CHAPTER II.

HEMMING MEETS WITH A STRANGE RECEPTION

Herbert Hemming sat alone in his room, while his brother officers sought their pleasure in divers companies. His writing-table was drawn close to the fire. His scarlet mess-jacket made a vivid spot of colour, in the softly illuminated room. He was busily occupied with the proofs of "The Colonel and the Lady," when his man rapped at the door and entered.

"Nothing more," said the captain, without looking up. The soldier saluted, but did not go. Presently his master's attention was awakened by the uneasy creaking of his boots.

"Well, what do you want?"

"Me mother is very ill, sir."

"I'm not a doctor, Malloy."

"I wasn't thinkin' of insultin' you, sir."

Hemming sighed, and laid down his pen.

"I have found you a satisfactory servant," he said, "also a frightful liar."

"I must confess to you, sir," replied the man, "that I was lyin' last month about me father,--he's been dead as St. Pathrick this seven year,--but to-night I'm tellin' you the truth, sir, so help me--"

"Never mind that," interrupted Hemming.

Malloy was silent.

"So your mother is very ill?" continued the captain.

"Yes, sir,--locomotive attacks, sir."

"And poor, I take it?"

"Yes, sir,--four bob a week."

Hemming felt in his pockets and drew out a sovereign.

"Sorry it's so little," he said, "but if you give me her address to-morrow I'll call and see her."

"God bless you, sir," said the man. He took the money, and hesitated beside the table.

Hemming glanced at him inquiringly.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, it beats me how you knows when I'm lyin' and when I'm tellin' the truth," exclaimed the orderly.

"I'm learning things by experience. Good night, Malloy."

Alone again, Hemming made short work of his proofs. After sealing them into a yellow envelope, and inscribing thereon the address of a big New York weekly (whose editor had proved partial to his sketches and stories of "doings" in the Imperial Army), he produced some of the regimental stationery and began a letter to Miss Travers. It was no easy undertaking--the writing of this particular letter. After struggling for some minutes with the first sentence, he leaned back in his chair and fell into retrospection. His age was now twenty-nine years. He had done with Sandhurst at twenty-one, and had been in the army ever since; had seen more than his share of foreign service, and two seasons of border-scrapping in Northern India. He had gone ahead in his chosen profession, despite a weakness for reading poetry in bed and writing articles descriptive of people and things he knew. During his father's lifetime his allowance (though he was but a third son) was ample, and even enabled him to play polo, and shortly after his father's death an almost unknown great-aunt had left him a modest little sum--not much of a fortune, but a very comfortable possession. Two years previous to his present troubles he had fallen in love. So had the girl. A year ago he had proposed and been accepted. He had, for her sake, fathered a reckless, impecunious subaltern, by name Penthouse, lending him money and endorsing his notes, and now he was stripped bare to his pay. If he had never met the girl, things would not look so bad, for certain papers and magazines had begun to buy his stories. By sitting up to it and working hard, he felt that he could make more as a writer than as a soldier. But the idea of giving up the girl sent a sickening chill through his heart. Surely she would understand, and cheer him up the new path. But it was with a heavy heart that he returned to the writing of the letter. Slowly, doggedly he went through with it, telling of his loss of fortune, through helping a person whom he would not name, and of his hopes and plans for the future. He told of the adventurous position he had accepted, but the day before, with an American Newspaper Syndicate--a billet that would necessitate his almost immediate departure for Greece. The pain of his disappointment crept, all unnoticed by him, into the style of his writing, and made the whole letter sound strained and unnatural.

By the time the letter was sealed and ready for the mail, Hemming was tired out. He flung himself on the bed, unhooked the collar of his mess-jacket (they hooked at the collar a few years ago), and, lighting his pipe, lay for some time in unhappy half-dreaming. He knew, for, at the last, young Penthouse had not been careful to hide his cloven foot, that he might just as well expect another great-aunt to leave him another lump of money as to look for any reimbursement from the source of his misfortune. The fellow was bad, he mused, but just how bad his friends and the world must find out for themselves. Of course he would give Molly a hint to that effect, when he saw her. He had not done so in the letter, because it had been hard enough to write, without that.

Hemming went on duty next day, wearing, to the little world of the regiment, his usual alert and undisturbed expression. Shortly before noon he wrote and forwarded a formal resignation of his commission. By dinner-time the word that he had given up the service had reached every member of the mess. Spalding's story had also made the rounds, in one form or another (thanks to Major O'Grady, that righteous enemy to gossip), and the colonel alone was ignorant of it. During dinner little was said about Hemming's sudden move. All felt it more or less keenly; the colonel grieved over the loss of so capable an officer, and the others lamented the fact that a friend and a gentleman was forced to leave their mess because one cad happened to be a member of it. Hemming felt their quiet sympathy. Even the waiters tending him displayed an increased solicitousness.

Hemming remained in Dublin a week after resigning his commission. He had a good deal of business to attend to, and some important letters to receive--one from the American Syndicate, containing a check, and at least two from Miss Travers. It had been the lady's custom, ever since their engagement, to write him twice a week. Three were now overdue. The American letter came, with its terse and satisfactory typewritten instructions and narrow slip of perforated paper, but the English missive failed to put in an appearance. He tried not to worry during the day, and, being busy, succeeded fairly well, but at night, being defenceless, care visited him even in his dreams. Sometimes he saw the woman he loved lying ill--too ill to hold a pen. Sometimes he saw her with a new unsuspected look in her eyes, turning an indifferent face upon his supplications. He lost weight in those few days, and Spalding (who, with the others, thought his only trouble the loss of his money) said that but for the work he had in getting a fair price for his pony, his high-cart, and his extra pairs of riding-boots, he would have blown his brains out.

