Hemming, the adventurer

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

PART THREE

CHAPTER I.
THE REAL GIRL

Hemming and O'Rourke, with Smith as valet-in-common, reached New York in November, and shivered in their tropical underclothes. The dismal aspect of the great city, as viewed at nine o'clock of a drizzly morning, daunted even the valet. At sight of the wide, wet streets and soaring office buildings, depressing memories of Dodder's death came to Hemming. The chill brought a twinge to O'Rourke's leg, and the swinging, clanging cars and hustling crowds offended his sense of the fitness of things.

In a four-wheeler they went direct to a bachelor apartment-house on Washington Square, in which their friend, Mr. Valentine Hicks, had engaged for them an airy suite of rooms. As they passed under the white archway, entering the old square, their moods lifted.

"I believe I'll feel all right, when I get into a woollen undershirt," said O'Rourke.

Hemming soon settled down to his work. He was more systematic about it than O'Rourke, working several hours every morning at articles for the magazines, and part of every evening at a novel. O'Rourke, who had many friends and acquaintances in and about Newspaper Row, spent but little of his time at home, and did his work when he had to. Both O'Rourke and Hemming were frequent visitors at another house on the square, where the Hickses and Tetsons lived in comfort. Hemming's novel was built up, chapter by chapter, and relentlessly torn down, only to be rebuilt with much toil. The general outline of the story had come to him years before, one night while he was playing poker in the chart-room of an ocean tramp. He had written a few pages next morning, behind the canvas dodgers of the bridge. Then it had been pushed aside by the press of other work; but he had returned to it now and then, in many parts of the world. The chapters done in Pernamba were the only ones that did not seem to require rewriting. By this time the original plot was almost forgotten, and a more satisfactory one had developed.

One Thursday night, having finished the twentieth chapter as well as he knew how, he changed his clothes and went over to call on Mrs. Hicks. It was her evening. He went alone, for O'Rourke had dined out, and had not returned. About a dozen people were already there. While he was talking to McFarland of the Gazette, he noticed a girl talking to their hostess. Just why she attracted him he could not say for a moment. Mrs. Hicks was more beautiful, and there were at least two women in the room as tastefully gowned. She looked girlish beside her stately hostess. But there was a jaunty, gallant air about the carriage of her head and shoulders, which seemed to Hemming particularly charming. Her voice was deep, and her laughter was unaffected as that of a boy.

"You too?" laughed McFarland.

"I never saw her before," said Hemming.

"Then let me tell you now," said the editor, "that it is no use. Even your eye-glass could not awaken her from her romantic dream."

"Count me out," replied Hemming, dryly, "but tell me something about it."

"All I know," said McFarland, "is that there are ten of us—eleven counting the lucky unknown. We ten used to hate one another, but now we are as brothers in our common misery. But tell me, is it true that you are working on a novel? I don't see what you want to go messing with fiction for, when you can do stuff like that Turkish book."

While Hemming and the journalist chatted aimlessly in Mrs. Hicks's drawing-room, O'Rourke made history across the square. He had returned to his quarters only a few minutes after his friend had left; and had scarcely got his pipe well lighted when Smith announced "a gentleman to see Captain Hemming, very particularly." O'Rourke got to his feet and found the gentleman already at the sitting-room door. The caller was in evening clothes. His ulster hung open, and in his hand he carried an opera-hat.

"Hemming is out for the evening," said O'Rourke, "but perhaps I can give him your message. Come in, won't you?"

The stranger entered and sat down by the fire. He glanced about the walls of the room, and then fixed an intent, though inoffensive, gaze on O'Rourke.

"I heard, only this morning, that Hemming was in town," he said. "We saw a good deal of each other, once, in Porto Rico."

"In Porto Rico?" exclaimed O'Rourke, knitting his brows.

"Yes. Have you ever been there?"

"No, though I've sampled most of the islands. But go on—I interrupted you. I beg your pardon."

"Don't speak of it. I only came for the address of a friend of Hemming's. But perhaps you could tell me in what quarter of the globe Mr. O'Rourke hangs out? He's a literary chap, and maybe you know him."

"Bertram St. Ives O'Rourke?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I know him. He is in town just now, at 206 Washington Square."

"Why, that must be very near here."

"It is," replied O'Rourke, with a strange light in his eyes and a huskiness in his voice.

"Let me see," mused the other, "this is the Wellington, number two hundred and—Lord, this is the place."

His dark face paled suddenly.

"My name is O'Rourke," remarked the big man with the pipe.

"And mine is Ellis," said the other.

They eyed each other squarely for several seconds.

"I have heard of you," said O'Rourke, in modulated tones. But all the while the blood was singing in his ears, and splashing wisps of light crossed his eyes.

"And I of you," replied Ellis, quietly. He had not yet regained his colour. O'Rourke, outwardly calm, turned in his chair and searched among the papers on the table. He found a leather cigar-case, opened it, and extended it to his visitor.

"Try one of these. We like them immensely," he said.

Now the red surged into Ellis's face, and he hesitated to receive the cigar.

"Don't you know—how I have treated you?" he whispered.

"Please try a smoke—and then tell me why you came for my address. The past is done with. I am only afraid of the future now."

Ellis drew the long black weed from the extended case, and deliberately prepared it for smoking. When it was burning to his satisfaction, he said:

"Do you know where the Hickses live?"

"Yes. Hemming is there to-night."

"So is Miss Hudson," remarked Ellis.

O'Rourke jumped from his chair, and grasped the other by both hands. Then he dashed into his bedroom and shouted for Smith. When he was half-dressed he remembered that he had forgotten to ask any questions, or even to be excused, while he changed his clothes. He looked into the sitting-room.

"Forgive my bad manners, Mr. Ellis. You see I'm in rather a rush," he said, gaily.

"Oh, certainly," exclaimed Ellis, starting up from a gloomy contemplation of the fire. He crossed over and smiled wanly at O'Rourke.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I wish you'd keep quiet about my part in—in this affair. She would despise me, you know—and I couldn't stand that."

"But I can tell her about to-night—about your kindness," suggested O'Rourke.

Ellis shook his head and smiled bitterly.

"She may not look at it in so charitable a light as you do," he replied, "so please put it all down to chance. She does not know that I have ever heard of you, except from her."

O'Rourke promised, and, after shaking hands, Ellis left his rival to complete his toilet. This he did in short order.

To return to the drawing-room across the square. By degrees Hemming drifted half around the room, and at last found himself against the wall, between the door from the hallway and the table containing the punch-bowl.

He was feeling a bit weary of it all, and sought refreshment in the bowl. He had almost decided to go home, when the door at his elbow opened, and to his surprise O'Rourke entered, resplendent in white breast, black tails, and eager smile. This comrade tried and true passed him without a glance—worse still, strode between his host and hostess without a sign of recognition. Glass in hand, and monocle flashing, Hemming wheeled and stared after him. Others looked in the same direction. Valentine and Marion smiled sheepishly at their empty, extended hands. But the lady of the gallant, shapely shoulders and unaffected laughter faced the late arrival with the most wonderful expression in the world on her face. For a moment she seemed to waver. Then strong hands clasped hers.

