On The Firing Line [2]
Ethel admitted to herself that it was good to have some one take possession of her in this summary fashion.
"Is Miss Arthur still unhappy?" he asked, as he swung into step at her side.
"Yes. She has taken to her hymnal, this morning, in search of consolation. I tried to coax her to get up and go ashore; but she said there was no use in experiencing the same woe twice."
"I am afraid I do not quite catch the lady's line of argument," Weldon remarked doubtfully.
The girl laughed. Then she decorously checked her laugh and endeavored to turn sympathetic once more.
"She means to make one prolonged illness. Else she will only recover in order to fall ill again." "Oh." Weldon's tone was still blank. "And shall you go ashore?"
She shook her head.
"I am sorry. You would find any amount to see."
"I am sorry, too," she said frankly. "Still, I don't see how I can, without Miss Arthur."
His hands in his pockets, Weldon took a dozen steps in doubtful silence.
"I'll tell you what we can do, Miss Dent: Harry Carew, one of the fellows going out with me, had a note of introduction to Colonel Scott and his wife. He is the pompous old Englishman across the table. I'll get Carew to introduce us, and perhaps they will let us go ashore with them."
"But are they going?" she asked irresolutely.
"Surely. We have three hours here. I know Carew's mother well; she and Mrs. Scott were schoolmates at Madame Prather's in London."
She looked up with sudden interest.
"Madame Prather's? That is where I have been, for the past five years."
"Then we are all right," Weldon said coolly. "The arrangement is made. Carew is the only missing link. Excuse me, and I will go in search of him."
It was high noon when the Dunottar Castle finally weighed anchor at Funchal and started on her long, unbroken voyage to the southward. Side by side in the stern, Weldon and Ethel looked back at the blue harbor dotted with the myriad little boats, at the quaint town backed with its amphitheatre of sunlit hills and, poised on the summit, the church where Nossa Senhora do Monte keeps watch and ward over the town beneath. Ethel's experience was the broader for her hilarious ride in a bullock-drawn palanquin. Weldon's experience was more instructive. It taught him that, her hat awry and her yellow hair loosened about her laughing face, Ethel Dent was tenfold more attractive than when she made her usual decorous entrance to the dining-room.
Mrs. Scott had been a willing chaperon and an efficient one. Nevertheless, as they stood together in the stern, looking out across the gold-flecked sea, Weldon felt that he had made a long stride, that morning, towards acquaintance with his companion. And, even now, the voyage was nearly all before them.
As if in answer to his thoughts, she lifted her eyes to his face.
"Twelve more days!" she said slowly.
"Are you sorry?"
She shook her head.
"Glad and sorry both. I love the sea; but home is at the end of it."
"You live out there?" he asked.
She smiled at the question. "Yes, if out there means Cape Town. At least, my parents live there."
"How long have you been in England?" he queried, while, abandoning all pretence of interest in the fast-vanishing town, he turned his back to the rail in order to face his companion more directly.
"Always, except for one year, six years ago, and a summer--summer in England, I mean--two years later."
Rather inconsequently, Weldon attacked the side issue suggested by her words.
"How does it seem to have one's seasons standing on their heads?"
She answered question with question. "Haven't you been out before?"
"No."
"I supposed you had taken the voyage any number of times. But about the seasons, it doesn't count for much until you come to Christmas. No England-born mortal can hang up his stocking in mid-summer without a pang of regretful homesickness."
Weldon laughed.
"Do you substitute a refrigerator for a chimney corner?" he asked. "But are you England-born?"
"Yes. My father went out only seven years ago. The 'home'
"Is Miss Arthur still unhappy?" he asked, as he swung into step at her side.
"Yes. She has taken to her hymnal, this morning, in search of consolation. I tried to coax her to get up and go ashore; but she said there was no use in experiencing the same woe twice."
"I am afraid I do not quite catch the lady's line of argument," Weldon remarked doubtfully.
The girl laughed. Then she decorously checked her laugh and endeavored to turn sympathetic once more.
"She means to make one prolonged illness. Else she will only recover in order to fall ill again." "Oh." Weldon's tone was still blank. "And shall you go ashore?"
She shook her head.
"I am sorry. You would find any amount to see."
"I am sorry, too," she said frankly. "Still, I don't see how I can, without Miss Arthur."
His hands in his pockets, Weldon took a dozen steps in doubtful silence.
"I'll tell you what we can do, Miss Dent: Harry Carew, one of the fellows going out with me, had a note of introduction to Colonel Scott and his wife. He is the pompous old Englishman across the table. I'll get Carew to introduce us, and perhaps they will let us go ashore with them."
"But are they going?" she asked irresolutely.
"Surely. We have three hours here. I know Carew's mother well; she and Mrs. Scott were schoolmates at Madame Prather's in London."
She looked up with sudden interest.
"Madame Prather's? That is where I have been, for the past five years."
"Then we are all right," Weldon said coolly. "The arrangement is made. Carew is the only missing link. Excuse me, and I will go in search of him."
It was high noon when the Dunottar Castle finally weighed anchor at Funchal and started on her long, unbroken voyage to the southward. Side by side in the stern, Weldon and Ethel looked back at the blue harbor dotted with the myriad little boats, at the quaint town backed with its amphitheatre of sunlit hills and, poised on the summit, the church where Nossa Senhora do Monte keeps watch and ward over the town beneath. Ethel's experience was the broader for her hilarious ride in a bullock-drawn palanquin. Weldon's experience was more instructive. It taught him that, her hat awry and her yellow hair loosened about her laughing face, Ethel Dent was tenfold more attractive than when she made her usual decorous entrance to the dining-room.
Mrs. Scott had been a willing chaperon and an efficient one. Nevertheless, as they stood together in the stern, looking out across the gold-flecked sea, Weldon felt that he had made a long stride, that morning, towards acquaintance with his companion. And, even now, the voyage was nearly all before them.
As if in answer to his thoughts, she lifted her eyes to his face.
"Twelve more days!" she said slowly.
"Are you sorry?"
She shook her head.
"Glad and sorry both. I love the sea; but home is at the end of it."
"You live out there?" he asked.
She smiled at the question. "Yes, if out there means Cape Town. At least, my parents live there."
"How long have you been in England?" he queried, while, abandoning all pretence of interest in the fast-vanishing town, he turned his back to the rail in order to face his companion more directly.
"Always, except for one year, six years ago, and a summer--summer in England, I mean--two years later."
Rather inconsequently, Weldon attacked the side issue suggested by her words.
"How does it seem to have one's seasons standing on their heads?"
She answered question with question. "Haven't you been out before?"
"No."
"I supposed you had taken the voyage any number of times. But about the seasons, it doesn't count for much until you come to Christmas. No England-born mortal can hang up his stocking in mid-summer without a pang of regretful homesickness."
Weldon laughed.
"Do you substitute a refrigerator for a chimney corner?" he asked. "But are you England-born?"
"Yes. My father went out only seven years ago. The 'home'