PART TWO
CHAPTER I.
THE UNSUSPECTED CITY
Hemming happened upon the city of Pernamba on the evening of a sultry day in April. He manifested no surprise beyond straightening his monocle in his eye.
"Hope they have some English soda-water down there," he said to the heavy foliage about him, "but I suppose it would be hardly fair to expect an ice factory so far from the coast." For a second a vision of tall glasses and ice that clinked came to his mind's eye. He remembered the cool dining-rooms of his friends in Pernambuco. He spurred his native-bred steed to a hesitating trot along the narrow, hoof-worn path that led down to the valley. At a mud and timber hut set beneath banana-trees, and backed by a tiny field, he drew rein. A woman sat before the door, looking cool and at ease in her scanty cotton dress. A naked child chased a pig among the bananas. Hemming greeted the woman in Portuguese. She gave him humble greeting in return. The pig and the baby came near to listen. Hemming swung his feet free from the stirrups, to straighten the kink out of his knees. He pushed back his pith helmet, and lit a cigarette.
"What is the name of the town?" he asked, smiling reassuringly.
The woman told him, standing respectfully on the earthen threshold. Such square shoulders and clear eyes as this Englishman's were not every-day sights in Pernamba.
"May a stranger find entertainment there?" he inquired.
"Yes," she replied, "and the great man who owns it is generous to strangers. He is a big man, full of wisdom, smoking eternally a yellow cigar not of this country."
Hemming dismounted, the better to rest his horse. Although he had ridden all that day and the day before, he felt no fatigue himself. The tropical sun, the narrow water-cut paths, and the clambering vines held in the heated air and luring him with strange flowers, brought him no terror. But he polished his monocle and sighed uneasily, for his store of milreis had dwindled since leaving Pernambuco a week before to a sum equalling about eleven pounds in English money.
"Has this man an army?" he asked.
"Truly a great army," replied the woman, "for I have seen it myself, riding after thieves. It numbers five hundred men, all armed, and wearing white tunics, and all paid for by this man. He must be richer than a king to support so grand an army."
Hemming smiled toward the white and red roofs and clumps of foliage in the valley, thinking, maybe, of his own old regiment, of Aldershot during a review, of the hill batteries that had supported the infantry advance in India, and of the fifty regiments under canvas in Tampa.
"I crave a drink," he said,—"a finger of your good casash in a bowl of cool water."
The woman brought it, smiling with hospitality, and would not accept the ragged bill which he held out to her.
"It is a pleasure," cried she, "to slake the thirst of so distinguished a señor."
Hemming bowed gravely, a smile lifting his upturned, pale moustache. The baby came close, on all fours, and examined his yellow riding-boots and straight spurs. Hemming patted the small one's limp black hair.
"This is a kindly world," he said in English, then to the woman: "Let thy son wear this ring,—see, it fits his thumb. Should any man ask the name of his friend, say it is Hemming, an Englishman."
He pushed the child gently toward its mother, and, swinging to his saddle, rode down toward the city. His gray eyes took in everything,—the yellowing fruit, the fields of cane, the mud huts of the poor, the thin horses of the charcoal-burners crowding out of the trail to let him pass, and the patches of manioc.
All this he beheld with satisfaction. In a thin book he made a note, thus: "Pernamba, name of town evidently run by a governor of independent spirit. Army of 500, evidently mounted infantry. Welcomed to outskirts of city by kind peasant woman, evening of April 6, 19—. Same climate and crops as rest of Brazil. Eleven pounds in my pockets in Brazilian notes and small coin. What does Pernamba hold for H.H. I wonder? A dinner or two, perhaps, and a couple of chapters for my book."
Presently the twisting path met a highway between royal palms. Good-sized villas, their walls all blue and white with glazed tiles, their roofs dusky red, or else flat and railed about with white stones, each in its separate garden. The gardens were enclosed by high walls of brick, such as he had seen many times in the resident sections of Pernambuco. For months he had lived in just such a house, and lolled in just such a garden.
"The old Dutch influence," he said, tossing his cigarette over the nearest wall. A bullock-cart came creaking along the road, the patient cattle, with heads held low and a straight yoke across their wrinkled necks, the driver walking at their heels, sombre with dust, and daintily puffing a cigarette. The cart was loaded with sacks of sugar, which sent up a heavy, sickly smell. Hemming hailed the driver.
"Where does the governor live, my friend?"
"The President, señor? There behind the white panthers." With the stock of his rawhide whip, the fellow pointed to an iron gate, set between posts of red brick, topped with marble panthers. Each panther held a shield between its front paws. Hemming threw the bullock-driver a coin, and rode on the pavement, the better to examine the armorial design on the shields. He laughed softly.
"Familiar," he said, "ah, yes, a good enough old Devonshire shield. I have admired it in the dining-room of the Governor of Newfoundland. Now I doff my hat to it at the entrance of a president's residence. Dash it all, I have outgrown dismay, and a jolly good thing, too." He flecked a leaf off his knee with the tip of his glove.
"Queer I never heard about this before,—and what the deuce is a Brazilian doing with those arms? Can this be where that crazy American whom old Farrington told me about hangs out?" His brow cleared, and he bowed to the expressionless panthers.
A sentry, who had been standing a few paces off, with a cavalry sabre at his shoulder and a cigarette in his mouth, now drew near and saluted. Hemming returned the salute sharply. This same custom of smoking on sentry-go had jarred on him many a time in Pernambuco. He had noticed the same thing in Bahia.
"I would see the President," he said, and passed his card to the soldier. From a small guard-house just inside the wall came several more white-clad men. One of these hurried away with Hemming's card, and presently returned. The gates were swung wide open; Hemming rode in at a dress-parade trot, travel-stained, straight of back, his monocle flashing in his eye. Soldiers posted here and there among the palms and roses and trim flower-beds stood at attention as he passed.
He drew rein and dismounted at the foot of the marble steps. A tall, heavily built man, dressed in a black frock coat and white trousers, came down to meet him. A man in livery took his horse.
"Mr. Hemming," said the large man, "I am the President." He popped a fat, yellow cigar into his mouth, and shook hands. "Come in," he said. He led the way into a large tiled room, containing a billiard-table of the American kind, a roll-top desk, and an office chair. The windows of the room were all on one side, and opened on a corner of the gardens, in which a fountain tossed merrily. The President sank into a chair in the easiest manner, and threw one leg over the arm of it. Then he noticed, with a quick twinkle in his blue eyes, Hemming in the middle of the floor, erect and unsmiling.
"Mr. Hemming," he said, "I want your respect, but none of that stiff-backed ceremony between gentlemen. I am neither Roosevelt nor Albert Edward. Even Morgan is a bigger man than I am, though I still hope. You have been in the English army, and you like to have things starched; well, so do I sometimes. Please fall into that chair."
Hemming blushed and sat down. The man was evidently crazy. "My name is Tetson," said the President. He rang the bell and a native servant entered.
"Thank you, a Scotch and soda," said Hemming.
"Ah, I knew it," laughed the other, "though I always take rye myself."
The servant bowed and retired.
