A few days later Peggy was driven home to the vicarage, and stood the drive so well that she was able to walk downstairs at tea-time, and sit at the table with only a cushion at her back, to mark her out as an invalid just recovering from a serious illness. There was a special reason why she wished to look well this afternoon, for Arthur was expected by the six o’clock train; and the candidate who had come out first in his examination lists must not have his reception chilled by anxiety or disappointment.
Peggy was attired in her pink dress, and sat roasting before the fire, so as to get some colour into her cheeks. If her face were only the size of the palm of a hand, she was determined that it should at least be rosy; and if she looked very bright, and smiled all the time, perhaps Arthur would not notice how thin she had become.
When half-past six struck, everyone crowded into the schoolroom, and presently a cab drove up to the door, and a modest rap sounded on the knocker.
“That’s not Arthur!” cried Mrs Asplin confidently. “He knocks straight on without stopping, peals the bell at the same time, and shouts Christmas carols through the letter-box! He has sent on his luggage, I expect, and is going to pounce in upon us later on.”
“Ah, no, that’s not Arthur!” assented Peggy; but Mr Asplin turned his head quickly towards the door, as if his ear had caught a familiar note, hesitated for a moment, and then walked quickly into the hall.
“My dear boy!” the listeners heard him cry; and then another voice spoke in reply—Arthur’s voice—saying, “How do you do, sir?” in such flat, subdued tones as filled them with amazement.
Mrs Asplin and Peggy turned towards each other with distended eyes. If Arthur had suddenly slid down the chimney and crawled out on the hearth before them, turned a somersault in at the window, or crawled from beneath the table, it would have caused no astonishment whatever; but that he should ring at the bell, walk quietly into the hall, and wait to hang up his hat like any other ordinary mortal,—this was indeed an unprecedented and extraordinary proceeding! The same explanation darted into both minds. His sister’s illness! He was afraid of startling an invalid, and was curbing his overflowing spirits in consideration for her weakness.
Peggy rose from her chair, and stood waiting, with sparkling eyes and burning cheeks. He should see in one glance that she was better—almost well—that there was no need of anxiety on her behalf. And then the tall, handsome figure appeared in the doorway, and Arthur’s voice cried—
“Peggikens! Up and dressed! This is better than I hoped. How are you, dear little Peg?”
There was something wrong with the voice, something lacking in the smile; but his sister was too excited to notice it. She stretched out her arms towards him, and raised her weak, quavering little voice in a song of triumph—
“See-ee the conquering he-he-he-he-hero com-ums! Sow–ow–ow–ow–ownd the trumpet, play—a—a—a—”
“Don’t, Peg!” cried Arthur sharply. “Don’t, dear!” He was standing by her side by this time, and suddenly he wrapped his arms round her and laid his curly head on hers. “I’m plucked, Peg!” he cried, and his voice was full of tears. “Oh, Peg, I’m plucked! It’s all over; I can never be a soldier. I’m plucked—plucked—plucked!”
“Arthur dear! Arthur darling!” cried Peggy loudly. She clasped her arms round his neck, and glared over his shoulder, like a tigress whose young has been threatened with danger. “You plucked! My brother plucked! Ho! ho! ho!” She gave a shrill peal of laughter. “It’s impossible! You were first of all, the very first. You always are first. Who was wicked enough, and cruel enough, and false enough, to say that Arthur Saville was plucked in an examination?”
“Arthur, my boy, what is it? What does it mean? You told us you were first. How can you possibly be plucked?”
“My—my eyes!” said Arthur faintly. He raised his head from Peggy’s shoulder and looked round with a haggard smile. “The medical exam. They would not pass me. I was rather blind when I was here before, but I thought it was with reading too much. I never suspected there was anything really wrong—never for a moment!”
“Your eyes!” The vicar pressed his hand to his forehead, as if unable to grasp this sudden shattering of his hopes. “But—but I don’t understand! Your eyes never gave you any trouble when you were here. You were not short-sighted. One knew, of course, that good sight was necessary; but there seemed no weakness in that direction. I can’t imagine any cause that can have brought it on.”
“I can!” said Arthur drearily. “I got a bad knock at lacrosse two years ago. I didn’t tell you about it, for it wasn’t worth while; but my eyes were bad for some time after that. I thought they were all right again; but I had to read a lot of things across a room, and made a poor show of it. Then the doctor took me to a window and pointed to an omnibus that was passing.
“‘What’s the name on that ’bus?’ he said. ‘What is the colour of that woman’s hat? How many horses are there?’
“I guessed. I couldn’t see. I made a shot at it, and it was a wrong shot. He was a kind old chap. I think he was sorry for me. I—I came out into the street, and walked about. It was very cold. I tried to write to you, but I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t put it down in black and white. No V.C. now, little Peg! That’s all over. You will have a civilian for your brother, after all!”
He bent down to kiss the girl’s cheeks as he spoke, and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately upon his closed eyelids.
“Dear eyes!” she cried impetuously. “Oh, dear eyes! They are the dearest eyes in all the world, whatever anyone says about them. It doesn’t matter what you are—you are my Arthur, the best and cleverest brother in all the world. Nobody is like you!”
“You have a fine career before you still, my boy! You will always fight, I hope, and conquer enemies even more powerful than armed men!” cried Mrs Asplin, trembling. “There are more ways than one of being a soldier, Arthur!”
