II

Then the war came. Doggie Trevor was both patriotic and polite. Having a

fragment of the British army in his house, he did his best to make it

comfortable. By January he had no doubt that the empire was in peril,

that it was every man's duty to do his bit. He welcomed the newcomers

with open arms, having unconsciously abandoned his attitude of

superiority over mere brawn. It was every patriotic Englishman's duty

to encourage brawn. He threw himself heart and soul into the

entertainment of officers and men. They thought Doggie a capital fellow.

"My dear chap," one would protest, "you're spoiling us. I don't say we

don't like it and aren't grateful. We are. But we're supposed to rough

it--to lead the simple life. You're treating us too well."

"Impossible!" Doggie would reply. "Don't I know what we owe you fellows?

In what other way can a helpless, delicate being like myself show his

gratitude and in some sort of way serve his country?"

When the sympathetic guest would ask what was the nature of his malady,

Doggie would tap his chest vaguely and reply:

"Constitutional. I've never been able to do things like other fellows.

The least thing bowls me out."

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

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

Doggie never questioned his physical incapacity. His mother had brought

him up to look on himself as a singularly frail creature, and the idea

was as real to him as the war. He went about pitying himself and seeking

pity.

The months passed. The soldiers moved away from Durdlebury, and Doggie

was left alone in his house. He felt solitary and restless. News came

from Oliver that he had accepted an infantry commission and was in

France. "A month of this sort of thing," he wrote, "would make our dear

old Doggie sit up." Doggie sighed. If only he had been blessed with

Oliver's constitution!

One morning Briggins, his chauffeur, announced that he could stick it

out no longer and was going to enlist. Then Doggie remembered a talk he

had had with one of the young officers, who had expressed astonishment

at his not being able to drive a car.

"I shouldn't have the nerve," he had replied. "My nerves are all

wrong--and I shouldn't have the strength to change tires and things."

But now Doggie was confronted by the necessity of driving his own car,

for chauffeurs were no longer to be had. To his amazement, he found that

he did not die of nervous collapse when a dog crossed the road in front

of the automobile, and that the fitting of detachable wheels did not

require the strength of a Hercules. The first time he took Peggy out

driving, he swelled with pride.

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

Although the girl was as kind as ever, Doggie had noticed of late a

curious reserve in her manner. Conversation did not flow easily. She had

fits of abstraction, from which, when rallied, she roused herself with

an effort. Finally, one day, Peggy asked him blankly why he did not

enlist.

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

an impossibility."

"You thought you had nerves until you learned to drive the car," she

answered. "Then you discovered that you hadn't. You fancy you've a weak

heart. Perhaps if you walked thirty miles a day, you would discover that

you hadn't that, either. And so with the rest of it."

He swung round toward her. "Do you think I'm shamming so as to get out

of serving in the army?" he demanded.

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

say?"

Doggie was taken aback. He had no doctor, having no need for one. He

made confession of the surprising fact. Peggy smiled.

"That proves it," she said. "I don't believe you have anything wrong

with you. This is plain talking. It's horrid, I know, but it's best to

get through with it once and for all."

Some men would have taken deep offense, but Doggie, conscientious if

ineffective, was gnawed for the first time by a suspicion that Peggy

might possibly be right. He desired to act honorably.

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

"Good!" said Peggy. "Get Doctor Murdoch to overhaul you thoroughly with

a view to the army. If he passes you, take a commission."

She put out her hand. Doggie took it firmly.

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

"You're flabby," announced Doctor Murdoch, the next morning, to an

anxious Doggie, after some minutes of thumping and listening, "but

that's merely a matter of unused muscles. Physical training will set it

right in no time. Otherwise, my dear Trevor, you're in splendid health.

There's not a flaw in your whole constitution."

Doggie crept out of bed, put on a violet dressing-gown, and wandered to

his breakfast like a man in a nightmare. But he could not eat. He

swallowed a cup of coffee and took refuge in his own room. He was

frightened--horribly frightened, caught in a net from which there was no

escape. He had given his word to join the army if he should be passed by

Murdoch. He had been more than passed! Now he would have to join; he

would have to fight. He would have to live in a muddy trench, sleep in

mud, eat in mud, plow through mud. Doggie was shaken to his soul, but he

had given his word and he had no thought of going back on it.

The fateful little letter bestowing a commission on Doggie arrived two

weeks later; he was a second lieutenant in a battalion of the new army.

A few days afterward he set off for the training-camp.

He wrote to Peggy regularly. The work was very hard, he said, and the

hours were long. Sometimes he confessed himself too tired to write more

than a few lines. It was a very strange life--one he never dreamed could

have existed. There was the riding-school. Why hadn't he learned to ride

as a boy? Peggy was filled with admiration for his courage. She realized

that he was suffering acutely in his new and rough environment, but he

made no complaint.

