The spell of night sentry duty had always been Doggie's black hour. To
most of the other military 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, irremediable conditions. The
only alternative to the acceptance of his position was military
punishment, which was far worse--to say nothing of the outrage to his
pride. It was pride that kept the little ironical smile on his lips
while his nerves were almost breaking with strain. The first time he
came under 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 unconcerned face--but from sheer nervous reaction against
the hideous noise, the stench, the ghastly upheaval of the earth, the
sight of mangled 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 physical condition,
the more did his delicately trained 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 him crazy.... Yet, what had once
been to him a torture, the indecent, nerve-rasping publicity of the
soldier's life, had now become a compensation. It was not so much in
companionship, like his friendly intercourse with Phineas and Mo, that
he found an anodyne, but in the consciousness of being magnetically
affected by the crowd of his fellows. They offered him protection
against himself. Whatever pangs of self-pity he felt, whatever wan
little pleadings for the bit of fine porcelain compelled to a rough
usage which vessels of coarser clay could disregard came lingeringly
into his mind, he dared not express them to a living soul around. On
the contrary, he set himself assiduously to cultivate the earthenware
habit of spirit; not to feel, not to think, only to endure. To a
humorously incredulous Jeanne he proclaimed himself _abruti_. Finally,
the ceaseless grind of the military machine left him little time to
think.
But in the solitary sleepless hours of sentry duty there was nothing
to do but think; nothing wherewith to while away the time but an orgy
of introspection. First came the almost paralysing sense of
responsibility. He must keep, not only awake, but alert to the
slightest sound, the slightest movement. Lives of men depended on his
vigilance. A man can't screw himself up to this beautifully emotional
pitch for very long and be an efficient sentry. If he did, he would
challenge mice and shoot at cloud-shadows and bring the deuce of a
commotion about his ears. And this Doggie, who did not lack ordinary
intelligence, realized. 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 his Doggie self at all. For he would curse the things
that he once loved as being the cause of his inexpiable 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 unswerving
loyalty. Of her weekly parcel of dainty food, which had arrived that
morning. Of the joy of Phineas and the disappointment of the
unsophisticated Mo over the _pate de foie gras_. But his mind
wandered back to his Doggie self and its humiliations and its needs
and its yearnings. He welcomed enemy flares and star-shells and
excursions and alarms. They kept him from thinking, enabled him 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 sentry duty. One of Heaven's little
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 welcomed
familiar approaching steps. Now he resented them.
"Who goes there?"
"Rounds."
And the officer, recognized, flashing an electric torch, passed on.
The diminuendo of his footsteps was agreeable to Doggie's ear. The
rain dripped monotonously off his helmet on to his sodden shoulders,
but Doggie did not mind. Now and then he strained an eye upwards to
that part of the living-house that was above the gateway. Little
streaks of light came downwards through the shutter slats. Now it
required no great intellectual effort to surmise that the light
proceeded, not from 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 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-martiality of tread
up the pavement; but then, it is often the way of young men to do
supremely silly things.
* * * * *
The next day was fuss and bustle, from the private soldier's point of
view. They were marching back to the trenches that night, and a crack
company must take over with flawless equipment and in flawless bodily
health. In the afternoon Doggie had a breathing spell of leisure. He
walked boldly into the kitchen.
"Madame," said he to Toinette, "I suppose you know that we are leaving
to-night?"
The old woman sighed. "It is always like that. They come, they make
friends, they go, and they never return."
"You mustn't make the little soldier weep, _grand'mere_," said
Doggie.
"No. It is the _grand'meres_ who weep," replied 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 disappointed," 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 _beaux yeux_ of the _grand'mere_ that you
entered?"
"_Si, si!_ Of course it was," he protested. "But one, nevertheless,
must be polite to mademoiselle."
"_Aie! aie!_" said the old woman, bustling out: "I'll call her."
Presently Jeanne came in alone, calm, cool, and in her 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 exquisitely
ordered, bodily and spiritually.
"It was good of you to come," he cried, and they shook hands
instinctively, scarcely realizing it was for the first time. But he
was sensitive to the frank 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 you _au revoir_!"
"Is the company returning?"
"So I hear the quartermaster says. Are you glad?"
