The Rough Road

Peggy put out her hand and touched Jeanne’s wrist.

“I’m glad I didn’t marry Doggie, mademoiselle,” she said simply. “I couldn’t have done that.” She paused. “Well?” she resumed. “Will you now come with me to London?”

A faint smile crept into Jeanne’s eyes.

“Mais oui, madame.”

Doggie lay in the long, pleasant ward of the great London hospital, the upper left side of his body a mass of bandaged pain. Neck and shoulder, front and back and arm, had been shattered and torn by high explosive shell. The top of his lung had been grazed. Only the remorseless pressure at the base hospital had justified the sending of him, after a week, to England. Youth and the splendid constitution which Dr. Murdoch had proclaimed in the far-off days of the war’s beginning, and the toughening training of the war itself, carried him through. No more fighting for Doggie this side of the grave. But the grave was as far distant as it is from any young man in his twenties who avoids abnormal peril.

Till to-day he had not been allowed to see visitors, or to receive letters. They told him that the Dean of Durdlebury had called; had brought flowers and fruit and had left a card “From your Aunt, Peggy and myself.” But to-day he felt wonderfully strong, in spite of the unrelenting pain, and the nurse had said: “I shouldn’t wonder if you had some visitors this afternoon.” Peggy, of course. He followed the hands of his wrist-watch until they marked the visiting hour. And sure enough, a minute afterwards, amid the stream of men and women – chiefly women – of all grades and kinds, he caught sight of Peggy’s face smiling beneath her widow’s hat. She had a great bunch of violets in her bodice.

“My dear old Doggie!” She bent down and kissed him. “Those rotten people wouldn’t let me come before.”

“I know,” said Doggie. He pointed to his shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m in a hell of a mess. It’s lovely to see you.”

She unpinned the violets and thrust them towards his face.

“From home. I’ve brought ’em for you.”

“My God!” said Doggie, burying his nose in the huge bunch. “I never knew violets could smell like this.” He laid them down with a sigh. “How’s everybody?”

“Quite fit.”

There was a span of silence. Then he stretched out his hand and she gave him hers and he gripped it tight.

“Poor old Peggy dear!”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said bravely. “I know you care, dear Doggie. That’s enough. I’ve just got to stick it like the rest.” She withdrew her hand after a little squeeze. “Bless you. Don’t worry about me. I’m contemptibly healthy. But you – ?”

“Getting on splendidly. I say, Peggy, what kind of people are the Pullingers who have taken Denby Hall?”

“They’re all right, I believe. He’s something in the Government – Controller of Feeding-bottles – I don’t know. But, oh, Doggie, what an ass you were to sell the place up!”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Doggie laughed. “If you’ve come here to argue with me, I shall cry, and then you’ll be turned out neck and crop.”

Peggy looked at him shrewdly. “You seem to be going pretty strong.”

“Never stronger in my life,” lied Doggie.

“Would you like to see somebody you are very fond of?”

“Somebody I’m fond of? Uncle Edward?”

“No, no.” She waved the Very Reverend the Dean to the empyrean.

“Dear old Phineas? Has he come through? I’ve not had time to ask whether you’ve heard anything about him.”

“Yes, he’s flourishing. He wrote to me. I’ve seen him.”

“Praise the Lord!” cried Doggie. “My dear, there’s no one on earth, save you, whom I should so much love to see as Phineas. If he’s there, fetch him along.”

Peggy nodded and smiled mysteriously and went away down the ward. And Doggie thought: “Thank God, Peggy has the strength to face the world – and thank God Phineas has come through.” He closed his eyes, feeling rather tired, thinking of Phineas. Of his last words as he passed him stretcher-borne in the trench. Of the devotion of the man. Of his future. Well, never mind his future. In all his vague post-war schemes for reorganization of the social system, Phineas had his place. No further need for dear old Phineas to stand in light green and gold outside a picture palace. He had thought it out long ago, although he had never said a word to Phineas. Now he could set the poor chap’s mind at rest for ever.

He looked round contentedly, and saw Peggy and a companion coming down the ward, together. But it was not Phineas. It was a girl in black.

He raised himself, forgetful of exquisite pain, on his right elbow, and stared in a thrill of amazement.

And Jeanne came to him, and there were no longer ghosts behind her eyes, for they shone like stars.