A Soldier's Place Read online

  She tried to talk to Doggy, to get interested in the places they were passing, to do anything to relieve her of an awful premonition that she would find her knight mutilated and crippled, and her only consolation was the fact that she had never read of a general losing a leg or getting a dent in his forehead.

  With every mile she grew more excited. There had been times when she even practised facial expressions in preparation for their meeting and in four hours she would be in his arms. She was sure of him, so sure, and she had so often pictured this great day, keeping the vision apart from all that was garish and superficial. She talked with Doggy to relieve the suspense.

  “I feel as if I have known Harold all my life,” she said, caressing the “Harold” with a soft inflection. “It was only half an hour we were together, but oh Doggy, there was such spontaneity.”

  He pointed to a fine herd of cows grazing in a pasture. “Looks prosperous down here,” he commented.

  “He was a poet,” she went on as if she had not heard him. “I know he was, he had such an expression, and I am sure he can talk about the stars, that he knows them all. Doggy, he—he was divine.”

  Doggy grunted, and got their luggage off the carrier rack.

  Priscilla could not eat after they arrived. She waited with martyr-like patience while Doggy supplied the wants of the inner man, and then they set forth for the hospital. There was a trying list of inquiries and then they were guided to the ward wherein the maker of tea mats had his bed. Priscilla paled, and asked Doggy to remain outside the door.

  “Oh! Doggy!”

  He plunged inside. There was that in her cry that urged him to desperate speed. Priscilla had almost collapsed. She was beside the bed of a little man with a wiry beard and a Cockney tongue.

  “Sye, myte,” he chirped to Doggy. “Wouldn’t that can yer beans? The lidy thinks as ’ow I’m her lost boy till she sees me fice. ‘Priscilla,’ she pants. ‘Where did yer git that nime?’ Bless her heart, me mother’s sister as works at Maida Vale, and a cousin in Epsom, and me brother ‘Erbert’s girl, the oldest one, all ’as it. I mykes them best wiv ‘Polly,” coz yer can curl the y under, but I ’ates the nime. I ’ad a bit of fluff wiv that ’andle, and she let me dahn proper, she did.”

  “Doggy,” sobbed Priscilla. “Take me away.”

  “Lumme,” said the bead worker. “Wot do yer know abaht that?” Doggy slipped him a crisp bill and took Priscilla away.

  At the hotel he tried valiantly to ease her grief but failed until he mentioned a visit to the veteran headquarters in the city. She dried her tears at once.

  They found the office in an imposing building and there Priscilla completed her collapse. She really fainted and when she recovered consciousness Doggy was determinedly forcing brandy between her lips. “I put in a call for a doctor,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come on this trip.”

  Priscilla sat up and managed to smile faintly. “You don’t understand, dear,” she said gently. “I don’t need a doctor. Tell him not to come. I just want that—that man.” She pointed at the clerk who had met them. He was a bony, bowlegged fellow with one arm missing, and he bowed as she spoke.

  “Glad to help you, miss,” he said crisply. “Is it about pensions?”

  Priscilla shuddered. “No—no, don’t use that dreadful word,” she begged. “I—I just want a man.” They had removed her hat and her hair was in slight disorder.

  The bowlegged man’s eyebrows went up and he glanced inquiringly at Doggy, who frowned. “It’s about an officer,” he grunted.

  “Oh, an officer,” said the bowlegged one. “What’s his name?”

  “Harold Ray Heathland,” said Priscilla with delicate precision. “I think he’s a major or a brigadier or something. I don’t know much about the army but I know he’d be away up in it.”

  “Hmmm,” said the bowlegged man. “Heathland? Never heard of him, miss.”

  Priscilla was patient. “But you did,” she said earnestly. “Perhaps you were offended when he—he wasn’t nice to you when you were a sergeant at Union Station in Toronto, but you spoke to him. You must know him. I—I’ve got to find him.” She went close up to the bowlegged man. “It means everything in the world to me,” she said, and she touched his arm.