"Bertram," she sighed.

"Dearest—am I too late?"

"But—oh, what do you mean? See, they are all looking."

"I love you. Didn't I ever tell you? And I have searched the world for you."

"Hush—see, they are all staring at us. Oh, stop, or I shall certainly cry."

She snatched her hands away from his eager grasp.

"But tell me," he begged, in a whisper, before she could turn away. For a wonderful second their eyes read what the years of longing had set behind the iris for love to translate. Then she bowed her face, and answered "Yes."

He did not know if she shouted it, or but murmured it beneath her breath; it rang through his body and spirit like the chiming of a bell.

"Drag me away," he whispered to Hicks. "I don't want to make an ass of myself before all these people."

"You've done that already. Come into my study," said Hicks.

Hemming, scenting the truth, followed them.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Hicks.

"Don't you know your friends? Is that the real girl?" asked Hemming.

O'Rourke ignored the questions.

"Give me a drink of something," he said, and, recovering a little of his composure, smote Hemming violently on the back.

"Is it the real girl?" repeated Hemming, staggering.

"Do you think I'd make a mistake?" cried the lover. He swallowed the brandy brought him by Hicks, and requested a cigarette. Their host supplied it from a tin box on the mantelpiece, all the while eyeing O'Rourke anxiously.

"What on earth made you act like that?" he asked. "There'll be wigs on the green when Marion gets hold of you."

"Oh, you must forgive him this time," laughed Hemming. "For, as far as I can gather, he has just met the lady of his heart after years of separation."

"Do you mean Miss Hudson? Why, where did you ever meet her?" cried Hicks.

"It's a long story," replied O'Rourke, "but perhaps Herbert will tell it to you—I can't spare the time."

He threw the half-smoked cigarette into the grate, and left the study, closing the door behind him.

Hicks glanced uneasily at Hemming.

"I hope O'Rourke is not drunk," he said. "An out and out city square poet, who stays at home and writes about the rolling billows, I can understand, but I never know what chaps like you and O'Rourke are up to."

Hemming laughed.

"Don't worry about O'Rourke," he said.

Later in the evening Hemming found a gray-haired gentleman standing alone, lost in contemplation of a black and white hunting picture. He seemed dazed, and ill at ease.

"Mr. Hemming," he said, "my name is Hudson, and my daughter has just introduced me to a Mr. O'Rourke. Have you ever met him?"

"Several times," replied Hemming.

"A gentleman, I suppose?"

"Certainly."

"A man of property?"

"Inconsiderable."

"An adventurer, perhaps?"

"Just as I am."

"But, my dear sir, your connections and your reputation as a writer places you above suspicion. I had frequently heard of you before the Pernamba episode."

"Thank you," said Hemming, with a crispness in his voice.

"But this man O'Rourke?" continued the other.

"O'Rourke," said Hemming, "lacks neither personal distinction nor respectable family connections. I have watched him under the most trying circumstances, and his behaviour has always been above criticism. Also, he happens to be my dearest friend."

CHAPTER II.
A NEW RESTLESSNESS

"All night long, in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by." ... R.L.S.

During the first few days following O'Rourke's sensational meeting with Miss Hudson, Hemming saw very little of that headstrong young man, for the lover spent his afternoons and evenings in making up for lost time, and his mornings in rearing Spanish castles. At first Hemming took joy in his friend's happiness—then came envy, and bleak disgust at his own case. He sought refuge in hard work, and toiled every morning with a half-heart for the subject in hand, and ears pricked up for O'Rourke's babble of joy and content. And behold, at the end of a morning's grind, twenty pages for the fire. Even his novel came to a standstill. The chapter of romance, which had the joyful meeting of O'Rourke and Miss Hudson for its inspiration, seemed to have no connection with the rest of the narrative, and no excuse for existence save its own beauty. He wondered if this chapter were a story in itself—a breath of life's real poetry, too fine and rare for marketing. One night, alone in the sitting-room brooding above the manuscript, he tried to rewrite it in verse. A new restlessness had him by the heart, lifting him, one moment, to the heights of confidence, only to drag him down, the next, to the depths of uncertainty and longing. Three lines pulsed up to his brain, and he wrote them down. Then he opened his sitting-room window and looked out. The lights in the square gleamed down on the wet pavement. The black tree-tops threshed in the wind. A cab sped down from Fifth Avenue, under the arch. A policeman paused beneath him, and yawned at the bright entrance.

Hemming sniffed the wind, and decided to go for a walk. He circled the square three times. Then he struck up Fifth Avenue, with his hands in the pockets of his mackintosh and his stick under his arm. The big old houses on each side of the avenue wore an air of kindness that was not for him. Lights were in the upper windows of most of them. One was still awake, and carriages waited in a solemn row at the curb. It seemed to Hemming that all the world but himself was at peace. The coachmen and footmen waited contentedly outside, while their masters and mistresses laughed and danced within. What had these people to do with the bitterness of the unattainable? His eyes were turned in upon his own heart, and nothing seemed real but this new restlessness, this nameless desire like a crying in the dark. It was not for fame, nor altogether for the power of expression, though that, at one time or another, will tear the heart of every artist. It was not bred of any regret for the past, nor inspired by apprehension for the future. On the fly-leaf of a friend's book he had once read the words, "There is only the eternal now—an oasis of fleeting actuality between two deserts of mirage." Now he remembered the words as he strolled up Fifth Avenue. The Eternal Now! Could it give him no more solace than this? For him would it be always this empty room, from the windows of which he might look backward upon one mirage and forward to another? He felt in his pockets for something to smoke. They were empty, so he decided to keep on until he could find a tobacconist's establishment. Deep in thought, buffeted and yet soothed by the bleak wind, he strode along, with little heed to his course. Presently, upon glancing up, he found himself on a side street, before the area railings of a basement restaurant that he knew well. Here he could get a Porto Rican cigar to which he was particularly partial, or cigarettes of pungent tobacco rolled in sweet brown paper. He opened the iron gate, descended the steps, and rang the signal of the initiated on the bell. The Italian woman opened the door, and smilingly admitted him. In the larger of the two dining-rooms only one table was occupied, for stray customers were not welcomed after the regular dinner hours. At the table sat two men whom Hemming knew, and one who was a stranger to him. They were drinking coffee and smoking, and from a chafing-dish in the centre of the table drifted an odour with a tang to it.

Upon Hemming's entrance, Potts, assistant editor of a ten-cent magazine, called to him to join them. The Englishman did so, gladly. Akerly, the illustrator, he knew, and he was introduced to the third, a thick-shouldered, blond-haired youth, by name Tarmont. Tarmont also proved to be an artist. He was a Canadian by birth, and had just arrived in New York from a two years' visit in England.

