only stating. I think
I'm more Oliverian than you."
"I'm not OUverian," cried Peggy, with burning
cheeks. "And I don't see why we should discuss
him like this. All I said was mat Oliver, who has
THE ROUGH ROAD 255
made himself a distinguished man and will be even
more distingui^ed, and, at any rate, knows what
he's talking about, doesn't worry bis bead with social
reconstruction and aU that sort of rot. I've ccone
here to talk about you, not about OUver. Let us
leave him out of the question."
"Willingly," said Doggie. "I never had any
reason to love OUver; but I must do him justice.
I only wanted to show you that be must be a b^ger
man than you imagine. '
"I'm ^d to hear you say so," cried Peggy, with
a flash of the eyes. "I hope it's true."
"The war's such a whacldng big thing, you see,"
he said with a conciliatory smile. "No one can
prophesy exactly what's going to come out of it.
But the whole of human society . . . the world,
the whole of civilisation is being stirred up like a
Christmas pudding. The war's bound to change
the trend of all human thou^t. There must be
an entire rearrangement of social values."
"I'm sorrry, but I don't see it," said Peggy.
Doggie again wrinkled his brow and looked at
her, and she retiuned his glance stonily.
"You think I'm mulish."
She bad interpreted Doggie's thought, but he
raised a hand in protest.
"No, no."
"Yes, yes. Every man looks at a woman like
that when he thinks her a mule or an idiot. We
get to learn it in our cradles. But in ^ite of your
superior wisdom, I know I'm right. After the war
there won't be a bit of change, really. A duke will
be a duke and a costermonger a costermonger."
"These are extreme cases. "ITie duke may re-
main a duke but he won't be such a Uttle tin god
on wheels. He'll find himself in the position of a
democratic viscount. And the costennongCT wiU
rise to the politiced position of an important trades-
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256 THE ROUGH ROAD
man. But betweeo the two there'll be any oW sort
of flux."
"Did you learn all this horrible, rank socialism in
France?"
"Perhaps, but it seems so obvious."
"It's only because you've been livinjg amoi^
Tommies, who've eot these stupid ideas into their
heads. If you had been living among your social
e(]uals — "
"In Durdlebury?"
She flashed rebdiion. "Yes. In Durdlebury. Why
not?" ^■
" I'm afraid, Peggy dear," he said, with his patient,
pleasant smile, "you are rather Weltered from the
war in Durdlebury."
She cried out iDdignanUy.
" Indeed we're ■ not. "Ine newspapers come to
Durdlebury, don't they? And everybody's doing
something. We have the war all around us. We've
even succeeded in getting wounded soldiers in the
Cottage Hospital. Nancy Murdoch is a V. A. D.
and stTubs floors. Cissy James is driving a Y. M. C. A.
motor car in Calais. Jane Brown-Gore is nursing
in Salonika. We read all their letters. Personally
I can't do much because mother has crocked up
and I've got to run the Deanery. But I'm slaving
from morning to night. Only last week I got up a
concert for me wounded. AJone I did it — ana it
takes scxue doing in Durdlebury, now that you're
away and the Musical Association has perished of
inamtion. Old Dr. Flint's no earthly good, since
Tom, the eldest son, you remember, Was killed in
MesopotamiEL So I <ud it all, and it was a great
success. We netted four hundred and seventy
pounds. And whenever I can get a chance, I go
round the hospital and talk and read to the men ami
write their letters, and hear of everything. I don't
thiiik you've any -right to say we're out of touch
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THE ROUGH ROAD 257
with the war. In a sort of way I know as much about
it as you do."
Do^e in some perplexity scratched his head, a
thing which he would never have done at Durdle-
bury. With humorous intent he asked;
"Do you know as much as OKver?"
"OKver's a field oflBca-," she rephed tartly, and
Dog^e felt snubbed. "But I'm siure he agrees with
everything I say." She paused imd, in a different
tone, went on: "Don't you think it's rather rotten
to have this pifiQing argument when I've come all
this long way to see you?"
"Forgive me, Peggy," he said penitently. "I
appreciate your conung more than I can say . "
She was not appeased. "And yet you don't
give me credit for playing the game.'
"What game?" he asked with a smile.
"Surely you ought to know."
He reached out his hand and took hers. "Am
I worth it, Pe^gy?"
Her lips twitched and tears stood in her eyes.
"I don't know what you mean?"
"Neither do I, quite," he repUed simply. "But
it seems that I'm a Tommy through and through,
and that L'll never get Tommy out of my soul."
"That's nothing to be ashamed of," she declared
stoutly.
"Of course not. But it makes one see aU sorts
of things in a different light."
"Oh, don't worry your head about that," she
said, with pathetic misunderstanding. "We'll put
you all right as soon as we get you back to Durdle-
bury. I suppose you wont refuse to come this
time."
"Yes; m come this tiine," said Doggie.
So he promised, and the talk driftra on to casual
lines. She gave him the mild chronicle of the sleepy
town, descnbed plays which she had seen on her
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258 THE ROUGH ROAD
rare visits to London, sketdied out a programme
for his all too short visit to the Deanery.
"And in the meanwhile," she remarked, "try to
get these morbid ideas out of your sUIy old head."
Time came for parting. She rose and shook
hands.
"Don't think I've said anything in depreciation of
Tommies. I understand them thoroughly. They're
-wonderful fellows. Good-bye, old lH>y. Get well
soon."
She kissed her hand to him at the door and was
gone.
It was now that Doggie b^an to hate himself.
For all the time that Peggy had been running on,
eager to convince him that Ids imputation of aloof-
ness from the war was undeserved, the voice of one
who, knowing its splendours and its terrors, had
pierced to the heart of its mysteries, rang in his ears.
" Lew gaieii fail pew."
ec by Google
CHAPTER XrX
THE X-rays shoved the tiniest splinter of bone
in Dc^gie's thi^. The surgeon Qshed it up
and the clean wound healed rapidly. The
gloomy Penworthy's prognostication had not come
true. Doggie would not stiuup about at ease on a
wooden leg; but io all probability would soon find
himself hack, in the firing line — a prospect which
brought great cheer to Penworthy. Also to Doggie.
For, m spite of the charm of the pretty hospital, the
health-giving sea air, the long rest for body and
nerves Ufe seemed flat and unprofitable.
He had written a gay, irreproachable letter to
Jeanne, to which Jeanne, doubtless thinking it the
last word of the episode, had not replied. Loyalty
to Peggy foibade further thought of Jeanne. He
must henceforward think of Peggy and her sturdy
faithfulness as bard as he could. But the more he
thought, the more remote did Peggy seem. Of
course the publicity of the interview had invested
it witb a certain constraint, knocked out of it any
approach to sentimentality or romance. They had
not even kissed. They had spent most of the time
arguing from differ^it points of view. They had
been near to quarrdling. It was outrageous of
him to criticise her; yet how could he help it? The
mere fact of striving to exalt her was a criticism.
Indeed they were far apart. Into the sensitive
soul of Doggie the war in all its meaning had passed.
The soul 01 Peggy had remained untouched. To
her, in her sheltered comer of England, it was a
ghastiy accident, like a railway collision blocking
me traffic on her favourite line. For the men (U
259 .-. .
260 THE ROUGH ROAD
her own dass who took part in it, it was a brave
adventure; for the common soldier, a sad but pa-
triotic necessity. If circumstances bad allowed her
to go forth into the war-world, as nurse or canteen
helper at a London terminus, or motor driver in
France, her horizon would have broadened. But
the contact with realities into which her dilettante
littJe war activities brought her, was too slight to
make the deep impression. In her heart, as far as
she revealed herseli to Doggie, she resented the war
because it interfered with her own definitely marked
out scheme of existence. The war over, she would
regard it politely as a thing that had never been,
and woidd forthwith set to work upon her afore-
said interrupted plan. And towards a comprehen-
sion of this appttfent serenity the perplexed mind of
D(wgie gropwi with ill success. All nis old values
had been kicked into higgledy-piggledy confusion.
All hers remained steadfast.
So Doggie reflected with some grimness that there
are rougher roads than those which lead to the
trenches.
A letter from Phineas did not r^tore equanimity.
It ran:
"My dear Laddie,
"Ow unsophisticated friend, Mo, and myself are
writing this tetter together, and he bids me b^in it by
saying that he hopes itjindsyou as it leaves us at present,
in a muck of dust and perspiration. Where we are
now I must not tell, for {in me opinion of the Censor)
you would reveal it U> the Very Reverend the Dean of
Durdlebury, who would naturally telegraph the in-
formation to the Kaiser. But the Division is far, far
from the idyllic land of your dreams, and there is
bloody fighting ahead of us. And though the hearts
of Mo and me go out to you, laddie, and though toe
miss you sore, yet Mo says he's blistering glad you're
THE ROUGH ROAD 261
out of ii and safe in your perishing bed wUh a Blighty
one. And such, in more academic phraseology, are
the sentiments of your old friend Phineas.
"Ah, laddie! ii uxts a bad day when we marched
from vie old billets; for the word had gone round thai
ive toeren't going back. I had taken the liberty of
telling the lassie ye ken of something about your private
position and your wwldly affairs, of which it seems
you had left her entirely ignorant. Of course, with
my native Scottish caution, and my knowledge of
human nature gained in the academies of prosperify
and the ragged schools of adversity, I did not touch on
certain matters of a delicate nature. That is no busi-
ness of mine. If there is discretion in this world in
which you can trust blindly, il is that of Phineas
McPhail. I just told her of Denby Hall and your
fortune, which I fairly axcuraiely computed ai a
couple of million francs. For I thought it was right
she should know that you weren't just a scallywag
private soldier like the rest of us. And I am bound
to say that the lassie vxis cortsidertMy impressed. In
further conversation I told her something of your early
life, and, though not over desirous of blackening my
maracter in her bonnie eyes, I let her know what kind
of an injudicious upbringing you bad been compelled
to undergo. ' II a 6t6 ^levfi, said I, 'dans — ' What
the blazes was the French for cotton-wool? The war
has a pernicious effect on one's memory — I some-
times even forget the elemerdary sensations of inebriety
— 'Dans la ouate,' she said. And I remembered
the word, *0m, dans la ouate,' said I. And she
looked at me, laddie, or, rather, through me, out of her
great, dark eyes — you mind the way she treats your
substance as a shadow and looks through it at the
shadows that to her are substances — and she said
below her breaih — / don't think she meant me to bear
it — 'Et c'est lui qui a fait cela pour moi.'
"Mo, in his materialistic way, is clamorous ihtd I
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HI TOU < . „
symixdical, I proceed to do. It was our last day. She
invit^ us to lunch in the kiichen, and shut the door
so IhcU none of ihe hungry varlels of the company should
stick in their unmannerly noses and whine for scraps.
And there, laddie, teas an omelette and ctmels ana a
chicken arid a fromage & la cr^e sudt as in Ihe days
of my vanity I have never eaten, cooked by the old
body whose soid you won with a pinch of snuff. The
poor lassie could scarcely eat; but Mo saw that there
tvas nothing left. The bones on his plale look&i as if
a dog had been at them for a uieeA. Arui there was
vintage Haut Sauterne which ran down one's throat
like scented gold. ' Man,' said I to Mo, ' if you lap
il up like that, you'll be as drunk as Noah.' So he
cast a frightened glance at Mademoiselle, and sipped
like a young lady at a christening party. Then she
brings out cherries and plums and peaches, and opens
a hmf bottle of champagne and fills all our glasses, and
Toinette had a glass; and she rises in the pale, dignified,
Greek tragedy way she has, and she makes a wee bit
speech. Messieurs,' she said, 'perhaps you may
wonder why I have invited you. Bat I mink you
understand. It is the only way I had of sharing with
Doggie's friends the fortune thai he had so heroically
brought me. U is but a little tribute of my gratitude
to Doggie. You are his friends and I wish well that
you would be mine — tres franchement, fr^ loyale-
ment.' She put out her hand and we shook it And
old Mo said, 'Miss, Fd go to Hell for you!' Where-
upon the little red spot you may have seen for yourself
came into her pale cheek, and a soft look lilx a flitting
moonbeam crept into her eyes. Laddie, if I'm waxing
' too poetical, just consider that Mademoiselle Jeanne
Boissihe is not the ordinary woman the British private
soldier is in the habit of consorting with. Then she
took up her glass. 'Je vais porter un toast — Vive
rAngleterrel' And although a Scotsman, I drank
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THE ROUGH ROAB 263
U as if it applied to me. And then she cried 'Vive la
Francel' And old Toinetie cried 'Vive la Francel'
And they looked transfigured, and I fairly itched to
sing the Marseillaise, though I knew I couldn't.
Then she chinked glasses with us —
"'Bonne chance, mes amisl'
"And then she made a sign to the aald wife, who
added the few remaining drops to our glasses. ' To
Doggie! ' said Mademoiselle. We drank the toast,
latmie. Old Mo began in his cracked voice, 'For he's
a jolly good fellow. I kicked him and fold him to
shi^ up. But Mademoiselle said:
"'Ive heardof thai. It is a ceremony. I like ii.
Continue.'
"So Mo and J held up our glasses and, in indifferent
song, proclaimed you what the Army, developing
certain rudimentary germs, has made you, and Made-
moiselle too held up her glass and threw back her head
and joined us in the Hip, hip, hoorays. It would have
done your heart good, laddie, to have been there to see. "
But we did you proud.
" When we emerged from ffie festival, the prettiest
which, in the course of a variegated career, I have ever
amended. Mo says:
"' If I hadn't a gel at home — '
"*If you hadn't got a girl at home,' said I, ^you'd
be the next damn&Iest fool in the army to Phineas
McPhaiir
" We marched out just before dusk, and there she
toas by the front door; and though she stood proud and
upright, and smiled with her lips and blew us kisses
with both hands, to which the boys all responded with
a cheer, there were tears streaming down her cheeks —
and the tears, laddie, uxre not for Mo, or me, or anyone
of us ugly beggars that passed her by.
"I also have good news for you, in that I hear from
the thunderous, though excellent. Sergeant Ballinghall
there is a probability thai when you rejoin, the C. 0.
264 THE ROUGH ROAD
will be abided with a grievous lapse of memory, and
thai he wiU be persuaded thai you received your loound
during the aiiack on the wiring party.
"As I said before, laddie, we're all like the Scots
wha hae wV Wallace bled, and are going to our gory
bed or to victory. Possibly both. But I will remain
steadfast to my philosophy, and if I am cond^nned to
the said sanguinoUnt couch, I will do my best to derive
from it the utmost enjoyment possible. All kinds of
poets and such like lusty loons have shed their, last drop
of ink in the effort to describe the Pleasures of Life —
but it will be reserved for the disanbodied spirit of
Phineas McPhail to write the great philosophic
Poem of the World's History, which will be entitled
' The Pteaswes of Deaih.' While you're doing nothing,
laddie, you might bestir yourself and find on enlightened
Publisher, who woidd be willing to give me an ante-
mortem advance, in respect of royalties accruing to
my ghost.
*'Mo, to whom I have read the last paragraph, says
he always knew that eddicalion affected the bram.
With which incontrovertible proposition and our Joint
love, I now conclude this episHe.
Yours, Phineas."
"Of all the blazing imbeciles!" Doggie cried Eiloud,
Why the unprintable imprintableness couldn't
Phineas mind his own business? Why had he given
his silly accident of fortune away in this childish
manner? Why had he told Jeanne of his cotton-wool
upbringing? His feet, even that of his wounded leg,
tingled to kick Phineas. Of couise Jeanne, knowing
him now to be such a gilded ass, would have nothing
more to do with him. It explained her letter. He
damned Phineas to all etermty, in terms compared
with which the curse of Saint E^idpbus enunciated
by the late Mr. Shandy was a fantastic benediction.
"If I had a dog, quoth my Uncle Toby, I would not
THE ROUGH ROAD 265
curse him so." But if Uncle Toby had heard Doggie
of the Twentieth Century Annies, ^o also swore
terribly in Flanders, for ' d<^" he would have sub-
stitutta "rattlesnake" or "German oflBcer."
Yet such is the quiddity of the Englidi Tommy,
that through this devastating anathema ran a
streak of love which at the end turned the whole
thing into forlorn derision. And as soon as he could
laugh, he saw thii^ in a clear li^ht. Both of his
two friends were, in their respective ways, in love
with his wonderful Jeanne. Both of them were
steel-true to him. It was just part of their loyalty
to fom^it this impossible romance between Jeanne
and himself. If the three of them were now at
Fr^lus, the two idiots would be playing gooseberry
with the RTnirlrJT^ conscientiousness of a pair oif
sdioolgirls. So Doggie forgave the indiscretion.
After all, what did it matter?
It mattered, however, to this extent, that he read
the letter over and over again until he knew it by
heart, and could picture to himself every phase (u
the banouet and every fleeting look on Jeanne's face.
"All mis," he declared at last, "is utterly ridicu-
lous." And he tore up Phineas's letter and, during
his convalescence, devoted himself to the study m
European poHtics, a subject which he had scandal-
ously neglected during ms d^antly leisured youth.
The day of his discharge came in due couorse. A
suit of khaki took the place of the hospital blue.
He received his papers, the seven days' sick furlough,
and his railway wturant, shook hands with nurses
and comrades, and OTied to Durdlebury in the third-
class carriage of the Tommy.
Peggy, in the two-seater, was waiting for him in the
station yard. He exchanged greetings from afar,
grinned, waved a hand, and jumped in beside her.
"How jolly of you to meet mel"
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266 THE ROUGH ROAD
" Where's your luggage? "
"Lu^ageP"
It seemed to be a new word. He had not heard
it for many montlu. He laughed.
"Haven't got any, thank GodI If you knew
what it was to hunch a horrible canvas sausage of
kit about, you'd appreciate feelins free."
"It's a mercy you've got Peddle," said Peggy.
"He has been at the Deanery fixing things up for
you for the last two days."
"I wonder if I shall be able to live up to Peddle,"
said Dt^eie.
"Who 8 goiiu; to start the carP" she asked.
"Oh, I/mll' he oied, and bolted out and turned
the crank. "I'm awfully sorry," he added, whai,
the engine nmning, he resumed his place. "I had
forgotten all about these pretty things. Out thra^ a
car is a sacred chariot set apart for gods in brass
hats, and the ordinary Tommy looks on them with
awe and reverence."
"Can't you foi^et you're a Tommy for a few
days?" she said, as soon as the car had cleared the
station gates and was safeW under way.
