Chapter III

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

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

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

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

"Hello, old chap!"

Doggie took the hand in an honest grip.

"Hello, Oliver!"

"How goes it?" asked Oliver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All what, sir?"

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

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

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

"Who's to find out?"

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

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

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

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

"Quite," said Doggie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W. J. LOCKE.

IN FLANDERS FIELD

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

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

JOHN MCCRAE.

IN FLANDERS FIELD

(AN ANSWER)

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

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