"I see the illustrated weeklies of both New York and London," continued Tetson, "and I always look for your articles. I like them. I know something about your family, also, Hemming. I have 'Burke's Landed Gentry' and 'Who's Who' on my desk. You are a grandson of Sir Bertram Hemming of Barracker."
"Yes," replied Hemming, both surprised and embarrassed.
"Well," said the President, "I have some blood in me, too. My mother's grandmother was a Gostwycke. Did you notice the three stars and six choughs?"
"I know the head of your house at home, Colonel Bruce-Gostwycke, and another distinguished member of it in the colonies, Sir Henry Renton," replied Hemming. "But," he continued, briskly, twisting his moustache, "you are something bigger than that here. Why do you hold this little half-dead county family so high?"
"My mother in New York taught me to," replied Tetson, "and then this business is different. I did it, as you Englishmen say, off my own bat. A pile of money, a lot of gall, a little knowledge of the weakness of men in office,—this is all about it. Even now most of my friends think me a fool." He gravely relit his yellow cigar. The reek of it was worse than jerked beef to Hemming. "I will tell you my story some day, but now you want a shower-bath and a change. Please consider yourself at home. Sudden friendships may not be good form in England, but they are all right back here."
"Ah," said Hemming, "I have brushed about a bit; I'm not such a—so English as I look."
Tetson turned to the servant: "Tell Smith to look after Mr. Hemming. Smith is a handy man. You will find all kinds of cigarettes in his keeping, and we shall dine at eight. If you feel hungry in the meantime, tell Smith."
He arose and shook hands. Hemming followed the servant, inwardly wondering, outwardly calm. He had met many strange people in his adventurous life, and had become accustomed to luck of every kind, but this big President, with the yellow cigar, was beyond anything he had ever dreamed.
"I am glad I was born with imagination, and have enjoyed the enlightening society of O'Rourke in so many strange places," he thought.
Smith proved to be a clean-shaven man, all in white and brass buttons. Hemming surveyed him with interest.
"I see that you are an Englishman, Smith," he said.
"No, sir," replied Smith, in faultless tones. "I was born on the Bowery. But I have been in London, sir, yes, sir, with Mr. Tetson. We haven't always lived in this 'ere 'ole."
It seemed to Hemming that the h's had been dropped with a certain amount of effort on the man's part, and that his eyes twinkled in a quite uncalled-for way. But it did not bother him now. Even a valet may be allowed his joke.
Soon he was enjoying the luxury of a shower-bath in a great, cool room, standing by itself in a vineyard and rose garden. The shower fell about six feet before it touched his head. The roof of the building was open to the peak, and a subdued light, leaf-filtered, came down through a glass tile set in among the earthen ones. The walls and floor were of white and blue tiles. The bath was of marble, as large as an English billiard-table, and not unlike the shallow basin of a fountain.
Cool and vigorous, Hemming stepped from the bath, replaced his eye-glass, and lit a cigarette. Swathed in a white robe, with his feet in native slippers, he unlocked the door and issued into the scented garden air. Smith awaited him in the vine-covered alley, holding a "swizzle" on a silver tray. He drained the glass, and, lifting up the hem of his robe, followed the valet back to the dressing-room. Chameleons darted across his path, and through the palms floated the ringing notes of a bugle-call.
"I found your razors and your brushes in the saddle-bags," announced Smith, "and these shirts, sir, I bought, guessing at your size, and—"
"What is this?" interrupted Hemming, holding aloft a white jacket heavy with gold.
"Mess jacket of our regiment, sir. The President would feel honoured if you would wear it. And these trousers were sent in by one of the native officers, with his compliments," replied the valet.
Hemming curtly intimated his readiness to dress. Smith closed the shutters, turned on the lights, and examined a couple of razors.
Twenty minutes later, Herbert Hemming, in the mess uniform of a colonel in the President of Pernamba's army, was ushered into the presence of the family, and a certain Mr. Valentine Hicks.
CHAPTER II.
THE SPORTING PRESIDENT
The President's name was Harris William Tetson. His wife had been Mary Appleton, born of cultured parents in Philadelphia. She welcomed Hemming in the most friendly manner. The third member of the family was a tall girl, with a soft voice and an English accent. She shook hands with Hemming, and he noticed that the pressure of her hand was firm and steady, like that of a man's. She wore glasses. The light from the shaded candles glowed warm on her white neck and arms. Hemming had not expected to find any one like this in the interior of South America. He used to know girls like her at home, and one in particular flashed into his memory with a pang of bitterness. In his agitation, he almost overlooked the extended hand of Mr. Valentine Hicks.
The dinner was of great length. A few of the dishes were American, but most were of the country. Two dusky servants waited upon the diners. The claret was to Hemming's taste, and, as he listened to Miss Tetson describe an incident of her morning's ride, a feeling of rest and homeliness came to him. A little wind stole in from the roses and fountains, and the man of wars and letters, great dreams and unsung actions, saw, with wondering eyes, that it loosened a red petal from the roses at her shoulder and dropped it upon her white arm. He looked up sharply, and only the light of genial friendship remained in the eyes that met those of Valentine Hicks. But Hicks looked sulky; understanding came to the heart of Hemming. At last the dinner came to an end, and Tetson dropped the subject of freight on sugar, and took up the lighter one of real estate. Coffee was brought; no one listened to Tetson, but he prosed on, his good-natured face turned toward the shadows in the ceiling, a yellow cigar stuck jauntily in his mouth. Hemming was busy with his own thoughts, wondering into what nest of lunatics his free-lancing had brought him. He longed for O'Rourke's help. The girl drew something from her bodice, and laid it before him. It was a cigarette-case.
"You may take one, if you do not bore us by looking shocked," she said.
Hemming drew forth a cigarette, and lit it at the nearest candle. "As to being shocked," he replied, "why, I used to know a girl who—" he stopped suddenly and glanced down at his coffee. "Of course it is quite the thing now," he added, in stilted tones.
Hicks refused a cigarette from the silver case, and moodily puffed at a black native cigar. Mrs. Tetson did not smoke, but entertained the others with a description of her first and only attempt at the recreation.
The little wind died away. Outside, the fountain splashed sleepily. The blood-red petal fell from the girl's arm to the whiter cloth. A flame-bewildered moth bungled into the President's coffee. Hemming's workaday brain was lulled to repose, and now he was only Hemming the poet. He looked into the eyes across the table. But he had lived so long with men, and the foolish, evident affairs of generals and statesmen, that Miss Tetson's glances were as weapons for which he knew no manual of defence. They touched him more than he liked, awaking in his hitherto disciplined memory a hundred fibres of broken dreams. And every fibre tingled like a nerve with a sweetness sharp as pain,—and time swung back, and all the healing of his long exile was undone.
When the ladies rose from the table, Mr. Tetson came over to Hemming and nudged him confidentially. He looked very sly. "What d'ye say to a game of billiards?" he whispered.
"Delighted," murmured Hemming, relieved that his strange host had not suggested something worse.
"I like the game," continued Tetson, "but as Hicks is a damn fool at it, I don't indulge very often. Hicks is too young, anyway,—a nice fellow, but altogether too young for men to associate with. Trotting 'round with the girls is more in his line."