He noted a touch of irritation. "All right,
Ptwgy dear," said he. " I'll do what I can."
Oliver's here, with his man Chipmunk," she
remarked, her eyes on the road.
" OliverP On leave againP How has he managed
it?"
"You'd better ask him," abe replied tartly. "All
I know is that he turned up yesterday, and he's
staying with us. That's why I don't want you to
ram the fact of your being a Tommy down every-
body's throat."
He laughed at the queer little social problem that
seemed to be wonying her. "I think you'll find
blood is thicker than military etiguette. After all,
Oliver's my first cousin. If he can t get on witb me.
TEIE ROUGH ROAD 267
he can get out." To change the conversation, he
added after a pause: "The httle car's rmmlng splrai-
didW."
Iney swept through':'the familiar old-world streets,
which, now that me early frenzy of mobiliEdDg
Territorials and training of new Armies was over,
had resumed mare or less their pre-war appearance.
The sleepy meadows by the rivCT, once ground
into black slush by guns and anuuunition waggons
and horses, were now green again and idle, and the
troops once billeted on the citizens had marched
Heaven knows whither — many to Heaven itself —
or whatever Paradise is reserved for the great-
hearted English fighting man who has given his hfe
for England. Only here and there a stray soldier
on leave, or one of the convalescents from the cot-
tage hospital, struck an incongruous note ai war.
They drew up at the door of the Deanery under the
shadow of the grey cathedral.
"Thank God that is out of reach of the Boche,"
said Doggie, regarding it with a new sense of its
beauty and spintual significance. "To think of it
like Rheims or Arras— I've seen Arras — seen a
shell burst among the still standing ruins. Oh,
Peggy — " he gripped her arm — "you dear people
haven't the ranotest conception erf what it aB is —
what France has suffered. Imagine this mass of
wonder all one horrible stone pie, without a trace of
what it once had been."
" I suppose we're jolly lucky," she replied.
The door was opened by the old butler, who had
been on the alert for the arrival.
"You nm in," said Peggy. "I'U take the car
round to the yard."
So Doggie, with a smile and a word of greeting,
entered the Deanery. His uncle appeared in the
hall, florid, whitehan'ed, benevolent, and extended
both hands to the home-come warricn'.
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268 THE ROUGH ROAB
"My dear boy, how glad I am to see you. Wel-
crane back. And how's the wound? We ve thought
night and day of you. If I could have spared the
time, I should have run up north, hut Tve not a
minute to call my own. We're doing our share of
war work here, my boy. Come into the drawing-
room."
He put his hand affectionatdy on Dog^e's arm
and, opening the drawing-room door, pusbed him
in and stood, in his kind, courtly way, until the
young man had passed the threshold. Mrs. Con-
over, feeble from illness, rose and kissed him, and
gave him much the same greeting as her husband.
Then a tall, lean figure in umform, who had remained
in the background by the fireplace, advanced with
outstretched hand.
"Hello, old chapl"
Doggie took the hand in an honest grip.
"Hello, OUyerl"
"How goes it?"
"^lendid," said Dc^gie. "You €dl right?"
"Top hole," said Ouver. He clapped his cousin
on the shoidder. "My hati you do look fit."
He turned to the Dean. "Uncle Edward, isn't
he a hundred times the man he was?"
"I told you, my boy, you would see a difference,"
said the Dean.
Peggy ran in, having delivered ovrar the two-
seater to myrmidons.
"Now that the affecting meeting is over, let us
have tea. Oliver, ring the bell."
The tea came. It appeared to Doggie, handing ■
round the three-tiered silver cake-stand, that he
had returned to some forgotten former incarnation.
The delicate china cup in his hand seemed too fitul
for the material us^^ of life, and he feared lest
he should break it with rough handling. Old habit,
however, prevailed, and no one noticed his sense of
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THE ROUGH ROAD 269
awkwardness. The talk lay chiefly between Ohv»
and himself. They exchanged experiences as to
dates and localities. They bandied about the mimes
(^ places which will be inscribed in letters of blood
in history for all time, as though they were popufer
folf-courses. Both had known Ypres, and Plug
treet, and the famous wall at Arras where the
British and Grerman trenches were but five yards
apart. Oliver's division had gone down to the
Somme in July for the great pu^.
"I ought to be there now, ' said Oliver. "I feel
a hulking slacker and fraud, being home on sic^
leave. But the M. O. said I had just escaped sheU-
shock by the skin of my nerves, and they packed
me home for a fortnight to rest up — while the regi-
ment, what there's left of it, went into reserve."
"Did you get badly cut up?" asked Doggie.
"Rather. We broke through all right. Then
madune guns which we had overlooked, got us in
the back. Luckily they were spotted in time, and
done in by the artillery, or not a soul would have
come back."
"My lot's down there now," 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. The old-time, swashbuckling swagger
had gone — the swagger of one who would say : " I
am the only live man in this comatose crowd. I
am the dare-devil buccaneer who defies the thunder
and sleeps on boards while the rest of you are lying
soft in feather-beds." His direct, cavafier way he
still retained; but the Army, with the omnipotent
might of its inherited traditions, had moulded him
to its pattern; even as it had moulded Doggie.
And Doggie, who had learned many of the lessons
in human psychology which the Army teaches,
knew that Oliver's genial, familiar talk was not all
due to his appreciation of their social equality in the
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270 THE ROUGH ROAD
bosom of their own family, but that he would have
treated much the same any Tommy into whose
companionahip he had been casually thrown. The
Tommy would have said "Sir" very scrupulously,
which on Doggie's part would have been an idiotic
thing to do; but they would have got on famously
together, bound by the freemasonry of fighting men
who had cursed the same foe for tiie same reasons.
So Oliver stood out before Doggie's eyes in a new
Hght, that of the typical officer, trusted and beloved
by his men, and his heart went out to him.
"I've brought Chipmunk over," said Oliver.
"You remember the freak? The poor devil hasn't
had a day's leave for a couple of yefirs. Didn't
want it. Why ahould he go and waste money in a
country where he didn't know a human being?
But this time I've fixed it up for him, and his leave
is co-tenninous witb mine. He has been my ser-
vant all through. If they took him away from me,
he'd be quite capable of strangling the C. 0. He's
a funny B^gar.'
"And what kind of a soldier?" the Dean asked
politely.
"ThCTe's not a finer one in all the armies of the
earth," said Oliver.
After much further talk the dressing gong boomed
softly through the house.
"You've got the Green Room, Marmaduke,"
said Peggy. "The one with the Chippendale stuff
you used to covet so much."
"I haven't got much to change into," laughed
Dcwgie.
' You'll find Peddle up there waiting for you,"
sherephed.
And when Doggie entered the Green Room, there
he found Peddle, who welcomed him with tears of
joy and a display of all the fim'Tiin luxuries of the
todet and adornment which he had left behind at
THE ROUGH ROAD 271
Denby HalL There were pots of pomade and face-
cream, and nail polish; bottles of hair-wafih and
tooth-wash; Uttle boxes and brushes for the mous-
tache; half-a-dozen gleaming razors; the array of
brushes and combs and manicure set in tortoise-
aheU with his crest in silver; the bottles of scent
with spray attachments; the onyx bowl of bath
salts beside the hip-bath ready to be filled from the
ewers of hot and cold water — the Deanery, old-
fashioned house, had but one ffunily bath-room;
the deep-purple, siUt dressing-gown over the foot-
rail of the bed; the silk pyjamas in a lighter shade
spread out over the pillow; the silk underwear and
soft-fronted shirt fitted with his ruby and diamond
sleeve-links, hung up before the fire to air; the
dinner jacket suit laid out on the glass-topped
Chippendale table, with black tie siid dehcate
lumdkerchic^; the alk socks carefuUy tucked inside
out, the glossy pumps with the silver shoe-horn
laid across them.
"My GodI Peddle," cried Doggie, scratching his
closely cropped head. "What the devil's all this?" ■
Peddle, grey, beat, uncomprehending, regarded
bin) blankly.
"All what, sir?"
"I only want to wash my hands," said Doggie.
"But aren't you going to dress for dinner, air?"
"A private soldier's not allowed to wear mufti.
Peddle. They'd dock me of a week's pay if they
found out."
"Who's to find out, drP"
"There's Mr. Oliver — he's a major."
"Lord, Mr. Marmaduke, I don't think he'd mind.
Miss Peggy gave me my orders, sir, and I think you
can leave thmM to her."
"All right, Peddle," he laughed. "If it's Miss
Peggy's decree, I'll change. I've got all I want."
Are you sure you can manage, sir?" Peddle
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272 THE ROUGH ROAD
asked aiudoushr, for time was when Do^e couldn't
stick his I^gs mto his trousers unless Peddle held
them out uir hun.
"Quite," said Doggie.
" It seems rather roughing it here, Mr. Marmaduke.
after what you've been accustomed to at the Hall."
"That's so," said Dog^e. "And it's martyrdom
compared with what it is in the trenches. There
we always have a Major-General to lace up our
boots, and a Field-Marshal's always hovering romid
to light our cigarettes."
P^dle, who had never known him to jest, or his
father before him, went out in a muddled frame of
mind, leaving Doggie to struggle into hk dress
trousers as best he might.
ec by Google
w
CHAPTER XX
HEN Doggie, in dinner suit, went down-
stairs, he found Peggy alone in the draw-
ins room. She gave him the Idss of one
accustomed to kiss him from childhood, and sat
down again on the fender-stool.
" Now you look more like a Christian gentleman,"
she laughed. "Confess. It's much more comfort-
able thtm your wretched private's uniform."
"I'm not quite so sure," he said, somewhat
ruefully, indicating his dinner jacket tightly con-
stricted beneath the arms. "Already I've had to
slit my waistcoat down the back. Poor old Peddle
will have an apopleptic fit when he sees it. I've
grown a bit since these elegant rags were made for
me."
"Ilfaut souffrir pour Sire beau," said Peggy.
"If my being beau pleases you, Peggy, Til suffer
gladly. I've been in tighter places.' He threw
r down in the comer of the sofa and joggled
up and down like a child. "After all," he said,
"it's jolly to sit on something squashy again, and to
see a pretty girl in a pretty frock."
" I m glad you like this frock."
"New?"
She nodded. "Dad said it was too much of a
Vanity Fair of a vanity for war-time. You don't
think so, do you?"
"It's charming," said Doggie. "A treat for tired
eyes."
"That's just what I told Dad. What's the good
of women dressing in sacks tied round the middle
wilhi a bit of stri^? When men come home from
273
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274 THE ROUGH ROAD
the front, they want to see their womenfolk looking
[»etty and dainty. That's what they've come
over for. It's part of the cure. It's the first time
you've been a real dear, Marmaduke. 'A treat for
tired eyes.' I'll rub it into Dad hard."
Oliver came in — in khaki. Doggie jumped up
and pointed to him.
"Look here, Peggy. It's the guard-room for
me."
Oliver laughed. "'Where the dinner kit I bought
when I came home is now, God only can tell." He
turned to Peggy. "I did change, you know."
"That's the puU of being a beastly Major," said
Doggie. " They have heaps of suits. On tjtie march,
there are motor lorries full of them. It's the scandal
of the army. The wretched Tommy has but one
suit to his name. That's why, sir, I've taken the
liberty of appearing before you in outgrown mufti."
"All right, my man," said Oliver. "We'll hush
it up and say no more about it."
"Then the Dean and Mrs. Conover entered, and
soon they went in to dinner. It was for Doggie
the most pleasant of meals. He had the superbly
healthy man's whole-hearted or whole-stomached
appreciation of unaccustomed good food] and drink:
so much so, that when the Dean, after agonic of
thwarted mastication, said gently to his wife: "My
dear, don't you think you might speak a word in
season to Peck" — Peck being the butcher — "and,
forbid him, under the Defence of the Realm Act,
if you like, to deliver to us in the evening as mutton
that which weis in the morning a lusty sheep?"
he stared at the good old man as thou^ he were
ViteUius in person. Tough? It was like muk-
fatted baby. He was already devouring, like Oliver,
his second helping. Thrai the Dean, pledging
him and Oliver in champagne, apologised: "I'm
aarrf, my dear boys, the 1904 has run out tuid th^e's
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THE ROUGH ROAD 275
no more to be got. But the 1906, though not having
the quality, is quite drinkable."
Drinkable! It y/sa latching, dancing joy that
went down his throat.
So much for gross delights. There were others
— finer. The charm to the eye of the table with
its exquisite i^ipery and china and glass and ailv^
and flowers. Ine almost into:xicating atmosphere of
peace and gentle living. The full, loving welcome
R h'pin g from the eye of the kind old Dean, his uncle
by marriage, and of the faded, delicate lady, his
own flesh and blood, his mother's sister. And
Peggy, pretty, flushed, bright-eyed, radiant in her
new dr^. And there was Ohver. . . .
Most of all he appreciated Oliver's comrade-
like attitude. It was a recognition of him as a man
and a soldier. In the course of dinner talk Oliver
said: —
"J. M. T. and I have looked Death in the face
many a time — and really he's a poor raw-head and
bloody-bones sort of Bogey; don't you think so,
old chap?"
"It aU depends on whether you've got a funk-
hole hajady," he rephed.
But that was mere lightness of speech. Ohver*s
infusion of him in his remark shook him to the
depths of his sensitive nature. The man who
despises the petty feelings and fraflties of mankind
is doomed to remain in awful ignorance of that which
is of beauty and pathos in the lives of his feUow-
creatures. After all, what did it matter what Oliver
thought of him? Who was Ohver? His cousin
— accident of birth — the black sheep of the family;
now a Major in a different regiment and a different
division. What was Oliver to him or he to OHver?
He had "made good" in the eyes of one whose
Tud^ent had b^n forged keen and absolute by
neroic stnrows. What did anyone else matter?
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276 THE ROUGH ROAD
But to Do^e the supreme joy of the evening was
the knowleo^ that he had made good in the eyes of
Oliver. Oliver wore on his tunic the white mauve
and white ribbon of the Mihtary Cross. Honour
where honour was due. But he, Doggie, bad been
wounded (no matter bow), and Ohver frankly put
them both on the same plane of achievement, thus
wiping away, with graierous hand, all hated memories
of the past.
'When the ladies had left the roran, history re-
peated itself, in that the Dean was called away on
busmess and the cousins w»:« Idt alone tt^ether
ovOT their wine. Said Doggie:
"Do you remanber the last time we sat at this
table?"
"Perfectly," replied Ohv^, holding up a glass of
the old Deanery port to the light. 'You were
hoirified at my attempting to clean out my pipe
with a dessert Knife."
Doggie laughed. "After all, it was a filthy thing
todo.^^
" I quite agree with you. Since then I've learned
manners."
"You also made me squirm at the idea of scoop-
ing out Boches' insides with bayonets."
And you've learned not to squirm, so we're
quits."
"You thought me a rotten ass in those days,
didn't you?"
Oliver looked at him squarely.
"I don't think it would hurt you now if I said
that I did." He laughed, stretched himself on his
chair, thrusting both hands into his trouser pockets.
"In many ways, it's a jolly good old war, you know
— for those that pull through. It has taught us
both a lot, Marmaduke."
Doggie wrinkled his fcv^ead in his half humorous
way.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 277
"I wish it would teach people not to call me by
that damn silly name."
"I have always abominated it, as yoa may have
observed," said Oliver. "But in our present pohte
relations, old chap, what else is there?
"You ought to know — "
Ohver stared at him. "You don't mean — ?"
"Yes, I do."
"But you used to loathe it, and I went on calling
you Doggie because I knew you loathed it. I
never dreamed of using it now.'
"I can't help it," repUed Doggie. "The name
got into the army and has stuck to me right through,
and now those I love and trust most in the world
and who love and trust me, call me 'Doggie,' and
I don't seem to be able to answer to any other name.
So, although I'm only a Tommy and you're a devil
of a swell of a second in command, yet if you want
to be fiiendly — well — "
Ohver leaned forward quickly. "Of course I
want to be friends. Doggie, old chap. As for Major
and private — when you pass me in the street you ve
damn well got to salute me, and that's all there is
to it — but otherwise it's all rot. And now we've
got to the heart-to-heart stage, don't you think
you're a bit of a fool? "
"I know it," said Doggie cheerfully. "The
Army has drummed that into me, at any rate."
"I mean in sUmng in the ranks. Why don't
you apply for the C^det Corps and so get through to
a commission again?"
Dole's brow grew dark. "I had all that out
with Peggy long ago — vh&a things were perhaps
somewhat different with me. I was sore all over.
I dare say you can understaud. But now there
are oth^ reasons, much stronger reasons. The
only real happiness I've had in my life has been as a
Tommy. I m not talking through my hat. Hie
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278 THE ROUGH ROAD
only real friends I've ever made in my life are
Tommies. I've found real things as a Tommy,
and I'm notgoin^ to start all over again to find them
in another capaaty."
"You wouldn't have to start all over again,"
Oliver objected.
"Oh, yes, I should. Don't run away with the
idea that I've been turned by a miracle into a brawny
hero. I ain't anything of the sort. To have to lead
m^i into action would be a holy terror. The old
dread of seeking new paths still acts, you see. I'm
the same Dogeie that wouldn't go out to Huaheine
with you. Only now I'm a private and I'm used
to it. I love it, and I'm not going to change to the
aid of the whole gory business. Of coxubc Pe«gy
doesn't like it," he added after a sip of wine. "But
I can't help that. It's a matter of temperament and
conscience — in a way, a matter of honour."
"What has honour got to do with itP" asked
(Miver.
"I'll try to explain. It's somehow this way.
When I came to my senses after being chucked for
incompetence — that was the wrast hell I ever
wait through in my Ufe — and I enlisted, I swore
that I would stick to it a Tommy without anybody's
rpathy, least of all that of me folks here. And
L I swore I'd make good to myself as a Tommy.
I was just beginning to feel happier when that
infernal Boche sniper knocked me out for a time.
So Peggy or no Peggy, I'm going through witii it.
I suppose I'm telling you all this because I should
like you to know."
He passed his hand, in the familiar gesture, fmu
back to front of his short-cropped hair. Oliver
smiled at the reminiscence of the old disturbed
Dcwxie; but he said very gravely:
' Tm glad you've told me, old man. I appreciate
it very much. I've been through the imiks my-
THE ROUGH ROAD 279
self and know what it is — the bad and the good.
Many a man has found his soul that way — "
"Good God!" cried Doggie, starting to his feet.
"Do you say that tooP"
"who else said it?"
