That was three weeks before.Ethel had supposed that Weldon would sail for home at once.He had supposed so, too, until all at once he had found it impossible to turn his back upon Cape Town and all it held.Deep down in his heart was the memory of Carew's words, assuring him of the reason of Ethel's sudden journey to Johannesburg after the fight at Vlaakfontein.The episode was now far away in the past.It might chance, however, that something of the old mood might linger in her mind.Carew had felt sure of her love for him.Perhaps she had loved him once, before the Captain had won the first place in her heart.Perhaps--He had grown dizzy and had grasped the edge of the pillow to steady himself, the first time the idea had dawned upon him--Perhaps, now that the Captain had gone beyond the reach of human love, he might win her to care for himself once more.The chance appeared to him to be wellnigh impossible; yet, while it lingered in his mind, he could not force himself to go away from Cape Town.
The worst of his convalescence was ended, before he was allowed to leave the Dents' home.He strained every nerve to hasten his full recovery.The path of Ethel Dent was not parallel to the course of any semi-invalid.If he were to meet her at all, it must be as a man in full health.By degrees, the color came back to his face, his lean figure lost something of its lankness, his tread grew firmer and more alert.But the old shadow still lingered in his eyes; the strained lines about his lips did not relax.Weldon's mental healing kept no pace with his physical one.
By degrees, too, his table littered itself with cards of invitation.
As yet, he felt himself too weak for any but the most informal functions; and Carew, always at his elbow, assured him from his own experience that informality, just then, was an unknown word in the social vocabulary of Cape Town.Carew, bidden on all sides, was dividing his time between his convalescent friend and the gayeties of early winter.He dined and danced almost without ceasing; and, in the intervals of his dining and dancing, he told over to Weldon all the details of his social career.And these details largely concerned themselves with Ethel Dent: how she looked, what she wore, what she said, with whom she danced and with whom she sat it out.
And, as he listened, Weldon made up his mind that, for him, the time for resting at home was ended.It was better, easier to go to see for himself than it was to sit at home and imagine things, or to hear about them, after they had happened.There was to be a reception at the Citadel, next week.He would begin with that.
One resolution led to the next.Only two days after he had determined upon the reception, he ordered Kruger Bobs to saddle the gray broncho and to attend him upon The Nig.Then, when the noon sun lay warm over the city, he mounted and, with Kruger Bobs behind him, he rode slowly down Adderley Street to the water front, and turned eastward to the home of the Dents.
The wide veranda and the great white pillars seemed like home to him, in all truth.That house had been the scene of some of his best hours, as of his worst ones, and his heart pounded madly against his ribs as he caught sight of its familiar outlines.Then he drew in his breath sharply and bore down hard in his stirrups, while his face went white to the lips.From the western end of the veranda a girlish figure had risen, halted for a moment with the sun beating full upon her vivid hair; then, heedless of the distant riders, it had turned and disappeared within the doorway.
The maid's face brightened, as she met Weldon at the door."But Mrs.
Dent is not at home," she said, with honest regret in her voice.
"She has gone out of town."
Weldon controlled his own voice as best he might.
"And Miss Dent?" he asked.
However, the maid had just broken the Baden-Powell tea-cup.Its fragments were still upon the floor, and she had no mind, just then, to face her young mistress.
"Miss Dent is not at home," she answered, with glib mendacity.And then she wondered why it was that Weldon's pallor turned from white to gray, as he went away down the steps.
Nevertheless, he fulfilled his resolution of going to the reception at the Citadel.For one reason, he had given his word to Carew.
Moreover, he felt that, for the honor of his manhood, he must accept his fate like a man.Four months before that time, Ethel Dent had stabbed him almost to the death.Now, with delicate precision, she had struck him full across the face.The touch had hurt him far more than the deeper wound had done; but, at least, she should never be aware of it.To his mind, she had forfeited all right to the knowledge.
He dressed with careful precision.More than once he was forced to sit down for a moment; more than once his fingers refused to do his bidding and his hands dropped inertly at his side.However, Carew found him waiting, hat in hand, and together they drove away to the Citadel.
Already, when they reached the door, the reception was nearing its highest tide.The rooms were bright with uniforms and with trailing gowns, gay with the hum of voices; and the lilt of a waltz came softly to them from across the distance.As they halted on the threshold, Weldon lifted his eyes and suddenly found them resting full upon Ethel Dent.The girl was quite at the farther end of the long room, the central figure of a little throng, and wholly unconscious of their presence.Her back was towards Weldon.He could only see the sweep of her shimmering gown, the heavy coils of yellow hair and the curve of one rounding cheek; yet, even in that partial view, he felt himself astounded at her vitality.It flashed until it dazzled him, and the dazzle hurt.He bowed to the governor and turned away into another room, striving, as he went, to account for the sudden depression which had fallen upon him.He had not expected to find Ethel Dent moping alone in a corner; neither had he looked for a radiant alertness such as he had never seen in her before.
