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.
