A berugged, bedraggled bundle of apologies, Miss Ophelia Arthur lay
prone in her steamer chair, her cheeks pale, her eyes closed. Her
conscience, directed towards the interests of her charge, demanded
her presence on deck. Once on deck and apparently on guard, Miss
Arthur limply subsided into a species of coma. Her charge,
meanwhile, rosy and alert, sat in the lee of a friendly ventilating
shaft. Beside her, also in the lee of the ventilating shaft, sat Mr.
Harvard Weldon.
The past week had been full of the petty events which make up life
on shipboard. The trail of smoke from a passing steamer, the first
shoal of flying fish, the inevitable dance, the equally inevitable
concert and, most inevitable of all, the Sabbatic contest between
the captain and the fresh-water clergyman who insists upon reading
service: all these are old details, yet ever new. Throughout them
all, Weldon had sturdily maintained his place at Ethel's side. By
tacit consent, the girl had been transferred to the motherly care of
Mrs. Scott who, after a keen inspection of Weldon, had decided that
it was safe to take upon trust this clean-eyed, long-legged Canadian
who was so obviously well-born and well-bred.
Now and then Carew joined the group; but the handsome, dashing young
fellow had no mind to play the part of second violin. He would be
concertmaster or nothing. Accordingly, he withdrew to the rival
corner where a swarthy little French girl maintained her court
without help from any apparent chaperonage whatsoever. Left in
possession of the field, Weldon made the most of his chances. The
acknowledged attendant of Ethel, his jovial ministrations overflowed
to Mrs. Scott, until the sedate colonel's wife admitted to herself
that no such pleasant voyage had fallen to her lot since the days
when she had started for India on her wedding journey. Weldon had
the consummate tact to keep the taint of the filial from his
chivalry. His attentions to Mrs. Scott and Ethel differed in degree,
but not in kind, and Mrs. Scott adored him accordingly. One by one,
the languid days dropped into the past. Neptune had duly escorted
them over the Line, to the boredom of the first-class passengers and
the strident mirth of the rest of the ship's colony. Winter was
already behind them, and the late December days took on more and
more of the guise of summer, as the log marked their passing to the
southward. To many on board, the idle passage was a winter holiday;
but to Weldon and Carew and a dozen more stalwart fellows, those
quiet days were the hush before the breaking of the storm. Home,
school, the university were behind them; before them lay the crash
of war. And afterwards? Glory, or death. Their healthy, boyish
optimism could see no third alternative.
For ten long days, Miss Ophelia Arthur lay prone in her berth. Her
hymnal and her Imitation lay beside her; but she read less than she
pondered, and she invariably pondered with her eyes closed and her
mouth ajar. On the eleventh day, however, she gathered herself
together and went on deck. With anxious care Weldon tucked the rugs
about her elderly frame. Then he exchanged a glance with Ethel and
together they sought the shelter of the ventilating shaft.
Nothing shows the temperature more surely than the tint of the gray
sea. It was a warm gray, that morning, and the bowl-like sky above
was gray from the horizon far towards the blue zenith. From the
other end of the ship, they could hear the plaudits that accompanied
an impromptu athletic tournament; but the inhabitants of the nearest
chairs were reading or dozing, and the deck about them was very
still. Only the throbbing of the mighty screw and the hiss of the
cleft waves broke the hush.
Out of the hush, Ethel spoke abruptly.
"Do you know, Mr. Weldon, you have never told me what brings you out
here."
He had been sitting, chin on his fists, staring out across the gray,
foam-flecked water. Now he looked up at her in surprise.
"I thought you knew. The war, of course."
"Yes; but where are you going?"
"To somewhere on the firing line. Beyond that I've not the least
idea."
"Where is your regiment now?"
"I haven't any."
She frowned in perplexity.
"I think I don't quite understand."
"I mean I haven't enlisted yet."
"But your commission?" she urged.
"I have no commission, Miss Dent."
"Not--any commission!" she said blankly.
In site of himself, he laughed at her tone.
"Certainly not. I am going as a soldier."
She sat staring at him in thoughtful silence.
"But you are a gentleman," she said slowly at length.
Weldon's mouth twitched at the corners.
"I hope so," he assented.
"Then how can you go as soldier, for I suppose you mean private?"
Dictated by generations-old tradition, the question was eloquent.