The quick question caused the blood to rush to
Doggie's face. Oliver's keen, half-mocking gaze
hela him. He cursed himself for an impulsive
idiot. The true answer to the question would be a
confession of Jeanne. The scene in the kitchen
of Fr^us swam before his eyes. He dropped into
his cfafur again with a laugh.
"Oh, someone out there — in another heart-to-
heart talk. As a matter of fact, I think I said it
myself. It's odd you should have used the same
words. Anyhow, you're the only other person who
has hit on tbe trum as far as I'm concCTned. Find-
ing one's soul is a bit high-falutin' — but that's
about the size of it."
"Peggy hasn't hit on the truth, then?" Oliver
asked, with curious earnestness, the shade of
mockery gone.
"The war has scarcely touched her yet, you see,"
said Doggie. He rose, ahrinlcing frcmi discusfflon.
"Shall we go in?"
In the drawing room they played bridge till the
ladies' bedtime. The Dean commg in, ^yed the
last rubber.
"I hope you'll be able to sleep in a conmion (x
garden bed, Marmaduke," said Peggy, and kissed
him a perfunctory good-night.
"I have heard, remarked the Dean, "that it
takes cpaite a time to grow accustomed to the little
amenities of civilisation."
"That's quite true, Uncle Edward," laughed
Doggie. "I'm terrified at the thought of the sUk
pyjamas Peddle has prescribed for me."
"Why?" Peggy asked bluntly.
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Oliver interposed laughing, his hand on Doggie's
shoulder.
"Tonuny's accustomed to go to bed in his day-
shirt."
"How perfectly disgustingl" cried Pe^y, and
swept irom the room.
Oliver dropped his hand and looked somewhat
abashed.
"I'm afraid I've been and gone and done it. Fm
sorry. I'm still a barbarian South Sea Islander."
"I wish I were a young man," said the Dean,
moving from the door, and with his comtly gestiu^
inviting them to sit, "and could take part in these
strange hardships. This question of night attire,
for instance, has never struck me before. The
whole thing is of amazing interest. Ahl what it is
to be oldt If I were young, I should be with you,
cloth or no cloth, in the trenches. I hope both of
you know that I vehemently dissent from the
bishops who prohibit the younger clergy from taking
their place in the fighting line. If God's archangels
and angels themselves took np the sword agsiinst
the Powers of Dsirkness, surely a stalwart young
curate of the Church of England would find his
vocation in warring with rifle and bayonet against
the ^oclaimed enemies of (zod and mankindt' "
"The influence of the twenty thousand or so of
priests fighting in the French army is said to be
enormous," Oliver remarked.
The Dean sighed. "I'm afraid we're losing a big
chance."
"Why don't you take up the Fiery Cross, Uncle
Edward, and run a new Crusade?"
The Dean sighed. Five-and-tbirty years ago,
when he bad set all Dxudlebury by the ears, ne
might have preached glo lous heresy and heroic
schism; but now at seventy the immutabifity of the
great grey fabric had become part of his being.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 281
"I've done my best, my boy," he replied, "'with
the result that I am held in high disfavour."
"But that doesn't matter a little bit."
"Not a httle bit," said the Dean. "A man
can only do his duty according to the dictates of
his conscience. I have puhhcly deplored the atti-
tude of the Church of England. I nave -written to
the Times. I have published a pamphlet — I sent
you each a copy — which has brought a hornet's
nest about mv ears. I have warned those in high
places that wnat they are doing is not in the b^t
mterests of the Church. But tbey won't listen."
Ohver lit a pipe. "I'm afraid, Uncle Edward,"
he said, "that though I come of a clerical family,
I know no more of religion than a Hun Bishop;
but it has always struck me that the Church's job
is to look after the people, whereas, as far as I can
make out, the Church is now squealing because the
people won't look after the Church."
The Dean rose. "I won't go as far as that,"
said he with a smile. "But there is, I fear, some
justification for such a criticism from the laity.
As soon as the war began, the Church should have
gathered the people together and said, 'Onward,
Christiain soldiers. Go and fight like — er — ' "
"Like Hell," suggested Ohver, CTeatly daring.
"Or words to uiat effect," sumed the old Dean.
He looked at hia watdi. "Dear, dearl past eleven.
I wish I could sit up talking to you boys — But I
start my day's work at eight o'clock. If you want
anything, you've only got to ring. Good-night. It
is one of tiie proudest days of my life to have you
both here together."
His courtly charm seemed to linger in the room
after he had left.
"He's a dear old chapi" said Oliver.
"One of the best," said Dog^e.
"It's rather pathetic," said Oliver. "In his
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282 THE ROUGH ROAD
heart he would like to i^y the devil with the Bishops
and kick every able-bodied parson into the trenches
— and there are thousands of them that don't need
any kicking and, on the contrary, have been kicked
back; but he has become half petrified in the at-
mosphere of this place. It's lovely to come to as a
sort of funk-hole of peace — but my holy Auutl —
What the blazes are you laughing at?"
"I'm only thinking of a beast of a boy here who
used to say that," replied Doggie.
"OhI" said Oliver, and he grinned. "Anyway,
I was only going to remark that if I thought I was
going to sp^id the rest of my life here, I'd paint the
town vennilhon for a week and then cut my throat."
"I quite agree with you," said Doggie.
"What are you going to do when tJae war's over?"
"Who knows what he's going to do? What are
you goir^ to do? Fly back to your httle Robinson
Crusoe Durdlebury of a Pacific Islimd? I don't
think so."
OUver stuck his pibe on the mantelpiece and his
hands on his hips, and made a stride towards Doggie.
"Damn you, Doggiel Damn you to little bits!
How the Hades did you guess what I've scarcely
told myself, much less another human being?"
"You yoxu-self said it was a good old war, and it
has taught us a lot of things."
"It has," said Ohver. "But I never ejected
to hear Huaheine called Durdlebiuy by you. Doggie.
Oh, Lord I I must have another dnnk. Where's
your glass? Say when?"
They parted for the night the best of friends.
Doggie, in spite of the silk pyjamas and the soft
bed and the blazing fire in his room — he stripped
back the light excluding curtains forgetful of
Defence of the Realm Acts, and opened alt the
windows wide, to the horror of Peddle in the morn-
ing — slept like an unperturbed dcmnouse. When
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THE ROUGH ROAD 283
Peddle woke him, he lay drowsily while the old
butler filled hi8 bath and fiddled about the drawers.
At laat aroused, he cried out:
"What the dickens are you doing?"
Peddle turned with an injured air. " I am match-
ing yotiT ties and socks for your bottle-green suit,
sir."
Doggie leaped out of bed. "You dear old
idiot, I can't go about the streets in bottle-green
suits. I've got to wear my uniform." He looked
around the room. "Where the devil is it?"
Peddle's injured air deepened almost into resent-
ment. "Where the devil — I" Never had Mr.
Marmaduke, or his father, the Cimon, used such
language. He drew himself up.
' I have given orders, sir, for the uniform suit
you wore yesterday to be sent to the cleaners."
"Oh, Helll" said Doggie — And Peddle, unaccus-
tomed to the vernacular of the British Army, gaped
with horror. "Oh, Hell! Look here. Peddle, just
you get on a bicycle, or a motorcar, or an express
train at once and retrieve that uniform. Don't you
understand? I'm a private soldier. I've got to
wear uniform idl the time, and I'll have to stay in
this beastly bed until you get it for me."
Peddle fled. The picture that he left on Doggie's
mind was that of the faithful steward with dismayed,
upfifted hands, retiring from the room in one of the
great scenes of Hogarth's "Rake's Progress." The
similitude made ham laugh — for Doggie always
had a saving sense of humour — but he was very
angry with Peddle, while he stamped around the
room in his silk pyjamas. What the deuce was he
going to do? Even if he committed the military
crime (and there was a far more serious crime
already against him) of appearing in public in mufti,
did that old ass think ne was gomg to swa^^
about Durdlebury in bottle-green suits, as though
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284 THE ROUGH ROAD
he were ashamed of the King's uniform? He dipped
his shaving brush into the hot water. Then he
threw it, anyhow, across the room. Instead of
shaving, he would be gloating over the idea of cutting
that old fool, Peddle s throat, and therefore would
slash his own face to bits.
Thii^, however, were not done at lightning speed
in the Deanery of Durdlebiuy. The mst steps had
not even been taken to send the uniform to the
cleaners, and soon Peddle reappeared ctirrying
it over his arm, and the heavy pair of munitioa
boots in his hand.
"These too, sir?" he asked exhibiting the latter
resignedly, and casting a sad glance at the neat pair
of brown shoes exquisitely polished and beautifully
treed which he haa put out for lus master's wear.
"These, too," said Doggie. "And where's my
grey flannel shirt?"
This time Peddle triumphed. "I've given that
away, sir, to the gardener's boy."
"Well, you can just ^ £uid buy me half-a-dozen
more like it," said Doggie.
He dismissed the old man, dressed, and went
downstairs. The Dean had breakfasted at seven.
Peggy and Oliver were not yet down for the nine
o'clock meal. Doggie strolled about the garden
and sauntered round to the stable-yard. There he
encountered Chipmunk in his shirt-sleeves, sitting
on a packing ctise and polishing Ohver's leggings.
He raised an ugly, clean-shaven mug and scowled
beneath his bushy eyebrows at the newcomer.
"Morning, matel' said Doggie pleasantly.
"Morning," said Chipmunk, resuming his work.
Doggie turned over a stable bucket and sat down
on it and* lit a cigarette.
"Glad to be back?"
Chipmunk poised the cloth on which he had
poured some brown dressing: "Not if I has to be
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THE ROUGH ROAD 285
worried with private soljers," he replied. "I came
'ere to get away from 'em."
"What's wrong with private soldiers? They're
good enough for you, aren't they?" asked Do^e
with a laugh.
"Naow,' snarled Chipmunk, "especially when
they ought to be orficers. Go to 'ell 1 '
Doggie, who had suffered muc& in the army, but
had never before been taunted with being a dilet-
tante gentleman private, still less been consigned
to hell on that account, leapt to his feet shaken by
one of his rare sudden gusts of anger.
" If you don't say I m as good a private soldier
as any in your rotten, mangy regiment, I'll knock
your blinking head offi"
An insult to a soldier's regiment can only be wiped
out in blood. Chipmunk threw cloth and leg^ug
to the winds and, springing from his seat like a
monkey, went for Doggie.
"You just try."
Doggie tried, and had not Chipmunk's head been
very firmly secured to his shoulders, he would have
succeeded. Chipmunk went down as if he had been
bombed. It was bis unguarded and unscientific
rush that did it. Dopgie regarded his prostrate
figure in gratified surprise.
"What the devil's all this about?" cried a sharp,
imperious voice.
DMgie instinctively stood at attention and saluted,
and Chipmunk, picking himsBlf up in a dazed sort
of way, did likewise.
"You two men shake hands and make friends at
once," Oliver commanded.
"Yes, sir," said Doggie. He extended his hand
and Chipmunk, with the nautical shamble, which
in moments of stress defied a couple of years' mili-
tary discii)line, advtuiced and shook it. Oliver
strode hurriedly away.
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286 THE ROUGH ROAD
"I'm Sony I said that about the regim^it, mate.
I didn't mean it," said Doggie.
Chipmunk, looked tmcertaJnly into Doggie's eyes
for what Doggie felt to be a very long time. Chip-
munk's dull brain was slowly realising liie ^tuation.
The mfia opposite to him -was his master's cousin.
When he had last seen him, he had no title to be
called a man at all. His vocabuleoy volcanically
rich, but otherwise limited, bad not been able to
express him in adequate terms of contempt and
derision. Now behold him masquerading as a
private. Wounded. But any fool could get
wounded. Behold him further coming down from
the social heights whereon his master dwelt, to
take a rise out of him, Chipmunk. In self-defence
he had taken the obvious course. He had told him
to go to hell. Then the important things had hap-
pened. Not the effeminate gentleman but some-
one very much like the common Tommy of his
acquaintance, had responded. And he had further
responded with the familiar vigour but imwonted
science of the rank and file. He had also stood at
attention and saluted and obeyed like any common
Tommy, when the Major appeared. The last
fact appealed to him, perhaps, as much as the one
more mvested in violence.
'"Ere," said he at last, jerking his head and rub-
binghis jaw, "how the 'ell did you do it?"
"We'll get some gloves and I'll rfiow you," said
Doggie.
So peace and firm friendship were made. Do^e
went mto the house, and in the dining room found
Oliver in convulsive laughter.
"Oh, my holy AuntI you'll be the death of me.
Doggie. 'Yes, sir!'" He mimicked him. "The
peifect Tommy. After doing in old Chipmunk.
Chipmunk with the strength of a gorilla and the
courage of a lion. I just happened round to see faioi
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THE ROUGH ROAD 287
Kdown. How the blazes did you manage it,
wgie?"
' That's what Chipmunk's just asked me," Do^e
replied. "I belong to a regiment where boxing is
taught. Really a good regiment," he grinned.
" There's an Sergeant Instructor, a diap called
Ballinghall — "
"Not Joe Ballinghall, Uie well-known amateur
heavy-weight? "
"That's him right enough," said Doggie.
"My dear old chap," said Oliver, 'this is the
funniest war that ever wtis."
Peggy stiiled in full of apologies and began to
pour out coffee.
"Do hdp yourselves with dishes and things.
I'm so sorry to have kept you pora: hungry thi^s
waiting."
"We've filled up the time amazingly," cried
Oliver, waving a silver dish-cover. 'What do
you think P Doggie's had a fight with Chipmunk
and knocked .him out."
Peggy splashed the milk over the brim of Doggie's
cup and mto the saucer. There came a sudden
flu^ on her cheek and a sudden hard look into her
eyes.
"Fighting? Do you mean to say you've been
fighting wiui a coounon man like Chipmunk?"
"Were the best of friends now," said Doggie.
"We imderstand each other."
"I can't quite see the necessity," said Peggy.
"I'm afraid it's rather hard to explam," he
rephed with a rueful knitting of the brows, for he
realised her disgust at the vulgar brawl.
" I think the less said, the better," she remarked
acidly.
The meal proceeded in ominous gloom, and as
soon as Peggy had finished she left the room.
" It seems, old chap, that I can never do rijibt,"
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288 THE ROUGH ROAD
said Oliver. "Long ago, when I used to crab you,
she gave it to me in the neck; and now when I
try to boost you, you seem to get it."
"I'm afraid I've got on Peggy's nerves," said
Doggie. "You see, we've only met once before dur-
ing the last two years, and I suppose I've changed."
There's no doubt about tniat, old son," said
Oliver. "Rut all the same, P^gy has stood by
you like a brick, hasn't sheP"
"That's the devil of it," replied Doggie, rubbing
up his hair.
"Why the devil of it?" Oliver adied quickly.
"Oh, I don't know," rephed Doggie. "As you
have once or twice observed, it's a funny old war."
He rose, went to the door.
"Where are you cff to?" asked Oliver.
"I'm going to Denby Hall to take a look rouocL"
"Like me to come with you? We cira borrow
the two-seater."
Doggie advanced a pace. "You're an awfully
good sort, Oliver," he said, touched, "but would
you mind — I feel rather a beast — "
"All right, you silly old ass," cried Oliver cheerily.
"You wimt, of course, to root about there by your-
self. Go ahead."
" If you'll take a spin with me this afternoon, or
to-morrow — " said Doggie in his sensitive way.
"Oh, clear out!" laughed Oliver.
And Doggie cleared.
ec by Google
CHAPTER XXI
ALL right. Peddle, I can find my way about,"
said Doggie, diamifwing the old butler and
his wife after a little colloquy in the haJl.
"Everything's in perfect order, sir, just as it
was when you left; and there are the keys," said
Mrs. Peddle.
The Peddles retired. Do^e eyed the heavy
bunch of keys with an air of distaste. For two
years he had not seen a key. What on earth could
be the good of Etll this locking and unlockingt*
He stuffed the bunch in his tuooic pocket, and
looked around him. It seemed difficult to realise
that everything he saw was his own. Those trees
visible from the hidl windows were his own, and the
land on which they grew. This spacious, beau-
tiful house was his own. He had only to wave a
hand, as it were, and it would be filled with serving
men and serving maids ready to do his bidding.
His foot was on nis native heath, and his name was
Jfunes Marmaduke Trevor.
Did he ever actually live here, have his being
here? Was he ever part and parcel of it all —
the oriental rugs, the soft stair-^rpet on the noble
oak staircase leading to the gallery, the oil paint-
ings, the impressive statuary, the solid historical
oak hall furniture? Were it not so acutely remem-
bered, he would have felt like a man accustomed
all his life to bams and tents and hedgerows and
fetid holes in the ground, who had wandered into
some ill-guarded p^ce. He entered the drawing
room. The faitmid Peddles, with pathetic zed
to give him a true home-coming, had set it oat
289
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290 THE ROUGH ROAD
fresh and clean and polished; the windows were
like crystal, and flowers welcomed him from every
available vase. And so in the dining room. The
Chippendale fining table gleamed like a sombre
translucent pool. On the sideboard, amid the
array of shimne silver, the very best old Water-
ford decanters filled with whisky and brajidy, and
old cut glass goblets invited him to refreshment.
The precious mezzotint portraits, mostly of his own
collecting, regarded him urbanely from the walls.
The Times and the Morning Post were laid out on
the little table by his accustomed chair near the
massive marble mantelpiece.
"The dear old idiots," said Doggie, and he sat
down for a moment and unfolded the newspapers
and strewed them around, to give the impression
that he had read and enjoyed them.
And then he went into his own private and par-
ticular den, the peacock and ivory room, which
had been the supreme expression of himself and
for which he had ached during many nights of
misery. He looked round and his heart sank.
He seemed to come face to face with the ineffectual,
effeminate creature who had brought upon him
the disgrace of his man's life. But for the creator
and s^^oarite enjoyer of this sickening boudoir,
he would now be in honoured command of men.
He conceived a sudden violent hati^ of the room.
The only thing in the place worth a man's con-
sideration, save a few water-colours, was the honest
grand piano, which, because it did not aestheti-
cally harmonise with his squeaky, pot-bellied theor-
bos and tinkling spinet, he had hidden in an alcove
behind a curtain. He turned an eye of disgust
on the vellum hacks of his books in the closed
Chippendale cases, on the drawers containing his
collection of wall-papers, on the footling peacocks,
on the curtains and cuf^ons, on the veined ivory
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THE ROUGH ROAD 291
paper which, beginmng to fade two years ago,
now looked mean and meaningless. It was an
abominable room. - It ought to be smelline of
musk or pastilles or joss-sticks. It might neve
done so, for once he had tried something of the
sort, and did not renew the experiment only be-
cause the smell happened to make him sick.