"Really," remarked the newcomer, uneasily. He was not quite sure whether or not Hicks had got out of ear-shot.
"Fact," said the President,—"cold truth. Marion can't play, either. I've had Santosa up several times for a game, but he's too dashed respectful to beat me. You'll not be that way, Hemming?"
"I should hope not," replied Hemming, absently, his eyes still turned toward the door through which the rest of the party had vanished.
"What d'ye say to five dollars the game?" Tetson whispered. The adventurer's heart sank, but he followed his host to the billiard-room with an unconcerned air. They played until past midnight, the President in his shirt-sleeves, with the yellow cigar smouldering always. A servant marked for them, and another uncorked the soda-water. After the last shot had been made, Valentine Hicks strolled in, with his hands in his pockets and his brow clouded.
"Did the old man do you?" he inquired of Hemming.
The free-lance shook his head. "I took ten pounds away from him," he said.
The secretary whistled.
CHAPTER III.
THE POST OF HONOUR.—THE SECRETARY'S AFFAIR
Hemming awoke with a clear head, despite the President's whiskey, and remembered, with satisfaction, the extra ten pounds. His windows were wide open, and a cool dawn wind came in across the gardens. He threw aside the sheet and went over to the middle window, and, finding that the ledge extended to form a narrow balcony, stepped outside. Away to the right, he could mark a bend of the river by the low-lying mist. He sniffed the air. "There is fever in it," he said, and wondered how many kinds of a fool Mr. Tetson was. He was sorry for the ladies. They did not look like the kind of people to enjoy being shut away from the world in such a God-forsaken hole as this. Why didn't the old ass start a town on the coast? he asked himself. While engaged in these puzzling reflections, Smith rapped at the door, and entered. He carried coffee, a few slices of dry toast, and a jug of shaving-water.
"Will you ride this morning, sir?" he asked.
"Why, yes," replied Hemming, and said he would be shaved before drinking his coffee. As the valet lathered his chin, he asked if the President rode every morning.
"Not 'e, sir," replied the man, "but Miss Tetson does, and Mr. 'Icks."
Hemming found his well-worn riding-breeches brushed and folded, his boots and spurs shining like the sun, and a new cotton tunic ready for him. He looked his surprise at sight of the last article.
"You didn't give me any order, sir," explained the man, "but, bein' as I'm a bit of a tilor myself, I thought as 'ow you wouldn't mind—"
Hemming interrupted him with uplifted hand.
"It was very kind of you," he said, "and I am sure it is an excellent fit. See if you can't find a sovereign among that change on the table."
As he rode through the great gates, Hemming caught sight of Miss Tetson along the road. At sound of his horse's hoofs, she turned in her saddle and waved her hand. He touched his little white stallion into that renowned sliding run that had made it famous in Pernambuco. They rode together for over an hour. Hicks did not turn out that morning.
Mr. Valentine Hicks was young, and an American. Though he had been born in Boston, he lacked something in breeding,—a very shadowy something that would correct itself as life took him in hand. Though he had been an undergraduate of Harvard University for two years, he displayed to Hemming's mind a childish ignorance of men and books. No doubt he had practised the arts of drop-kicking and tackling with distinction, for he was big and well muscled. He was distantly connected with the Tetsons, and had joined them in Pernamba soon after their arrival in the country, and two years previous to the opening of this narrative, to act as Tetson's private secretary. At first Mr. Hicks looked with suspicion upon the wandering Englishman. He was in an unsettled frame of mind at the time, poor fellow. He saw in Hemming a dangerous rival to his own monopoly of Miss Tetson. Already the lady was talking about some sort of book the duffer had written.
A few days after Hemming's arrival, the army, to the number of four hundred rank and file and twenty-six officers, was drawn up for the President's inspection. Hemming rode with Tetson, and the little brown soldiers wondered at the frosty glitter of his eye-glass. His mount was the same upon which he had entered the country,—a white, native-bred stallion, the gift of one McPhey, a merchant in Pernambuco. Miss Tetson and Hicks, each followed by a groom, trotted aimlessly about the waiting ranks, much to Hemming's disgust. Tetson lit the inevitable yellow weed.
"What do you think of them?" he asked, waving his hand toward the troops.
"They look to me as if they were stuffed with bran," answered the Englishman, "and their formation is all wrong."
"Ah," said Tetson, sadly crestfallen.
Presently he touched Hemming's knee.
"If you will take them in hand,—the whole lopsided consignment, from the muddy-faced colonel down,—why, I'll be your everlasting friend," he said.
Hemming stared at them, pondering.
"It will mean enemies for me," he replied.
"No, I can answer for everything but their drill," said the other.
Hemming saluted, and, wheeling the white stallion, rode alone up and down the uneven ranks. His face was set in severe lines, but behind the mask lurked mirth and derision at the pettiness of his high-styled office.
"Commander-in-chief," he said, and, putting his mount to a canter, completely circled his command in a fraction of a minute.
"I shall begin to lick them into shape to-morrow," he said to Tetson.
The little officers, clanging their big cavalry sabres, marched their little brown troops away to the barracks. The President looked wistfully after them, and said: "I can mount three hundred of them, Hemming. I call it a pretty good army, for all its lack of style."
"I call it half a battalion of duffers," said Hemming to himself.
Later, the new commander-in-chief and the private secretary sat together in the former's quarters.
"I do not quite understand this Pernamba idea," said Hemming. "Is it business, or is it just an unusual way of spending money?"
"I don't know what the old man is driving at myself," replied Hicks, "but of one thing I am sure: there's more money put into it than there is in it. The army is a pretty expensive toy, for instance. Just what it is for I do not know. The only job it ever tried was collecting rents, and it made a mess of that. We don't sell enough coffee in a year to stand those duffers a month's pay. We get skinned right and left back here and down on the coast. Mr. Tetson thinks he still possesses a clear business head, but the fact is he cannot understand his own bookkeeping. It's no fun running a hundred-square-mile ranch, with a fair-sized town thrown in."
Hemming wrinkled his forehead, and stared vacantly out of the window. Below him a gray parrot, the property of Miss Tetson, squawked in an orange-tree.
"If I had money, I should certainly live somewhere else. Why the devil he keeps his wife and daughter here, I don't see."
Just then the secretary caught the faint strumming of a banjo, and left hurriedly, without venturing an explanation. He found Miss Tetson in her favourite corner of the garden, where roses grew thickest, and breadfruit-trees made a canopy of green shade. A fountain splashed softly beside the stone bench whereon she sat, and near by stood a little brown crane watching the water with eyes like yellow jewels.
The girl had changed from her riding-habit into a white gown, such as she wore almost every day. But now Hicks saw her with new eyes. She seemed to him more beautiful than he had dreamed a woman could be. Yesterday he had thought, in his indolent way, that he loved her. Now he knew it, and his heart seemed to leap and pause in a mad sort of fear. The look of well-fed satisfaction passed away from him. He stood there between the roses like a fool,—he who had come down to the garden so carelessly, with some jest on his lips.
"Something will happen now," she said, and smiled up at him. Hicks wondered what she meant.
"It is too hot to have anything happen," he replied.