"I was staying in Norfolk awhile," he said, "with some cousins, and I met a friend of yours." He looked intently at Hemming as he spoke, and Hemming started eagerly in his chair. But in a moment he sat quiet again.

"More than one, for that matter," continued Tarmont. "There was Major Anderson,—he talked a great deal of you one night, after some one had mentioned wars, and that sort of thing,—-and there was an old chap who argued about you with an old dame, the same evening. Really, your memory seemed to bulk large in their eyes." He paused, and smiled at his companions. "Oh, I forgot," he added; "there was a lady—very pretty, too—who stopped playing ping-pong with me to listen to what they were saying about Captain Hemming. Of course she didn't give that for a reason."

"What was her name?" asked Hemming.

Tarmont shook his head, and, producing his cigarette-case, lit a mild, fat Turkish.

"I'm no good at names," he said, "but she seemed to be about twenty-eight in age, and was beautifully set up, a trifle on the thin side—and had ripping fine eyes, and hair with copper in it."

Even Hemming laughed.

"You must have spent all your precious time staring at her," remarked Potts.

"Well, I did," confessed the artist, "for I was in love with her, man. Even now, whenever I draw a girl I make her waist and her arms. As for the look in her eyes—my dear fellow, I can never forget it."

"What sort of a look was it?" asked Akerly, hugely amused.

"A look of longing," replied Tarmont, in tragic tones. "It was deucedly disconcerting, too, for the man she happened to be talking to. It always made me feel as if I had a hole in the middle of my chest, through which she could see some chap whom she was anxious to embrace. We all noticed that Anderson didn't like it at all."

Potts and Akerly roared with laughter.

"You should be a novelist," said Potts.

Akerly ordered a round-bellied, wicker-covered flask. But Hemming only pondered over what he heard.

It was close upon two o'clock in the morning when Hemming got back to the Wellington. He found O'Rourke snug in his bed, smiling even in his sleep. He closed the bedroom doors softly, stirred up the fire, and sat down to his story. Still the wind galloped through the square, slashing the tree-tops, and riding against the house-fronts.

It was dawn when Hemming laid aside his pen, knocked the smouldering heel from his pipe, and went wearily to bed.

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.

CHAPTER IV.
"THE DEAR, DEAR WITCHERY OF SONG"

The two friends sat late over their breakfast.

"If anything happens to me before night, will you see that I am decently buried?" said O'Rourke.

"I don't see what more is to happen to you—except bankruptcy," retorted Hemming.

"Oh, I intend getting down to work again right away," O'Rourke hastened to say. "That is part of my trouble," he added. "You know that Mr. Hudson, for all his good points, has some jolly queer notions in his head. He had not known me more than a week before he asked me to let scribbling alone and give business a chance. I told him that scribbling was good enough for me. He said prose was bad, but to see a bushy chap, six feet high, writing poetry, simply made him sick. I was mad, but—well, I was also afraid. I know him better now. He made me promise not to mention the conversation to Helen, and tried to fire my soul with the desire for banking. He even offered me a job. Well, to oblige him I determined to try to give up writing, and I've been struggling along now for nearly three weeks. Gad, I'm sick of it. Helen does not know, of course, what the matter is, and thinks I'm out of condition, or that her company is not inspiring; and all the time the finest things are swinging about in my head, and my fingers are itching for a good corky penholder. Last night I realized that both my money and peace of mind were leaving me, so I turned out early this morning and wrote seven verses to Helen, and sketched out two stories, and an article on the Jamaica fruit trade, and now I'm going to tell old Hudson that he can go—I mean that I will not consider his proposition a moment longer."

"And what about the lady?" asked Hemming.

"Who—Helen? Oh, she'll make it warm for her father when she hears about it, I can tell you," answered O'Rourke.

While Hemming interviewed Smith on household topics, O'Rourke scribbled a quatrain on his cuff, and then invented conversation between himself and Mr. Hudson. This form of amusement is exciting—better even than writing dialogue. One cannot help figuring as the hero. The best time for it is when you are walking alone, late at night, perhaps in a rainstorm. The ideas swing along with your stride, and the words patter with the rain. But O'Rourke, in his mood, found nine o'clock in the morning good enough, and, by the time Hemming was ready to go out, had made sixteen different wrecks of poor Hudson's ideas on the subject of authorship as a profession. His courage returned to its normal elevation, and as they walked along he entertained Hemming with his brave dreams of the future.

The friends parted company at the door of Hemming's publishers; O'Rourke took a car for an up-town resident quarter. He might have seen Mr. Hudson at his office, which was on Broadway, but he wanted to see Helen first, and assure himself of her support.

Helen was pleased, though surprised, at seeing him so early. She received him in the morning-room, which was delightfully informal. He asked her to ride with him at four o'clock, and spoke as if this was his reason for calling. But she thought not. Presently she caught sight of the neat lettering on the otherwise spotless cuff, and without so much as "by your leave" took hold of his wrist, pushed back his coat-sleeve, and read the quatrain.

"My dear boy," she said, "it is fine. And I was just beginning to fear that this old town had made you stupid, or—or that my companionship makes you dull. I wondered if, after all, I was not inspiring."

"You not inspiring!" exclaimed O'Rourke. "Why, I have had to smother more inspirations during the last few weeks than I ever had before in all my life. There's more inspiration in one of your eyelashes than in all the hair on all the heads of all the other people in the world."

"Silly," she said.

O'Rourke did not retort in words.

"But why did you smother the inspirations, you boy?" she asked, presently.

"I can't tell you now," he replied. "But at four o'clock I'll confess all. You want the red mare, I suppose. I'm off now to see your pater. Wish me luck, little girl."

Helen smiled.

"I hope you don't let all your cats out of their bags as easily as that," she said. "But it will save you the trouble of making confession later. Yes, the red mare, please. And, dear boy, I'll have a little talk with father at lunch, and he will never make you smother your dear inspirations again. There, that will do. Now run away and beard the lion. Really, you behave as if you were afraid of never finding me again."

"Oh, I've made sure of you this time," he said. Then he remembered the seven verses, and, pulling them from his pocket, read them aloud. The fire in the morning-room was wonderfully cheerful. The clock clicked softly, and chimed once or twice, unheeded. They talked a great deal, and made plans for the future, and O'Rourke smoked a cigarette. When Mr. Hudson came home to his lunch, he found them still engaged in conversation beside the morning-room fire. They looked guiltily at the clock. O'Rourke bowed to Mr. Hudson, and extended his hand.

"I have decided, sir, to stick to scribbling," said he.

"'I HAVE DECIDED, SIR, TO STICK TO SCRIBBLING'"

"Did you ever think of not sticking to it?" she asked. O'Rourke gazed straight ahead, and had the grace to blush. A truthful woman can always—well, act—with more ease than a truthful man.

