I
Marmaduke, otherwise Doggie, Trevor owned a pleasant home set on fifteen
acres of ground. He had an income of three thousand pounds a year. Old
Peddle, the butler, and his wife, the housekeeper, saved him from
domestic cares. He led a well-regulated life. His meals, his toilet, his
music, his wall-papers, his drawing and embroidery, his sweet peas, his
chrysanthemums, his postage stamps, and his social engagements filled
the hours not claimed by slumber.
In the town of Durdlebury, Doggie Trevor began to feel appreciated. He
could play the piano, the harp, the viola, the flute, and the
clarionette, and sing a mild tenor. Besides music, Doggie had other
accomplishments. He could choose the exact shade of silk for a
drawing-room sofa cushion, and he had an excellent gift for the
selection of wedding-presents. All in all, Marmaduke Trevor was a young
gentleman of exquisite taste.
After breakfast on a certain July morning, 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. The wall-paper, which Doggie had
designed himself, was ivory white, with trimmings of peacock blue.
[v]Vellum-bound books filled the cases; delicate water-colors adorned
the walls. On his writing-table lay an ivory set: inkstand, pen-tray,
blotter, and calendar. Bits of old embroidery, harmonizing with the
peacock shades, were spread here and there. A spinet inlaid with ivory
formed the center for the arrangement of other musical instruments--a
viol, mandolins, and flutes. One tall, closed cabinet was devoted to
Doggie's collection of wall-papers. Another held a collection of little
dogs in china and porcelain--thousands of them; he got them from dealers
from all over the world.
An unwonted frown creased Doggie's brow, for several problems disturbed
him. The morning sun disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains,
and streaks on the wall-paper. It would have to be renewed.
Then, his thoughts ran on to his cousin, Oliver Manningtree, who had
just returned from the South Sea. It was Oliver, the strong and
masculine, who had given him the name of Doggie years before, to his
infinite disgust. And now every one in Durdlebury seemed to have gone
crazy over the fellow. Doggie's uncle and aunt had hung on his lips
while Oliver had boasted unblushingly of his adventures. Even the fair
cousin Peggy, with whom Doggie was mildly in love, had listened
open-eyed and open-mouthed to Oliver's tales of shipwreck in distant
seas.
Doggie had reached this point in his reflections when, to his horror,
he heard a familiar voice outside the door.
"All right," it said. "Don't worry, Peddle. I'll show myself in."
The door burst open, and Oliver, pipe in mouth and hat on one side, came
into the room.
"Hello, Doggie!" he cried boisterously. "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 colors," he said. "Did you collect them yourself!"
"Yes."
"I congratulate you on your taste. This is a beauty."
The appreciation brought Doggie at once to his side. He took Oliver
delightedly around the pictures, expounding their merits and their
little histories. Doggie was just beginning to like the big fellow,
when, stopping before the collection of china dogs, the latter spoiled
everything.
"My dear Doggie," he said, "is that your family?"
"It's the finest collection of the kind in the world," replied Doggie
stiffly, "and is worth several thousand pounds."
Oliver heaved himself into a chair--that was Doggie's impression of his
method of sitting down.
"Forgive me, Doggie," he said, "but you're so funny. Pictures and music
I can understand. But what on earth is the point of these little dogs?"
Doggie was hurt. "It would be useless to try to explain," he said, with
dignity. "And my name is Marmaduke."
Oliver took off his hat and sent it skimming to the couch.
"Look here, old chap," he said, "I seem to have put my foot in it. I
didn't mean to, really. I'll call you Marmaduke, if you like, instead of
Doggie--though it's a beast of a name. I'm a rough sort of chap. I've
had ten years' pretty tough training. I've slept on boards; I've slept
in the 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 lost most of my
politeness. In the wilds 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
it."
"But I'm not in the wilds," objected Marmaduke, "and haven't the
slightest intention of ever leading the unnatural and frightful life you
describe. So what you say doesn't apply to me."
Oliver, laughing, clapped him on the shoulder.
"You don't give a fellow a chance," he said. "Look here, tell me, as man
to man, what are you going to do with your life? Here you are, young,
strong, educated, intelligent--"
"I'm not strong," said Doggie.
"A month's exercise would make you as strong as a mule," returned
Oliver. "Here you are--what are you going to do with yourself?"
"I don't admit that you have any right to question me," said Doggie.
"Peggy and I had a talk," declared Oliver. "I said I'd take you out with
me to the Islands and give you a taste for fresh air and salt water and
exercise. I'll teach you how to sail a schooner and how to go about
barefoot and swab decks."
Doggie smiled pityingly, but said politely, "Your offer is kind, Oliver,
but I don't think that sort of life would suit me."
Being a man of intelligence, he realized that Oliver's offer arose from
a genuine desire to do him service. But if a friendly bull out of the
fulness of its affection invited you to accompany it to the meadow and
eat grass, what could you do but courteously decline the invitation?
"I'm really most obliged to you, Oliver," said Doggie, finally. "But our
ideas are entirely different. You're primitive, you know. You seem to
find your happiness in defying the elements, whereas I find mine in
adopting the resources of civilization to defeat them."
"Which means," said Oliver, rudely, "that you're afraid to roughen your
hands and spoil your complexion."
"If you like to put it that way."
"You're an [v]effeminate little creature!" cried Oliver, losing his
temper. "And I'm through with you. Go sit up and beg for biscuits."
"Stop!" shouted Doggie, white with sudden anger, which shook him from
head to foot. He marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown
flapping about him, and threw it wide open.
"This is my house," he said. "I'm sorry to have to ask you to get out of
it."
And when the door was shut on Oliver, he threw himself, shaken, on the
couch, hating Oliver and all his works more than ever. Go about barefoot
and swab decks! It was madness. Besides being dangerous to health, it
would be excruciating discomfort. And to be insulted for not grasping at
such martyrdom! It was intolerable; and Doggie remained justly indignant
the whole day long.