CHAPTER VIII.

HEMMING WOULD PUT HIS DREAMS TO THE PROOF

On arriving in London, Hemming went straight to the Portland Hotel. As soon as Smith had unpacked enough of his things to allow him to dress, he chartered a cab and hastened toward his old haunts. It was close upon seven o'clock; the night falling black with an upper fog, and the streets alive with the red and white lights on either hand, and the golden eyes of the hansoms. At his old club in Piccadilly he loitered for awhile on the lookout for familiar faces, and wondering where he could find Anderson. His courage, which had often failed altogether during the voyage--especially in the early mornings--was now at its height. In this brave mood he felt quite sure that all those lonely years had been nothing but a frightful, foolish mistake. He wanted to talk it over with Anderson. His old friend would give him some tips as to how the land lay, and what obstacles to look out for. From a waiter, he learned that Major Anderson was then in town, and frequented this club, so, leaving a note for him, he went on foot to Piccadilly Circus. At the Trocadero, he found a quiet table, and ordered a quiet dinner. As he waited, he watched the people in the place with happy interest. They came, as he had so often seen them come there before, these men and women in evening dress, laughing and whispering, but now talking of a hundred things to which he was a stranger. The waiters slid about grave and attentive as of old. The women pulled at their gloves, and glanced about them, and more than once Hemming bore, undisturbed, the scrutiny of fair and questioning eyes. But throughout the dinner, he had some difficulty in curbing his impatience. He was keen to put this dream of his to the test; and yet, with the thought of going to her and looking into her eyes for what his heart so valiantly promised him, came always the memory of that last parting. Her injustice had burned deep, but still more painful was the recollection of her brief show of relenting,--for then he had turned away.

Still in a brown study, he sipped his coffee and inhaled his cigarette. Visions from the days of his old happiness came to him, and his hand trembled as it never had in anger or fatigue. He built dreams of the wonderful meeting. Would her eyes lighten as Helen Hudson's had when O'Rourke returned from his exile?

Some one touched his elbow. He started up, and beheld Anderson.

Though the major said the usual things, and shook hands with extreme cordiality, Hemming noticed a tinge of reserve in the greeting.

"This _is_ a surprise," stammered Anderson, examining the tip of his cigar with an exhibition of interest that seemed to the other quite uncalled for.

"You don't think it is loaded, do you?" inquired Hemming, smiling patiently.

"Loaded!" exclaimed the major, with a start; "oh,--the cigar. Ha, ha."

Hemming's smile became strangely fixed, as he surveyed his friend across the little table. Could this be the same old Anderson, he mused; and, if so, why so confoundedly chesty? Could it be that a staff appointment had come his way? He gave up the riddle, and related some of his adventures in Pernamba, and told of the end of Penthouse's misguided career.

"I saw something about the revolution and your heroism in the New York papers," said Anderson, "but there was no mention of Penthouse."

"He called himself Cuddlehead at that time,--and really it was hardly worth while enlightening the press on that point," replied Hemming. "He was related to Mrs. Travers," he added.

The major moved uneasily in his chair.

"By the way," continued Hemming, with a poor attempt at a casual air, "how are Mrs. Travers and Molly?"

"I believe they are very well," replied his friend.

"See here, Dick," cried the man of adventures, with a vast change of manner, "I must show my hand. Why should I try to bluff you, anyway? Tell me, old chap, do you think I have half a chance."

The colour faded from the major's ruddy cheeks, and he looked forlorn and pathetic, despite his swagger and size.

"Half a chance," he repeated, vaguely,--"half a chance at what?"

"You used to know well enough," cried the other. "Damn it, are my affairs so soon forgotten?"

"I thought you had forgotten them yourself. It is a long time since you went away, you know," replied Anderson, scarcely above a whisper. Drops of sweat glistened on his face.

"A long time,--yes, I know," murmured Hemming.

Presently he said: "Dick, you have not answered my question."

Anderson cleared his throat, fingered his moustache, and glanced about uneasily. But he made no reply.

"You don't think I have any chance? You think she does not care for me?" questioned Hemming, desperately.

He reached over and gripped his friend's wrist with painful vim. "Tell me the truth, Dick, and never mind my feelings," he cried.

Anderson withdrew his arm with a jerk.

"Can't you see? Are you such a damn fool!" he muttered. "You come along, after you have had your fun, and expect me to produce the joyous bride,--the blushing first-love."

"What the devil is the matter with you?" asked Hemming, aghast.

"So you imagine the world stands still for you,--Mr. Commander-in-Chief? You had better hurry back to your nigger troops, or they'll be having another revolution."

Hemming looked and listened, and could believe neither his eyes nor his ears. Was this the same man who, once upon a time, had been his jolly, kindly friend? The once honest face now looked violent and mean. The once honest voice rang like a jealous hag's. Hemming stared, and stared, in pained astonishment. Then, by some flutter of his companion's eyelids, understanding came to him.