"I am not fit for anything else," he said.

"Dear me, dear me," said Hudson, glancing nervously at his daughter. "I haven't a doubt that you are right, Bertram. A man should be the best judge himself of what he is good for."

"And now," said the lady, "you may stay to lunch. But you must hurry away right afterward for the horses."

So O'Rourke remained to lunch, and was vastly entertaining, and Mr. Hudson thawed again, having decided, during the soup, to accept the inevitable.

CHAPTER V.
AN UNCANNY GUEST

Hemming finished his novel and took it to his publisher. Then he decided to go somewhere,—to get out of New York and back to the life that meant something. He confided his intention to O'Rourke, and later to Smith.

"I wish you'd wait for awhile," pleaded O'Rourke, "and then I'd go with you."

"How long do you want me to wait?" asked Hemming.

"Oh, until we're married."

"Great Scott, man, surely you don't intend deserting your bride immediately after the marriage ceremony!"

"Not much," exclaimed O'Rourke, "but she could come, too."

Hemming stared, for he knew that many of his friend's jokes required a lot of looking at; and Smith, who was tidying the table, hid his smile in the duster.

"What have you been drinking?" inquired Hemming at last. O'Rourke made a movement as one awaking from a trance. He smiled foolishly.

"Forgive me," he said; "for a moment I quite forgot what sort of trips we used to indulge in. Of course it would never do to take Helen on jaunts like those."

"I wonder if you are old enough to take care of a wife," said his friend, severely.

When Hemming returned to his rooms late that evening, he was still undecided as to where he would go. O'Rourke was away at some sort of function. Hemming had been walking for more than an hour, aimlessly, but at a hard pace. As he dropped wearily into his chair, Smith entered, and handed him a paper from the table. It was a note from Stanley, written in red ink on the back of a laundry list. It ran as follows:

"Hurry 'round to my diggings as soon as you get this. I want you to meet my seafaring friend, who seems in a mood to honour me with a visit of some length. He is very droll, and looks as if he means to stay. I send this by our hall boy.

"Merrily yours,
"T. F. STANLEY."

He found Stanley alone in a big and lavishly furnished room. He sat at a table, whereon stood two glasses, a syphon of soda-water, and a decanter. He stood up upon Hemming's entrance. "Ah," he said, "this is good of you. We had almost given up hopes of seeing you to-night."

"I was out," replied Hemming, "and just got your note. Where is your seafaring friend?"

"Allow me to introduce you," said Stanley. "Mr. Kelley, my friend, Mr. Hemming."

Hemming looked about him, open-mouthed, and, though he straightened his monocle, he could see neither hair nor track of Mr. Kelley.

"What is your game?" he inquired, icily.

"It is as I feared," said Stanley, "and I assure you the loss is yours. I alone may enjoy Kelley's delightful society, it appears. His very smile, as he sits there, has a world of humour in it. He tells such droll stories, too, of his adventures by land and sea."

Hemming caught him roughly by the arm. "What damned nonsense is this?" he asked.

Stanley pulled himself away, and the Englishman, fearless though he was, felt daunted by the strange light in his host's eyes.

"If you don't like my friend, why, get out!" cried Stanley. "If you're a snob, and won't drink with a common sailor, and a dead one at that, why, just say so. But I tell you, Hemming, I like him. I didn't when I killed him, but I love him now. You should hear him sing."

For a moment Hemming stood undecided. Then he removed his overcoat, and drew a chair for himself up to the table.

"I am very stupid to-night," he said, smiling. "Of course I'll have a drink with you and Kelley. Just a couple of fingers, old chap. Kelley seems a good sort. Do you think he will favour us with a song?"

Stanley got another glass, and poured the whiskey for his guest. His face was haggard, though he was clearly pleased with Hemming's change of manner. "Oh, he is a good sort, sure enough," he said, "but I don't believe you could hear him sing. It is all I can do sometimes. He has a fine voice, but he is a bit handicapped by the cut in his lip. Do you notice the cut in his lip? I gave him that years ago. Knocked four or five teeth down his neck, too, I guess. Do you know, Hemming, I was afraid, when you first came in, that you thought me nutty."

For a little while Stanley seemed sunk too deep in meditation for utterance. He looked up presently, but not at Hemming.

"Kelley," he said, "you can understand being afraid of a man, and there was a time when I was afraid of a ghost, but what do you think of a man who is afraid of a woman?" He paused for a moment, and seemed to receive an answer, for he laughed and continued, "Just my sentiment, old cock. She isn't after him with a knife, either. She is in love with him, and once he was in love with her, but now he's afraid to go within miles of her. He's in love with her, too; at least, so they told Tarmont."

Hemming jumped from his chair. "Who the devil are you talking about?" he cried.

Stanley glared blankly for a moment.

"Why, sure enough; I'm talking about you," he said.

"See here, Stanley," exclaimed the Englishman, earnestly, "are you drunk, or are you mad, or are you only making a fool of yourself, and trying to make one of me?"

"I am not drunk," replied the other, slowly, "and why should I try to make a fool of you? Some one has saved me that trouble. But I may be mad, old chap, though I haven't taken to biting people yet."

Hemming started, and glanced about him uneasily. "Well, I really must go," he said; "I have some work to do," and he hurried away without shaking hands. He went to the nearest drug-store, where he might use the public telephone. He was about to ring up a doctor when an amused chuckle at his shoulder arrested him. He turned his head. There stood Stanley, leering pleasantly.

"Don't trouble yourself. I'm not wanting medical advice just now," said Stanley. In his confusion, Hemming blushed guiltily, and left the telephone, and the shop, without a word. As he passed into the street, he heard Stanley laughing with the cashier, very likely explaining his action as that of a harmless idiot.

Hemming made all speed to Washington Square. O'Rourke had not yet returned, but on a scrap of paper among his manuscripts he found Tarmont's address. With the help of a cab, he was soon in that gentleman's studio. But, to his disgust, he found that he was not the only visitor. Half a dozen men were lounging on the wide divans, smoking. Hemming managed to get Tarmont away from the crowd.

"Have you seen Stanley to-day?" he asked.

"Not since last night. Why?"

"He is mad as a hatter. Thinks he is entertaining some dead sailor in his rooms."

"Heavens!" exclaimed the artist.

"He talked rather wildly about several things," said Hemming, "and quoted you concerning a girl in England—and me."

"He may have heard me speaking of it," returned Tarmont, defiantly. "He was here last night."

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked the Englishman.

"It was just country-house gossip," replied the artist, "and I hardly thought you would thank me. I imagined you were old enough to know your own business best."

"It was country-house gossip, and now you have made studio gossip of it," said Hemming, tartly.

"I am very sorry," said Tarmont, honestly.

