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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 pt 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'mre," said Doggie.
"No. It is the grand'mres 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'mre that you entered?"
"Si, si! Of course it was," he protested. "But one, nevertheless, must be polite to mademoiselle."
"Ae! ae!" 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 sr," 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 gaiet 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 fte. 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."
"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 gne---like an old matron? Do you think a jeune fille franaise bien leve 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 leves, 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 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 cur 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.
"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 Bossire, chez Madame Morin, Frlus. 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 Domrmy. 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!
