Part 25

One evening two men walked into the café and from their talk Suzanne knew they were from _l'ecole_. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner--to the intimacy of the back room.

They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a memory--that is how it started.

When the two pilots went back to _l'ecole_, they spoke in glowing terms of "Suzanne's," of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of Suzanne.

Visitors came after that to eat at "Suzanne's," and to see her famous book. They came regularly and, finally, "Suzanne's" became an institution.

Always, a _pilote_ was taken into the back room; he ate with the family, he told them all the news from _l'ecole_, and, in exchange, he heard stories about the early days, stories that will never be printed, but which embody examples of the heroism and intelligence that have done their part to develop aviation.

Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too good for an aviator at "Suzanne's," and they give of their best to these wandering strangers. They do not ask your name, they call every one _Monsieur_, but before you leave you sign the book and they all crowd around to look, without saying anything. Your name means nothing yet, but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first pages are names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the world over.

After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special bottle and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment afforded all their winged visitors, for they went about it in a practised manner; each was familiar with his or her part, but to me it was all delightfully new.

Our glasses were filled, and Suzanne raised hers up first. Without a word, she looked around the circle. Her eyes met them all, then rested with madame. She had not said a word; it was "papa" who proposed my health, and as the bottoms went up, Suzanne and madame both had a struggle to repress a tear. They were drinking my health, but their thoughts were far away, and in my heart I was wishing that happiness might again come to them. Suzanne certainly deserves it.

When I returned to school, they asked, "Did you stop at 'Suzanne's'?" And now to the others, just ready to make the voyage, I always say, "Be sure to stop at 'Suzanne's'."

GREAYER CLOVER.

THE MAKING OF A MAN

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.

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.

III