CHAPTER VI.
THE BACHELOR UNCLE TO THE RESCUE

The years since Hemming's departure had brought little of joy to Molly Travers. At first anger at herself had occupied her mind. Then had come a short-lived anger toward Hemming for not writing or returning. Now she looked at life with a calm heartlessness. When she learned the true story of Penthouse a white fury entered into her, and she knew that there was not a person in the world whom she would now trust,—save Hemming, the man who despised her. Her mother tried to comfort her; tried to reason with her; tried to soothe her with platitudes and eligible suitors. For her pains, the poor woman was snubbed. So were the suitors—at first. But, as the seasons wore around, with no word of love or forgiveness from the man whose love she had tramped on, Miss Travers decided to take her revenge on the world. She took it daintily, and the world hardly knew what she was about. First, and always, there was Anderson. At first, love for the girl, and loyalty for his friend, struggled hard within him. Love won against loyalty. Then he found that she did not care. He was of a hopeful disposition, and continued to make a fool of himself even to the last, as you shall see. There were others,—a subaltern, a lawyer, the son of a colonial premier, and a baronet. It was always so cleverly done that not one of them could lay the blame on her. Tarmont, the young artist, was the first to understand. He saved himself just in time.

Mrs. Travers was in despair, especially when the baronet rode away. At last it occurred to her that still the memory of Hemming, the adventurer, stood between her daughter and a comfortable settlement in life. Why any one should prefer the memory of a poor man to the reality of a rich one, she really could not see. She was afraid to ask Molly for a solution of the problem (having learned something by experience), so she wrote a note to her brother. Mr. Pollin came promptly, and gave ear to the narration of her troubles with polite concern. When she had made a piteous end of it, he told her that she was fretting herself quite unnecessarily.

"I'll speak to Molly," he said, in a reassuring voice.

"But she does not like being spoken to," complained Mrs. Travers.

"Oh, she is really a sensible girl, and I am not afraid of her," said Mr. Pollin.

"Had I better call her now?" suggested the lady.

"Lord, no!" cried her brother. "I'll see her alone,—some other day."

One morning, Molly received a visit from her bachelor uncle, much to her surprise. What little she knew of her uncle rather attracted her. More than once she had detected signs of thought, even of intellect, in his conversation. Also, she had heard something of his early career and of the articles he had written. She greeted him brightly. He held her hand, and glanced around the depressing drawing-room.

"My dear, this is no place to talk," he said.

"No, not to really talk," she agreed, "but it is not often used for that." Then she looked at him suspiciously. "Are you going to scold me about something, uncle?" she asked.

He laughed, and shook his head.

"Oh, no. I am not as courageous as I look," he replied.

She wondered if this round, trim, elderly gentleman really imagined that he looked so.

"I don't know where else we can go," she said. "Mother is in the morning-room, and the library is being cleaned."

"If you will come for a walk," he said, with a winning hesitancy in his manner.

Molly smiled. "I'll come," she answered, "though I am quite sure you have something very disagreeable to say, otherwise why all this trouble?"

"My dear girl," began Mr. Pollin, "I do not wonder at your suspicion. Really, though, it is without grounds. I simply want to become better acquainted with an interesting and charming niece whom I have hitherto somewhat neglected."

"Then it is a matter of duty," laughed Molly.

"On your part, my dear," replied her uncle, with a gallant bow.

"Then wait a moment," she said, and left the room.

The moment lengthened into twenty minutes, at the end of which time Miss Travers reappeared, gowned for the street.

"By gad, I don't blame the young fools!" muttered Mr. Pollin to himself, as he followed her down the steps. At first their conversation was of trivialities. It soon worked around to books, and Molly found, to her delight and surprise, that her uncle had not altogether forsaken his first love, to wit,—literature.

"I have cloaked myself with the reputation of a gossip," he told her, "to hide my greater sins of serious reading and amateur scribbling. A literary man must be successful from the most worldly point of view, to be considered with any leniency by his friends. So I keep dark, and enjoy myself and the respect of—of the people we know. When I was younger, I was not so wise."

"I have heard about it," returned Molly, "and I always liked you for it. But I think you were a coward to give it up just as soon as you came in for money."

Mr. Pollin smiled somewhat sadly.

"I was never anything more than a dabbler. That is my only excuse for shunning the muse in public," he replied. "But here we are at the door of my humble habitation."

"I have seen the door before. It looks very nice," remarked Molly.

"On the other side of that door," said Mr. Pollin, standing still and surveying the oak, "are two hundred and odd rare volumes, and three times as many more or less common ones,—also some easy chairs, and a man-servant capable of producing a modest luncheon."

"And cigarettes?" asked Miss Travers.

The gentleman gave her a look of pained inquiry.

"For you, my dear girl?" he queried.

"I have not smoked a cigarette for years," she replied, "but I learned how—oh, long ago."

"I have some excellent cigarettes," rejoined Mr. Pollin, kindly, as he fitted his latch-key in the door.

Molly found that, for a poor bachelor, her uncle lived very comfortably. She really did not see how one man and his valet could use so many rooms. The library was a charming place, walled with shelves of books, and warmed and brightened by a glowing fire. The floor had no carpet, but was thickly strewn with rugs. The chairs were of modern pattern and wicker ware, built for comfort rather than for looks. The big writing-table had books, magazines, and manuscripts scattered over it.

Mr. Pollin rang for his man, who appeared on the instant.

"My niece, Miss Travers, will lunch with me," he said.

"Very good, sir," replied the man, and hesitated at the door.

"Well, Scanlan?" inquired his master.

"General Davidson, sir,—and the lady, sir,—will that be hall?"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Pollin, "I'd forgotten the general. You don't mind old Davidson, do you, Molly?"

"I'm sure I do not know. I have never met him," replied Molly.

"That will be all," said Mr. Pollin to the man, and, as soon as the door closed, he turned to Molly and said: "Now, my dear, we have just an hour before that old bore Davidson, with his everlasting plans of battles, gets here, so we had better make the most of our time." He stirred the fire, and then seated himself close to his niece. He looked at her nervously, and several times opened his mouth as if to speak, but always seemed to think better of it before he had made a sound.

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" cried Miss Travers, staring with wide eyes.

Mr. Pollin braced himself, and swallowed hard. "My dear," he said, "I want to confess that I promised your mother that I would speak to you about—about—"

"About what, uncle?" She breathed fast, and her face was anxious.

"Dash it all, about some silly rot!" cried the old gentleman, "and, by gad, I don't intend to mention it. You are quite old enough to look after your own affairs,—of that nature,—and you are much wiser than the people who wish to look after them for you."

"I know what it is," said Molly, slowly.

"Then don't give it another thought," said Mr. Pollin. He patted her hand gently, and sighed with relief. "Now we can have a cigarette," he said. But his real task was yet to come. He wanted to know, by her own showing, if she still cared for Hemming. How the devil was it to be done, he wondered. He looked at the clock, and saw that the general was not due inside another forty minutes. He looked at Molly. She leaned back in his deepest chair, looking blissfully at home and uncommonly pretty. Her slight, rounded figure was turned sidewise between the padded arms of the chair, while her grave gaze explored the book-shelves. Between two fingers of her right hand she held a fat cigarette, unlighted.