  The bowlegged man gulped and got busy. He put down dates and asked descriptions—and got replies that dazed him. Priscilla was exact and eloquent. “The night,” she said, “was mild and moist and one of those times when she felt that the stars were near. Many of the soldiers had looked nice in riding breeches but her man had towered above them all, such a striking figure, such a commanding personality, such…”

  “I remember him, miss.” The bowlegged man ducked from under the deluge. “He didn’t go over with us, flat feet, I think it were, at Quebec, or maybe it was bunions. And now that you mention it, I seen him up north last summer. He’s at Oldcastle—that’s a town up there. You’d find him easy, it’s not a big place.”

  “Oldcastle! At last! Doggy, my dream. You—you wouldn’t understand, but I knew it. Thank you, my dear man. You’ve helped me so much more than you know.” Priscilla put on her hat, and the pink was back in her cheeks again. Doggy shed a two-dollar bill on the clerk’s desk and followed her to the elevator.

  Oldcastle is not an imposing place and its pulpwood facilities are very prominent, but Priscilla viewed it like a promised land. She could hardly wait till Doggy scanned a telephone directory. He returned triumphant. “H. R. Heathland lives at 17 Buckingham Street,” he said. “That must be him.”

  “It is,” she quavered, and she clung tight to Doggy’s arm. “I’m so excited. I—you wouldn’t understand. You dear boy, do you know I’ve got my hope chest nearly full and all the linen is marked ‘HRH’ I knew all the time that distance would never keep him from me.”

  Doggy made no answer. He was getting change ready for the taxi driver.

  Number seventeen caused Priscilla to pause slightly. She had expected an aristocratic residence in an exclusive district, and instead they were deposited before a rather dilapidated house with dull brown shades at the windows.

  “There—there’s some mistake,” she murmured, but she went bravely to the door and rang the bell.

  The remainder of the afternoon was a hideous blur for Priscilla.

  A frowsy woman with darting venom in her deep-set black eyes opened the door. “Good day,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I—I want to see a Mr. Heathland,” said Priscilla. “Does he—ah—board here?”

  The black eyes glittered. “He—ah—does,” she said. “Are you sure you want to see him?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Priscilla. “Most certainly. I’ve come all the way from Toronto to find him, and I’ve been looking for him for years.”

  “Yeah?” said the frowsy lady. “Come in, won’t you. He ain’t here just now, but I’ll send for him.”

  Priscilla went in, though she had a dreadful feeling within her, a sense of impending disaster as sudden and nefarious as a train wreck. Doggy also stepped inside, but the lady halted him. “Would you mind tellin’ that taxi chap I want him?” she asked. “Catch him before he’s gone.”

  Doggy moved obligingly.

  Priscilla was seated in a fat armchair, like a portly dowager in plush. She saw a crimson-shaded lamp, a sagging sofa, and cheap bookends on a table pushing together a few offerings of Elinor Glyn and Ruby Ayres. She shuddered.

  The frowsy woman returned. “And now, Miss,” she rasped. “Let’s hear your story. You’re the fourth, if I haven’t missed my count.” There was vitriol in her speech.

  “Fourth!” said Priscilla. “My story? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t neither,” retorted her challenger, “but I’m goin’ to afore you leave this house. I’ve had enough of your kind chasin’ my man.”

  “Your man!” gasped Priscilla. “It
’s Mr. Heathland I want to see.”

  “You’ll see him right enough,” came the grim response. “The game’s up. Of all the brass I ever knowed, this has me beat. The other three telephoned from the drug store, but just because you’re dolled up in city style you think you can bluff me. I’ll show you…”

  Priscilla struggled to her feet. “Don’t,” she implored. “There is a terrible mistake.”

  “There is,” said the frowsy woman. “You made a slip this time because I’ve got a detective on the job. You try your bluff on him.”

  A thin, hatchet-faced man stepped into the room. Self-importance fairly oozed from him as he removed his hat with a flourish. He bowed to Priscilla. “What’s your game, miss,” he asked. “Alienated affections?” Then he added sharply. “You’d better take your seat again unless you want me to call the police.”