There was one feature of the room at which for
a long time he avoided lookii^: but wherever he
turned, it impressed itself on his consciousness as
the miserable genius of the despicable place. And
that was his collection of little china dogs.
At last he planted himself in iront of the great
glass cabinet, whence thousands of Uttle dogs looked
at him out of little black dots of eyes. There
were dogs of all oationahties, all breeds, all twisted
enormities of human invention. There were mon-
strous dogs of China and Japan; Aztec dogs; dogs
in Sevres and Dresden and Chelsea; sixpenny
dogs from Austria and Switzerland; everytiiing
in the way of a little dog that man had made. He
stood in front of it with almost a doggish snarl
on his Upe. He had spent himdreds and hundreds
of pounds over these futile dogs. Yet never a
flesh and blood, real, lusty canis futilis had he
possessed. He used to dislike real dogs. He had
wasted his heart over these contemptible counter-
feits. To add to his collection, catalogue it,
describe it, correspond about it with the semi-im-
becile Russian prince, his only rival collect<H', had
once ranked with his history of wall-papers as the
serious and absorbing pursuit of his life.
Then suddenly D<^gie's hatred reached the crisis
of ferocity. He saw red. He seized the first
instrument of destruction that came to his hand,
a little gilt Louis XV music stool, and biished the
cabinet full in front. The glass flew into a thousand
splinters. He hashed again. The woodwork d
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292 THE ROUGH ROAD
the cabinet stoutly resisting, worked hideous dam-
age on the ^t stotd. But Do^e went on bashing
1^ the cabmet sank in ruins and the little dogs,
headless, tail-less, rent in twain, strewed the floor.
Then Doggie stamped on .them with his heavy
munition ooota until dogs and glass were reduced
to powder and the Aubusson carpet cut to pieces.
' Damn the whole infernal place 1" cried Doggie,
and he heaved a mandolin lied up with disgustms
peacock-blue ribbons at the bookcase, and fled
from the Toosa.
He stood for a while in the ludl shaken with his
anger; then mounted the staircase and went into
his own bedroom, with the satinwood furniture
and Nattier blue hangings. Godl what a bed-
chamber for a mant He would have liked to throw
bombs into the nest of effeminacy. But his mother
had arranged it, so in a way it was immime from
his iconoclastic rage. He went down to the dining
room, helped himself to a whisky and soda fnnn the
sideboard, and sat down in the armdiair amidst
the scattered newspapers, and held his head in his
hands and thought.
The house was hateful; all its associations were
hateful. If he lived there imtil he was ninety,
the abhorred ghost of the pre-war little Doggie
IVevor would always haimt every nook and cranny
of the place, mouthing the quarter of a century's
shame that had culminated in the Great Disgrace.
At last he brought his hand down wiUi a bang
on the arm of the chair. He would never live
in this House of Dishonour again. Never. He
would sell it.
"By Godl" he cried, starting to his feet, as the
inspiration came.
He would sell it, as it stood, lock, stock and
barrel, with everything in it. He would wipe
out at one stroke the whole of his unedi^ring hu-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 293
tory. Denby Hall gone, what could tie him to
DurdleburyP He would be freed for ever from
the petrifaction of the grey, cramping little city.
If Peggy didn't like it, that was Peegy's affair.
In matmal thinga he was master of ms destiny.
Peggy would have to follow him in his career,
whatever it was, not he Peggy. He saw clearly
that which had been mapped out for him, the
sillv little social ambitions, the useless existence,
little Doggie Trevor for ever trailing obediently
behind the lady of Denby Hall. DoMJe threw
himself back in his chair and laughed. No one
had ever heard him laugh like that. After a while
he was even surprised at himself.
He was perfectly ready to marry Peggy. It
was almost a pre-ordained thing. A rupture of
the engagement was imthinkable. Her undevi-
ating loyalty bound him by every fibre of grati-
tude and honour. But it was essential that Peggy
should know whom and what she was marrying.
The Doggie trailing in her wake no longer existed.
If she were prepared to follow the new Dogj^je,
well and good. If not, there would be conflict.
For that he was prepared.
He strode, this time contemptuously, into his
wrecked peacock and ivory room, where his tele-
phone (blatant and hideous thing) was ingeniously
concealed behind a screen, and rang up Spooner
and Smithson, the leading firm of Auctioneers
and Estate Agents in the town. At the mention
of his name, Mr. Spooner, the senior partner,
came to the telephone.
"Yes, I'm back, Mr. Spooner, and I'm quite
well," said Doggie. "I want to see you on very
important busmess. When can you fix it upP
Any timeP Can you come along now to Denby
Hall?"
Mr. Spooner would be pleased to wait upon Mr.
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294 THE ROUGH ROAD
Trevor immediately. He would start at once.
Dc«gie went out and sat on the front doorstep
and amoked cigarettes till he came.
"Mr. Spooner," said he, as soon as the dderly
auctioneer descended from his little car, "I'm going
to sell the whole of the Deuby Hall estate, and,
with the exception of a few odds and ends, family
relics and so forth, which I'll pick out, all the coD'
tents of the house, furniture, pictm^s, sheets,
towels and kitchen clutter. I've only got six
days' leave, tmd I want all the worries, as far as I
am concerned, settled and done with before I go.
So you'll have to buck up, Mr. Spooner. If you
say you can't do it, I'll put the business by tele-
phone into the hands of a London agent."
It took Mr. Spooner nearly a quarter of an hour
to recover his breath, gain a grasp of the situation,
and assemble his business wits.
"Of course I'll ctury out your insUuctions,
Mr. Trevor," he said at last. "You ceui safely
leave the matter in our hands. But, although
it is against my business interests, pray let me
beg you to reconsider your decision. It is such
a beautiful home, your grandfather, the Bishop's,
before you."
"He bought it pretty cheap, didn't he, some-
where in the seventies?"
"I forget the price he paid for it, but I could
look it up. Of course we were the agents."
"And then it was let to some dismal people
until my fathw died and my mother took it over.
I'm sorry I can't get sentimental about it, as if
it were an ancestral hall, Mr. Spooner. I want
to get rid of the place, because I hate the sight
of it."
"It would be presumptuous of me to say any-
thing more," answered the old-fashioned country
auctioneer.
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"Say what you like, Mr. Spooner," lauded
Doggie in his disarming way. "We're old
friends. But send in your people this afternoon
to start on inventories and measuring up, or
whatever they do, and I'll look round to-morrow
and sdect the bits I may want to keep. You'll
see after the storing of them, won't you?"
"Of course, Mr. Trevor."
Mr. Spooner drove away in his little car, a much
dazed man. Like the rest of Durdlebury and the
circumjacent county, he had assumed that when
the war was over Mr. James Marmaduke Trevor
would lead his bride from the Deanedry into Denby
Hall, where the latter, in her own words, would
proceed to make things hum.
"My dear," said he to his wife at luncheon,
"you could have knocked me over with a feathCT.
What he's doing it for, goodness knows. I can
only Eissume ttmt he has grown so accustomed
to the destruction of property in France, that he
has got bitten by the fever."
"Perhaps Peggy Conover has turned him down,"
suggested his wife, who, much younger than he,
employed more modem turns of speech. "And
I shouldn't wonder if she has. Smce the war
girls aren't on the lookout for pretty monkeys."
"If Miss Conover thinks she has got hold of a
pretty monkey in that young man, she is very much
misteuten," replied Mr. Spooner.
Meanwhile Doggie summoned Peddle to the
haU. He knew that his annoimcement would
be a blow to the old man; hut this was a world
of blows; and, after all, one could not organise
one's life to suit the sentiments of old family idiots
of retainers, served they never so faithfully.
"Peddle," said he, "I'm sorry to say I'm going
to sell Denby HaU. Messrs. Spooner and Smith-
son's people are coming in this afternoon. So
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296 THE ROUGH ROAD
give them every facili^. Also tea, or beer, or
whisky, or whatever they want. About what's
going to happen to you and Mrs. Peddle, don't
worry a bit. I'll look after that. You've been
jolly good friends of mine all my life, and I'll see
that everything's as right as rain.'
He turned, before the amazed (dd butler could
reply, and marched away. Peddle gaped at his
retreating figure. If those were the ways which
Mr. Marmaduke had learned in the Army, the lower
sank the Army in Peddle's estimation. To sell
Deuhy Hall over his head I Why, the place and
all about it was his! So deeply are squatters' rights
implanted in the human instinct.
Dogde marched along the familiar hi^ road,
stnui^y eidiilarated. What was to be his future
he neither knew nor cared. At any rate, it would
not lie in Durdlebury. He had cut out Durdle-
bury for ever from his scheme of ejostence. If
he got through the war, he and Peggy would go out
somewhere into the great world where there was
man's work to do. Parliament! Peggy had sug-
gested it as a sort of country-gentleman's hobby
that would keep him amused during the autumn
and summer London seasons — so might pro-
spective bride have talked to prospective husband
faty years ago. Parliament! C!od hdp him and
God help P^gy if ever he got into Parliament.
He would speak the most impopular truths about
the race of politicians if ever he got into Parlia-
ment. Peggy would wish that neither of them
had ever b^i bom. He held the trenches' views
on politicians. No fear. No muddy politics as
an elegant amusement ita hinL He laughed as
he had laughed in the dJTiJTw nxon at Deuby
Hall.
He would have a bad quarter of an hour with
Peggy. Naturally. She would say, and with every
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THE ROUGH ROAD 297
right: "What about meP Am I not to be con-
sidered?" Yes, of course she would be considered.
The position ]ns fortune assured him would ahrays
be hers. He had no notion of asking her to share
a log cabin in the wilds of Canada, or to bury her-
self in Oliver's dud island of Hufiheine. The
great world would be before Ibem. "But give
me some sort of an idea of what you propose to
do," she would with perfect propriety demand.
And there Doggie was stuck. He had not the
ghost of a progranune. All he had was faith in
the war, faiui in the British spirit and Genius that
would bring it to a perfect end, in which there
' would be unimagined opportunities for a man to
fling himself into a new Ufe, amid new conditions,
and begin the new work of a new civilisation.
"If she'll only understand," said he, "that I
can't go back to those blasted httle dogs, all will
be wdl."
Not quite all. Although his future was as neb-
ulous as the phmetary system in the Milky Way,
at the back of his mind was a vague conviction
that it would be connected somehow with the
welfare of those men whom he had learned to
know and love; the men to whom reading was
httle pleasure, writing a schoolcliild's laborious
task, the glories of the earth as interpreted through
art a sealed book; the men whose daily speech was
foul metaphor; the men, hemi-demi-semi-educated,
whose crude socialistic opinions the open lessons
of history and the etemeu facts of human nature
derisively refuted; the men who had sweated
and slaved in factory and in field to no other pur-
pose than to obey the biological laws of the per-
petuation of the species; yet the men with the
sweet minds of children, the gulling tenderness of
women, the hearts of lions;- the men compared to
whom the rotten squealing fa«x>es of H(Hner were
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a horde of cowardly sav^es. They were men,
these comTades of nis, swift witii all that there
can be of divine glory in man.
And when they came home and the high gods
sounded the fiilse trumpet of p^cet>
There would be mens work in England for all
the Doggies in England to do.
Again, if Peggy could understand this, all would
be well. If she missed the point altogether, and
tauntingly advised him to go and join his firiend
Mr. Ramsay Macdonald at once — then — he
shoved his cap to the back of his head and wrinkled
his forehead — then —
"Everything will be in the soup," said he.
These reflections brought him to the Deanery.
The nearest way of entrance was the stable yard
gate, which was always open. He strode in, waved
a hand to Chipmunk, who was sitting on the ground
with his back against the garage, smoking a pipe,
and entered the house by the French wmdow of
the dining room. Where should he find Peggy?
His whole mind was set on the immediate inter-
view. Obviously the drawing room was the first
place of search. He opened the drawing room door,
the hinges and lock oily, noiseless, perfectly or-
dained, like everything in that perfectly ordained
English Deanery, and strode in.
His entrance was so swift, so protected from
sound, that the pair had no time to start apart
before he was there, with his amazed eyes full
upon them. Peggy's hands were on Oliver's shoul-
ders, tears were streaming down her face, as her
head was thrown back from him, and Oliver's arm
viaa around her. Her back was to the door. Oliver
withdrew his arm and retired a pace or two.
"Lord Almighty," he whispered, "here's Doggiel"
Then Peggy, realising what had happened,
wheeled round and stared tragically at Doggie
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THE ROUGH ROAB 299
who, preoccupied with the search for her, had not
removed his cap. He drew himself up and saluted.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said with imper-
turbable irony, and turned.
Oliver rushed across the room.
"Stop, you siUy fooll"
He Slammed me open door, caught Doggie by
the aim and dragged him away from the threshold.
His blue eyes blazed, and the lips beneath the &liort-
cropped moustache quivered.
' It's all my fault, Dc^gie. I'm a beast and a
cad eind coiyuiing you lute to call me. But for
things you said last night — well — no, hang it
all, there's no excuse. Everything's on me. Peggy's
as true as gold."
Peggy, red-eyed, pale-cheeked, stood a httle
way hack, silent, on the defensive. Doggie, look-
iDg from one to the oUier, said ^etly:
'A triangular explanation is scarcely decent.
Perha^ you might let me have a word or two
with Peggy."
"Yes. It would be best," die whispered.
"I'll be in the dining room if you want me,"
said Oliver, and went out.
D(w;gie took her hand and very gently led ho*
to a chair.
"Let UB sit down. There," said he, "now we
can talk more comfortably. First, before we touch
on this situation, let me say something to you.
It may ease things."
Peggy, humiliated, did not look at him. She
uodd^.
"All right."
"I made up my mind this morning to sell Denby
Hall and its contents. I've given old Spooner
instructions."
She glanced at him involuntarily. "Sell Denby
HaU?"
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300 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Yes, deer. Yoii see, I had made i^ my mind
definitely, if I'm rajared, not to live m Durdle-
bury aftCT the war.'
"What were you thinliing of doing?" she asked,
in a low voice.
"That would depend on after war circmnstances.
Anyhow, I was coming to yon, when I entered the
room, with my decision. I knew of comse that
it wouldn't please you — that you would have
something to say to it — pohaps something very
serious."
"What do you mean by something very serious?"
"Our little contract, dear," said Doggie, "was
based on the understanding that you would not
be uprooted from the place in which are all your
life's associations. If I broke that understanding
it would leave you a free agent to determine the
contract, as the lawyers say. So perhaps, Peggy
dear, we might disiniss — well — other considera-
tions, and just discuss this."
Peggy twisted a rag of a handkerchief and wavered
for a moment. Then she broke out, with fresh
tears on her chedc.
"You're a dear of dears to put it that way. Only
you could do it. I've been a brute, old boy; but
I couldn't help it. I did try to jplay the game."
"You did, Pecg^ dear. You ve been wonderful."
"And althougn it didn't look like it, I was trying
to play the game when you came in. I really was.
And so was he." She rose and threw the hand-
kerchief away from her. "I'm not going to step
out of the engagement by the side door you've Im
open for me, you dear, old simple thing. It stands
if you like. We're all honourable people, and
Oliver — " she drew a sharp Uttle breatn — "Oliver
will go out of our lives."
Doggie smiled — he had risen — and t^lfing her
hands, kissed than.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 301
"I've never known what a splendid P^gy it is,
until I lose her. Look here, dear, here's me whole
thing in a nutshell. While I've been morbidly
ocxupied with myaelf and my grievances and my
disgrace and my efforts to pull through, and have
gradually developed into a sort of ludf-breed be-
tween a Tommy and a gentleman, with every
mortal thing in me warped imd changed, you've
stuck to the original rotten fiss you lashed into
the setublance of a man, in this very room, good-
ness knows how many months, or years, or cen-
turies ago. In my infernal selfishness, I've treated
you awfully badly. '
"No, you haven't," ahe declared stoutly.
"Yes, I have. The ordinary girl would have
told a living expmment like me to go hang long
before this. But you didn't. And now you see a
totally different sort of Doggie, and you're making
yourself miserable because he's a queer, unsym-
pathetic, unfamihar strange."
"All that may be so," ^e said, meeting his eyes
bravely. "But if the unfamihar Doggie stUl cares
for me, it doesn't matter."
Here was a delicate situation. Two very tender-
skinned vanities opposed to each other. TTie
smart of seeing one s affianced bride in the arms
of another man hurts grievously sore. It's a primi-
tive sex affair, independent of love in its modem
sense. If the savage's abandoned squaw runs off
with another fellow, he pursues him with clubs and
tomahawks until he has avenged the insult. Hav-
ing known ME, to decline to Spotted Crocodile!
So the finest flower of civilisation cannot surrender
the lady who once was his to the more favoured
male without a primitive pang. On the other hand.
Doggie knew very well that he did not love Peggy,
that he had never loved Peggy. But how in com-
mon decency could a man tell a girl who had wasted
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302 THE ROUGH ROAD
a couple of years of her life over liim, that be
had never loved her? Instead of replying to her
question, he walked about the room in a worried
way.
' I take it," said Peggy incisively, after a while,
"that you don't care for me any longer."
He turned and halted at the challenge. He
snapped his fingers. What was the good of all
this beating of tne bushP
"Look here, Peggy, let's face it out. If you'll
confess that you and Oliver are in love with each
other, I'll comess to a girl in France."
"Oh?" said Peggy, with a swift change to cool-
ness. "There's a girl in France, is there? How
long has this been going on?"
' The last four days in billete before I got
wounded," said Doggie.
"WhatisshelikeP
Then Doggie suddenly laughed out loud, and
took her by the shoulders in a grasp rougher than
she had ever dreamed to lie in liie strength or
nature of Marmaduke Trevor, and kissed her the
heartiest, hoaestest kiss she had ever had from
man, and rushed out of the room.
Presently he returned, dragging with him a
disconsolate Major.
"Here," said he, "fix it mj between you. I've
told Peggy about a ^1 in France, and she wants
to know what she's like."
Peggy, shaken by the rude grip and the kiss,
flashaa, and cried TebeUlously:
"I'm not quite so sure that I want to fix it up
wilb Oliver."
"Oh, yes, you do," cried OUvct.