"Yes, I am glad. One doesn't like to lose friends."
"You regard me as a friend, Jeanne?"
"_Pour sur_," she replied simply.
"Then you don't mind my calling you Jeanne?" said he.
"What does it matter? There are graver questions 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 don't like secrecy."
She leaned against the edge of the table and Doggie, emboldened,
seated himself on the corner by her side, and they looked out into the
little flagged courtyard in which the men, some in grey shirt-sleeves,
some in tunics, were lounging about among the little piles of
accoutrements and packs. Here and there a man was shaving by the aid
of a bit of mirror supported on a handcart. Jests and laughter were
flung 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 corner near the gabled barn. As Jeanne did not
speak, at last Doggie bent forward and, looking into her eyes, found
them moist with tears.
"What is the matter, Jeanne?" 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 gaiete fait peur._"
_Their laughter frightened her._ Doggie, with his quick
responsiveness, understood. She had put into a phrase the haunting
tragedy of the war. The eternal laughter of youth quenched in a gurgle
of the throat.
He said admiringly: "You are a wonderful woman, Jeanne."
Her delicate shoulders moved, ever so little. "A woman? I suppose I
am. The day before we fled from Cambrai it was my _jour de fete_. I
was eighteen."
Doggie drew in his breath with a little gasp. He had thought she was
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 both be in our twenties. Let us suppose
the war puts ten years of experience 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 any older. At seventy we shall still be
thirty."
"You are consoling," she admitted. "But what if the war had added
thirty years to one's life? What if I felt now an old woman of fifty?
But 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 gene_--like an old
matron? Do you think a _jeune fille francaise bien elevee_ could
have talked to you alone as I have done the past two days? Absurd. The
explanation is the war."
Doggie laughed. "_Vive la guerre!_" said he.
"_Mais non!_ Be serious. We must come to an understanding."
In her preoccupation she forgot the rules laid down for the guidance
of _jeunes filles bien elevees_, and unthinkingly perched herself
full on the kitchen table on the corner of which Doggie sat in a
one-legged way. Doggie gasped again. All her assumed age fell from her
like a garment. Youth proclaimed itself in her attitude and the supple
lines of her figure. She was but a girl after all, a girl with a
steadfast soul that had been tried in unutterable 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 born. But conditions 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 untouched."
She was so earnest, in her pathetic youthfulness, to put herself right
with him, so unlike the English girls of his acquaintance, who would
have taken this 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 apologize 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 corner of the table and stood on
indignant feet.
"Jeanne! How could you----?" he cried.
She leaned back, her open palms on the table. The rare light came into
her eyes.
"That's what I wanted to know. Now we understand 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 Marmaduke." Peggy seemed far away, and the name
still farther. He was deliberating whether he should say "_Appelez-moi
James_" or "_Appelez-moi Jacques_," and inclining to the latter as
being more picturesque and intimate, when she went on:
"_Tenez_, what is it your comrades call you? 'Doggie'?"
"Say that again."
"Dog-gie."
He had never dreamed that the hated appellation could sound so
adorable. Well--no one except his officers called him by any other
name, and it came with a visible charm from her lips. It brought about
the most fascinating flash of the tips of her white teeth. He laughed.
"_A la guerre comme a la guerre._ 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," said Jeanne.
So they talked in a young and foolish way, and Jeanne for a while
forgot the tragedies that had 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 creep when the night's march was over.
They talked of simple things. Of Toinette, who had been with Aunt
Morin ever since she could remember.
"You have won her heart with your snuff."
"She has won mine with her discretion."
"Oh-h!" said Jeanne, shocked.
And so on and so forth, as they sat side by side on the kitchen table,
swinging their feet. After a while they drifted to graver questions.
"What will happen to you, Jeanne, if your aunt dies?"
"_Mon Dieu!_" said Jeanne----
"But 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 age. But all her little fortune would go to the colonial
Gaspard, whom Jeanne had never seen.
But the Farm of La Folette?
"It has been taken and retaken by Germans and French and English, _mon
pauvre ami_, until there is no farm left. You ought to understand
that."
It was a thing that Doggie most perfectly understood: a patch of
hideous wilderness, of poisoned, shell-scarred, ditch-defiled, barren,
loathsome earth.
