CHAPTER III.

A ROLLING STONE

The life of New York did not suit Hemming, although his work progressed at a round pace. He awoke in the mornings to no expectations of joy or adventure. The dulness of each approaching day weighed upon him even before his eyes opened. He saw but little of O'Rourke after the luncheon hour, and, though he and Tarmont became quite friendly, loneliness made his days miserable. He began to regret even the foolish, anxious days of the Pernamba revolution. In his blue mood he would sometimes call on the Tetsons and Hickses--but, alas, in conventional environment they had lost much of their charm. Hicks was growing fat and self-complacent. Marion was growing commonplace under the burden of formalities. Even the old man was undergoing a change--had already been weaned from his yellow cigar and taught to wear a four-in-hand necktie until dinner-time. As for Mrs. Tetson, kindly soul, why, she now spent most of her days in contented slumber, and sometimes drove in the park of an afternoon.

Hemming sometimes went to dinner at the Hudsons' with O'Rourke. Mrs. Hudson was dead, and Helen and her father made up the family. Hemming found these evenings quite worth while. Miss Hudson was as clever as she was charming, and as sympathetic as she was original. Mr. Hudson was a kind-hearted, exceedingly well-bred banker, with a cultivated taste in wines and cigars. Under his daughter's leadership he sometimes talked brilliantly. After these dinners Hemming would always stay as long as he could without feeling himself in the way; then, after a word or two with Mr. Hudson in the library, he would return to the lonely sitting-room and write letters to Miss Travers. These he burned as soon as written. This was foolishness, and worried Smith a good deal.

Tarmont, who guessed Hemming's case, got into the habit of dropping in on his new friend at unseemly hours. If Hemming wanted to talk, Tarmont was ready to listen. If Hemming wanted to listen, Tarmont was glad to chat about his stay in England. If Hemming wanted to continue his work, Tarmont was delighted to smoke in silence,--always those fat Eastern cigarettes,--with his heels on any convenient piece of furniture that happened to be higher than his head. One night he brought a chap named Stanley along with him. On this occasion his visit was timed many hours earlier than usual--in fact, Hemming was only half-way through his first cigarette since dinner. Stanley interested Hemming from the first--all the more so because Tarmont whispered, while Stanley was examining a shelf of books, that he would not stand for his companion's behaviour, or anything else, as he had met him for the first time only that morning.

Stanley looked and sounded like a man without a care in the world, though in his black hair shone threads of silver. His manner was of complete good-humour, despite the suggestion of heartless deviltry in his dark eyes. His complexion was of a swarthy clearness, like a Spaniard's, and in the cleft of his massive chin gleamed a small triangular scar. Something about him suggested to Hemming a gull blown inland. He talked of a dozen things dear to Hemming's heart,--of salmon fishing in Labrador, of the sea's moods, of London, of polo, and of current literature,--treating each from the view-point of an outsider. The others were contented to sit quiet and listen. Many of his adventures by land and sea would have been laughed at by ordinary stay-at-homes, or even by Cook's tourists, but Hemming's knowledge of such things enabled him to see probabilities where Tarmont suspected lies. He was still spinning yarns when O'Rourke came in.

Several days passed before Hemming again saw Stanley--restless, painful days for Hemming, for Stanley's stories had reawakened all that was vagrant in his blood; the other side of his heart was longing for England, and pride and self-ordained duty held him in New York. Also, the condition of his dearest friend was getting on his nerves. To see the man who had so often sworn that change and adventure were the breath of life to him eyeing furniture with calculating glances, pricing dinner-sets, and drawing plans of cottages on the margins of otherwise neglected manuscripts, struck him as verging on the idiotic. So he prowled about the town, and smoked more than Smith considered good for him. Late one night, upon leaving an up-town studio, where a pale youth made priceless posters and delectable coffee, he was overtaken by Stanley.

"Where are you off to?" asked Stanley.

"Home," replied Hemming.

"Are you sleepy?"

"No."

"Then I wish you'd let me come along. I want to talk."