Weldon's one purpose, however, was to combat that tradition; and he
answered calmly,--
"Why not?"
"Because--because it isn't neat," she responded unexpectedly.
This time, Weldon laughed outright. Trained in the wider, more
open-air school of Canadian life, he found her insular point of view
distinctly comic.
"I have a portable tub somewhere among my luggage," he reassured
her.
She shook her head.
"No; that's not what I mean. But you won't be thrown with men of
your own class. The private is a distinct race; you'll find him
unbearable, when you are really in close quarters with him."
Deliberately Weldon rose and stood looking down at her. His lips
were smiling; his eyes were direct and grave. His mother could have
told the girl, just then, that some one had touched him on the raw.
"Miss Dent," he asked slowly; "is this the way you cheer on the
men?"
She flushed under his rebuke and, for a moment, her blue eyes showed
an angry light.
"I beg your pardon. I was referring to the men whom I am likely to
know."
"And omitting myself?" he inquired.
"You are the exception which proves the rule," she answered a little
shortly. "Of course, I wish you all good; but I don't see how it is
to be gained, if you bury yourself in the ranks."
"It may depend a little upon what you mean by good," he returned,
with a dignity which, notwithstanding her momentary petulance, won
her full respect. "I am not going out in search of the path to a
generalship. Fighting isn't my real profession."
"Then what are you going for?" she demanded sharply. With no
consciousness of dramatic effect, his eyes turned to the Union Jack
fluttering above them.
"Because I couldn't stay away," he answered simply. "From
Magersfontein to Nooitdedacht, the pull on me has been growing
stronger. I am not needed at home; I can shoot a little and ride a
good deal. I am taking out my own horse; I shall draw no pay. I can
do no harm; and, somewhere or other, I may do a little good. For the
rest, I prefer the ranks. It's not always the broadest man who lives
entirely with his own class. For a while, I am willing to meet some
one outside. As soon as I get to Cape Town, I shall enlist in a
regiment of horse, put on the khaki and learn to wind myself up in
my putties. Then it will remain to be seen whether my old friends
will accept Trooper Weldon on their list of acquaintances."
"One of them will," the girl said quickly. "If only for the sake of
novelty, I shall be glad to know a man in the ranks."
He shook his head.
"No novelty, Miss Dent. I know any number of fellows who are doing
the same thing. We can't all be officers; a few of us must take
orders. Out in the hunting field, we say it is the thoroughbred dog
who answers to call most quickly."
She ignored his last words.
"And you don't even know where you are going?" she asked. "To Cape
Town."
"But after that?"
"To my banker. After that, to the nearest recruiting station."
"So you'll not stop in Cape Town?"
Weldon's quick ear caught the little note of regret in her voice.
"Not long. Long enough, however, to pull any latch-string that
offers itself to me."
Her eyes dropped to the shining sea.
"My mother will offer ours to you," she said quietly. Then she
added, with a swift flash of merriment, "And you will wish to see
Miss Arthur again."
Weldon cast a mocking glance over his shoulder at the recumbent,
open-mouthed form.
"Is the lady going to stop long with you?" he queried.
"Long enough to recover from her invalidism."
"To judge from her greeny-yellow cast of countenance, that may take
some time. But tell me, Miss Dent, does she always sleep out loud
like this?"
"Not always. It usually comes when she is taking what she calls
forty winks."
"Then may a merciful heaven prevent her from taking eighty," Weldon
observed piously. "Still, the sleeping cat--"
"Fox," she corrected him promptly.
"Fox be it, then. Miss Arthur seems to me to be feline, rather than
vulpine, though." Bending forward, the girl studied her chaperon
thoughtfully.
"She really isn't so bad, Mr. Weldon. She means well. It is only
that I don't like tight frizzles and a hymn-book in combination.
People should always have one point of absolute worldliness."
"Aren't fizzles--that is what you called the thatch over her
eyebrows; isn't it?--aren't they worldly?"
Ethel Dent laughed with the consciousness of a woman's superior
knowledge.
"It depends upon the season," she replied enigmatically, as she
rose.
