Up Commissioner Street and down Commissioner Street and around and around Market Square tramped a haggard man in khaki who surveyed all things with dull, unseeing eyes.On his cheek, an inch or so above his stubbly beard, was a wide cross of plaster, and his left wrist wore a narrow bandage.He walked with quick, nervous strides; yet every now and then he halted to rest for a moment.Then he hurried on again, as if pursued by some unseen, but malignant foe.
Twice he turned northward and paused before the hospital, staring irresolutely up at the lighted windows.Then, facing about abruptly, he moved on, swiftly, but with the mechanical tread of a man in a dream.Once he found himself resting on the steps of the Jewish synagogue.The next time he roused himself to take note of his surroundings, he was at the Berea Estate, following Hospital Hill straight to the eastward.It was then that he had turned about and faced back to the hospital.A scant half-dozen hours before, that hospital had held what was all the world to him.Now, without warning, that all had proved to be naught.
The blow had come crashing upon him, straight between the eyes and so suddenly that there had been no time for him to brace himself to meet it.From the moment of his facing Ethel in the doorway of the hospital, that noon, he had been sure that the talk which he would have with her, that evening, could bring but the one ending.At sight of the soiled and haggard man before her, her blue eyes had lighted with something far more than pleased surprise.His appearing had been quite unexpected; her meeting with him had been the naked impulse of her girlish heart.And, all that endless day, her grief for the Captain had in no way hidden her evident pleasure in his own presence.And then, all at once, had come the end, unexpected and hence doubly crushing.His young, newborn happiness was as little strong to bear the blow as were his exhausted body and his shattered nerve.Like a wild beast wounded to the death, he had crept silently away, to go through his agony, unseen.
Standing under the fierce glare of the electric light by the hospital gate, his appearance would wellnigh have baffled the recognition of his mother.Soiled and stained and tattered, his head sunk between his shoulders, he looked a feeble man of middle years.
Dark shadows lay around his heavy gray eyes, and the corners of his mouth drooped pitifully.And, somewhere inside that building, was the girl who had snatched away from him what was dearer than life itself.For six long months she had been the incentive to all of his best work; it had been her influence which finally had led him to come back into the firing line; it had been in the hope for the future, a hope growing less and less vague as the months passed by, that he had been willing and glad to prolong his stay through one more torrid African summer.And to what end?
Strange to say, it never once occurred to him to try to win her love now, after all that bad passed.Still less did it occur to him to doubt the truth of her final words to the Captain.Weldon had missed the look of appealing anguish in the blue eyes which she had lifted to his; but he had heard the low, steady voice, had seen the pressure of the living fingers answer to the slight movement of the hand already growing cold.He had heard, and seen.It was enough.
Always he had believed implicitly in Ethel's truth.There was no reason he should distrust her now.It was only that he had been an egregious ass to think that be could win her love, in the face of a man like Captain Leo Frazer.With a mighty effort, he straightened his shoulders, faced the wing where he knew the Captain would now be lying and reverently removed his hat.Then, for one last time, his eyes swept over the building and, turning away, he crawled off towards the railway station.
And, meanwhile, alone in a room behind one of those brightly-lighted windows, a girl sat huddled together, her crossed arms on her knees and her face buried in her arms, while she wailed to herself over and over again,--"He might have waited! He might have waited! My God in heaven, what have I done? But at least he might have waited!"A commissariat train was leaving Johannesburg at two o'clock the next morning.His pass in his hand, Weldon clambered drearily on the train for the long ride back to Kroonstad.Motion of any kind was better than remaining longer in Johannesburg.Nevertheless, the jolting of the train was wellnigh unbearable.His shoulder throbbed, and the dull pain in his head was maddening.He had passed the stage of weariness, however, where one is conscious of exhaustion.An ever-tightening strain was upon him.He could not rest now; he must go on, and on, and on, faster and ever faster, until at last something should snap and quiet perforce should overtake him.
Early dawn found him at Kroonstad.Sleep had been impossible for him; he had no appetite for food, and it took an ever-increasing effort for him to pull himself together.Like a man mounting a steep, pathless hill, he tried to drag himself up above the consciousness of his aching head and throbbing wounds; but it was not to be done.At the station he halted irresolutely.Then of a sudden he faced towards the great hospital tent.
"I want something to steady me a bit," he said briefly to the first doctor he met there."I have two or three scratches, and I am feeling fagged.Give me something to help me get a grip on myself again, for I can't spend time to be ill."The doctor remonstrated; but Weldon's answer was peremptory.