Hemming assured him that he would be delighted to listen, and, hailing a belated cab, they drove to Washington Square. O'Rourke and Smith were both asleep. Hemming closed their doors, and lit a couple of candles to help the firelight make shadows up the walls. Then Stanley told something of his story. In his youth he had inherited a small fortune. At first he had spent it foolishly, but after years of knocking about, had learned how to save it, and even add to it. The sea had been his ambition and delight ever since his first days of freedom. Early in his career he had qualified as a navigator. He told of trading-schooners in Newfoundland and Labrador, in which he was interested; of a copper-mine somewhere that he had discovered himself, and sold to an English syndicate; of a venture in the sponge-fishery off the Florida coast, and of his apprenticeship to pearl-diving. He told of a blunt-nosed old barque in which he owned a one-third interest and on which he had sailed as master for half a dozen voyages, doing a very profitable smuggling business on the side. He even confessed to an irregular career as a journalist in Australia.

"I have always found my profits," he said, "and managed to live well enough. It is an easy world, if you have any brains at all, but, for all that, it is horrible. The longer a man lives--the oftener he saves himself from defeat--the gayer he makes his fun--then, when he lies awake at night, the more he has to sweat and pray about."

Hemming nodded. "They pile up," he remarked; then, fearing that gloomy reflections might get the better of his guest's desire to talk, he asked him why he had given up his berth aboard the barque.

"Had important business to look after ashore," replied Stanley. In bending over the table to light a cigarette at a candle, he looked keenly at his host.

"And there was another reason--a damn sight better one," he said, quietly.

He sank back in his chair and blew a thin thread of smoke.

"We were in Bahia with fish," he continued, "and I got foul of one of the hands--for the last time. The memory of his big face makes me feel ill to this day."

"What!" exclaimed Hemming. "Do you mean to tell me you let one of the crew lay you away?"

"Not quite," laughed Stanley, harshly. He touched the scar on his chin. "That's what he gave me--with a knuckle-duster," he explained, "and what I gave him he took ashore to the hospital. His messmates were not particularly fond of him, but, for all that, I considered it wise to live quietly ashore for awhile."

"You must have handled him rather roughly," remarked the Englishman.

"I killed him," said Stanley. "I beat the life out of him with my bare fists."

"You beast," said Hemming, his face blanched with horror and disgust.

"Oh, cheer up, old Sunday-school teacher," replied Stanley, good-naturedly. "I had reason enough for killing the slob. He hit me first, for one thing. Then there was a girl in the case--a little brown girl, who wouldn't look at a dirty brute like him, for all that he told to the contrary. He was ship's bully until he got aft to the cabin."

He emptied his glass, and looked, with an expression of bored expectancy, toward the darkest corner of the room.

"It's about time for him now," he said, "but maybe you don't believe in ghosts. He favours me with a sight of his ugly mug almost every night. Can you see him there?"

Hemming turned with a start, but only black shadows were in the corner. Stanley laughed.

"What a pity," he said, "for I am sure you would be more interested than I."

Hemming drew close to the fire, and, when his back was turned, Stanley, with a wary eye on the shadows, grabbed the decanter of Scotch and gulped down a quantity of the raw liquor. In a moment he seemed himself again. He set the decanter softly back upon the table, and, with his hands in his trousers pockets, moved over to the window and looked out at the cold roofs, level against the dawn, and at the lift of the silent chimneys. His jaws were set hard, swelling the muscles under the swarthy skin. He feared a hand upon his shoulder--the heavy touch of a thick, toil-worn hand. He awaited, dreading, the rank breath of the dead seaman against his ear. Presently he turned his head, and looked again at the shadowy corner. It was lighter now. But crouched there close to the floor, as he had crouched upon the hot deck, with red hands knuckle down, and blood upon the ugly, upturned face, was the bully of the barque. The candles burned softly, throwing their kindly radiance upon books and pictures. Hemming sat by the fire, puzzled, but at peace. Wrenching his gaze from the hideous apparition beyond, Stanley looked enviously at Hemming--at the clean, brave face, whereon hardships and adventures had hardened not a line.

Hemming fell asleep in his chair. When he opened his eyes, the room was full of sunlight and his guest had gone. He could hear O'Rourke splashing and singing in his bath, and Smith stood at his elbow with a cup of tea.