"That is the matter with us,—it is too hot, always too hot, and we are too tired," she said, "but Mr. Hemming does not seem to mind the heat. I think that something interesting will happen now."
This was like a knife in the man's heart, for he was learning to like the Englishman.
The girl looked at the little crane by the fountain. Hicks stood for a moment, trying to smile. But it was hard work to look as if he did not care. "Lord, what an ass I have been," he said to himself, but aloud he stammered something about their rides together, and their friendship.
"Oh, you can ride very well," she laughed, "but—"
She did not finish the remark, and the secretary, after a painful scrutiny of the silent banjo in her lap, went away to the stables and ordered his horse. But a man is a fool to ride hard along the bank of a Brazilian river in the heat of the afternoon.
From one of the windows of his cool room, Hemming watched the departure of the President's private secretary. He remembered what Tetson had said of the boy,—"too young to associate with men."
But youth is a thing easily mended, thought Hemming. Somehow—perhaps only in size—Hicks recalled O'Rourke to his mind; and back to him came the days of their good-comradeship. He wondered where O'Rourke was now, and what he was busy about. He had seen him last in Labrador, where they had spent a month together, salmon fishing, and up to that time O'Rourke had found no trace of Miss Hudson. Ellis's information had proved useless. Disgusted at the deception practised upon him, the poor fellow had ceased to speak of the matter, even with his dearest friend during night-watches by the camp-fire.
CHAPTER IV.
THE THING THAT HAPPENED
Hicks came along the homeward road at dusk. Lights were glowing above the strong walls and behind the straight trunks of the palms. A mist that one might smell lay along the course of the river. Hicks rode heavily and with the air of one utterly oblivious to his surroundings. But at the gateway of the officers' mess he looked up. Captain Santosa was in the garden, a vision of white and gold and dazzling smile. He hurried to the gate.
"Ah, my dear Hicks, you are in time for our small cocktails, and then dinner. But for this riding so hard, I can call you nothing but a fool."
"Thanks very much," replied the American, dismounting slowly, "and as to what you call me, old man, I'm not at all particular." The woebegone expression of his plump face was almost ludicrous.
Santosa whistled, and presently an orderly came and took Valentine's horse. The two entered the building arm in arm, and the secretary swayed as he walked.
Five or six of the native officers were already in the mess-room, swallowing mild swizzles, and talking quietly. They greeted Hicks affectionately.
"This man," said Santosa, "had his horse looking like a shaving-brush, and I know nothing in English so suitable to call him as this," and he swore vigorously in Portuguese.
"Stow that rot," said Hicks, "can't you see I'm fit as a fiddle; and for Heaven's sake move some liquor my way, will you?" His request was speedily complied with, and he helped himself recklessly from the big decanter.
The dinner was long and hot, and Valentine Hicks, forgetting utterly his Harvard manner, dropped his head on the table, between his claret-glass and coffee-cup, and dreamed beastly dreams. The swarthy Brazilians talked and smoked, and sent away the decanters to be refilled. The stifling air held the tobacco smoke above the table. The cotton-clad servants moved on noiseless feet.
"These Americans,—dear heaven," spoke a fat major, softly.
"I am fond of Hicks," said Santosa, laying his hand on the youth's unconscious shoulder. A slim lieutenant, who had held a commission in a Brazilian regiment stationed in Rio, looked at the captain.
"The Americans are harmless," he said. "They mind their own business,—or better still, they let us mind it for them. The President—bah! And our dear Valentine. If he gets enough to eat, and clothes cut in the English way, and some one to listen to his little stories of how he used to play golf at Harvard, he is content. But this Englishman,—this Señor Hemming,—he is quite different."
"Did not you at one time play golf?" asked Santosa, calmly.
"Three times, in Florida," replied the lieutenant, "and with me played a lady, who talked at her ease and broke two clubs in one morning. She was of a fashionable convent named Smith, but this did not deter her from the free expression of her thoughts."
"Stir up Señor Hicks, that we may hear two fools at the same time," said the colonel.
"Take my word for it, colonel, that Valentine is not a fool," said Santosa, lightly. "He is very young."
"Have you nothing to say for me?" asked the slim lieutenant, good-naturedly.
"You know what I think of you all," replied Santosa, without heat. The conversation was carried on in Portuguese, and now ran into angry surmises as to the President's reason for placing Hemming in command.
It was close upon midnight when Hicks awoke. He straightened himself in his chair and blinked at Santosa, who alone, of the whole mess, remained at table.
"You have had a little nap," said the Brazilian.
Hicks looked at him for awhile in silence. Then he got to his feet, and leaned heavily on the table.
"I'll walk home, old tea-cosey. Tell your nigger to give my gee something to eat, will you?"
"You do not look well, my dear Valentine. You had better stay here until morning," said Santosa.
Hicks swore, and then begged the other's pardon.
"Am I drunk, old chap? Do I look that way?" he asked.
Captain Santosa laughed. "You look like a man with a grudge against some one," he answered. "Perhaps you have a touch of fever, otherwise I know you would have good taste enough to conceal the grudge. A gentleman suffers—and smiles."
It was past two o'clock in the morning, and Hemming was lying flat on his back, smoking a cigarette in the dark. He had been writing verses, and letters which he did not intend to mail, until long past midnight. And now he lay wide-eyed on his bed, kept awake by the restless play of his thoughts.
His windows were all open, and he could hear a stirring of wind in the crests of the taller trees. His reveries were disturbed by a stumbling of feet in the room beyond, and suddenly Valentine Hicks stood in the doorway. By the faint light Hemming made out the big, drooping shoulders and the attitude of weariness. He sat up quickly, and pushed his feet into slippers.
"That you, Hicks?" he asked.
"Don't talk to me, you damn traitor!" said Hicks.
Hemming frowned, and tossed his cigarette into the night.
"If you will be so good as to turn on the light, I'll get the quinine," he said.
The secretary laughed.
"Quinine!" he cried; "you fool! I believe an Englishman would recommend some blasted medicine to a man in hell."
"You're not there yet," replied Hemming. He was bending over an open drawer of his desk, feeling about among papers and bottles for the box of pills. Hicks drew something from his pocket and laid it softly on the table.
"Good morning," he said. "I intended to kick up a row but I've changed my mind. Hand over your pills and I'll go to bed."
When he awoke next day, it was only to a foolish delirium. The doctor looked at him, and then at Hemming.
"I suppose you can give it a name," he said.
Hemming nodded.
"I've had it myself," he replied.
The President, followed by his daughter, came into the room. Hicks recognized the girl.
"Marion," he said, and when she bent over him, "something has happened after all."
She looked up at Hemming with a colourless face. Her eyes were brave enough, but the pitiful expression of her mouth touched him with a sudden painful remembrance. During the hours of daylight the doctor and Miss Tetson watched by the bedside, moving silently and speaking in whispers in the darkened room.
The doctor was an Englishman somewhat beyond middle age, with a past well buried. In the streets and on the trail his manner was short almost to rudeness. He often spoke bitterly and lightly of those things which most men love and respect. In the sick-room, be it in the rich man's villa or in the mud hut of the plantation labourer, he spoke softly, and his hands were gentle as a woman's.
