"Carew, it is five weeks that I have been in this house. Mr. Dent
and dear little Mother Dent have been angel-good to me. Miss Dent--"
He hesitated.
"Has been an archangel?" Carew supplemented calmly.
"Has never once come into my sight."
Deliberately, forcefully, the next words dropped from Carew's
tongue. "The--devil--she--hasn't!"
"No."
Then Weldon waited for Carew to speak; but Carew merely sat and
stared at his friend in speechless stupefaction.
"Oh, Lord!" he blurted out at last. "Then you haven't made it up?"
"There was nothing to make up," Weldon said drearily.
Again Carew's elbows came down on his knees with a bump.
"There was, too!" he contradicted, with an explosiveness which
irresistibly reminded Weldon of their kindergarten days.
"What makes you think so?"
"I don't think. I know."
"How do you know?" Weldon asked listlessly.
"Alice Mellen told me," Carew replied conclusively.
"Told you what?"
"That Cooee Dent is in love with you."
From his superior knowledge, Weldon stared disdainfully up at him.
"Then there is one thing that Alice Mellen doesn't know."
"She does, then. She told me about it, when you went off on your
feed, up at Lindley," Carew explained hurriedly. "I was worried
about you, and she was worried about Miss Dent, and we compared
notes. You hadn't said a word of any kind; we could only guess at
things, so we wrote to each other about it. She told me then about
Miss Dent's dashing up to Johannesburg after Vlaakfontein."
"She went to see her cousin."
"She also went to see you."
Carew's emphatic pause was broken by the coming of the nurse, who
bent over the bed, raising her brows inquiringly, as she laid two
fingers on Weldon's wrist. Carew took the obvious hint.
"I hope I've not stopped too long," he said, as he rose. "It has
been good to see Mr. Weldon. May I come again?"
The nurse was a true woman. Therefore she smiled back into his
happy, handsome face.
"I think you may," she answered. "Mr. Weldon is tired now, but you
evidently have done him good."
Carew meditated aloud, as he went away down the walk.
"Out of every five women, three are cats," he observed tranquilly to
himself. "I've cornered the fourth. It remains to be seen whether
Weldon is cornered by the fifth, or only the third. Hasn't been to
see him! Little beast! But I'll bet any amount of gold money that
she has done endless messing for him on the sly."
Carew's words showed that it is usually not the man in love with a
woman who is the shrewdest judge of the hidden recesses of that
woman's nature. The fact was, Ethel had slaved unceasingly, but
unseen, for the patient above stairs. See him she would not. Day
after day, she invented fresh excuses to ward off her mother's
suggestions of a call on the invalid; but also, day by day, she
invented fresh delicacies to tempt the appetite dulled by months of
army biscuit and bully beef. And, meanwhile, she was waiting.
Rather to her surprise, no message came down to her from the
invalid's room. She had supposed as a matter of course that Weldon
would intuitively recognize the source of the dainties which reached
him anonymously. Man-fashion, however, he could see no reason that
his beef tea and his wine jelly should be the work of different
hands. He devoured them both, and reflected thankfully upon the
skill of the Kaffir cook. Mr. Dent had been scrupulously literal in
carrying out the commands laid upon him by his daughter. He had left
in Weldon's mind no doubt whatsoever about the truth of his
statement that Mrs. Dent alone had been responsible for the
invalid's present quarters. Weldon had lavished thanks upon Mrs.
Dent, and she had received them without demur, as her own lawful
property. Even now, he was at a loss whether his recovery was more
owing to Mrs. Dent or to the nurse. Each had given to him a large
share of her vitality.
From a distance, he could follow Ethel's doings, could assure
himself that his presence was no apparent check upon her happiness.
Now it was the muffled whirr of the bell, followed by low voices
from the room beneath. Now it was the roll of the carriage, bearing
her away to dine or to dance, and leaving Weldon to lie and count
the minutes until she returned. Now it was her light footstep on the
stairs, or, but this was only at long intervals, her hushed voice in
the hallway outside his door. At first, he used to lie and hold his
breath, while he waited for her to open the door of his room. By
degrees, however, he ceased to expect her. And, as the expectation
died away, he chafed increasingly at the slowness of his recovery.
Anything to get out of that house! She treated him as he would have
scorned to treat an invalid dog who had taken refuge in his stable.