It was five days later that Ethel closed and locked her steamer
trunk. Leaving Miss Arthur to grapple alone with the cabin bags, the
girl went out on deck. Regardless of the glaring sunshine of New
Year morning, groups of people were dotted along the rail, staring
up at the flat top and seamy face of cloud-capped Table Mountain. In
the very midst of a knot of eager, excited men, Weldon was leaning
on the rail, talking so earnestly to Carew that he was quite
unconscious of the girl, twenty paces behind him. She hesitated for
a moment. Then, as she walked away to the farther end of the deck,
she told herself that Weldon was like all other men, regardful of
women only when no more vital interest presented itself. Already she
regretted the girlish vanity which had dictated the choice of the
gown in which she was to go ashore. For all the young Canadian was
likely to know to the contrary, she might be clad in a calico
wrapper and a blanket shawl, rather than the masterpiece of a London
tailor.
The Dunottar Castle was forging steadily ahead through the blue
waters of Table Bay. Beyond the bay, Cape Town nestled in its bed of
living green, backed by the sinister face of Table Mountain, and
fringed with a thicket of funnels and of raking masts. To the girl,
familiar with the harbor when Cape Town had been a peaceful seaport,
it seemed that the navies of the world were gathered there before
her eyes. It seemed to her, too, that the low, squat town never
looked half so fair as it did now, viewed from a softening distance
and ringed about with its summer setting of verdure.
Already the docks were in sight and, far to her left at the other
end of the long curve of the water front, her keen eyes could make
out the roof which, six years before, she had learned to call home.
She could imagine the stir and excitement in that home: the
controlled eagerness of her busy father, the gentle flurry of her
invalid mother, and the tempestuous bulletins issued by the small
brother whose occasional letters, full of incoherent affection and
quaint bits of orthography, had added interest to the last years of
her English life. One and all, they were loyally intent upon her
coming. And she, ingrate that she was, could spare thought from the
dear home circle to waste it upon the forgetful young Canadian who
was talking horse and politics by the rail.
She turned sharply, as Weldon's voice fell upon her ears.
"Happy New Year, Miss Dent! It is an odd wish to be giving, with the
mercury at ninety."
With her London gown, she had also donned her London manner, and her
answer was banal.
"But none the less welcome, for all its being so warm. May I return
it?"
He laughed, like the great, overgrown boy that he so often showed
himself.
"I decline to take it back. And where have you been, all the
morning?"
"Packing my steamer trunk. I have been on deck for nearly an hour,
though."
"I'm sorry I missed so much of the time. I don't see why I didn't
see you," he said regretfully. "I was over there by the rail with
Carew and a lot of the other fellows, watching the town show up. It
was mighty interesting, too, this getting one's first glimpse of a
new corner of the earth."
Most men would have seemed penitent over their absorption in other
things. Weldon merely acknowledged it as a matter of course, and
allowed the girl to draw her own conclusions. She drew them
accordingly. At first, they antagonized her. Later on, she admitted
their justice. Meanwhile, she kept her momentary antagonism quite to
herself, as she looked up into the face of her companion, an
earnest, manly face, in spite of its boyish outlines.
"It is hard for me to realize that you are a stranger here," she
answered him. "All the way out, you have given the impression of
having made the voyage any number of times."
"In what way?"
"In the way of getting what you wish in an utterly matter-of-course
fashion." Her laugh belied her London exterior and belonged to the
broad felt hat and the soft blouse of the past two weeks.
"That is the one compliment I most value, Miss Dent."
"See that you continue to live up to it, Mr. Weldon."
For an instant, they faced each other, a merry boy and girl. Then
Weldon's lips straightened resolutely, and he bowed.
"I will do my best," he answered slowly.
Half an hour later, he joined her at the gangway and took forcible
possession of her hand luggage.
"Surely," he said, in answer to her objections; "you will let me do
you this one last little service."
"Not if you call it that," she said quietly. "Our acquaintance is
only just beginning. If you are to be in Cape Town for a day or two,
come and let my mother thank you for your kindness to me, all the
way out."
He took her hand, outstretched in farewell.
"Even if I come as Trooper Weldon?" he asked with a smile.
And she answered, with a prophecy of whose truth she was as yet in
ignorance,--
"Trooper Weldon will always be a welcome guest in our home."
Then her father came to claim her. When she emerged from his
welcoming embrace, she saw Weldon, cap in hand, bowing to her from
what appeared a most unseemly distance. The next moment, he had
vanished in the crowd.