It was the old, time-worn, sordid story that the world is aweary of—his wife’s education and morality proved to be inferior to her beauty. After enduring two soul-wracking years of jealousy and humiliation as the result of the unfortunate misalliance that he had contracted, he obtained a divorce, and, abandoning his career, went to South Africa, where he strove to efface the bitter memories of his past misery amidst the vast whirlpool of cosmopolitan adventurers that thronged the Rand.
Still retaining the skill and love of his profession that had once created him a power amongst his fellow-men, he rapidly acquired an immense practise in Johannesburg. This, coupled with various lucky mining speculations, enabled him in a few years to amass a considerable fortune which, alas, was doomed, however, to be swept away, along with thousands of others, at the commencement of the great war. Declining, then, the offer of an important position at the Wynberg base-hospital, he became the principal medical officer of the Irregular Horse, which Ellis had joined—composed mainly of his fellow-refugees of the Rand. Possessing much personal bravery, he served throughout the war with great gallantry, exhibiting on many occasions such an utter disregard for his own life whilst attending wounded men under fire, that frequently caused him to be mentioned in despatches.
The climax of that long-protracted, bitter struggle, leaving him an impoverished man once more, he forsook the country that had engulfed his second fortune and prospects. Still resolutely turning his face away from England, he came to Western Canada, where his ability in his profession speedily raised him again in the medical world. Here, working hard and drinking obstinately, he led an existence which, if it was not commendable, was only in accord with that of many others whom Fate and the vicissitudes of life have entreated thus unkindly.
Most men can, and invariably do, recover from the first benumbing effects of misfortune, but—they cannot forget. In appearance the doctor was a rather distinguished-looking man, tall and powerfully-built, with closely cropped iron-gray hair, and a complexion that was bronzed and roughened by years of exposure to a tropical sun. That worn, haggard face of his, though, told a real tale. The furrows there had been plowed by an enduring bitterness, and though only in his forty-fifth year, he looked considerably older.
Exchanging a few desultory remarks, they strolled on down the sidewalk and, passing the station, drew near to the last of the scattered houses. During their progress Ellis had been aware of light footsteps following them and, glancing back once or twice, had noticed a woman approaching. Soon she caught up to them and, thinking that she was about to pass, he drew in close to Musgrave to give her room to get by. Presently she came alongside and, to his utter surprise, a sweet, girlish voice said, coaxingly:
“Why, hello, Church’; coming in?” And a hand caught his that hung at his side and gave it a gentle squeeze.
They were just within the glare of one of the few street lamps that the ill-lighted little town boasted, and opposite the gate of the end cottage. He beheld a girl, whose age he might have computed at anything between eighteen and twenty-five—tall, and voluptuously formed, with thick masses of dark hair that curled in little wavy tendrils around a broad, low, white forehead with level brows. Her complexion still retained the soft bloom of that of a healthy country girl, and a pair of bewitching dark-brown eyes flashed into his with a fluttering self-consciousness that told him many things.
Musgrave took a step or two forward and, turning, contemplated the scene with lazy curiosity, not unmixed with amusement. Sheer astonishment tied Benton’s tongue for an instant, then:
“Sorry, sister,” he said gravely. “Guess you’ve got the wrong number. Better ring up again.”
The girl uttered a little gasping giggle of surprise.