“I know it, mater,” said the young man softly. He straightened his back and stood in silence, his head thrown back, his eyes shining with emotion, as fine a specimen of a young English gentleman as one could wish to meet. “I know it,” he repeated, and Mrs Asplin turned aside to hide her tears. “Oh, my pretty boy!” she was saying to herself. “Oh, my pretty boy! And I’ll never see him in his red coat, riding his horse like a prince among them all! I’ll never see the medals on his breast! Oh, my poor lad that has the fighting blood in his veins! It’s like tearing the heart out of him to turn Arthur Saville into anything but a soldier. And the poor father—what will he say at all, when he hears this terrible news?” She dared not trust herself to speak again; the others were too much stunned and distressed to make any attempt at consolation, and it was a relief to all when Mellicent’s calm, matter-of-fact treble broke the silence.
“Well, for my part, I’m very glad!” she announced slowly. “I’m sorry, of course, if he has to wear spectacles, because they are not becoming, but I’m glad he is not going to be a soldier. I think it’s silly having nothing to do but drill in barracks, and pretending to fight when there is no one to fight with. I should hate to be a soldier in times of peace, and it would be fifty thousand times worse in war. Oh, my goodness, shouldn’t I be in a fright! I should run away—I know I should; but Arthur would be in the front of every battle, and it’s absurd to think that he would not get killed. You know what Arthur is! Did you ever know him have a chance of hurting himself and not taking it? He would be killed in the very first battle—that’s my belief—and then you would be sorry that you wanted him to be a soldier! Or, if he wasn’t killed, he would have his legs shot off. Last time I was in London I saw a man with no legs. He was sitting on a little board with wheels on it, and selling matches in the street. Well, I must say I’d rather have my brother a civilian, as you call it, than have no legs, or be cut in pieces by a lot of nasty naked old savages.”
A general smile went round the company. There was no resisting it. Even Arthur’s face brightened, and he turned his head and looked at Mellicent with his old twinkling smile.
“Bravo, Chubby!” he cried. “Bravo, Chubby! Commend me to Mellicent for good, sound commonsense. The prospect of squatting on a board, selling matches, is not exhilarating, I must confess. I’m glad there is one person at least who thinks my prospects are improved.” He gave a little sigh, which was stifled with praiseworthy quickness. “Well, the worst is over, now that I have told you and written the letter to India. Those were the two things that I dreaded most. Now I shall just have to face life afresh, and see what can be made of it. I must have a talk with you, sir, later on, and get your advice. Cheer up, Peggikens! Cheer up, mater! It’s no use grieving over spilt milk, and Christmas is coming. It would never do to be in the dolefuls over Christmas! I’ve got a boxful of presents upstairs—amused myself with buying them yesterday to pass the time. You come up with me to-night, Peg, and I’ll give you a peep. You look better than I expected, dear, but fearsome scraggy! We shall have to pad her out a bit, shan’t we, mater? She must have an extra helping of plum-pudding this year.”
He rattled on in his own bright style, or in as near an imitation of it as he could manage, and the others tried their best to follow his example and make the evening as cheery as possible. Once or twice the joy of being all together again in health and strength conquered the underlying sorrow, and the laughter rang out as gaily as ever; but the next moment Arthur would draw in his breath with another of those short, stabbing sighs, and Peggy would shiver, and lie back trembling among her pillows. She had no heart to look at Christmas presents that night, but Arthur carried her upstairs in his strong arms, laid her on her bed, and sat beside her for ten minutes’ precious private talk.
“It’s a facer, Peg,” he said. “I can’t deny it’s a facer. When I walked out of that doctor’s room I felt as weak as a child. The shock knocked the strength out of me. I had never thought of anything else but being a soldier, you see, and it’s a strange experience to have to face life afresh, with everything that you had expected taken out of it, and nothing ahead but blankness and disappointment. I’ve been so strong too—as strong as a horse. If it hadn’t been for that blow—well, it’s over! It’s a comfort to me to feel that it was not my own fault. If I’d been lazy or careless, and had failed in the exam., it would have driven me crazy; but this was altogether beyond my control. It is frightfully rough luck, but I don’t mean to howl—I must make the best of what’s left!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you will. You have begun well, for I think you have been wonderfully brave and courageous about it, Arthur dear!”
“Well, of course!” said Arthur softly. “I always meant to be that, Peg; and, as the mater says, it is only another kind of battle. The other would have been easier, but I mean to fight still. I am not going to give up all my dreams. You shall be proud of me yet, though not in the way you expected.”
“I never was so proud of you in my life!” Peggy cried. “Never in all my life.”
Long after Arthur had kissed her and gone to his own room she lay awake, thinking of his words and of the expression on his handsome face as the firelight played on moistened eye and trembling lip. “I mean to fight.”
“You shall be proud of me yet.” The words rang in her ears, and would not be silenced. When she fell asleep Arthur was still by her side; the marks of tears were on his face. He was telling her once more the story of disappointment and failure; but she could not listen to him, for her eyes were fixed on something that was pinned on the breast of his coat—a little cross with two words printed across its surface.
In her dream Peggy bent forward, and read those two words with a great rush of joy and exultation.
“For Valour!”
“For Valour!” Yes, yes, it was quite true! Never was soldier flushed with victory more deserving of that decoration than Arthur Saville in his hour of disappointment and failure.