Hemming had been working with his little army all day, and, after dining at the mess, he changed and relieved Miss Tetson and the doctor. Before leaving the room, the girl turned to him nervously.
"Did you see Valentine last night?" she asked.
Hemming told her that Hicks had come to his room for quinine.
"Good night, and please take good care of him," she said.
The Englishman screwed his eye-glass into place, and glared at her uneasily. "Hicks is a good sort," he said, "but he is not the kind for this country. Neither are you, Miss Tetson. But it's nuts for me,—this playing soldier at another man's expense."
He paused, and she waited, a little impatiently, for him to go on. "What I wanted to say," he continued, "is that there is one thing that goes harder with a man than yellow fever. I—ah—have experienced both. Hicks is a decent chap," he concluded, lamely.
Miss Tetson smiled and held out her hand.
"If he should want me in the night, please call me. I will not be asleep," she said.
Hemming, for all his rolling, had gathered a good deal of moss in the shape of handiness and out-of-the-way knowledge. Twice during the night he bathed the sick man; with ice and alcohol. Many times he lifted the burning head and held water to the hot lips. Sometimes he talked to him, very low, of the North and the blue sea, and thus brought sleep back to the glowing eyes. The windows were open and the blinds up, and a white moon walked above the gardens.
Just before dawn, Hemming dozed for a few minutes in his chair. He was awakened by some movement, and, opening his eyes, beheld Miss Tetson at the bedside. Hicks was sleeping, with his tired face turned toward the window. The girl touched his forehead tenderly with her lips.
Hemming closed his eyes again, and kept them so until he heard her leave the room,—a few light footsteps and a soft trailing of skirts. Then, in his turn, he bent above the sleeper.
"If this takes you off, old chap, perhaps it will be better," he said.
But in his inmost soul he did not believe this bitter distrust of women that his own brain had built up for him out of memory and weariness.
CHAPTER V.
CHANCE IN PERNAMBUCO
While Hicks tossed about in his fever dreams, and Hemming shook his command into form, away on the coast, in the city of Pernambuco, unusual things were shaping. From the south, coastwise from Bahia, came Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke. This was chance, pure and simple, for he had no idea of Hemming's whereabouts. From New York, on the mail-steamer, came a man called Cuddlehead, and took up his abode in a narrow hotel near the waterfront. He arrived in the city only an hour behind O'Rourke. He was artfully attired in yachting garb, and had been king-passenger on the boat, where his English accent had been greatly admired, and his predilection for card-playing had been bountifully rewarded. In fact, when he went ashore with his meagre baggage, he left behind at least one mourning maiden heart and three empty pockets.
O'Rourke, upon landing, had his box and three leather bags carried across the square to the ship-chandler's. He would look about before engaging a room, and see if the place contained enough local colour to pay for a stop-over. He fell, straightway, into easy and polite conversation with the owner of the store. From the busy pavement and dirty square outside arose odours that were not altogether foreign to his cosmopolitan nose. Three men greeted one another, and did business in English and Portuguese, speaking of the cane crop, the rate of exchange, the price of Newfoundland "fish," and of gales met with at sea. Bullock-carts creaked past in the aching sunlight, the mild-eyed beasts staggering with lowered heads. Soldiers in uncomfortable uniforms lounged about. Cripples exhibited their ugly misfortunes, and beggars made noisy supplication.
O'Rourke decided that there was enough local colour to keep him, and, turning from the open door, contemplated the interior of the establishment. The place was dim and cool, and at the far back of it another door stood open, on a narrow cross-street. Cases of liquor, tobacco, tea, coffee, and condensed milk were piled high against the wall. Baskets of sweet potatoes and hens' eggs stood about. Upon shelves behind the counter samples of rope, canvas, and cotton cloth were exhibited. Highly coloured posters, advertising Scotch whiskey, brightened the gloom. The back part of the shop was furnished with a bar and two long tables. At one of the tables sat about a dozen men, each with a glass before him, and all laughing, talking, swearing, and yet keeping their eyes attentively fixed on one of their number, who shook a dice-box.
O'Rourke, who had by this time made his name known to the ship-chandler, was given a general introduction to the dice-throwers. He called for a lime-squash, and took a seat at the table between a dissipated-looking individual whom all addressed by the title of "Major," and a master-mariner from the North. There were several of these shellback skippers at table, and O'Rourke spotted them easily enough, though, to the uninitiated, they had nothing in common but their weather-beaten faces. Their manners were of various degrees, running from the height of civility around to nothing at all. There was the first officer of a Liverpool "tramp" with his elbows on the board, his gin-and-bitters slopped about, and his voice high in argument. Next him sat a mariner from one of the Fundy ports, nodding and starting, and trying to bury in whiskey remembrance of his damaged cargo and unseaworthy ship. Nearer sat a Devonshire man in the Newfoundland trade, drinking his sweetened claret with all the graces of a curate, and talking with the polish and conviction of a retired banker. O'Rourke glanced up and down the table, and detected one more sailor—a quiet young man clad in white duck, with "Royal Naval Reserve" marked upon him for the knowing to see. These four men (each one so unlike the other three in clothes, appearance, and behaviour) all wore the light of wide waters in their eyes, the peace bred of long night-watches on their tanned brows, and the right to command on chin and jaw. O'Rourke felt his heart warm toward them, for he, too, had kept vigil beside the ghostly mizzen, and read the compass by the uncertain torch of the lightning.
The other occupants of the table were residents of the country—two English planters, the major, a commission-merchant, a native cavalry officer, and several operators of the South American Cable Company. The major remarked upon the rotten state of the country to O'Rourke, in a confidential whisper, as he shook the dice in the leather cylinder. O'Rourke replied, politely, that he wasn't an authority.
"But I am, sir," blustered the major. "Dear heaven, man, I'd like to know who has been American consul in this hole for the last seven years, only to get chucked out last May by a low plebeian politician."
The speaker's eyes were fierce, though watery, and his face was red as the sun through smoke. He drained his glass, and glared at O'Rourke.
"Couldn't say. Never was here before," replied O'Rourke. He counted his neighbour's throw aloud, for the benefit of the table.
"Three aces, a six, and a five."
He was about to recover two of the dice from a shallow puddle on the table, and replace them in the box, when he felt a hand on his arm.
"I was American consul," hissed the major, "and, by hell, I'm still sober enough to count my own dice, and pick 'em up, too."
O'Rourke smiled, unruffled. "You don't mean you are sober enough, major—you mean you are not quite too drunk," he said. The others paused in their talk, and laughed. The major opened his eyes a trifle wider and dropped his under jaw. He looked the young stranger up and down.
"Well, I hope you are ashamed of yourself," he said, at last.
"I am sorry I was rude, sir," explained O'Rourke, "but I hate to be grabbed by the arm that way. I must have a nerve there that connects with my temper."
A tipsy smile spread over the ex-consul's face.
"Shake hands, my boy," he cried. They shook hands. The others craned their necks to see.
"You've come just in time to cheer me up, for I've been lonely since Hemming went into the bush," exclaimed the major.
"Hemming! Do you mean Herbert Hemming?" asked O'Rourke, eagerly.