  Priscilla fell back into the plush chair. “Police!” she shuddered. “Oh, where’s Doggy?”

  She fought a faintness that threatened to engulf her, and the questions the hatchet-faced man poured from him rattled on her ears like rain on a tin roof. She did not comprehend one of them, and the frowsy woman seemed to be floating about the room like a great evil bird. Then, after an interval that seemed interminable, Doggy came in.

  “I got another taxi,” he said to Priscilla. “I thought you might want to go soon.”

  “The police will have a say about that,” snapped the frowsy woman. “Here comes my lad hisself.”

  A tall, slightly haggard man in a cheap suit entered the house. He strode straight into the room and inquiry was written large on his rather well cut features. But he sagged back at sight of the group that confronted him and a grey devil of consternation harried his eyes.

  “What’s up?” he asked in a husky voice.

  The frowsy woman pointed dramatically at Priscilla. “Her,” she said. “Do you know her?”

  The tall man peered at Priscilla in an impersonal way and not a trace of recognition flitted across his countenance. “No,” he said in a bewildered manner. “I don’t. Why?”

  “She says that she come all the way from Toronto to find you and that she’s been looking for you for years. Come on, who is she?”

  “I never saw her before, honest I didn’t, Mabel” said the tall man. “There’s a mistake, somewhere.”

  “That’s what she said,” came the harsh rejoiner. “Now look here, my lad. I’ve caught you three times and you know it. This time it’s the police unless you talk up.” She nodded toward the hatchet-faced man. “I’ve had this detective watching you for a month and if there’s anything in this—this doll’s story you’re not usherin’ no more in any picture palace, see.”

  Doggy suddenly intervened. He crossed the room and assisted Priscilla from her plush throne. “Come,” he said quietly. “We’ve got the wrong address somehow.”

  But the frowsy woman barred the door. “Not so high and mighty, mister,” she snapped. “Who are you? Do you travel together?”

  “We do,” said Doggy in a level tone, “but we don’t usually land in places like this.”

  “You’ll land in jail before night,” came the hissing answer. “I know your kind wherever I see them.”

  “Just a minute, Mabel,” said the tall man. “Where does she say she came from?” There was curiosity in his tone.

  “Toronto,” came the scornful answer, “and for all I know she’s tellin’ the truth. I been hard put to keep check on you since we was married, without tryin’ to find out what you did before.”

  The tall man looked Priscilla in the eyes. “You’re surely mistaken,” he said politely. “I never lived in Toronto.”

  “It was at the train,” said Priscilla, scarcely above a whisper. “The soldiers…” She could not say more and she was very white.

  The door opened again, and she turned. A great, mustached, blue-coated, brass-buttoned policeman was standing at her elbow.

  “What’s all this?” he rumbled deep in his throat.

  Everything spun about her, but she held to Doggy. Something in her clutch seemed to galvanize him and in one heartbeat he had dominated the room. As from far off, she heard his voice, crisp, incisive, authoritative, defying the detective, the frowsy woman, the policeman, all of them, and giving them chill warning of dire consequences which would follow any further attempts at humiliating “this lady.”

  She felt the fresh air in her face again and smelled the pulpwood, then she was at the hotel and Doggy was telephoning about the next train west. He hovered over her with anxious care, a faithful, brown-eyed guardian, and she still thrilled as she thought of the way he had routed her enemies at 17 Buckingham Street. Then she thought of her mother, and Mrs. Farrel, and Imogene. Wouldn’t the Farrels, if they knew, sip the scandal like cream! She shuddered.

  Doggy hurried to her. “That tall chap’s got up here and he wants to see you,” he whispered. “Will I let him come or crack him one?”

  He had come, her tall cavalier! Perhaps he could explain…but did she want to know? She hesitated, then nodded. “Let him come,” she said.

  Harold Roy Heathland made a graceful obeisance as he approached. “I remember you now,” he said softly. “It was in the moonlight outside of Union Station. There was music and the stars and…”

  Priscilla had started up. She saw all at once that his hair was thin and that he had dandruff, that his trousers were baggy at the knees. Usher…a picture palace!