He snatdied up Doggie's cap and jammed it on
Dogde's head and cried:
"Doggie, you're the best and truest and finest
of dear old chaps in the whole wide world I "
THE ROUGH ROAD 303
Doggie settled his cap, griimed and moved to
the door.
"Anything else, sir?"
Oliver roared, dehghted: *'No, Private Trevor;
you can go."
"Very good, sir."
Doggie saluted smartly and went out. He passed
through the French window of the dining room
into the mellow autumn sunshine. Found him-
self standing in front of Chipmimk, who stiU smoked
the pipe of elegant leisure hy the door of the garage.
"This is a dam' good old world, all the same.
Isn't it? "said he.
"If it was always like this, it would have ita
points," repUed the unworried Chipmunk.
Doggie had an inspiration. He looked at his
watch. It was nearly one o'clock.
"Hungry?"
"Always 'ungry. Specially about dinner time."
" Come alon^ of me to the Downshire Arms and
have a bite of dinner."
Chipmunk rose slowly to his feet, and put his
Eipe into his tunic pocket, and jerked a slow thumb
ackwards.
"Ain't yer having yer meals 'ere?"
"Only now and then, as sort of treats," said
Dogrie. "Come along."
"Ker-istt" said Chipmunk. "Can yer wait a
bit until I've cleaned me buttons?"
"Oh, bust your old buttonsi" laughed Dc^gie.
"I'm hungiry.'
So the pair of privates marched through the
old city to the Downshire Anns, the select, old-
world Hotel of Durdlebury, where Doggie was
known since babyhood; and there, sittu^ at a
window table with Chipmunk, he gave Durdle-
bury the great . sensation of its life. If the Dean
hiniself, clad in tights and spangles, had juggled
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304 THE ROUGH ROAD
for pence by the West door of the cathedral, tongues
could scarcely have wagged faster. But Doggie
worried his head about gossip not one jot. He
was in joyous mood, ana ordered a Gargantuan
feast for Chipmimk and battles of the strongest
old Burgundy, such as he thought would get a
grip on Chipmunk's whiskyfied throat; and under
the genial influence of food and drink, Chipmunk
told him tales of far lands and strange adventures;
and when they emerged much later into the Quiet
streets, it was the great good fortune of Chip-
munk's life that there was not the ghost of an
Assistant Provost Marshal in Durdlebury.
"Doggie, old man,'* said Oliver afterwards,
"my wonder and reverence for you iocreases hour
by hour. You are the only man in the whole
wide world who ht« ever made Chipmunk dnmk."
" You see," said Doggie modestly, " I don't
think he ever really lovra anyone who fed him
before."
ec by Google
CHAPTER XXII
DOGGIE, the lighteslrhearted private in the
British Anny, danced, in a metaphorical
sense, ba(^ to London, where he stayed
for the rest of his leave at his rooms in Wofomn
Place; took his wholesome fill of theatres and music-
halls, going to those parts of the house where Tom-
mies congregate; and bought an old Crown Derby
dinner service as a wedding present for Peggy and
Oliver, a tortoise-shell-fitted (fressing-case for Peggy,
and for OUver a magnificent gold watch that wfis
an encyclopaedia of current information. He had
never felt so happy in his fife, so enchanted with
the grimly smihng old world. Were it not for
the Bodie, it could hold its own as a brave place
with any planet going. He blessed Oliver, who,
in turn, had blessed him as though he had dif^yed
heroic magnanimity. He ble^ed Peggy, who,
flushed wiw love and happiness and gratitude,
had shown him, for the firat time, what a really
adorable young woman she could be. He tiianked
Heaven for making three people hf^py, instead of
three people miserable.
He marched along the wet pavementa with a
new light in his eyes, with a new exhilarating breath
in his nostrils. He was free. The war over, he
could do exactly what he liked. An untrammelled
future lay before him. During the war he could
hop about trenches and shell-holes with the free-
dom of a bird. . . .
Those awful duty letters to Peggy! Only now
he fully realised their nev^-ending strain. Now
he could write to her spontaneously, whenever
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306 THE ROUGH ROAD
the mood suited, write to her from his heart:
"Dear old Peggy, I'm so glad you're happy. Oliver's
a splendid auip. Et edera, et cetera, et cetera."
He had lost a dreaded bride; but he had found a
dear and devoted &i^id. Nay, mare: he had
found two devoted friends. When he drew up
his account with humanity, he found himself pasa-
ing rich in love.
His furlough expired, he reported at his dep5t
and was put on light duty. He went about it
the cheeriest soul ahve, and laughed at the mem-
ory of his former miseries as a recuit. This camp
life in England, after the mud and blood of France
— like the African gentleman in Mr. Addison's
"Cato," he blessed his stars and thought it luxury.
He was not sorry that the exigences of service pre-
vented him from being present at the wedding of
Oliver and Peggy. For it was the most sudden
of ph^omena, uke the fight of two rams, as Shake-
speare hath it. In war-tune people marry in haste;
and often, dear God, they have not the leisure
to repent. Since the beginning of the war there
are many, many women twice widowed. . . . But
that is by the way. Doggie was grateful to an
UD^atefuI mihtEiry system. If he had attended
— m the capacity erf best man, so please you —
so violent and imreasoning had Ohver's affection
become, Durdlebury would have gaped and whis-
pered behind its hand and made things uncom-
fortable for everybody. Doggie from the security
of his regiment wished them joy by letter and
telegram, and sent them Ihe wedding presents
aforesaid.
Then, for a season, there were three hapyy peocJe,
at least, in this war-wildemras of suffermg. The
newl^ wedded pair went off for a honeymoon whose
promise of indefinite length was eventually cut
short by an imromantic War Office. Ohver re-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 307
turned to his regiment in France and Peggy to
the Deanery, where she sat among her wedding
presents and her hopes for the future.
*'I never realised, my dear," said the Dean
to his wife, "what a remarkably pretty girl Peggy
has grown into."
"It's because she has got the man she loves,"
said Mrs. Conover.
"Do you think that's the reasonP"
"I've known the plainest of women bec<Hne
quite good-looking. In the early days of our
married life" — ^e smiled — "even I was not
quite xmattractive."
The old Dean bent down — she was sitting and
he standing — and lifted her chin witii his fore-
finger.
' You, mv dear, have always been hy far the
most beautiful woman of my ao^uaintance."
".We're taUdng of Peggy, ' snmed Mrs. Conov».
"Aht" said me Dean. "So we were. I was
saying that the child's happiness was reflected
in her face — "
"I rather thou^t I said it, dear," replied Mrs.
Conover.
"It doesn't matter," said her husband, who
was first a man and then a Dean. He waved a
band in benign dismissal of the argument. "It's
a great ma^," said he, "that she has married the
man she loves instead of — weU . . . Marmaduke
has turned out a capital fellow, and a credit to the
family — but I never was quite easy in my mind
over the engagement. . . . And yet, ' he continued,
after a turn or two about the room, "I'm rather
conscience-stricken about Marmaduke, poor chap.
He has taken it like a brick. Yes, my dear, like
a brick. Like a gentleman. But all the same,
no man likes to see another fellow walk off with
his sweetheart."
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"I don't think Marmaduke was ever bo bucked
in his life," said Mrs. Conover placidly.
"So—?"
Tlie Dean gasped. His wife's smile playing
ironicnJlIy among her wrinkles was rather b^utifm.
"Peggy's word, Edward, not mine. The modem
vocabulary. It means — "
"Oh, I know what the hideous word means.
It was your u»ng it that caused a shiver down my
^ine. But why buckedP"
"It appears there's a girl in France."
"Oho! ' said the Dean. "Whoisshe?"
"That's what Peggy, even now, would give a
good deal to find out.
For Doggie had told Peggy nothing more about
the girl in France. Jeanne was his own precious
secret. That it was shared by Phineas and Mo
didn't matter. To discuss her with Peggy, besides
being irrelevant, in the circumstances, was quite
anotaer affair. Indeed, when he had avowed the
girl in France, it was not so much a confession as
a gallant desire to help P^gy out of her predica-
ment. For, after all, what was Jeanne but a be-
loved war-wraith that had passed through his life
and disappearedP
"The development of Marmaduke," said the
Dean, "is not the least ertraordinary phenomenon
of the war."
Now that Doggie had gained his freedom, Jeanne
ceased to be a wraith. She became once again
a wonderful thing of flesh and blood towards whom
all his young, freeh instinct yearned tremendously.
One day it struck his ingenuous mind that, if Jeanne
were willing, there could be no possible reason why
he should not marry her. Who was to say him
nay? Convention? He had put all the conven-
tions of his life under the auctioneer's hammir*
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THE ROUGH ROAD 309
The family? He pictured a meeting between
Jeamie and the kind and comleous old Dean. It
could not be other than an episode of beauty.
All he had to do was to seek out Jeanne and begm
his wooing in earnest. The simplest adventure
in the world for a well-to-do and unattached young
man — if only that young man had not been a
private soldier on active service.
That was the rub. Doggie passed his hand over
his hair ruefully. How on earth could he get
to Fr£us again? Not till the end of the war, at
any rate, which might be years hence. There
was nothing for it but a resumption of intimacy
by letter. So he wrote to Jeanne the letter which
loyalty to Peggy had made him destroy weeks
ago. But no answer came. Then he wrote another,
telling her of Peggy and his freedom, and his love
and his hopes, and to that there came no reply.
A pr^)aid telegrcun produced no result.
Doggie began to despair. What had happened
_ T r( xtn j;j _t~ ;_» ;_ i: 1,1 4.
to Jeanne? "Why did she persist in ruling him out
of her existence? Was it oecause, in spite of her
gratitude, she wanted none of his love? He sat
on the railing on the sea front of the South coast
town where ne was quartered, and looked across
the Channel in dismayed apprehension. He was
a fool. What could there possibly be in little
Doggie Trevor to ii^ire a romantic passion in
any woman's heart? Take Peggy's case. As soon
as a real, genuine fellow like Oliver came along,
Peggy's heart flew out to him like needle to magnet.
Even had he been of Oliver's Paladin mould, what
right had he to expect Jeanne to give him all the
wonder of herself after a four days' acquaintance?
Being what he was, ^ust little Doggie Trevor, the
assumption was an impertinence. She had shel-
tered herself from it behind a bfurier of silence.
A girl, a thing of low cut blouse, truncated skirts
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310 THE ROUGH ROAD
and cheap silk stockings, who had been leaning
unnoticed for some time on the rails by his side»
spoke.
"You seem to be jw^tty Ioti^."
Doggie swerved round. "YeB, I am, darned
lon^. '
" Crane for a walk, ot take me to the pictures."
"And thent*" asked Doggie, swinging to his feet.
"If we get on all ri^t, we can fGc up sometliiDg
for to-morrow."
She was pretty, with a fair, firizzy, insolent pretti-
ness. She might have beoi any age £rom fourteen
to four-imd-twenty.
Doggie smiled, tanpted to while away a daxk
ham. But he said, honestly :
"Fm airaid I should be a dull companion."
"What's the matter?" she laughed. "Lost your
bestgirl?"
"Something like it." He waved a hand across
the sea. "Oiver there."
"French? Oh!" She drew herself up. "Aren't
English girls good enough for you?"
' When they're sympathetic, they're delightful,"
said he.
"Oh, you make me tired I Good-bye," she snapped
and stalked away.
After a few yards she glanced over her shoulder
to see whether he was fcJlowing. But Doggie re-
mained by the railings and presently went off to
a picture palace by himself and thmi^t wistfully
of Jeanne.
And Jeanne? Well, Jeanne was no longer at
Fr^us; for there came a morning when Aunt
Morin was found dead in her bed. The old doctor
came and spread out his thin hands and said "Eh
bien" and Que voulez-vous?" and "It wm bound
to happen sooner or later," and munnured learned
THE ROUGH ROAD 311
words. The old Ciir€ came and a neighbour or
two, and candles were put round the coffin, and the
pompes fanibres draped the front steps and entrance
and vestibule in heavy black. And as soon as was
possible Aunt Morin was laid to rest in the little
cemetery adjoining the church, and Jeanne went
back to the house with Toinette, alone in the wide
world. And because there had been a death in
the place the billeted soldiers went about the court-
yard very quietly.
Since Pbineas and Mo and Doggie's regiment
had gone away, she had devoted, with a new pas-
sionate zeal, all the time she could Efpare from the
sick woman to the comforts of the men. No longer
restrained by the tightly drawn purse-strings of
Aunt Morin, but with money of her own to spend
— cOid money restored to her by these men's
dear and heroic connade — she a)uld give them
unexpected treats of rich coffee and milk, fresh
eggs, fruit. . . . She mended and darned for them
and suborned old women to help her. She con-
spired with the Town Major to render the granary
more habitable; and the Town Major, who had
not to issue a return for a centime's expense, re-
ceived all her suggestions with courteous enthu-
siasm. Toinette, taking good care to impress upon
every British soldier who could understand her,
the fact that to Mademoiselle personally and in-
dividually he was indebted for all these luxuries,
the fame of Jeanne be^an to spread tbrough that
sector of the Front behmd which lay Fr^lus. Con-
currently spread the story of Doggie Trevor's ex-
ploit. Jeanne became a legendary figure, save to
those thrice fotlimate who were billeted on Veuve
Morin el Fits, Marchands des Foins en Gros et Dk-
iail, and these, according to their several stoUd
Britirfi ways, bowed down and worshipped before
the ^iim French girl with the tiagic eyes, and when
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312 THE ROUGH ROAD
they departed, confiimed the legend and made
things nasty fw the sceptically superior private.
So, on the day of the funeral of Aunt Morin, the
whole of the billet sent in a wreatii to the house,
and the whole of the billet attended the service
in the little church, and they marched back and
drew up by the front door — a guard of honour
extending a httle distance down the road. The
other men billeted in the viUage hun^ around,
together with the remnant of the inhabitants, old
men, women and children; but kept quite clear
of the guarded path through which Jeanne was
to pass. One or two officers looked on curiously.
But they stood in the background. It was none
of their business. If the men, in their free time,
chose to put themselves on parade, without arms,
of course, so much the better for the army.
Then Jeanne and the old Cure, in his time-
scarred ehovel-hat and his rusty soutane, followed
by Toinette, turned round the comer of the lane .
and emerged into the main street. A sergeant
gave a word of command. The guard stood at
attenticm. Jeanne and her companions proceeded
up the street, unaware of the unusual, until they
entered between the £bret two files, llien for the
first time the tears welled into Jeanne's eyes. She
could only stretch out her hands and cry somewhat
wildly to the bronzed statues on each side of her,
"Merci, mes amig, merci, merci" and flee into the
house.
The next day Mfdtre P^pineau, the notary,
summoned her to his cabinet. Mciitre P^pineau
was very old. His partner had gone off to the
war. "One c^ the necessities of the present situa-
tion," he would say, "is that I should go on living
in spite of myself; for if I died the imole of the
affairs c£ Frelus would foe in the soup." Now,
a fortnight back, Mattre P^pineau and lonr neigh-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 313
boors — the four witnesses required by French
law when there is only one notaiy to draw up the
instrument public — had visited Aunt Moriu; so
Jeanne knew that she had made a fresh will.
"Mon enfold" said the old m£ui, unfolding the
document, 'in a previous will your Aunt had left
you a little heritage out of the half of her fortune
which she was free to dispose of by the code. You
having come into possession of your owu money,
she has revoked that will, and left everything to
her only surviving son, Geispard Morin m Mada-
gascar.'
"It is only just and right," said Jetume.
"The unfortunate part of the matter," said
Mattre P6pineau, "is that Madame Morin has
appointed official trustee to carry on the estate
until Monsieur Gaspard Morin can make his own
arrangements. The result is that you have no
loeas standi as a resident in the house. I pointed
this out to her. But you know, in spite of her
good qualities, she was obstinate. ... It pains
me greatly, my dear child, to have to state your
position."
"I am then," said Jeanne, "sans asile — home-
less?"
"As far as the house of Monsieur Gaspard Morin
is concerned — yes."
"And my English soldiersP" asked Jeaime.
"Alas, my child," replied the old man, "you
will find them everywhere."
Which was cold consolation. For, however much
inspired by patriotic gratitude a French girl may
he, she cannot settle down in a strange place where
British troops are billeted, and procewi straightway
to minister to their comforts. Misunderstandings
are apt to arise even in the best regulated Briti^
regiments. In the house of Aunt Morin, in Fr^lus,
hffl praition was unassailable. Anywhere else. . . .
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314 THE ROUGH ROAD
"So, my good Toinette," said Jeanne, after
having explained the situation to the Indignant
old woman, "I can only go back to my Mend ia
Paris and reconstitute my life. Si tu veux m'ae-
compagner — ?"
But no. Toinette had the peasant's awful dread
of Paris. She had heard about Paris; there were
thieves, rufiSans that they called apaches, who
murdered you if you went outside your door —
"The apaches, ' laughed Jeanne, "were swept
into the army on the outbreak of war, and they've
neariy all heea killed, fighting like heroes."
"Tliere are the old ones left, who are worse than
the young," retorted Toinette.
No. Mademoiselle could teach her nothing about
Paris. You could not even croas a street without
risk of life, so many were the omnibuses and auto-
mobiles. In every ^op you were a stranger to
be robbed. There was no air in Paris. You
could not deep for the noise. And then — to live
in a city of a hundred million people and not know
one living bouII It was a mad-house matter.
Again, no. It grieved her to part from Mademoiselle,
but she had made her little economies — a cbffi-
cult achievement, considering how regardful of her
pence Madame Morin had oeen — and she would
return to her Breton town, which forty years ago
she had left to enter the service of her payse, Madame
Morin.
"But after forty years, Toinette, who in Paimpol
will remember youP"
"It is I who remember Paimpol," said Toinette.
She remained for a few moments in thought. Then
she said: "C'est drole, tout de mime. I haven't
seen the sea for forty years, and now I can't sleep
of nights thinking of it. The first man I loved was
a fisherman of Paimpol. We were to be married
after he returned frcm an Iceland voyage, with a
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THE ROUGH ROAD 315
fros Hn^jke. When the time came for his retmn,
would stand on the shore and watch and watch
the sea. But he nev^ came. The sea swallowed
him up. And then — you can understand quite
well — the child was bom dead. And I thought'
I would never want to look at the sea again. So
I came here to your Aunt Morin, the daughter of'
Doctor Kersadec, your grandfather, and I married
Jules Dagnant, the foreman of the carters of the
hay . . . and he died a long time ago . . . and now
I have forgotten him, and I want to go and look
at the sea where my man w€is drowned."