Then there came a time when Doggie's letters grew rarer and shorter. At

last they ceased altogether. One evening an unstamped envelope addressed

to Peggy was put in the letter-box. The envelope contained a copy of the

_Gazette_, and a sentence was underlined and adorned with exclamation

marks:

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

commission."

* * * * *

It had been a terrible blow to Doggie. The colonel had dealt as gently

as he could in the final interview with him. He put his hand in a

fatherly way on Doggie's shoulder and bade him not take the thing too

much to heart. He--Doggie--had done his best, but the simple fact was

that he was not cut out for an officer. These were merciless times, and

in matters of life and death there could be no weak links in the chain.

In Doggie's case there was no personal discredit. He had always

conducted himself like a gentleman, but he lacked the qualities

necessary for the command of men. He must send in his resignation.

Doggie, after leaving the camp, took a room in a hotel and sat there

most of the day, the mere pulp of a man. His one desire now was to

escape from the eyes of his fellow-men. He felt that he bore the marks

of his disgrace, obvious at a glance. He had been turned out of the army

as a hopeless incompetent; he was worse than a slacker, for the slacker

might have latent qualities he was without.

Presently the sight of his late brother-officers added the gnaw of envy

to his heart-ache. On the third day of his exile he moved into lodgings

in Woburn Place. Here at least he could be quiet, untroubled by

heart-rending sights and sounds. He spent most of his time in dull

reading and dispirited walking.

His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though

without enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo

Bridge and gazed out over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark

and peaceful. As he looked down on the rippling water, he presently

became aware of a presence by his side. Turning his head, he found a

soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet.

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

Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible

insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the

speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great

fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the little gray eyes in the

weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His

dawning recognition amused the soldier.

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

P. McPhail."

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

"Very glad to see you," Doggie murmured.

Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm. Doggie's instinctive craving for

companionship made Phineas suddenly welcome.

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

dinner."

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

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

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

London?"

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

A few minutes later they reached Woburn Place. Doggie showed Phineas

into the sitting-room. The table was set for Doggie's dinner. Phineas

looked around him in surprise. The tasteless furniture, the dreadful

pictures on the walls, the coarse glass and the well-used plate on the

table, the crumpled napkin in a ring--all came as a shock to Phineas,

who had expected to find Marmaduke's rooms a reproduction of the

fastidious prettiness of the peacock and ivory room in Durdlebury.

"Laddie," he said, gravely, "you must excuse me if I take a liberty, but

I cannot fit you into this environment. It cannot be that you have come

down in the world?"

"To bed-rock," replied Doggie.

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

I had money--"

Doggie broke in with a laugh. "Pray don't distress yourself, Phineas.

It's not a question of money at all. The last thing in the world I've

had to think of has been money."

"What is the trouble?" Phineas demanded.

"That's a long story," answered Doggie. "In the meantime I had better

give some orders about dinner."

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

down to it.

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

soldier."

"Chance," replied Phineas. "I have been going down in the world for some

time, and no one seemed to want me except my country. She clamored for

me at every corner. A recruiting sergeant in Trafalgar Square at last

persuaded me to take the leap. That's how I became Private Phineas

McPhail of the Tenth Wessex Rangers, at the compensation of one

shilling and two pence per day."

"Do you like it?" asked Doggie.

Phineas rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully.

"In itself it is a vile life," he made answer. "The hours are absurd,

the work is distasteful, and the mode of living repulsive. But it

contents me. The secret of happiness lies in adapting one's self to

conditions. I adapt myself wherever I happen to be. And now, may I,

without impertinent curiosity, again ask what you meant when you said

you had come down to bed-rock?"

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

"I've been thrown out of the army!" he cried. "I'm here in

hiding--hiding from my family and the decent folk I'm ashamed to meet!"

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

Then Doggie broke down, and with a gush of unminded tears found

expression for his stony despair. His story took a long time in the

telling, and Phineas interjected a sympathetic "Ay, ay," from time to

time.

"And now," cried Doggie, his young face distorted and reddened, his

sleek hair ruffled, and his hands appealingly outstretched, "what am I

going to do?"

"You've got to go back home," said Phineas. "You've got to whip up all

the moral courage in you and go back to Durdlebury."

"I won't," said Doggie, "I can't. I'd sooner die than go back there

disgraced. I'd sooner enlist as a private soldier."

"Enlist?" repeated Phineas, and he drew himself up straight and gaunt.

"Well, why not?"

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

"As a Tommy," replied Phineas.

"Enlist!" murmured Doggie. He thought of the alternatives--flight, which

was craven; home, which he could not bear. Doggie rose from his chair

with a new light in his eyes. He had come to the supreme moment of his

life; he had made his great resolution. Yes, he would enlist as a

private soldier in the British army.