"What a lucky man an uncle is," he murmured.

She wrinkled her eyes at him for a moment, and then laughed softly. "That was very prettily said; but I would much rather you read to me—something that you are very fond of. I'll see if I like it. Perhaps our tastes are a good deal the same, and, if so, you will be able to save me a lot of time and temper by telling me what to read."

"A literary adviser," suggested Mr. Pollin, as he fumbled through a stack of magazines and papers beside his chair.

"Surely you will not find anything in the magazines," she exclaimed.

In answer, he selected one from the heap, and opened it at a marked page.

"What is it?" she asked.

"'Pedro, the Fisherman,' is the name of it," he replied, and straightway began to read.

It was a simple story of a small, brown boy somewhere at the other side of the world, and yet the beauty, the humble joy, and the humble pathos, made of it a masterpiece,—for the seeing ones. Pollin read it well, with sympathy in his voice and manner, but with no extravagance of expression. When he came to the end (it was a very short story), he got up hurriedly and placed the magazine in his niece's lap.

"I must see how Scanlan is getting along," he said, and left the room.

Molly sat very still, with the magazine face down upon her knee. Her eyes, abrim with tears, saw nothing of the glowing fire toward which they were turned. There was no need for her to look, to see by whom the story was written. Who but her old lover could touch her so with the silent magic of printed words? She forgot, for awhile, the unanswered letter and the weary seasons through which she had vainly waited for his forgiveness. Now she saw only the exile,—the wanderer,—and her heart bled for him. He would be wiser than of old, she thought, but still gentle and still fearless. A cynic?—no, he could never be that. Such a heart, though embittered against one woman, would not turn against the whole of God's world. She had thrown aside the love that now read and translated the sufferings and joys of outland camps and cities. The very tenderness that enabled him to understand the men and women of which he wrote had once been all for her.

The magazine slid to the floor, and a loose page, evidently cut from some other periodical, fluttered to one side. Molly sat up and recovered it. Listlessly she turned it over. Here were verses by Hemming. Her tears blotted the lines as she read:

"When the palms are black, and the stars are low, and even
the trade-winds sleep,
God, give my longing wings, to span the valleys and hills
of the deep!"

And again,—

"The sailor's voyage is a thousand miles, 'bout ship, and a
thousand more!
By landfall, pilot, and weed-hung wharf,—to the lass at the
cabin door.

"But mine!—fool heart, what a voyage is this, storm-beaten
on every sea,
With never the glow of an open door and a lamp on the sill
for me?"

When Mr. Pollin returned to the library, he found his niece with her face hidden in the cushions of the chair, weeping quietly. He had half-expected something unusual, but the sight of her grief made him feel like a fool. He picked up the magazine, and replaced it neatly on the top of the pile. Then he noticed the clipping containing Hemming's verses, damp and crumpled, at her feet. That's what did it, he thought, and was about to recover it, too, when his attention was diverted by the sound of wheels at his curb.

"The general," he exclaimed.

Molly sat up quickly, and mopped her eyes. "I think I must have fallen asleep," she said, with her face turned away from her uncle. But he was the more confused of the two.

"Yes, my dear," he said, "but now you must dry your—I mean, wake up, for the general is at the door." He went to the window. With the tail of his eye, he saw Molly stoop, quick as a flash, pluck something from the rug at her feet, and thrust it into the front of her dress. Next moment the general was announced.

The lunch was sent in from the kitchen of a famous restaurant, and was artfully served by Scanlan. During the first part of the meal, the general did little but eat. He had a surprisingly healthy appetite for a retired British soldier of his age and rank. Later he talked, beginning with his little say concerning the War Office. That institution suffered severely.

"Bless my soul! what did they need of a commission to look into the state of affairs?" he fumed. "I could have told them about the rifles years ago. Why, man, I lugged one of the useless things to Newfoundland with me, and first day on the barrens crawled to within sixty yards of a stag, and sniped at him steady as a church,—with my elbow on a rock, mind you. Off walked the stag, so I popped again. At that, he walked a bit farther, and shook his head. My half-breed sniggered. 'Damn you,' I said (there were no ladies there, Miss Travers; I never swear before women and parson's), 'make me a target, and I'll see what's the matter with this blessed shootin'-iron.' Sacobie fixed up a target, and we both blazed at it—turn about—all afternoon. Every bullet went eighteen feet to the left. Gad, if they had only heard me that day, they would have guessed that something was wrong with the sightin' of their precious rifles."

Next, he held forth on military matters in general, even down to rations and uniforms for men in the field. "The matter with our Tommies," he declared, "is that the poor beggars haven't wind enough to march with, tied about as they are with a lot of idiotic straps."

Presently, much to Molly's surprise, he pushed his wine-glasses to one side, and asked for a copy of "Where Might Is Right."

"This chap, Hemming, considering his lack of age, knows a wonderful lot about it," he said, when he got the book in his hand. He fluttered the pages, and soon found a passage that seemed to please him. He straightway read it aloud, in ringing tones and with a grand air.

"I call that inevitable—inevitable," he cried, glaring the while at his host and the lady, as if looking for contradictions.

"It strikes me as remarkably true," agreed Mr. Pollin. Molly said nothing, but something of the inner glow of pride must have shone in her face, for her uncle glanced at her, and smiled knowingly.

The general left shortly after lunch, for he was a man of affairs,—mostly other people's.

"I must go now," said Molly. "Mother will be wondering what you have done with me."

Mr. Pollin took both her hands between his, and pressed them warmly.

"Do you love Bert Hemming?" he asked.

She turned her face away, and did not answer. But he felt her hands tremble in his, and saw the red glow on neck and cheek.

"Bring him back," he said. "If you love him, why ruin your own life as well as his?"

"I wrote to him—long ago—and he—he took no notice," whispered Molly.

"And you never wrote again?" inquired her uncle.

"Why should I? He despises me,—or he would have answered that letter. I—I dragged my heart before him," she sobbed.

Mr. Pollin let go her hands, and slipped one arm around her shoulders.

"My dear little girl," he replied, "letters have been known to go astray,—just as conclusions have." He patted her bowed head with his free hand. "Why, once I lost a letter with a money order in it," he added, seriously.

Molly brushed away her tears. "I must go now," she said, moving away from him. She put up her hands to straighten her hair. Then a sudden thought occurred to her, and she plucked Mr. Pollin's sleeve.

"Uncle, we must both forget about to-day," she said.

"Not I," he replied. "I am going to write—"

He stopped short, spellbound by her sudden change of countenance and manner. Her eyes fairly flamed. Her whole body trembled.

"You would not dare!" she cried. "Oh, you would not dare! Are you, too, nothing but a busybody?"