  “I’m afraid,” she said, in the most chilling manner at her command, “that you don’t understand.” And as she finished Doggy growled in his corner of the window.

  They were on the train again and speeding home before she began to realize the extent of the catastrophe that had overtaken her. Doggy sat beside her, rugged and virile, watchful and careful. She gazed at him, and warmed to his faithful efficiency, and remembered suddenly his mention of a promotion; there had been so many other things to take her attention. Her mental picture of Mrs. Farrel began to fade. She leaned over and rested her head on Doggy’s shoulder. “Doggy,” she murmured. “Dear old Doggy.”

  He looked down instantly, questioning with his brown eyes.

  “Dear Doggy,” she murmured again, and she could not say that he did not understand.

  ***

  Three weeks later the Perleys held a brief family conference. J. Thomas Perley, dealer in rugs, sat in his big leather chair before the fire with his hands crossed on his round stomach. There had just appeared in the city papers the announcement of Priscilla’s marriage, three weeks previous, to Henry Rupert Higgins, a coming leader in insurance circles, and J. Thomas was as perturbed as he dared to be.

  Mrs. Perley explained, as much as she thought necessary, dwelling impressively on the perfidy of those who wore Sam Brownes. “And,” she added, “Priscilla simply had to marry Henry,”—she never used Priscilla’s pet name for him, or allowed J. Thomas the privilege—“in order to prevent scandal. That’s reason enough for any marriage, and I don’t want you ever to refer to that—that officer again. Henry is a dear boy, and he’s doing well.”

  J. Thomas subsided.

  “Mrs. Farrel called this afternoon, Priscilla,” the head of the house continued. “She was so flustered over the announcement, and Imogene’s liver has got worse and she’s on a diet, and she got so despondent that she married one of those Interior clerks at Ottawa. I told Mrs. Farrel that probably you and Henry would be down to the city and would call on Imogene—if you could find her. She got so red then, and wanted to know why there was so much secrecy about you getting married, and I reminded her of how romantic you had always been, and that you wanted to be married at the oldest city in Canada, and she flared again and said it was remarkably sudden.” Mrs. Perley smiled and satisfaction seeped into her voice. “So I showed her your hope chest and told her how long you were getting it ready and how all your linen was marked ‘HRH
and she was absolutely floundered. I never enjoyed anything so much before.”

  Priscilla gave her mother a dutiful peck on the cheek. “You darling mom,” she cooed. “We’re going for a drive along the lake, there’s such a lovely moon you know.”

  There would be, and it would be so nice cuddled close to her warm and dependable Doggy, who was never garrulous, and who was such a good driver that one could dream and make-believe all they wanted to with him.

  J. Thomas stirred. In his way he adored Priscilla. “Henry’s a good mixer and he’s got a good line,” he said, rubbing the back of one hand with the palm of the other. He wasn’t—er—cut to be a colonel, but…”

  “…he’ll make a perfectly splendid private,” finished Priscilla as she gave him his kiss on his bald head.

  Sunshine

  The shorter of the two dim figures in the gloom of Post Three, on the Avion sector, stirred uneasily and shifted his equipment. “Gee, Calico,” he muttered, “this place makes me feel creepy. Is it always so queer-like?”

  The taller figure did not turn or move, and the voice that answered was surprisingly calm. “I don’t like the feel of things myself, Izzard. No, it isn’t always like this, it’s often worse. Fritz isn’t putting up flares now, so keep your ears and eyes open.”

  “Gee, Calico,” the voice was almost a whine, “you don’t suppose anything’s goin’ to happen, do you? I only come up this mornin’ and here I am lookin’ over the top. It isn’t right, Calico.”

  There was no answer. Footsteps sounded close at hand and another pair of dim forms hurried around the bay. The challenge given and their reply were low spoken. “See anything?” queried one of the newcomers.

  “No, sir,” said Calico, “but I’ve noticed that Heinie hasn’t sent up flares for a spell.”