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.