Poor old Pollin gasped.

"Good Lord! I meant it for the best," he exclaimed, weakly, "but just as you say, my dear."

He took her home, and, by the time her door was reached, her manner toward him had again warmed.

"It was a charming lunch," she said, as they shook hands.

Mr. Pollin sat at his writing-table, and dipped his pen in the ink, only to dot lines on his blotter.

"The girl was right," he said, "I don't dare."

He lit a cigarette, and for several minutes contemplated wreaths of smoke, without moving. Suddenly he leaned forward, took a fresh dip of ink, and scribbled:

"DEAR BERT:—You are a fool to stay away,—unless, perhaps, you no longer care for the girl."

Without adding his signature to this offhand communication, he enclosed it in an envelope, and addressed the same to Hemming, care of his New York publishers.

CHAPTER VII.

HEMMING RECEIVES HIS SAILING ORDERS FROM A
MASTER NOT TO BE DENIED

Stanley was taken to a private lunatic asylum, and, for all we know to the contrary, his seafaring friend went along with him. Hemming and Tarmont looked through his papers, and found that his father was living (and living well, too) in Toronto, Canada. He was a judge of the Supreme Court, no less. They wrote to this personage, stating the crazy man's case, and in reply received a letter containing a request to enter the patient at a private asylum, and a substantial check. The judge wrote that he had not seen or heard from his son for seven years, and, though he had always been willing to supply him with money, had been unable to discover his address. He arrived in New York soon after his letter,—a big, kindly man with white hair and red cheeks, and a month later took his son home with him. That was the last Hemming saw or heard of Stanley,—of the man to whom he owed more than he had knowledge of.

O'Rourke's affairs went along merrily. He wrote and sold stories and poems. His name began to appear each month on the cover of a certain widely read magazine. Everything was in line for an early wedding and a career of happiness "for ever after."

One morning, while O'Rourke was hard at work, Hemming, who had gone out immediately after breakfast, returned to their sitting-room and laid a red leather case on his friend's manuscript. O'Rourke completed a flowing sentence, and then straightened up and opened the case. A very fine brier-root pipe was disclosed to his view.

"Where did you steal this?" he inquired.

"It is a present for you," said Hemming, dropping into a chair. O'Rourke put down his pen, and eyed his friend with an air of surprise.

"A present!" he exclaimed. "Why, my dear chap, surely I've been taking anything of yours that I happened to want long enough for you to see that there is no need of this depressing formality."

"But we've been such chums."

"You haven't just found that out, I hope."

Hemming shook his head.

"I'm going away," he explained, "and I suppose it will be without you this time."

"I wouldn't mind going to Staten Island," replied O'Rourke, "but for any farther than that you will have to mark me out."

"I sail for England to-morrow," Hemming informed him.

"Have you been—have you received a letter, or anything of that kind?" inquired his comrade.

"No, but Stanley told me I was a fool not to go back."

"Could have told you that myself."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Thought you knew it."

"I didn't know it,—and I am not sure, even now," retorted Hemming.

"Well, old man," rejoined O'Rourke, "you know her better than I do, so suit yourself. But my advice is the same as Stanley's."

He stared moodily at the Englishman. In fact, he was already lonely for his energetic, steel-true roommate. What days and nights they had seen together! What adventures they had sped, knee to knee! What vigils they had kept by the camp-fires and under the cabin-lamps! And now a girl!—but at that thought his brow cleared.

"I think we have both done with the old pace," he remarked, pensively.

"I wonder," said Hemming.

That night about a dozen men gathered in Tarmont's studio. Hemming was the guest of honour. The big room was soon filled with smoke. There were many things to drink and a few things to eat. Songs were sung, and stories told. Hemming tried to make a speech, and O'Rourke had to finish it for him. After that, Tarmont suggested leap-frog.

"Just wait until I do my little stunt," begged Potts. He tuned his banjo, and, to an accompaniment of his own composing, sang the following verses:

"'You may light your lamps to cheer me,
You may tune your harps for me,
But my heart is with my shipmates
Where the lights are on the sea.

"'You may wine me, you may dine me,
You may pledge me to the brim,
But my heart is pledging Charlie,
And you have no thought of him.

"'You may cheer me with your friendship,
As you are gentlemen,
But the friend I want the hand-grip of
Is not within your ken.

"'So keep your praise, and keep your blame,
And save your good red wine,
For though this town be home for you,
It is no home of mine.

"'And when your lights are brightest,
Ah, then, across the glare,
I pledge my friends of yesterday,
And love of otherwhere.'"

The applause was loud and long. They patted the singer on the back, and thumped him on the chest. They gave him three cheers and a drink (which made more than three drinks). O'Rourke shouted for their attention.

"All Potts did was make up the silly tune," he cried. "I wrote the verses—with my little pen."

When Hemming and O'Rourke got back to their rooms, they found a steamer-trunk and a couple of bags packed and strapped, and Smith snug abed. The time was 2.30 A.M. They lit the fire, changed their coats, and drew their chairs to the hearth. O'Rourke placed a decanter and glasses on the corner of the table. They talked a little in murmured, disjointed sentences. Each followed his own thoughts as they harked back to the past and worked into the future. They sipped their Scotch and soda, with meditative eyes on the fire. O'Rourke sighed. "Thank God, Helen likes New York no better than I do," he said.

Hemming looked up and nodded.

"My boy," he said, gravely, "if I ever find you and Helen blinking out such a stupid existence as the thing some of our friends call life, I'll drop you both."

"No danger of that," laughed O'Rourke, happily.

"Remember the Hickses," warned Hemming.

For long after O'Rourke had turned in, Hemming continued his musings by the sinking fire. Just as the dawn gleamed blue between the curtains, he lit a candle, and unrolled the final proof-sheets of his novel. By the time these were corrected to his satisfaction, the room was flooded with sunshine, and Smith was astir.

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.

CHAPTER IX.
TO PART NO MORE

"The eyes that wept for me, a night ago,
Are laughing now that we shall part no more."

It was later than usual when Molly awoke that morning. It seemed to her that the room looked brighter than it had for a long time. The pictures on the walls shone with a hitherto unnoticed glow. She lay still for awhile, recalling the night's dream, piecing the fragments one by one. The dream had been altogether pleasant and unusual. She had been in strange and delightful countries,—

"Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie."

She had seen the palms shake their stiff foliage against the steady winds. She had gone along a white street, gleaming between deep verandas, and Hemming had walked beside her, talking of his adventures and his hopes. She had heard surf-music drifting in from moonlit reefs, and the tinkling of mandolins out of alleys of roses. She had gone through a land of sweet enchantment with her lover's hand in hers.

Molly dressed slowly, the spell of her dreaming still upon her, haunting her like a half-remembered voice. At the breakfast-table she found three letters beside her plate.