On his last night in Dublin his old regiment gave a dinner in his honour. Civilians were there, and officers from every branch of the service, and when Major O'Grady beheld Hemming (which did not happen until late in the dinner), clothed in the unaccustomed black and white, with his medal with two clasps pinned on his coat, he tried to sing something about an Irish gentleman, and burst into tears.

"There's not a drop of the craychure in his blood," said Spalding, across the table.

"But he's the boy with the warm heart," whimpered the major.

"And the open hand," said the subaltern.

"The same has been the ruin of many of us," replied O'Grady.

It was well for Lieutenant Penthouse that he did not return to Dublin in time to attend that dinner.

Hemming knew a score of private houses in London where he would be welcome for a night or a month, but in his bitter mood he ignored the rights of friendship and went to a small hotel in an unfashionable part of the town. As soon as he had changed from his rough tweeds into more suitable attire, he started, in a cab, for the Travers house. The bishop was dead, and the widow, preferring London to Norfolk, spent every season in town. Hemming was sure of finding some one at home, though he trembled at the memory of his evil dreams. Upon reaching the house he dismissed the cab. The maid who opened the door recognized him, and showed him into the drawing-room.

"I hope every one is well," he said, pausing on the threshold.

"Yes, sir," replied the maid, looking surprised at the question. She had seen Captain Hemming many times, but never before had he addressed her.

It seemed to Hemming that he waited hours in the narrow, heavily furnished room. He could not sit still. At last he got to his feet, and, crossing to a corner table, examined the photographs of some people he knew. He wondered where his had gone to--the full-length portrait by Bettel, in field-uniform. He looked for it everywhere, an uncomfortable curiosity pricking him. Turning from his search, he saw Miss Travers watching him. He took a step toward her, and stopped short. Her face was white, her eyes were dark with the shadow of pain. Something had put out the familiar illumination that love had lighted so gloriously.

"Molly," whispered the man. His hands, extended at first sight of her, dropped impotently at his side. "For God's sake, what is the matter?" he cried. His honest gray eyes asked the question as plainly. Hers wavered, and looked beyond him in a pitiful, strained gaze.

"Why do you ask? You surely know," she said.

He could not speak for a moment. His brain, in a whirl of apprehension, groped for some clue whereby it might find understanding.

"I know nothing," he said, at last, "save that I am horribly afraid of something I do not understand--of your silence and the change in you." He paused for a moment, scanning her averted face. "And now I am a poor man," he added.

At that a faint red stole into her cheeks. He drew nearer and laid a hand quickly and tenderly upon her shoulder.

"Dear girl, can that weigh against me?" he asked, scarce above his breath. She moved from his touch with a gesture that sent the blood ringing back to brain and heart. The madness of the righteous anger ebbed, leaving him cool and observant.

"I must beg your pardon for intruding, and now I shall go," he said. "It was well worth the loss of a few thousands of pounds--to find the real nature of your love."

He passed her with squared shoulders and sneering lip, and strode briskly toward the door.

"Wait," she cried, "I do not understand you." Her voice contained a new note.

He turned on the threshold and bowed.

"You have known me long enough," he said.

"Yes," she replied. He stood in the doorway and stared at her.

"If I am dreaming, then wake me, dear. Surely you love me?"

His voice was tense. He moved as if to approach her again.

"I have learned of your other life--of your living lie," she cried, weakly.

"My other life," he repeated, smiling gently.

"Yes," she said, "from my cousin. It was his duty. Tell me it is not true."

He saw the tears in her eyes. He marked the supplication in her voice. But he did not move from the threshold.

"From Penthouse?" he inquired.

She did not answer him. She stood with one hand raised to her breast, and a world of entreaty in her gaze.

"I thought," said Hemming, coldly, "that you loved me. I thought that when a woman loved the man who loves her, that she also trusted him. But I am very ignorant, considering my age."

He took his hat and stick from the rack in the hall, and let himself out of the front door. He stood for a few seconds on the steps and looked up and down the street. A cab rolled up to the curb. After drawing on his gloves and adjusting his monocle, he stepped into the cab and quietly gave the name of his club to the man behind.

The cab bowled along the quiet, respectable street.

"Stop here," cried Hemming, when they had reached the corner, and as the horse slid to a standstill he stepped out, and went up to a heavily dressed young man on the pavement. The stranger did not see him, and held on in the direction from which Hemming had just come.

"Excuse me--a word," said Hemming.

The other halted. His heavy, handsome face whitened under its unhealthy skin.

"Ah, how do, Hemming," he said.

Hemming took the extended hand. They stood about the same height. Hemming retained his grip of the other's hand.

"I am somewhat pressed for time," he said, "so you'll forgive me if I begin immediately."

He jerked Mr. Penthouse toward him with a downward wrench of his right arm, and, with his stick in his left hand, he administered a short and severe caning.

"I'm a-waitin' for you, guvnor," called the cabby.

Leaving Mr. Penthouse seated upon the pavement, dazed and blasphemous, Hemming returned to the cab and drove away.