All this came slowly. For two endless weeks, Weldon lay unconscious.
For two more endless weeks, he raved in delirium. Happily, his nurse
was a discreet woman. She discouraged the visits of Mrs. Dent and
her husband, offered the excuse that strange faces excited the
invalid, and only admitted them during his brief intervals of sleep.
Meanwhile, she used all her professional principles to keep herself
from trying to solve the problem before her eyes. Upstairs was a man
sick unto death, a man who raved ceaselessly of the daughter of the
house. Downstairs, the daughter of the house was going her
accustomed way, with never a question in regard to the man above.
What had happened? How, if anything had happened, how did he chance
to be in that home, with Mrs. Dent as his devoted and anxious slave?
Resolutely, she fell to studying her temperature charts. Her
specialty was fever, not heart disease.
A week after the tide had turned, Carew had been allowed to spend a
short half-hour with the invalid. The next day, by advice of the
nurse, Mr. Dent telephoned to him to come again. Something, whether
in his personality or in his talk, had been of tonic power over
Weldon. It seemed wise to repeat the experiment.
Carew came on the heels of his own voice through the telephone; and
his face was smiling broadly, as he went leaping up the stairs.
After all, it had not been in vain, his quixotic lingering in Cape
Town for a weary month after receiving his discharge. Weldon and he
had been good friends through thick and thin; it would have been
beastly to leave him. And now, after all these useless weeks, he
could at least do something to lighten the convalescence. Moreover,
Carew's pocket held three letters, received that very noon; one of
grudging approval from his son-sick mother, one of chaotic, but
heartfelt thanks from Mrs. Weldon, and the third one an affirmative
answer to a telegram he had sent to Alice Mellen, only the night
before. He went into Weldon's room, looking, as he felt, the
embodiment of happiness and health.
He hailed Weldon from the threshold. Tidings like his could wait
during no interchange of mere conventional greetings. Weldon heard
him to the end, congratulated him, demanded the repetition of all
the details. Then, when Carew's excitement had quite spent itself,
Weldon drew a letter from underneath his pillow.
"It came, this morning," he added laconically.
Carew seized the letter and ran his eye down the page. Then his face
lighted.
"Nunc dimittis!" he said piously. "It's sure to be yours! Have you
told Miss Dent?"
"I've not seen Miss Dent."
Carew's face fell.
"Not yet? But you will. And then you will tell her?"
Weldon's lips straightened into a thin line. He shook his head.
"But she ought to know."
"Why?"
"It is her right."
"Why?" Weldon asked again.
"Because--it is. It might make some difference in--"
Weldon stopped him abruptly.
"It could make no difference, Carew. In facing the main question,
such things as that don't count. Even if they did, though," he rose
on his elbow and faced his friend steadily; "even if they did, I
would never consent to try to bribe a girl into loving me, by
telling her I had won the V. C. It will be time enough for Miss Dent
to hear of it, when it is given."
"But you will be in England then," Carew objected practically.
Weldon lay down again and drew the sheet upward till its shadow lay
across his lips.
"What matter?" he answered slowly. "And, besides, Miss Dent isn't
the girl to be won in any such way as that. Hers is a love to be
given, not bought."
Half an hour later, Carew met Ethel on the stairs. As he halted to
speak to her, he was shocked at the look in her face. The lips were
smiling; but the eyes were the eyes of a hunted animal.
"So long since we have met!" he said, as he took her hand. "And so
much has happened."
"Yes. I have been hoping to congratulate you," she answered.
"It was a stunning letter you wrote me," he said boyishly. "I
suppose we are cousins now."
Then there came a little pause. Before either of them quite realized
it, the pause had lengthened until it was hard to break.
"I have been up to see the invalid," he blurted out at last.
"How is he?" the girl inquired courteously.
"Better." Then a sudden note of resentment crept into Carew's honest
voice. "He is counting the days now before he can be moved. He says
your mother has been wonderfully good to him."
The girl stood aside to let Carew pass her by.
"She is good to everybody," she assented quietly. "I hope Mr. Weldon
won't think of going away until he can be moved with perfect safety.
It is really no trouble to have him here, and the nurse is very
capable."
And Carew bowed in agreement. Once outside the door, however, he
freed his mind, tersely and with vigor.
"Damn the nurse!" he said to the oak tree, as he passed it.