"That's who I mean," replied the major, and pushed the dice-box toward him. O'Rourke made nothing better than a pair, and had to pay for thirteen drinks. If you crave a lime-squash of an afternoon, the above method is not always the cheapest way of acquiring it. As the dice-box went the rounds again, and the attention of the company returned to generalities, the newcomer asked more particulars of Hemming's whereabouts.
"He started into the bush more than a week ago, to find some new kind of adventure and study the interior, he said," explained the major, "but my own opinion is that he went to see old Tetson in his place up the Plado. Sly boy, Hemming! Whenever we spoke of that crazy Tetson, and his daughter, and his money, he pretended not to take any stock in them. But I'll eat my hat—and it's the only one I have—if he isn't there at this minute, flashing that precious gig-lamp of his at the young lady."
O'Rourke had read stories about this eccentric millionaire in the newspapers some years before.
"Hemming is safe, wherever he lands," he said. "He's a woman-hater."
A look of half-whimsical disgust flashed across the old man's perspiring face. He leaned close to O'Rourke.
"Bah—you make me sick," he cried, "with your silly commonplaces. Woman-hater—bah—any fool, any schoolboy can say that. Call a man an ice-riding pinapede, and you'll display the virtue of originality, at least. At first I suspected you of brains."
O'Rourke was embarrassed. How could he explain that, in using the term woman-hater, he had meant to suit his conversation to the intellect of his hearer. It was commonplace, without doubt, and meant nothing at all.
"Do you think, Mr. O'Rourke," continued the other, "that simply because I'm stranded in this hole, on my beam-ends (to use the language of our worthy table-mates), that my brain is past being offended? You are wrong, then, my boy, just as sure as my name is Farrington. Hemming would never have called a man a woman-hater. Why, here am I, sir, sitting as I have sat every day for years, getting drunk, and with never a word to a woman, white or black, for about as long as you have used a razor. But I don't hate women—-not I. I'd give my life, such as it is, any minute, for the first woman who would look at me without curling her lip—that is, the first well-bred white woman. Ask Hemming what he thinks, and he will tell you that, in spite of the men, women are still the finest creatures God ever invented. No doubt he seems indifferent now, but that's because he has loved some girl very much, and has been hurt by her."
"You are right, major, and I gladly confess I used a dashed stupid expression—so now, if you don't mind, please shut up about it," replied O'Rourke. To his surprise Farrington smiled, nodded in a knowing way, and lapsed into silence.
While one of the mariners was relating a fearsome experience of his own on a wrecked schooner, Mr. Cuddlehead entered the place and seated himself at the unoccupied table. He sipped his peg, and studied the men at the other table with shifting glances. He thought they looked easy, and a vastly satisfied expression came to his unhealthy, old-young face. Though well groomed and well clothed, Mr. Cuddlehead's deportment suggested, however vaguely, a feeling on his part of personal insecurity. He glanced apprehensively whenever a voice was raised high in argument. He started in his chair when the man who served the refreshments came unexpectedly to his table to deposit a match-holder.
To O'Rourke, who had an eye for things beyond the dice, Mr. Cuddlehead's face hinted at some strange ways of life, and undesirable traits of character. In the loose mouth he saw signs of a once colossal impudence; in the bloated cheeks, dissipation and the wrecking existence of one who feasts to-day and starves to-morrow; in the eyes cruelty and cunning; in the chin and forehead a low sort of courage.
Gradually the crowd at the long table thinned. First of all the cavalry officer arose, flicked imaginary dust off the front of his baggy trousers, and jangled out into the reddening sunlight. The planters followed, after hearty farewells. They had long rides ahead of them to occupy the cool of the evening, and perhaps would not leave their isolated bungalows again inside a fortnight. Next the operators announced their intentions of deserting the giddy scene.
"Come along, major, you and Joyce promised to feed with us to-night," said one of them, "and if your friend there, Mr. O'Rourke, will overlook the informality of so sudden an invitation," he continued, "we'll be delighted to have him, too."
"Great heavens, Darlington," exclaimed the major, "you are still as long-winded as when you first came out," and, before O'Rourke could accept the invitation for himself, he concluded, "of course O'Rourke will honour you, my boy."
"Thank you, very much, it's awfully good of you chaps," stammered O'Rourke, disconcerted by the major's offhand manner.
Darlington smiled reassuringly. "Don't let this old cock rattle you," he said, and patted Major Farrington affectionately on the shoulder.
After dinner that night, in the palatial dining-room of the house occupied by the staff of the South American Cable Company, O'Rourke learned something of the major's past life. It was a sad and unedifying story. The major had been trained at West Point, and led his class in scholarship and drill, and had risen, with more than one distinction, to the rank of major. But all the while he had made his fight against drink, as well as the usual handicaps in the game of life. He had married a woman with wealth and position superior to his own, who had admired him for his soldierly qualities and fine appearance, and who, later, had been the first to desert him. Then followed the foreign consular appointments, the bitter and ever-increasing debaucheries, and at last the forced retirement from his country's service. Now he lived on a small allowance, sent him weekly, by his family. O'Rourke began to understand the old man's fretful and disconcerting moods.
At a late hour the superintendent of the staff ushered O'Rourke to a big, cool room on the second floor.
"Make this your home," he said, "and we'll let you in on the same footing as ourselves. Hemming occupied this room last. There is his bed; there is his hammock; and, by Jove, there are his slippers. You can have your traps brought up in the morning."
Thus did Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke become an inmate of an imposing mansion in Pernambuco, with moderate charges to pay and good company to enliven his hours.
CHAPTER VI.
CUDDLEHEAD DECIDES ON AN ADVENTURE
Toward noon of a stifling day, the major and Mr. Cuddlehead met in the square by the waterfront. Cuddlehead greeted the major affably. As the major was very thirsty he returned the salutation. A glance through the door at his elbow displayed, to Mr. Cuddlehead's uncertain eyes, a number of round tables with chairs about them. He took out his watch and examined it.
"Eleven-thirty—I always take something at half-past eleven. I hope you will join me," he said.
"I seldom drink before lunch," replied Farrington, "but as this is an exceptionally dry day—"
They passed through the doorway and sat down at the nearest table.
"Now I will find out what is doing," thought Cuddlehead, and gave his order. But for a long time the major's tongue refused to be loosened. He sipped his liquor, and watched his companion with eyes of unfriendly suspicion. Cuddlehead, in the meantime, exhibited an excellent temper, put a few casual questions, and chatted about small things of general interest.
Now Cuddlehead had heard, from the captain of the mail-boat, something about a wealthy American with a bee in his bonnet and a pretty daughter, somewhere within reach of Pernambuco. The story had grown upon him, and a great idea had taken shape in his scheming mind. Why shouldn't he, if all that people said and wrote about American girls was true? By gad, he'd make a shot at it. He'd show them how to spend their money in more interesting places than the back of nowhere. As soon as the major began to look more friendly, under the influence of the crude whiskey, he produced his cigar-case,—a fat black leather affair, with an engraved silver plate on the front of it,—and offered the old man an excellent weed of Havana. The major took it, glancing keenly, but swiftly, at the initials on the case as he did so. "P. doesn't stand for Cuddlehead," he thought, but said nothing.