"But your grandson, who is fighting in the
ArgonneP '
' What difTereuce can it make to him wheth^
I am in Fr^lus or Paimpol?"
"Cest vrai" said Jeanne.
Toinette bustled about the kitchen. Folks had
to eat, whatever happened. But ^e went on
talking. Madame Morin. One must not qteak
evil (M the dead. They have their work cut out
to extricate themselves from Purgatory. But all
the same — after forty years' faithful service —
and not a mention in the will — mime pour une
BreUmne, c'iiait raide. Jeanne agreed. She had
no reason to love her Aunt Morin. Her father's
people came from Agen on the confines of Gascony,
he nad been a man of great gestures and vehement
speech; her mother, gentle, reserved, un peu dhote.
Jeanne drew her maract^ from both sources;
but her sympathies were rather Southern than
N(uihem. For some reason or the other, perhaps
for his expansive ways — who knowsP — Aunt
Morin had held the late Monsieur Boissi^ in
detestation. She had no love for Jeanne, whom
she made eat the bitter bread of servitude. Jeanne,
who before her ^ood fortune had expected nothing
from Aunt Morm, regarded the will with feelixigs
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316 THE ROUGH ROAD
of indifference. Except as far as it concerned
Toinette. Forty years' faithful service deserved
recognition. But what was the use of talking
about it?
"So we must separate, ToinetteP"
"Alas, yes, Mademoiselle — unless Mademoiselle
would come with me to Paimpol."
Jeanne laughed. What should she do in Paim-
pol? There wasn't even a fiahermEm left there to
ffdl in love with.
"Mademoiselle," said Toinette later, "do you
think you will meet the little Kngliah soldier. Mon-
sieur Trevor, in Paris? "
"Dans la guerre on Tie ae revolt jamais," said
Jeanne.
But there was more of personal decision than of
fatalism in her tone.
So Jeanne waited for a day or two until the r^-
ment marched away, and then, with heavy heart,
set out for Paris. She wrote, indeed, to Phineas,
and weeks afterwards Phineas, who was in the thick
of the Somme fighting, wrote to Doggie telling him
of her departure from Fr61us; but rep-etted that
as he had lost her letter he could not give him her
Paris address.
And in the meantime the house of Gaspard Morin
was shuttered and locked and sealed; and the
bureaucratically minded old Postmaster of Fr3us,
who had received no instructions from Jeanne to
forward her correspondence, handed Doggie's letters
and telegrams to the aged postmim, a superan-
nuated herdsman, who stuck them into the letter
box of the deserted house, and went away conscious
of duty perfectly accomplished.
Then, at last, Doggie, fit again for active service,
went out with a draft to France, and joined Phineas
and Mo, almost the only survivors of the cheery,
familiar crowd that he had loved, and the grimness
THE ROUGH ROAD 317
of battles such as he had never conceived possible
took him in its inexorable grip, and he l(»t sense
of everything save that he was the least important
thing on God's earth struggling desperately for
animal existence.
Yet there were rare times of relief from stress,
when he could gropingly string together the facts
of a pre-Somme existence. And then he would
curse Phineas lustily for losing the precious letter.
"Man," Phioeas once rephed, "don't you see
that you are breaking a heart which, in spite of
its apparent rugosity and callosity, is as tender as
a new-made mother s? Tell me to do it, and I'll
desOTt and make my way to Paris and — "
"And the mihtary poUce will see that you make
your way to hell via a stone wall. And serve you
right. Don't be a blithering fool," said Doggie.
"Then 1 don't know what I can do for you, laddie,
except die of remorse at your feet."
"We're all going to die of rheumatic fever,"
said Doggie, shivering in his sodden imiform.
"Blast this rainl"
Phineas thrust his hand beneath his clothing and
produced a long, amorphous, and repulsive sub-
stance, like a painted tallow candle overcome by
intense heat from which he gravely bit an inch
or two.
"What's that?" asked Doggie.
"It's a stick of peppermint, ' said Phineas. "I've
still an Aunt in Gala^els who remembers my
existence."
Doggie stuck out his hand like a monkey in the
Zoo.
"You selfish beasti" said be.
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CHAPTER XXIII
THE fighting went on, and to Doggie the in-
habitants of the outside world became ahnost
as phantasmagorical as Phineas's providential
Aunt in Galashiels. Immediate existence held him.
In an historic battle. Mo Shendish fell with a ma-
chine bullet through his heart. Doggie, staggerii^
with the rest of the company to the attack over the
muddy, shell-tom ground, saw him go down, a few
yards away. It was not till later that he knew
he bad gone West with many other great souls.
Doggie and Phineas moumed for bim as a brother.
Without him, France was a muddier and a bloodier
place, and the outside world more mireal than ever.
Then to Doggie came a heart>-bToken lett^ from
the Dean. Oliver had gone the same road as
Mo. Peggy was frantic with grief. Vividly Dc^^
saw the peac^ul deanery, on which all the calamity
of all the war had crashed with sudden violence.
"Why I should thank God we parted as friends,
' ' ' " sie, '*butld *
I don't quite know," said Do^ie, ' but I do."
"I suppose, laddie," saidlniineas, "it's good to
feel that smiUng eyes and hearty hfinds wul n«et
us when we too pass over the Border. My God,
man," he added reflectively, after a pause, "have
you ever considered what a goodly company it
will beP When you come to look at it that way, it
makes Death {^te a trivial affair."
"I suppose It does to us while we're here," said
Doggie. "We've seen such a lot of it. But .to
those who haven't — my poor Peggy — it's Uie
end of ha* imiverse."
Yes, it was all very well to take death ^alo-
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THE ROUGH ROAD 319
sophically, or fatalistically, or callously, or whatever
you liked to call it, out there, where such an atti-
tude was the only stand against raving madness;
but at home, beneath the grey mass of the Cathedral,
hitherto imtouched by tragedy, folks met Death
as a strange and cruel horror. The new glory of
life that Peggy had found, he had blackened out
in an instant. Doggie looked i^;ain at the old
mEm's letter — his faandwritii^ was growing shaky
— and forgot for a while the ^miliEir things around
him, and hved with Peggy in h«r sorrow.
Then, as far as Doggie's sorely tried Dividon was
affected, came the end of the great autiunn fitt-
ing. He found himself well behind the lines in
reserve, and so continued during the cold, dreary
winter months. And the more the wedts that
crept by, and the more remote seemed Jeanne,
the more Dogpe bmi^ered for the sight of her.
But all this period of his life was but a dim-coloured
monotony, with but few happenings to distinguish
week from week. Most of the company that had
marched with him into Fr61us were dead or wounded.
Nearly all the officers had gone. Captain Wil-
loughby, who had interrogated Jeanne with regard
to the restored packet, and, on Doggie's return,
had informed him with a friendly smile that they
were a damned sight too busy then to worry about
defaulters or the hkes of him, but that he was going
to be court-martialled and shot as soon as peace
was declared, when they would have time to think
of serious matters — Captain Willoughby had gone
to Blighty with a leg so mauled that never would
he command agsan a company in the field. Ser-
geant Ballinghall, who had taught Doggie to use
his fists, had retired, minus a hand, into civil life.
A scientific and sporting helper at Roehampton,
he informed Doggie by letter, was busily engaged
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320 THE ROUGH ROAD
on the invention of a boxing glove which would
enable him to carry on his pugilistic career. "So,
in future times," said he, * if any of your friends
among the nobility Euid gentry want l^sons in the
noble art, don't forget your old Mend Balling-
hall." Wbereat — incidentally — Doggie wondered.
Never, for a fraction of a second, dunng their com-
mon mihtary association, had Ballinghall given
him to understand that he regarded bim otherwise
than as a mere Tommv, wiuout any pretensions
to gentility. There had been times when Balling-
half had cursed him — perhaps justifiably and
perhaps lovingly — as though he had been the
scum of the earth. Doggie would no more have
dared address bim in terms of familiarity than he
would have dared slap the Brigadier-General on
the hack. And now the honest warrior sought
Doggie's patronage. Of the original crowd in
EngUmd who had transfonned Dog^e's military
existence by making him penny-wmstler to the
Company, only Phmeas and himself were left.
There were others, of course, good and gallant
fellows, witb whom he became bound in tbe rough
intimacy of the Army; but the first friends, those
under whose protecting kindliness his manhood
had developed, were the dearest. And their ghoste
remained (fear. '
At last the Division was moved up, and there
was more fighting.
One day, after a successful raid. Doggie tumbled
back with the rest of the men into the trench and,
looking about, missed Fhineas. Presently the word
went round that "Mac" had been hit, and later
the rumour was confirmed by the passage down
the trench of Fhineas on a stretcher, his weather-
battered face a ghastly ivory.
"I'm alive all right, laddie," he gasped, con-
torting his lips into a smile. "I've got it clean
ru.:.ci:, Google
THE ROUGH ROAD 321
through the chest like a gentleman. But it gars
me greet I canna look after you any longer."
He made an attempt at waving a hand, and the
stretcher-bearers earned him away, out of the army
for ever.
Thereafter Doggie felt the loneliest thing on
earth, like Shelley's cloud, or the Last Man in Tom
Hood's grim poem. For was he not the last man
of the original Company, as he had joined it, hun-
dreds of years ago, in England? It was only then
that he realised fully the merits of the wastrel,
Phineas McPhail. Not once or twice, hut a thou-
sand times had the man's vigilant affection, veiled
under cynical humour, savra him from despair.
Not once, hut a thousand times had the gaunt,
tireless Scotdmian saved him from physical ex-
haustion. At every turn of his career, since his
enlistment, Phineas had been there, watchful,
helpful, devoted. There he had been, always
ready and willing to be cursed. To curse him had
been the great comfort of Doggie's life. Whran
could he curse now? Not a soul — no one, at
any rate, against whom he could launch an anath-
ema with any real heart in it. Than curse vainly
and superficially, far better not to curse at all.
He missed PbineEts beyond all his conception of the
blankness of bereavement. Like himself, Phineas
had found salvation in the army. Doggie retilised
how he had striven in his own queer way to redeem
the villainy (rf his tutorship. No woman could
have been more gentle, more unselfi^.
"What the devil am I going to do?" said
Doggie.
Meanwhile Phineas, lying in a London hospital
with a bullet through his body, tiiought much and
earnestly of his fnend, and one morning Peggy
got a letter.
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322 THE ROUGH ROAD
"Dear Madam,
" Time wag v^ien I could not have addresKd you with-
oiU incurring your not ui^ustijiable disapproval.
But I take the libaiy oj doipg so now, trusting to
your generous acquiescence in the proposition that
the war has purged many offences. If this has not
happened, to some extent, in my cage, I do not see
htm it hag been possible for me to have regained and
retained the trust and friendship of so sensitive and
honourable a gentleman as Mr. Marmaduke Trews;
" If I ask yoa to come and see me here, where I am
lying seoerely wounded, U is not with an inteiUion, to
solicit a favour for myself personally — although
ril not deny that the gight of a kind and familiar
face would not be a boon to a lonely and friendless
man — but with a deep desire to admuice Mr. Trevor's
happiness. Lest you may imagine I am committing
an unpardonable irnpertinence, and thereby totally
misunderstand me, I may say thai this happiness
can only be achieved by the aid of powerful friends
both in London arvi Paris.
"It is only because the lad is the one thing dear to
me left in the toorld, thai I venture to intrude on your
privacy at sudi a time.
I am.
Dear Madam,
Yours very faitMully,
PmNEAs McPhail."
Veggy came down to breakfast, and having duti-
fully kissed her partita, announced her intention
of going to London by the eleven o'clock train.
Why, how can you, my dear?" asked Mrs. Con-
over.
"I've nothing particular to do here for the next
few days."
"But your father and I have. Neither of us can
start oS to London at a moment's notice."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 323
Peggy replied with a wan smile: "But, dearest
mother, you forget. I'm an old, old married
woman."
"Besides, my dear," said the Dean, "Peggy has
often gone away by herself."
"But never to London," said Mrs. Conover.
"Anyhow, I've got to go, dearest." Peggy turned
to the old butler. "Ring up Sturrocks and tell
them I'm coming."
"Yes, Miss," said Burford.
"He's as bad as you are, mother," said Peggy.
So she went up to London, and stayed the ni^t
at Sturrocks' alone, for the first time in her life.
She half ate a lon^y, execrable war dinner in the
stuSy, old-fashioned dining room, served cere-
momously by the ancient head-waiter, the friend
of her childhood, who, in view of her recent widow-
hood, addressed her in the muffled tones of the
sympathetic undertaker. P^gy nearly cried. She
wished she had chc^en another hotel. But where
else could she have gone? She had stayed at few
hotels in London; once at the Savoy; once at
Claridge'a; every other time at Sturrocks'. The
Savoy? Its vastness frightened her. And Cla-
ridge 3? — no; that was sanctified for ever. Oliver
in his lordly way had snapped his fingers at Stur-
rocks'. Only the brat was good enough for Peggy.
Now, only Sturrocks' remamed.
She sought her room inunediately after the drearv
meal and sat before the fire — it was a damp, chill
February night — and thought miserable and aching
thoughts. It happened to be the same room which
she had occupied, oh — thousands of years ago —
on the night when Doggie, point-device in new
Savile Row uniform, had taken her to dinner at
the Carlton. And die had sat, in the same imita-
tion Charles the Second brocaded chair, looking
into the same generous, old-fashioned fire, thinking
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324 THE ROUGH ROAD
— Uunking. . . . And she remembered olendiing
her fist and apostrophising the fire and crying out
aloud: "Oh, my Goal if only he makes good I'
Oceans of years lay between then and now.
Doggie had made good; every man who came home
wounded must have made eood. Poor old Doggie.
But how in the name of all that was meant by the
word Love she could ever have contemplated —
as she had contemplated, with an obstinate, vir-
ginal loyalty — marriage with Doggie, she coidd
not understand.
She undressed, brought the straight-backed chair
dose to the fire, and, in her dainty nightgown, part
of her trousseau, sat elbow on knee, face in Uun,
clutching hands, shppered feet on fender, thinking,
thiTiliing once again. T hinking now of the gates
of Paradise that nad opened to her for a few nrief
weeks. Of the mEin who never had to make good,
being the wond^ of wonders of men, the dehcious
companion, the incomparable lover, the all-com-
pelling revealer, the great, gay, scarcely, to her
wonum's limited power of vision, comprehended,
heroic soldier. Oi the terrifying meaninglessness of
life, now that her Grod of Very God, in human form,
had been swept, on an instant, off the earth into
the Unknown.
Yet was life meaningless after allP There must
be some significance, some inner truth veiled in
mystery, b^iind even the casually accepted and
never probed religion to which she had been bom,
and in which she had found poor refuge. For, like
many of her thoiightless, unquestioning class, she
had looked at Christ through stained-glass windows,
and now the windows were darkened. . . . For
the first time in her life her soul groped intensely
towards eternal verities. The fi^ numed low,
and ^e shivered. She became again the bit of
human flotsam cruelly buffeted i>y the waves.
THE ROUGH ROAD 325
fcH^tten of God. Yet, after she had risen and
crept into bed, and while she was staring into the
darkness, her heart became filled with a vast pity
for the thousands and thousands of women, her
sisters, who at that moment were staring, hopeless,
like her, into the unrelenting night.
She did not fall asleep till early morning. She
rose late. About half past eleven as she was pre-
paring to walk abroad on a dreary shopping ex-
cursion — the hospital visiting hour was in the
afternoon — a telegram arrived from the Dean.
"Just heard thai Marmadahe is severely wounded."
She scarcely recognised the young private tutor
of Deuby Hall in the elderly man with the deeply-
furrowed face, who smiled as she approached ms
bed. She had brought him flowers, cigarettes of
the exquisite kind that Doggie used to smoke,
diocolates . . .
She sat down by his bedside.
"All this is more than gracious, Mrs. Manning-
tree," said Phineas. "To a iiieux roatier like me,
it is a wee bit overwhelming."
"It's very httle to do for Doggie's beat friend."
Phineas's eyes twinkled. " If you call him Doggie,
like that, maybe it won't be so difficult for me to
talk to you."
"Why should it be difBcult at allP" she asked.
"We both love him."
"Ay," said Phineas. "He's a lovable lad, and
it is because others besides you and me find bim
lovable, that I took the liberty of writing to you."
"The girl in France?"
"EbP' He put out a bony hand and r^arded
her in some disappointment. "Has he told you?
Perhaps you know all about it."
" I know nothing except that — 'A girl in France,'
was all he told me. But — first about yourself.
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326 THE ROUGH ROAD
How badly are yoa wounded — and what can we
do for you?".
She dragged from a reluctant PhJneas the history
of his wound, and obtained confirmation of his
statement frcan a nurse who happened to pass up
the gangway of the pleasant ward and lingered by
the Dedside. McPhail was doing splendidly. Cn
course, a man with a hole through his body must
be expected to go hack to the rS^me of babyhood.
So long as he bdiaved himself like a well-conducted
baby all would be weU. Peggy drew the nurse
a few yards away.
"I've just heaid that his dearest friend out there,
a boy wh(Hn he loves dearly and has been throu^ the
whole tbing with him in the same company — it's
odd, but he was his private tutor years ago — - both
gentlemen, you know — in fact, I'm here just to talk
about the boy — " Pe^y grew somewhat incoherent
— "Wdl — I've just^eaxd that the boy has been
seriously wounded. Shall I tell him?"
" I thmk it would be better to wait for a few days.
Any shock like that sends up their temperatures, —
we hate temperatures — and we're getting his
down so nicely. '
"All ri^t," said Peggy, and she went back
smiling to Phineas. "She says you're getting on
amazin^y, Mr. McPhaiL"
Said Pnineas: "I'm grateful to you, Mrs. Man-
ningtree, for concerning yourself about my en-
tirely unimportant carctiss. Now, as Virgil says,
'paullo majora canemas/"
"You have me there, Mr. McPhail," said Peffiy.
"Let us sing of somewhat greater thin^. Inat
is the bald translation. Let us talk of Dogfpe —
if so be it is agreeable to you."
"Carry on,' said Peggy.
"Well," said Phineas, 'to b^in at the begimung,
we marched into a place called Frflus — "
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THE ROUGH ROAD 327
In his pedantic way he began to tell her the story
of Jeanne, so far as he knew it. He told her of the
girl standing in the night wind and rain on the bluff
by the turning of the road. He told h^ of Doggie's
insane adventure across No Man's Land to the
Farm of La Folette. Tears rolled down Peggy's
cheeks. She cried, incredulous:
"Do^e did that? Doggie?"