And her other relations? Only an uncle, her father's youngest brother,
a cure in Douai in enemy occupation. She had not heard of him since
the flight from Cambrai.
"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," she 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 laughing at me."
"God forbid," said Doggie.
Phineas and 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 newcomers in her calm,
dignified way. Once more Doggie found himself regarding her as his
senior in age and wisdom and conduct of life. The pathetic girlishness
which she had revealed to him had gone. The age-investing ghosts had
returned.
Mo grinned, interjected a British Army French word now and then, and
manifested delight when Jeanne understood. Phineas talked laboriously,
endeavouring to expound his responsibility for Doggie's welfare. He
had been his tutor. He used the word "_tuteur_."
"That's a guardian, you silly ass," cried Doggie. "He means
'_instituteur_.' Go on. Or, rather, don't go on. The lady isn't
interested."
"_Mais si_," said Jeanne, catching at the last English word. "It
interests me greatly."
"_Merci, mademoiselle_," said Phineas grandly. "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 his tanned skin. He cursed Phineas below his breath, and
exchanged a significant glance with Mo. Jeanne said, in her even
voice:
"I hope all the Three Musketeers will come back safe."
Mo extended a grimy hand. "Well, good-bye, miss! McPhail here and I
must be going."
She shook hands with both, wishing them _bonne chance_, and they
strolled away. Doggie lingered.
"You mustn't mind what McPhail says. He's only an old imbecile."
"You have two comrades who love you. That is the principal thing."
"I think they do, each in his way. As for Mo----"
"Mo?" She laughed. "He is delicious."
"Well----" said he reluctantly, after a pause, "good-bye, Jeanne."
"_Au revoir_--Dog-gie."
"If I shouldn't come back--I mean if we were billeted somewhere
else--I should like to write to you."
"Well--Mademoiselle Bossiere, chez Madame Morin, Frelus. That is the
address."
"And will you write too?"
Without waiting for a reply, he scribbled what was necessary on a
sheet torn from a notebook and gave it to her. Their hands met.
"_Au revoir_, Jeanne."
"_Au revoir_, 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. Doggie 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 much of your courting, Spud," replied Doggie cheerfully. "Who
are you writing to? Your best girl?"
"I be writin' to my own lawful mizzus," replied Spud Appleyard.
"Then give her my love. Doggie Trevor's love," said Doggie, and
marched away through the groups of men.
At the entrance to the barn he fell in with Phineas 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?"
"Not if I wos dying of----Look 'ere," said Mo, with the light on his
face of the earnest seeker after 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 ain't 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 disappointed; for she had promised. He
could not associate her with light words. Yet perhaps she had kept her
promise. She had said "_Je vous verrai._" She had not undertaken to
exhibit herself to him. He derived comfort from the thought. There
was, indeed, something delicate 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 of
view of the pomp and circumstance of glorious war, a very lugubrious
procession. The sight of it would have 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 would 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 stern, silent, ugly conglomeration of men.
"---- (_the adjective_) night," growled Doggie's right-hand neighbour.
"---- (_the adjective_)" Doggie responded mechanically.
But to Doggie it was less "----" (_adjective as before_) than usual.
Jeanne's denunciation of self-pity had struck deep. Compared with her
calamities, half of which would have been the stock-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 welcomed a
waterspout. Something that really mattered.... Let the heavens or the
Hun rain molten lead. Something that would put him on an equality with
Jeanne.... Jeanne, with her dark haunting eyes and mobile lips, and
her slim young figure and her splendid courage. A girl apart from the
girls he had known, apart from the women he had known, the women whom
he had imagined--and he had not imagined many--his training had
atrophied such imaginings of youth. Jeanne. Again her name conjured up
visions of the Great Jeanne of Domremy. If only he could have seen
her once again!
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 warning 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
enough. It was Jeanne. She had kept her promise. The men responded
incoherently, waving their hands, and Doggie'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
Jeanne. But no matter. The company paid homage to Jeanne. Jeanne who
had come out in the rain and the wind and the dark, and had waited,
waited, to redeem her promise. "_C'est mon secret._"
He ploughed on. Left, right! Thud, thud! Left, right! Jeanne, Jeanne!