"Tell me something about the man who owns a whole country, somewhere back here, in the bush," urged Cuddlehead, lightly. The old man's muddled wits awoke and jerked a warning. Here was some scum of Heaven knows where, wanting to interfere in a better man's business.
"What's that, my boy?" he asked, looking stupidly interested.
"Oh, it is of no importance. It just struck me as being a bit out of the way," replied the other.
"What?" inquired the major.
"The place Mr. Tetson hangs out," laughed Cuddlehead.
"It's all that, my boy," replied Farrington, gleefully; then he stared, open-mouthed. "At least," he added, "it may be, but what the hell are you gabbing about?"
"Sorry. Had no idea it was a secret," retorted the younger man.
The major's potations flooded to his head. His face took on a darker shade of crimson. His hands twitched on the table.
"Secrets! You d—n little sneak," he roared, staggering up and overturning his chair. The expression of insolence faded from Cuddlehead's face. He dashed out of the place without paying for the bottle of whiskey. On the pavement he paused, long enough to compose his features and straighten his necktie. Then he went to the ship-chandler and gathered a wealth of information concerning Harris William Tetson. But he heard no mention of Hemming being in the country, which was, perhaps, just as well. He was certainly a sneak, as more than the major had called him, but he was not altogether a duffer. He could look after himself to a certain extent. He decided to keep Pernambuco until later, and go now for bigger game. He made his plans speedily, fearing another meeting with the major, and early next morning started along the coast, inside the reef, as a passenger aboard a native barcassa. The voyage to the mouth of the river Plado would take the better part of a day. He would wait in the little village for Mr. Tetson's steam-launch, which made weekly runs to the coast for mail and supplies.
CHAPTER VII.
HEMMING LEARNS SOMETHING ABOUT HIS ARMY
In Pernamba, up the Plado, life had taken on a brighter aspect for at least two of the inhabitants. Marion Tetson was thankful beyond the power of speech, because the fever had left Hicks. True, it had left him thin and weak as a baby, but his very helplessness made him dearer in her eyes. That one who had been so big and strong should ask her to lift his head whenever he wanted a drink, and should have his pillow turned for him without displaying a sign of rebellion, stabbed her to the innermost soul with wonder and pity. Hicks was happy because she was near him all day, her eyes telling what her lips were longing to say, if his dared to question. Then he could half remember some things which were as part of his dreaming—wonderful, magic things with all the glamour of dreams, free from the weariness of the fever. But he said nothing of these just then to Marion, though she read his thoughts like a book while he lay there very quiet, smiling a little, his gaze following her every movement. To Hemming also he wore his heart on his sleeve. Of this fact he was blissfully ignorant. Mrs. Tetson often came to his room and gave him motherly advice about not talking too much and not thinking too hard. Hicks felt no desire to talk, but as for thinking, Lord, she might as well have told him to stop breathing. He thought more in ten minutes now than he had before in any three hours. They were comforting thoughts, though, for the most part, and Marion knew that they did him more good than harm.
Hemming kept up a show of interest in the army. He lectured the officers and drilled the men, and dined almost every night at the mess, which he had remodelled on the English plan. But most of the time he kept his eye on the President. It was a job he did not care about,—this prying into another man's business,—but somehow he could not put it by him, things were so obviously out of order. He kept his monocle polished, his ears open, and his mouth shut. He was always willing to listen to the President's dreary conversations. The life lacked excitement for one who had run the gauntlet of a hundred vital dangers. He had given up all special correspondence, but did a good deal of fiction when the mood was on him. The longing to return to a more active existence grew stronger every day, but his friendship for the Tetsons and for Hicks kept him at his post.
Hemming's morning coffee was always served in his room at six o'clock. That left him about two and a half hours of the cool of the day in which to work. Breakfast, with its queer dishes of hot meats, and claret, tea, and coffee to drink, came on about nine. Breakfast was a family affair, and after it every one retired for a nap. Hemming usually drank his coffee before he dressed, but one morning Smith found him pacing the room, booted and spurred, and attired in stained breeches and a faded tunic. There were cigar ashes on the floor beside the bed. A volume of Stevenson's "Men and Books" lay open on the pillow.
"Fill my flask," he said, "and let the President know that I may not be back until evening."
"Very good, sir," replied the valet. "Will I order your horse, sir?"
While the man was out of the room Hemming pulled open a drawer in his desk, in search of revolver cartridges. The contents of the drawer were in a shocking jumble. In his despatch-box at large among his papers he found half a dozen cartridges, a cigarette from the army and navy stores at home, and a small bow of black ribbon. He picked up the bow, kissed it lightly, and instead of restoring it to the box put it in his pocket.
"She liked me well enough in those days—or else she did some—ah—remarkable acting," he said.
Turning on his heel he found Smith in the doorway.
Your horse is ready, sir," said the man. Hemming blushed, and, to hide his confusion, told Smith to go to the devil. He rode away with an unloaded revolver in his holster.
"It must be a pretty rotten country," soliloquized the valet, "when a single-eye-glassed, right-about-turn, warranted-not-to-shrink-wear-or-tear gent like that gets buggy before breakfast."
The commander-in-chief rode from the gardens by the same gate at which he had entered for the first time only a month before. He did not return the salute of a corporal in the door of the guard-house. He did not notice the little brown soldier at the gate, who stood at attention upon his approach, and presented arms as he passed—which was, perhaps, just as well, for a freshly lighted cigarette smoked on the ground at the man's feet. He turned his horse's head northward. On both sides of the street arose the straight brown boles of the royal palms, and high above the morning wind sang in the stiff foliage. At the end of the street he turned into the path by which he had first entered the town. The country folk urged their horses into the bush that he might pass, and he rode by unheeding. In their simple minds they wondered at this, for the fame of his alert perception and flashing eye-glass had gone far and near. Of his own accord the white stallion came to a standstill before a hut. Hemming looked up, his reverie broken, and his thoughts returned to Pernamba.
A woman came to the narrow doorway and greeted him with reverence. He recognized in her the woman who had first welcomed him to the country. He dismounted and held out his hand.
"How is the little fellow?" he asked. At that the tears sprang into her eyes, and Hemming saw that her face was drawn with sorrow. He followed her into the dim interior of the hut. The boy lay in a corner, upon an untidy bed, and above him stood the English doctor. The two men shook hands.
"I can clear him of the fever," said the doctor, "but what for? It's easier to die of fever than of starvation."
"Starvation," exclaimed Hemming, "why starvation?"
"The señor does not know," said the woman. "It is not in his kind heart to ruin the poor, and bring sorrow to the humble."
"But," said the doctor, looking at Hemming, "to Englishmen of our class, a nigger is a nigger, say what you please, and the ends-of-the-earth is a place to make money and London is the place to spend it."
The soldier's face whitened beneath the tan.
"Don't judge me by your own standards, Scott, simply because you were born a gentleman," he said.
"Oh," laughed the doctor, "to me money would be of no use, even in London. I find the ends-of-the-earth a place to hide my head."
"But what of starvation and ruin?" asked the other.