"Dick," he said, "Dick, I am sorry."

By this time Anderson looked thoroughly ashamed of himself. "For God's sake, Bert, get out and leave me alone," he cried, huskily. "I've been drinking too much, you know."

Without another word, Hemming paid his bill and left the place. Beyond the fact that Anderson was in love with Molly, he did not know what to make of that honest soldier's behaviour. Perhaps Molly loved Anderson, and Anderson was too loyal to his old friend to further his own suit? That would make the mildest man act like a drunken collier.

Hemming had been striding along at a brisk pace, but, when this idea got hold of him, he turned in his tracks and went back to the Trocadero, eager to tell his friend to go ahead and win the happiness in store for him. But when he reached the place, one of the waiters informed him that Major Anderson had gone. He immediately returned to the club. By this time, he had made up his mind to write to Miss Travers, and say good-bye--for ever. On the club stationery he wrote:

"DEAR MOLLY:--My dreams have brought me back to England, and almost to you. But I met Anderson a little while ago, and you will understand why I do not call on you now. It was foolish of me to hope,--but I am afraid I have been a great many kinds of a fool during my aimless life. I intend leaving town in a day or two, and returning to one or other of my distant stamping-grounds. Please think kindly of me, for 'old sake's sake.' I wish you all the happiness life and love can give.

"As ever, H.H."

He gave the letter to a page, to be immediately posted, and then sat down in a deserted corner and pretended to read. His thoughts were in a turmoil, and his heart ached dully. It seemed to him that fate was pressing him beyond human endurance. His gloomy meditations were interrupted by a genial voice addressing him by his Christian name, and, looking up, he found Mr. Pollin at his elbow.

"You are prompt, my boy," remarked Mr. Pollin.

Hemming frowned. What did the old ass mean by saying he was prompt, he wondered.

"I got to town to-day," he replied, coldly.

Pollin pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. "Let me see,--ten, eleven, twelve,--why, that is very quick work. I mailed the note only twelve days ago," he said.

"What note? and what are you talking about?" asked his bewildered hearer.

"The note to you."

"I did not get any note."

"Then what the devil brought you here?"

"That is my own business, sir," retorted Hemming, angrily.

"Easy, easy, Herbert," cried the old man.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for speaking to you like that," replied Hemming, "but I am in a nasty temper to-night, and I really can't make out what you are driving at."

"Granted, my dear boy; granted with a heart and a half," exclaimed Pollin. "But tell me," he asked, "do you mean to say that my note, advising you to come to London, never reached you?"

"That is what I mean to say," Hemming assured him. Suddenly his face brightened, and he leaned forward. "Why did you advise me to come to London?" he asked.

Mr. Pollin surveyed him critically. "We'll just sit down and have a drink," he said, "and then maybe I will tell you."

Hemming's curiosity was sufficiently excited to prompt him to comply with this suggestion. He wondered what old Pollin could have to say to him, for they had never seen much of each other, nor had they been particularly friendly. But he was Molly's uncle,--there lay the golden possibility. He smothered the thought. More likely, the communication would be something about Anderson's prospects. He smiled grimly, and swallowed half his whiskey at a gulp.

Mr. Pollin settled himself more comfortably in his chair. "I like your work," he began, "and have always followed it carefully. Your Turko-Grecian book strikes me as a particularly fine achievement. What little of your fiction and verse I manage to hunt out in the magazines appeals to me in more ways than one. It is good work. But even better than that, I like the good heart I see behind it. When, a few days ago, Mrs. Travers asked me to protest with her daughter for refusing eligible suitors, I felt it my duty to look into the case,--hers and yours. I did so, and came to the conclusion that she still cares for you more than for any one else. That is my reason for writing you to come home."

"Does she know that you have written to me?" queried Hemming, his face and heart aglow.

"No, indeed, but I'm afraid she may suspect when she sees you," replied Mr. Pollin, with some show of uneasiness.

"And what about Anderson?" asked Hemming.

"Dick Anderson? Ah, he is exceedingly stupid, or he would have given up long ago. He never had the ghost of a chance," replied the beaming match-maker.

Hemming stood up, and grasped the other warmly by both hands. "I got along without your letter," he said, "but I don't know what might have happened by now if you'd not stumbled over me to-night. I saw Anderson, you know, and somehow got the idea into my head that I was out of the game."

"Out of the game," laughed Pollin. "No fear of that, my boy. Come over to my diggings, and we'll have a smoke on it."

As he led the prodigal from the club, clinging affectionately to his arm, he warned him of Mrs. Travers. "Don't pay any attention to her,--unless she happens to be polite," he said.

Late that night, after Hemming had returned to his hotel, Mr. Pollin sat up and penned a note to his niece.