"It was child's play to what he had to do at
Guedecourt."
But Peggy waved away the vague heroism of
Guedecourt.
"Doggie did that? For a woman?"
The whole elaborate structure of her conception
of Doggie tumbled down like a house of cards.
"Ay, ' said Phineas.
"He did that — " Phineas had given an imagina-
tive and picturesque account of the episode —
"for this gu-l Jeanne?"
"It is a strange coincidence, Mrs. Manningtree,"
rephed Phineas, with a flicker of his lips elusively
suggestive of unctuousness, "that almost those
identical words were used by Mademoiselle Boissiere
in my presence. ' // a fait cela pour moi! ' But —
you will pardon me for saying it — with a dif-
i^^nce of mtonation, which, as a woman, no doubt
you will be able to divine and appreciate."
"I know," said Peggy. She bent forward and
picked with finger and thumb at the fluff of the
blanket. Then she said, intent on the fluff: "If
a man had done a thing like that for me, I should
have crawled after him to the ends of the earth."
Presently she looked up with a flash oi the eyes.
"Why isn't this girl doing it?"
"You must listen to the end of the story," said
Phineas. " I may tell you that I always regarded
myself, with my Scot's caution, as a model of tact
and discretion; but aft^ many conversations with
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328 THE ROUGH ROAD
Do^ie, I'm b^imuDg to have my doubts. I also
imagmed that I was very careful of my personal
beloDgingB; but Cacts have convicted me of criminal
laxity."
Peggy smiled. "That sounds like a oonfession,
Mr. McPhaiL"
"Maybe it's in the nature of one," he assented.
"But, by your leave, Mrs. Manningtree, I'll resume
my narrative."
He continued the storv of Jeanne; how she had
learned through him of Doggie's wealth and posi-
tion and early upbringing; of the memorable
dinner party with poor Mo; of Doggie's sensitive
interpretation of her French bourgeoise attitude;
and finally of the loss of the letter containing her
address in Paris.
After he had finished, Pe^y sat for a long while
thinking. This romance in Dole's life had moved
her as ^e thought she could never be moved since
the death of Oliver. Her thoughts winged them-
selves bat^ to an afternoon, remote almost as her
socked and sashed childhood, when Doggie, im-
maculately attired in grey and pearl harmonies,
had deckured, with his uttle Gemmate drawl, that
tennis made one so teiribly hot. The scene in
the Deanery garden flashed before her. It was
succeeded by a scene in the DeEinery drawing room,
when to herself indignant he had pleaded ms deli-
cacy of constitution. And the same Doggie, besides
braving death a thousand times in the ordinary
execution of his soldier's duties, had performed
this queer deed of heroism fco* a girl. Then his
return to Durdlebury —
"I'm afraid," she said suddenly, "I was dread-
fully unkind to him when he came home the last
time. I didn't understand. Did he tell you?"
Pfaineas stretched out a hand and with the tips
of his fingers touched her sleeve.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 329
"Mrs. Manningtree," he said, softly, "don't
you know that Doggie's a very wonderful gende-
man?"
Again her eyes grew moist. "Yes. I know.
Of course he never would have mentioned it. . . .
I thought, Mr. McPhail, he had deteriorated —
God forgive mel I thought he had coarsened, and
got into the ways of an ordinary Tommy — and I
was snobbish and uncomprehending and hoirihle. It
seems as if I am making a confession now."
"Ay. Why not? If it were not for the soul's
good, the ancient Church wouldn't have instituted
the practice."
She regarded him shrewdly for a second. " You've
changed, too."
"Maybe." said Phineas. "It's an ill war that
blows nobody good, and I'm not complaining of
this one, but you were talking of your miscompre-
hension of Doggie."
"I behaved very badly to him," she said, pick-
ing again at the blanket. "I misju<^;ed hiin al-
together — because I was ignorant of everything
— everything that matters in life. But I've learned
better since then."
"Ay," remarked Phineas, gravely.
"Mr. McPhail," she said, after a pause, "it
wasn't those rotten ideas that prevented me from
marrying him — "
"I know, my dear little lady," said Phineas,
grasping the plucking hand. 'You just loved
the other man as you never could have loved Doggie,
and there's an end to it. Love just happens. It's
the hohest thing in the world."
She turned her hand, so as to meet his in a mutual
dasp, and withdrew it.
"You're very kind — and sympathetic — and un-
derstanding — ' hCT voice broke. "I seem to have
been going about misjudging everybody and every-
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330 THE ROUGH ROAD
thiiu;. I'm begiimmg to see a little bit — a little
bit further — I can't express myself — "
"Never mind, Mrs. Maniiingtree," said Phineas
soothingly, "if you cannot express yourself in words.
Leave that to the poKtidans and the philosophers
and the theoloeians, and other such windy exposi-
tors of the useless. But you ' can express yourself
in deeds."
"How?"
"Find Jeanne for Doggie." _^ >v
Peggy bent forward with a que^ oAt jn her
eyes.
"Dora she love him — really love luipi as he
des«*ves to be loved? "
"It is not oft^i, Mrs. Manningtree that I com-
mit myself to a definite statement. But, to my
certain knowledge, these two are breaking their
hearts for eadi other. Couldn't you find hra",
before the poor laddie is killedP"
"He's not killed yet, thank GodI" said Peggy,
with an odd thrill in her voice.
He was ahve. Only severely wounded. He would
be coining home soon, carried, according to convoy,
to any unfriendly hospital dumping-ground in the
United Kingdom. If only she coiud bring this
French girl to him I She yearned to make repara-
tion for the past, to act according to the new knowl-
edge that love Eind sorrow had brought her.
' But how can I find her — just a girl — an un-
known Mademoiselle Boissi^ — among the miUions
of Paris? "
"I've been racking my brains all the moroing,"
repUed Phineas, "to recall the address, and out of
the darkness there emerges just two words, Port
Royal. If you know Paris, does that help you
at all?"
"I don't know Paris," replied P^gy hmnbly.
"I don't know anything. I'm utterly ignorant."
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THE ROUGH ROAD 331
"I beg entirely to diff» from you, Mrs. Manning-
tree," said Phineas. "jYou have come through
much heavy travail to a) correct appreciation of the
meaning of human love] between man and woman,
and so you have in you ihe wisdom of all ihe ages."
"Yes, yes," said Beggy, becoming practicaL
" But PoH Royal— ?" \
"The due to ihs labyiinth," r^i^ Phineas.
A
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CHAPTER XXrV
THE Dean of an English cathedral is a per^
Bonage. He has power. He can stand with
folded arms at its door and forbid entrance
to anyone, save perha^ the King in person. He
can tell not only the Bishop of the Diocese, but
the very Archbishop of the Province, to nin away
and play. Having power, and using it benignly
and graciously, he can exert its subtler form known
as imluence. In the course of his distinguished
career he is bound to make many queer firiends
in high places.
" My dear Field Maishal, could you do me a little
favour . . .?"
"My dear Ambassador, my daughter, etc.,
etc "
Deans, discreet, dignified gentlranen, who would
not demand the imp^sible, can generally get what
they ask for.
When Peggy returned to Durdlebuiy and put
Doggie's case oefore her father, and with unusual
fervour roused him from his first stupefaction at
the idea of her mad project, he said mildly :
"Let me imderstand clearly what you want to
do. You want to go to Paris by yourself, discover
a girl called Jeanne Boissiere, concerning whose
address you know nothing but two words — Port
Royal — of course there is a Boulevard Port Royal
somewhere south erf the Luxembourg Gardens — '
"Then we've found her," cried Peggy. "We
only want the number."
' Please don't interrupt," said the Dean. "You
oonfuse me, my dear, xou want to find this girl
332
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THE ROUGH ROAD 333
and re-establiBh communication between her and
Marmaduke, and — er — generally [play Fairy '
Godmotha"."
" If you like to put it that way," said P^gy.
"Are you quite certain you would be acting
wisely? From Marmaduke's point of view — "
"Don't call him Marmaduke—" She bent for-
ward and touched his knee caressingly — "Marma-
duke could never have risked his life for a woman.
It was D^gie who did it. She thinks of him as
Doggie. Everyone thinks (£ him now and loves
him as Doggie. It was Oliver's name for him,
don't you see? And he has stuck it out, and made
it a sort of title of honour and affection — and it
was as Doggie that Ohver learned to love him, and
in his last letter to Oliver he signed himself ' Your
devoted Doggie.'"
"My dear," smiled the Dean and quoted:
"'What's in a name? Arose — '"
"Would be unendurable if it were called a — a
bug-squash. The poetry would be knocked out
ofit."^
The Dean said indulgently: "So the name Doggie
connotes something poetic and romanticP"
"You ask the girl Jeanne."
The Dean tapped the back of his daughter's
hand that rested on his knee.
"There's no fool like an old fool, my dear. Do
you know why?"
She shook her head.
"Because the old fool has learned to imderstand
the young fool, whereas the young fool doesn't
understand anybody."
She laughed and threw herself on her knees by
his side.
"Daddy, you're immensel"
He took the tribute ccNoaplacently. "What was
I saying, before you interrupted meP Oh, yes.
.oogic
334 THE ROUGH ROAD
About the wisdom of your proposed action. Are
you sure they want each other?"
"As sure as I'm sitting here," said Peggy.
"Then, my dear," said he, "I'll do what I can."
Whether he wrote to Field Marshals and Am-
bassadors or to lesser luminaries, Peggy did not
know. The Dean observed an old-world punctilio
about such matters. At the first reply or two to
his letters he frowned; at the second or two he
smiled in the way any elderly gentleman may smile
when he finds himself reco^iised by high-and-
mightinesses as a person of importance.
I think, my dear," said he at last, "I've arranged
everything for you."
So it came to pass that while Doggie, with a
shattered shoulder and a touched left lung, was
being transported from a base hospital in France
to a hospital in England, Peggy, armed with all
kinds of passporte and recommendations, and a
very fixed, personal sanctified idea, was crossing
the Channel on her way to Paris and Jeanne.
And, after all, it was no wild goose chase, but a
very ^im)le matter. An urbane, elderly person
at the British Embassy performed certain tele-
phonic gymnastics. At the end:
"Merci, merci. Adieu!"
He turned to her.
"A representative from the Prefecture of Police
will wait on you at your hotel at ten o'clock to-
morrow morning."
The official called, took notes, and confidently
assured her that he would obtain the address of
Mademoiselle Jeanne Boissiere within twelve hours.
"But how. Monsieur, are you going to do it?"
asked Peggy.
"Madfmie," said he, "in sFpite of the war, the
THE ROUGH ROAD 335
telegraphic, telephonic, and municipal systems of
France work in perfect order — to say nothing of
that of the police. Frelua, I think, is the name of
the place she started fromP"
At seven o'clock in the evening, after her lonely
dinn^ in the great hotel, the polite official called
again. She met him in the lomige.
"Madame," said he, "I have the pleasure to in-
form you that Mademoiselle Jeanne Boissiere, late of
Fr^lus, is living in Paris at 743"™ Boulevard Port
Royal, and spends all her days at tlie succursale of
the French Red Cross in the Rue Vaugirard."
"Have you seen her and told her?"
"No, Madame; that did not come within my
instructions."
" I am infinitely grateful to you," said Peggy.
"II n*y a pas de quoi, Madame. I perform the
tasks assigned to me, and am only too happy, in
this case, to have been successful."
"But, Monsieur," said Peggy, feeling desperately
lonely In Paris, aixd pathetically eager to talk to
a human heing, even in her rusty V§vey school
French, "haven't you wondered why I've been
so anxious to find this young lady?"
"If we began to wonder," he replied with a
laugh, "at the things which happen during the war,
we should be so bewild^ed that we shouldn't
be able to carry on our work. Madame," said he,
handing her his card, "if you should have further
need of me ii. 'uq matter, I am always at your
service."
He bowed profoundly and left her.
Peggy stayed at the Ritz because, long ago,
when her parents had fetched her from V6vey,
and had given her the one wonderful fortnight m
Paris she had ever known, they had chosen this
dimified and not inexpensive hostelry. To her
giijish mind, it had breaUied the hat wc^ of splen-
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336 THE ROUGH ROAD
dour, movement, gaiety — all that was ctmnoted
by the magical name of the City of Light. But
now the glamour bad departed. She wondered
whether it had ever been. Oliver had laughed
at her experiences. Sandwiched between dear old
Uncle Edward and Aunt Sophia, what in the sacred
name of France could she have seen of Paris? Wait
till ihey could turn round. He would take her to
Paris. She would have the unimagined time of
her life. They dreamed dreams of the Rue da la
Pais — he had five hundred pounds laid by, which
he had ear-marked for an orgy of shopping in that
Temptation Avenue of a thoroughfare; of Mont-
martre, the citadel of delectable wickedness and
laughter; of fuimy Uttle restaurants in dark streets
where you are delighted to' pay twenty firancs
for a mussel, so exqiusitely is it cooked; of dainty
and crazy theatres; of long drives, folded in each
other's arms, when moonlight touches dawn,
through the wonders of the enchanted city.
Her brief dreams had eclipsed her girlish memories.
Now the dreams had become blurred. She strove
to bring them hack till her soul ached, till she broke
down mto miserable weeping. She was alone in
a strange, unedifying town; in a strange, vast,
commonplace hotel. The cold, moonlit Place de
la Vendome, with its memorable column, just op-
posite her bedroom window, meant nothing to her.
She had the desolating sense that nothing in the
world would ever matter to her again — nothing
as far as she, Peggy Manningtree, was concerned.
Her life was over. Altruism alone gave sanction
to continued existence. Hence her present adven-
ture. Paris might have been Burslem for all the
interest it afforded.
Jeanne worked from morning to night in the
succursale of the Croix Rouge in the Rue Vaugirard.
THE ROUGH ROAD 337
She had tried, after the establMiment of her affairs,
to enter, in no matter what capacity, a British
base hospital. It woul4 be a consolation for het
surrender of Doggie to work for bis wounded com-
rades. Besides, twice in her hfe abe owed everything
to the English, and the repayment of the debt was
a matter of conscience. But she found that the
^tes of English hospitals were thronged with
F.n gliah girls; and she could not even speak the
language. So, guided by the Paris friend with
whom she lodged, she made her way to the Rue
Vaugirard, where, in the packing-room, she found
hard and unemotional employmrait. Yet the work
had to he done: and it was done for France, which,
after all, was dearer to her than England, and among
her fellow-workers, women of all classes, she found
pleasant companionship.
When, one day, the old concierge, be-medaUed
from the war of 1870, appeared to her in the pack-
ing-room, with the announcemait that a dame
angJaise desired to speak to her, she was at first
bewildered. She knew no English ladies — had
never met one in her life. It took a second or two
for the thought to flash that the visit might concern
Dc^gie. Then came conviction. In Uue overall
and cap, she followed the concierge to the ante-room,
her heart beating. At the s^t of the young
English woman in black, with a crSpe hat and little
white band beneath the veil, it nearly stopped
altogether.
Peggy advanced with outstretched hand.
"You are Mademoiselle Jeanne Boissi^P"
"Yes, Madame."
"I am a cousin of Monsieur Trevor — "
"Ah, Madame — " Jeanne pointed to the mourn-
ing — "you do not come to teU me he is dead?"
P^gy smiled. " No. 1 hope not."
"Jdil" Jeanne sighed in reti^, "1 thought — "
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338 THE ROUGH ROAD
"This is for my husband," said Peggy quietly.
"Ah, Madame! je demande bien pardon. S-ai
d& was f aire de la peine. Jen'y pensaispas — "
Jeanne was in great distress. P^gy smiled
again. "Widows dress differently in ESigland and
France." She looked around and her eyes f^
upcm a bench by the walL "Could we sit down and
luLve a little talkP"
"Pardon, Madame, c'ett que je guis un pea
imue. . . " said Jeanne.
She led the way to the brach. They sat down
together, and for a feminine second or two took
stock of each other. Jeanne's first rebellious in-
stinct said "I was right." In her furs and perfect
millinery and perfect shoes and perfect black silk
stocking that appeared below the short skirt,
Peggy, blue-eyed, fine-featured, the fine product of
many generations of scholarly Einglish gentlefolk,
seemed to incarnate her vague conjectiu^s of the
aocial atmosphere in which Doggie had his being.
Her peasant blood impelled her to suspicion, to a
faalf-grudnng admiration, to self-protective jetdousy.
Tlie Englishwoman's ease of manner, in spite of
her heltei'-^elter French, oppressed her with an
angry sense of inferiority. She was also conscious^
of the blue overall and dose-fitting cap. Yet the*
Englishwoman's snilewas kind and she had lost her
husband. . . . And Peggy, looking at this girl
wiUi the dark, tragic eyes and refined, pale nice
and graceful ^tures, in the funny instinctive
Britif^ way tned to place her Bocially. Was she
a ladyp It made such a diffra^nce. This was the
girl for whom Do^e had p^ormed his deed of
knight-errantry; tbe rirl wnom she proposed to
take back to Doggie. For the moment, discount-
ing the uniform wmch might have hidden a midinette
or a duchess, she had nothing but the face and the
gestures and the beautifully modulated voice to
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THE ROUGH ROAD 339
go upon; and between the accent of the midinette
and the duchess — both being equally charming to
hCT English ear — Peggy could not discriminate.
She had, however, beautiful, capable hands and
took care of her finger-nails.
Jeanne broke the tiny spell of embarraBsed silence.
"I am at your disposal, Madame."
Peggy plunged at once into facte.
"It may seem strange, my coming to you; but
the fact is that my cousin. Monsieur Trevor, is
severely wounded ..."
"Mon Dieu!" said Jeanne.
"And bis friend, Mr. McPhail, who is also
wounded, thinks that if you — well — ' '
Her French faKed her — to carry off a very deh-
cate situation one must have command of language
— she could only blurt out — "// faut comprendre^
Mademoiselle. U a fait beaucouppour was."
She met Jeanne's dark eyes. Jeanne said:
"Oui, Madame, was avez raison. II a beaucmxp
fait poor mot."
Peggy flushed at the unconscious correction —
"beaucoup fait," for "fait beaucoup."
"He has done not only mum, but everything
for me, Madame," Jeanne continued. "And you
who have come from England expressly to tdl me
that he is wounded, what do you wish me to do? "
"Accompany me back to London. I had a
telegram this morning to say that he had arrived
at a hospital there."
"Then you have not seen him?"
"Not yet."