"I thought," replied the doctor, "that you were in command of the army. Ask those mud-faced soldiers of yours why this woman has nothing to feed to her child."
"I will ask them," said the commander-in-chief, and he ripped out an oath that did Scott's heart good to hear. He turned to the woman.
"I am sorry for this," he said, "and will see that all that was taken from you is safely returned. The President and I knew nothing about it." He drew a wad of notes from his pocket and handed it to her. Then he looked at the doctor.
"If I did not like you, Scott, and respect you," he continued, "I'd punch your head for thinking this of me. But you had both the grace and courage to tell me what you thought."
"I don't think it now," said Scott, "and I don't want my head punched, either, for my flesh heals very slowly. But if I ever feel in need of a thrashing, old man, I'll call on you. No doubt it would be painful, but there'd be no element of disgrace connected with it."
Hemming blushed, for compliments always put him out of the game. The woman suddenly stepped closer, and, snatching his hand to her face, kissed it twice before he could pull it away. He retreated to the door, and the doctor laughed. Safe in the saddle, he called to the doctor.
"My dear chap," he said, "you have inspired me to a confession. I, too, have soured on London."
"Let me advise you to try your luck again. A girl is sometimes put in a false light by circumstances—-the greed of parents, for instance," replied Scott.
Hemming stared, unable to conceal his amazement.
"I have not always lived in Pernamba," laughed Scott, "I have dined more than once at your mess. Fact is, I was at one time surgeon in the Sixty-Second."
"You are a dry one, certainly," said Hemming.
"It is unkind of you to remind me of it when the nearest bottle of soda is at least three miles away, and very likely warm at that," retorted the doctor. Hemming leaned forward in his saddle and grasped his hand.
"I will not take your advice," he said, "but it was kind of you to give it. Forgive me for mentioning it, Scott, but you are a dashed good sort."
"Man," cried the other, "didn't I tell you that I am hiding my head?" He slapped the white stallion smartly on the rump, and Hemming went up the trail at a canter.
CHAPTER VIII.
CAPTAIN SANTOSA VISITS HIS SUPERIOR OFFICER
Hemming got back to the village in time to change and dine with the family. The President's mind was otherwhere than at the table. He would look about the room, staring at the shadows beyond the candle-light, as if seeking something. He pushed the claret past him, and ordered rye whiskey. His kind face showed lines unknown to it a month before. Mrs. Tetson watched him anxiously. Marion and the commander-in-chief talked together like well-tried comrades, laughing sometimes, but for the most part serious. Marion was paler than of old, but none the less beautiful for that. Her eyes were brighter, with a light that seemed to burn far back in them, steady and tender. Her lips were ever on the verge of smiling. Hemming told her all of his interview with the peasant woman, and part of his interview with Scott.
"There will be trouble soon," he said.
She begged him not to stir it up until Valentine was well enough to have a finger in it.
"You may not think him very clever," she said, "but even you will admit that he shoots straight, and has courage."
"I will admit anything in his favour," replied Hemming, "but as for his shooting, why, thank Heaven, I have never tested it."
"Wasn't he very rude to you one night?" she asked.
He laughed quietly. "The circumstances warranted it, but he was rude to the wrong person, don't you think?"
"No, indeed," she cried, "for no matter how minus a quantity your guilt, or how full of fault I had been, it would never have done for him to threaten me with a—" She paused.
"Service revolver?" said Hemming, "and one of my own at that."
"Fever is a terrible thing," she said, gazing at the red heart of the claret.
"My dear sister," said the Englishman, "a man would gladly suffer more to win less."
They smiled frankly into one another's eyes.
"Then you do not think too badly of me?" she asked.
"I think everything that is jolly—of both of you," he replied.
"I like your friendship," she said, "for, though you seem such a good companion, I do not believe you give it lightly."
After the coffee and an aimless talk with Tetson, Hemming looked in at Hicks and found him drinking chicken broth as if he liked it. The invalid was strong enough to manage the spoon himself, but Marion held the bowl. Hemming went to his own room, turned on the light above his desk, and began to write. He worked steadily until ten o'clock. Then he walked up and down the room for awhile, rolling and smoking cigarettes. The old ambition had him in its clutches. Pernamba, with its heat, its dulness, its love and hate, had faded away. Now he played a bigger game—a game for the world rather than for half a battalion of little brown soldiers. A knock sounded on his door, and, before he could answer it, Captain Santosa, glorious in his white and gold, stepped into the room. The sight of the Brazilian brought his dreams to the dust. "Damn," he said, under his breath.
Then he waved his subordinate to a seat.
The captain's manner was as courteous as ever, his smile as urbane, his eyes as unfathomable. But his dusky cheek showed an unusual pallor, and as he sat down he groaned. Hemming eyed him sharply; men like Santosa do not groan unless they are wounded—maybe in their pride, by a friend's word, maybe in their vitals by an enemy's knife. There was no sign of blood on the spotless uniform.
"A drink?" queried Hemming, turning toward the bell.
"Not now," said the captain, "but afterward, if you then offer it to me." He swallowed hard, looked down at his polished boots, aloft at the ceiling, and presently at his superior officer's staring eye-glass. From this he seemed to gather courage.
"I have disturbed you at your rest, at your private work," he said, with a motion of the hand toward the untidy desk, "but my need is great. I must choose between disloyalty to my brother officers, and disloyalty to you and the President. I have chosen, sir, and I now resign my commission. I will no longer ride and drink and eat with robbers and liars. It is not work for a gentleman." He paused and smiled pathetically. "I will go away. There is nothing else for my father's son to do."
"I heard something of this—no longer ago than to-day," said Hemming.
Santosa lit a cigar and puffed for awhile in silence.
"I winked at it too long," he said, at last, "for I was dreaming of other things. So that I kept my own hands clean I did not care. Then you came, and I watched you. I saw that duty was the great thing, after all—even for a soldier. And I saw that even a gentleman might earn his pay decently."
Hemming smiled, and polished his eye-glass on the lining of his dinner-jacket.
"Thank you, old chap. You have a queer way of putting it, but I catch the idea," he said.
The captain bowed. "I will go away, but not very far, for I would like to be near, to help you in any trouble. Our dear friend Valentine, whom I love as a brother, is not yet strong. The President, whom I honour, is not a fighter, I think. The ladies should go to the coast."
"You are right," said Hemming, "but do not leave us for a day or two. I will consider your resignation. Now for a drink."
He rang the bell, and then pulled a chair close to Santosa. When Smith had gone from the room, leaving the decanter and soda-water behind him, the two soldiers touched glasses and drank. They were silent. The Brazilian felt better now, and the Englishman was thinking too hard to talk. A gust of wind banged the wooden shutters at the windows. It was followed by a flash of lightning. Then came the rain, pounding and splashing on the roof, and hammering the palms in the garden.
"That's sudden," said Hemming.
"Things happen suddenly in this country," replied Santosa.
Hemming leaned back and crossed his legs.
"Have you seen Hicks since the fever bowled him?" he asked.
"No," replied the captain, "no, I have not seen him, but he is my friend and I wish him well. Is it not through our friends, Hemming, that we come by our griefs? It has seemed so to me."