"Then how, Madame, do you know that he
desires my presence? ' '
Peggy gWced at the girl's hands dasped on her
lap, and saw that the knuckles were white.
"I am sure of it."
"He would have written, Madame. I only
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340 THE ROUGH ROAD
recdved one letter &om bim, and that was while
I still lived at Frflus."
"He wrote many letters and telegraphed to
Fr^lus, and received no answers."
"Madame," cried Jeanne. "I implore you to
believe what I say; but not one ol those letters
has ever reached me."
"Not one?"
At first Peggy was incredulous. Phineas McPhail
had told her of Doggie's despair at the lack of re-
sponse from Fr^lus, and, after all, Fr6Iu3 had a
properly constituted post ofBce in working order,
which might be expected to forward letters.
She had ^erefore come prepared to reproadi the
girl. But . . .
"Jelejure, Madame" said Jeanne.
And Peggy believed her.
"But I wrote to Monsieur McPhail, giving him
my address in Paris."
"He lost the letter before he saw Doggie again"
— the name slipped out — "and forgot the address."
"But how did you find me?"
" I had a lot of difficulty. The Briti^ Embassy
— the Prefecture of Police — "
"Mon Dieul" cried Jeanne again. "Did you
do all that for me?"
"For my cousin."
"You called him 'Do^e.' That is how I know
Iii'tti and think of him."
"All right," smiled Peggy. "For Doggie then."
Jeanne s brain for a moment or two was in a
whirl. Embassies and Prd'ectures of Police I
"Madame, to do this, you must love him vexy
much."
"I loved him so much — I hope you will imder-
Btand me — my French I know is terrible — but
I loved liim so much that untO he came home
wounded we vere Jiancis"
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THE ROUGH ROAD 341
Jeanne drew a diort breath. "I felt it, Madame.
An English gentleman of great estate would natu-
rally marry an English lady of his own social class.
That is why, Madame, I acted as I have done."
Then something of what Jeanne really was he-
came obvious to Peggy. Lady or no lady, in the
conventional British sense, Jeanne appealM to her,
in her quiet dignity and restraint, as a type of
Frenchwoman whom she had never met before.
She suddenly conceived an enormous respect for
Jeanne. Also for Phineas McPhail, whose eulogis-
tic character sketch she had accepted with feminine
reservations subconsciously derisive.
"My dear," she said. " Voas ites digne de toute
dame anghise!" — which wasn't an elegant way
of putting it in the French tongue — ^hut Jeanne,
with her odd smile of the lips, showed that she
understood l^f r meaning — she had served her
apprentic^hip in the interpretation of Anglo-
Gallic. "But I want to tell you. Doggie and I
were engaged. A family matter. Then, when
he came home wounded — you know how — I
found that I loved someone — aimais d amour, as
you say — and he found the same. I loved the
man whom I married. He loved you. He con-
fessed it. We parted more affectionate fidends
than we had ever been. 1 married. He searched
for you. My husband has been killed. Doggie,
although wounded, is alive. That is why I am
here."
They were sitting in a comer of the ante-room,
and before them passed a continuous stream of the
busy life of the war, civihans, officers, badged
workers, elderly orderlies in pathetic bits of uni-
form that might have dated from 1870, wheeling
packages in and out, groups talking of the business
of the organisation, here and there a blue-vested
young lieutenant and a blue-overalled packer,
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342 THE ROUGH ROAD
talking — it did not need Grod to know of what.
But neither of the two women heeded Ihis multi-
tude.
Jeanne said: "Madame, I am profoundly moved
by what you have told me. If I show httle eauotion,
it is because I have suffered greatly &om the war.
One learns self-restraint, Madame, or one goes
mad. But as you have s^xiken to me in your noble
English frankness — I have only to confess that
I love Doggie with all my heart, with all my soul — "
with her two clenched hands ^e miote her breast
— and Peggy noted it was the first gesture that she
had made. "I feel the infinite need, Madame —
you will understand me, — to care for him, to pro-
tect him — "
Peggy raised a beautifully gloved hand.
"ftotect him?" she interrupted. "Why, hasn't
he shown himself to be a heroP
Jeanne leant forward and grasped the protesting
hand by the wrist; and there waa a wonderful
light behind her eyes and a curious vibration in
her voice.
"It is only Us petils Mros tout fails — the little
ready-made heroes — ready-made by the bon Dieu
— who have no need of a woman's protection.
But it is a different thing with the great heroes who
have made themselves without the aid of a bon
Dieu, frran little dogs of no account (despetits chiens
de rien da toid) to what Dog-gie is at the moment.
The woman then takes her place. She fixes things
for ever. She alone can understand."
Peggpr gasped as at a new Revelation. The
terms m which this French girl expressed herself
were far beyond the bounds of her philosophy.
The varying aspects in which Doggie had presented
himself to her, in the past few months, had been
bewildering. Now she saw him, in a iresh light,
thc»igh as in a glass darkly, as reflected by Jeanne.
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THE ROUGH ROAD 343
Still, ^e protested again, in order to see more
clearly.
"But what would you protect him fromP"
"From want of faith in himself; from want of
faith in his destiny, Madame. Once he told me
he had come to France to fight for his soul. It is
necessary that he should be victorious. It is
necessary that the woman who loves him should
make him victorious."
Peggy put out her hand and touched Jeanne's
wrist.
"I'm dad I didn't mfury Dog^e, Mademoiselle,"
she said simply. "I comdn't have done that."
She paused. Well?" she resumed. "Will you
now come with me to London?"
A faint smile crept into Jeanne's eyes.
"Mais oui, Madame."
Do^e lay in the long, pleasant ward of the great
London hospital, the upper left side of his body
a mass of bandaged pmn. Neck and shoulder, front
and back and arm, had been shattered and torn
by a high explosive sheU. The top of his lung had
been grazed. Only the remorseless pressure at
the base hospital had justified the sending of him,
after a week, to Ekigland. Youth and the splendid
constitution which Dr. Murdodi had proaaimed
in the far off days of the war's beginning, and the
toughsiing tr aining of the war itself, carried hiin
through. No more fighting for Doggie this side
of the grave. But the grave was as far distant as
it is from any young man in his twenties who avoids
abnormal pent.
Till to-oay he had not been allowed to see visitors,
or to receive letters. They told him that the Dean
of Durdlebury had called; had brought flow^B
and fruit tmd had left a card "From your Aunt,
P^gy, and myself." But to-day he felt wonderfully
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344 THE ROUGH ROAD
strong, in spite of the imrelenting pain, and tbe
nurse had said: "I Wouldn't wonder if you had
some visitors this afternoon." Peggy, oi coarse.
He followed the hands of his wrist watdi until they
marked the visiting hour. And sure enough, a
minute afterwards, amid the stream of men and
women — chiefly women — of all grades and kinds,
he caught mght of Peggy's face Emailing beneath
her widow's hat. She had a great bmich of violets
in her bodice.
"My dear old Doggiel" She bent down and
kissed him. "These rotten people wouldn't let
me come before."
"I know,'* said Doggie. He pointed to his
shoulder. " I'm afraid I m in a hell dT a mesa. It's
lovely to see you."
She unpinned the violets and thrust them towards
his face.
"Frran home. I've brought 'em for you."
"My GodI" said Doggie, burying his nose in the
huge bunch. "I never knew violets could smell
like this." He laid them down with a sigh. "How's
everybody?"
"Quite fit."
ThsK was a span of silence. Then he stretched
out his hand and she gave him hers and he gripped
it tight.
"Poor old PegKY dear!"
"Oh, that's ui right," she said bravely. "I
know you care, dear Doggie. That's enough.
I've just got to stick it like the rest." She with-
drew her hand after a little squeeze. "Bless you.
Don't worry about me. I'm contemptibly healthy.
But you — r'
"Getting on splendidly. I say, Peggy, what
kind of people are the Pulhngers who have taken
Denby HaU?"
"Iney're all right, I beUeve. He's something in
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THE ROUGH ROAD 345
the Grovemment — Controller of Feeding-bottles —
I doa't know. But, oh, Doggie, what an aas you
were to sell the place up I"
"I W€l8n't."
"You were."
Doggie laughed- " If you've come here to ai^e
with me, I shall cry, and then you'll be turned out
neck and crop."
Peggy looked at him direwdly. "You seem to
be gomg pretty strong."
' Neva- stronger in my life," lied Doggie.
"Would you like to see somebody you are very
fond of?"
" Somebody I'm fond of? Uncle Edward? "
" No, no.' She waved the Very Reverend the
Dean to the empyrean.
"Dear old Phineas? Has he crane through?
I've not had time to ask whether you've heard
anything about him."
'Yes, he's flourishing. He wrote to me. I've
seen him."
"Praise the LordI" cried Doggie. "My dear,
there's no one on earth, save you, whom I should
so much love to see as Phineas. If he's there,
fetch him along."
Peggy nodd^ and smiled mysteriously and went
away down the ward. And Doggie thought:
"Thank God, P^gy has the str^igui to face the
world — and thank God, PhineM has come
through." He closed his eyes, feeling rather tired,
thinking of Phineas. Of his last words as he passed
him stretcher-borne in the trench. Of the devotion
of the man. Of his future. Well, never mind his
future. In all his ' vague post-war schemes for
reorganisatioa of the social system, Phineas had
his place. No further need for dear old Phineas
to stand in mulberry and gold outside a Picture
Palace. He had thought it out long ago, although
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346 THE ROUGH ROAD
he had ttemr said a word to PhineaB. Ncm he could
set the poor chap's mind at rest for ever.
He looked round contentedly, and saw Peggy
and a companion coming down the ward, together.
And it was not Phineas. It was a girl in black.
He raised himself, forgetful (^ exquisite pain,
on his right elbow, and stared in a thnll of amaze-
ment.
And Jeanne came to him, and there were no longer
j^osts behind her eyes, tor they shone like stars.
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THE NOVELS OF WILLIAM J. LOCKE
THE RED PLANET
Cloth. 11.50 net
A Btory d wartime, but not of war. Lore and mystery and
love again — these are the threada the war god tangled and W. J.
Locke haa unravelled in this, his beat story mice "Tlw Beloved
Vagabond." Iliough it has war (or its background, "The Bed
Planet" is a story d home; it has its setting in a quid: Englisb
village, where dwell the mothers and hthers, the wives and sweet-
hearts of those who arc out "someiriteTe." Love ia there, and
gte«t devotion, and quiet courage and mysteiT. And the old
soldier iriio can no longer serve his country thrills you with the
story at it aQ.
BrooBvn DaOt E>«li. —" Three RaSf (nut imrki ol Sctian ia Bn^iih
ban B(i* (OTK out ol tliu nr. H. G. Welli'i ' Hr. Britlinf Ssm It TlnjDfb.'
St. John ErvJDe^i ' Cha n ji n g Windi.* that immortalun Bopert Bnoke, the
poet, who died is the DardiBellEi. ud no* thii book of Iddte'*. For thu
' Bed PUnet^ u foinx to live. It ta a ■pleD<Ud ionr ds Jbrer . . . vorthf of a
place aloDgiide hit * Beloved Vagabond,* jujt ag mmAjLlJc jujt u teodcf. ...
The one great chanD ol "Ilu Bad Fluet'ia thatoDce having itarted it tob
Dem pot it down."
rib l>ul.— "Iti* the utoDiahing combination ol the modtni and tbemid-
'nctorian that laidnatea the reads ol ' The Rid Planet.' A veil-ordered
globe id Mr. Locke'j, an England rubbcr-Ured and baJi-bearing, not the doit^
aod irneporuible couotrr of Mj. Britliog. Asd ve are mt luie that Bofoe ia
not one of the moat virile men that Locke bei era drain."
Nww Tort Tiwi.— "Mr. Locke hai alvafi >!iovn remarkable lUll ia
maUng inteteetiiig, even heroic or lovabk. 6gnrca out of moat nnpromiting
material, lucdi ai that of bii 'Beloved Vagabood,' and nooe of that ikiU
deaertfl him ai be nofoida thii atory through tbe pen aad peraonalitr of Uajor
Meredytli, almort helpln parable though hii leading cbaracta ia. . . . W«
can come into touch with the atniggle only throngb the Bpint- But bia ipjrit
JOHN LANE COMPANY • PuUidien • NEW YORK
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THE NOVELS OF WILLIAM J. LOCKE
JAFFERY
Illustrated by P. Matania. Qotli. $1.30 net
" lattery" ia a huge, clever but unawuming and affectionate
war coneqKodent who, between hii tasks, enlivens and some-
tiiDet coni[Jicate8 tl>e charmiitg home life ot Ml old Cambridge
friend. The mental psychology of a third dasamate, who rises to
fame u a novelist, and the test cl friendship which bis deception
calls out, make an absoitnng story, to which the keen, whimaicsl,
yet lynqMtltetic ddineatian of the feminine characten adds
kind, but all •rrittca w{th ■
THE WONDERFUL YEAR
Ctoth. $1.40 net
Xnrr kiver of " Tbe Behind Vtftbond," ot " SeptinnH." ud ot ~ JuSerr "
win wddDDM thia n«T Lockn mvcL To bia Itnif tut of quiiuit and crcr-
diuguif cli*net«t II bow added the loveble Fbrtinbnu, Hcrchutof Happi-
Bm uid (odIathB to all tbe atonn-tiMied dnanwn ot tba Qurtw I^tin. Ha
li, iDdnd a amtnflt to the fcftrleae. aratje JDonaliat, wboae itor^ ma told in
-Ja«er7."
"Tb* Wondtrtnl Y«r~ idaln (lie maderinp of ■ josnf gngW.li—i.,
twplmf ot Fnneii in as obacuR bDardlDf-acbDoI, who inipalea to Fnnoe, and
there Audi DomiibmeDt for hji aouL Be becomea a waiter is a tittle (Ravin-
eial inn, wbm be leania the intricmte art ot makuii ftU-Jt-fnit-tmi. Hun ia
a (liBipie. too. ot Bfjpt and, in the end, ot the great war. It ia all aeen
throng the vhimakml ejei of thia maater storr-CeUer,
Tin Slit KtpiiKu.— "Tbe lacture ol Pnach tnviiicia] life ii the moit
eapital thine Locke tiai ever done — ita atnrdineat and inlcfrit^, i(a pimoDate
diacinc to (he Bil, it! artiitic •elt-nlianoe. 'The Wonderful Year ' ia the Ixat
Uod o( a romantic novd — nalitr not itnined, but lonebcd witb iraoe and
JOHN lANE COMPANY • PiMuhen • NEW YORK
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WILLIAM J. LOCKE
YEAR-BOOK
"No writnol Bctioii on dthar ada of the nmter hi« pndBsed mMa ch««t-
fiiL optimutiG sbWM thm TCDum X Locke, wfaoee lume ii funiEir to aU
nulenolgooil, enterteiaua^ iatenitiuuid Mptal book*. In Uiii duntj
Tolume, BID* of tbt beat mtuu* of Mr. Locke, or ol eom ol hie beet-known
cluncten, ksTe been eoDited in tbc form of ■ qnotetion (or oner dw in the
faa. Titb edeetioB* hnve been mede with ore and p*iM«»fciwr diecnini*
aetioD, end five ■ food idea of Mr. Locke^A human flympatby and brcadtli
of Tiw. Soiat of iht paua^ aeJect«d are gcaa of tliouclit and coespo-
■ition- ^» volume u not nLoply a caJrndaj of Locke'i uyin^- It u a
hclplnl book, and one that itimulatei thought and inipinn with noble nw-
tive. It it orlaildr one ol the most deainble hobday gilla of the Heon."
— Arffttt Leadtr.
"One geti a tbtt lair idea (^ tbo quuatneaa of the Locke phOoeophr and
of the Locke wit iB thii enlarUining book. It will lerTB la lortitr the
bold of the author of 'Seplimiu' and^The Beloved Vanbond'on the aOeo-
tiona 1^ hij foUowen, and to intnduce him in hie bijihcr Ai^te to tboee
whoahould know him."— Amlm PolL
"Tbc William J. Locke Year-Book nur be termed a treat became in it
are gathered all tbe choice titlnti ftom the mrkl <A thia unoual lODaneer
of our day. It oontaint a thought for each day in the year, Unally H ia a
pleaianl and helpful tboD(ht, with which ta ilart the day. Tbne who
have read Locke • woiki wiD be (lad to renew aeqnaiBtaliee with tbeia
fine thoughti. Tboee who have not read them wiU take them np after
reeding tSeee pearb Strang out as effectively in the Year-Book."— St. Lao*
"The nnique poution of William J. Locke ai one ol the moet widely
popular BoVMiit*, wbo at the lame time ha> never aacriOeed decency nor
lowered hie high itandard of bterary erceUeDce* is iltugtrated by the publi-
cation of an attractive volume. "Tbc mUlam J. Locke Year-Book.'^ with
daily quotatiou cardully eekcted from hia worki."— Cirulicta Work.
"Locke'a boob lend themaelvei to nich eelection, aa tbey are lull of ^>o-
rinui. Bow rich tbey are in wit and wislam, a glauce at thia Ytar-Bosk
will akow to any reader. The little volnmc iboold be popular aa a ^
hook."— San Frmeua Clmnicls.
"Thtn are lew modern noveHa^ who hai
pithy ityie of WiUiani
J. Locke. The author lA 'The Beloved Vafabond' thinks out on the
edges of tlun^ and ainu lua shaft of epigram at the centre. IIk Locke
enUiDliuli wUl welcome ■ colketko of big quotable parurapha which has
' ID iiaued under tbe title iJ.'Tbe Locke Year-Book.' It has a
™3 Lr- "'-
le title i^.'Tbe Locke
il Locke's humor
id it fi inlcRitLUg to note the variety and poB-
d pathoa. Horeover, often a lut that yon had
of the Locks books win come to you, eipreeiiB*
ID love a Dnam ^Wom
eipreeiiu
U tbe spirit ol tbe atvy in
tbia, from 'Hie Beloved Vuaboi
her stay tbe divine Woman of the
blood, no matter bow delicately tenoer ana nno uai nve naa spea at toe
dawn is a misery loo deep tor tears.' And that is the wbi^ albry of the
DecmaM Chik 12mo. $tM net
JOHN LANE COMPANY: NEW YORK
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printed." — New York Tribant.
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Sabier^ion Timt Months'
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I i^VKKY number of the Intematkuiat Studio' oontaina
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as well 08 of rising, fame. The reader a kept informed
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" It is a treasure house of ev«Trthing of value
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