"You seem to be a woman of affairs, my dear," said Mrs. Travers, eyeing the letters greedily from her end of the table. The dame had finished her breakfast some time before, but, having examined the three envelopes carefully, curiosity about their contents kept her in her place.

When Molly saw Hemming's handwriting,—and on the stationery of a London club at that,—she leaned back, and for the flight of a dozen heart-beats kept her eyes tight shut, and her hands clinched on the arms of the chair.

"My dear, what is the matter?" cried her mother, in tones of surprised concern. She, too, had recognized the writing, however.

"I felt dizzy—just for a moment," answered Molly. Then she opened the letter. She read it again and again, making nothing of it, save that he was in London, had come there to see her, and was going away again. Love of her had brought him, but why should he go away? What had Major Anderson to do with it? Now her heart pulsed joy through her veins, and now fear,—and they both hurt. Then came the fearful, humiliating question,—could it be that her uncle had sent for him?

"What has that shameless adventurer written to you?" asked Mrs. Travers, purple with curiosity, and with fear that the chances for her daughter to marry a fortune were ruined.

"What shameless adventurer?" cried Molly, looking up with flashing eyes.

"Herbert Hemming."

"How do you know the letter is from Herbert Hemming?"

"I—I happened to notice the handwriting."

"Paul Pry," cried Molly; and with that she burst into tears. Mrs. Travers sailed from the room, much against her inclination, but her dignity demanded it of her. Left to herself, Molly stifled the sobs, brushed the tears from her eyes, and opened the other letters. Her uncle's she read with wonder and delight. It ran thus:

"DEAR NIECE:—Herbert is in town. I ran across him at the club. He was in very low spirits, suspecting something between you and Major Anderson; but I soon cheered him up. Now is my time to confess that I wrote to H.H. a few days ago. Fortunately he had started for London before receiving the letter (has not seen it yet), so there is nothing for you to get angry at a doting uncle about. He tells me that never a scratch of a pen has he received from you, since the beginning of your misunderstanding. He means to call on you to-morrow, at the informal hour of ten in the morning. His happiness is all in your hands.

"Your loving Uncle."

Anderson's communication,—a hopeless scrawl, in which he said that Hemming was in town, and that he himself was going to France for a little while—only interested her in that it proved to be a key to her lover's message. Presently she glanced up at the clock. "Within half an hour," she cried, softly, and, gathering together her papers, she left the room.

Of course Hemming was twenty minutes ahead of time. Mr. Pollin might have known that, under the circumstances, a lover always allows thirty minutes for a ten-minute cab-drive. Unfortunately, Mr. Pollin, though an estimable man in a hundred ways, did not know everything about a lover. He had very seldom been one himself, even of the mildest type. So when Hemming, short of breath, glorious of visage, and flushing hot and cold,—in fact, with all the worst symptoms of a recruit going into action,—entered the long and formal drawing-room, he was received by Mrs. Travers. This was a long way from what Pollin had led him to expect. He stood aghast; he got a grip on himself, and, bowing low, extended his hand. Mrs. Travers ignored his hand. But, for all her awe-inspiring front, she, too, was agitated. She knew that she was about to play a desperate game. Fever and rum had made the Brazilian colonel's game seem feasible. Conceit, stupidity, and love of money were her excuse for making a fool of herself.

"Mr. Hemming, I believe," she said.

This was too colossal for Hemming. He could not pass that, however eager he might be to get this unexpected interview over with. He lifted one hand close to his face and stared at it intently for several seconds.

"'Pon my word," he said, "I believe you are right. May I ask if you recognized me by my eyeglass or my feet?" His smile was politely inquiring. He looked as if he really wanted to know.

"You will leave this house immediately," cried the lady, as soon as she could command sufficient breath. "My daughter is very wise in deciding to have nothing to do with you."

This shot told, and his manner changed to one of haggard doubt and dread.

"AT THAT MOMENT MOLLY TRIPPED INTO THE ROOM"

Mrs. Travers saw her advantage, and, knowing that her time was limited, hastened to follow it up. But at that moment Molly tripped into the room. At sound of the light step and whispering of skirts Hemming turned toward the door. The old woman and all her works were forgotten, for Molly's eyes proved the truth of his dreaming. But he did not approach her. She paused on the threshold, not speaking, not smiling, but with the whole dear secret in her radiant face. How long was it—seconds or centuries—that her eyes looked into his across the furniture of that formal room? Presently, with a little catch in her breath, like a sob, she spoke, turning her gaze to Mrs. Travers.

"Mother," she said, "when I tell you that I overheard your last remark, I think you will understand and forgive the anger and—and disdain which I feel toward you."

Mrs. Travers, suddenly grown old and ugly, moved toward the door. She reeled, and nearly fell. Hemming sprang forward, caught her firmly and gently, and helped her to a couch. By this time her great face was dead-white, and her eyelids fluttering. He tore open the neck of her dress, and then ran to the dining-room for water. This he used upon her with a liberal hand, and soon she gasped and opened her eyes. Molly put her arms around her lover's neck.

"What a brute I am," she sobbed; "but—but she called you a shameless adventurer—and she—lied to you."

Mrs. Travers completed her recovery as best she could, without further assistance.

CHAPTER X.
A NEW COMMAND

O'Rourke sent Mr. Pollin's letter back to Hemming, and Molly treasured it, unopened, among her dearest possessions. Mr. Pollin had several serious talks with his sister, but for all the good that came of them he might have saved his breath to blow smoke with. That cantankerous, silly old lady, firmly believing that her daughter had treated her unkindly, refused to have anything more to do with Hemming. Before a few friends as biased or stupid as herself she posed as a Christian martyr. What a pity there were no pagan emperors around, with boiling oil and thumbscrews!

One morning, about three weeks after Hemming's return, he and Molly rode together in Hyde Park. Despite Mrs. Travers, and thanks to Mr. Pollin's library and another friend's saddle-horses, they managed to meet for several hours every day. On this occasion, as they walked their horses shoulder to shoulder, they seemed deep in some great plan.

"I think good old Santosa has had his finger in it," said Hemming. "You see, he married the daughter of the secretary of war not very long ago. Rio is a beautiful place," he continued, "and a general, even of the Brazilian army, is not a person to be lightly treated. Remember that, dear!"

"It will be simply glorious," cried Molly. "But are you quite sure that I have enough clothes, and that there is no immediate danger of a revolution?"

"I should think one gown would be enough for one wedding," he replied, smiling, "and as for a revolution—bah! Brazil is as safe as a nursery these days."

"You must promise me not to give up your writing," she said.

"I could not give it up if I tried. I am under contract for two novels inside the next two years," he answered.

Molly shook her head at that. They touched their nags to a canter, and for a little while rode in silence.

"You took your time to find out," called Molly, presently.

"I am afraid I can't make it any clearer to you," he replied.

Molly drew her horse toward his, and leaned forward in the saddle.

"Dearest boy," she said, "I can't believe that you will ever forget how cruel I was to you, though I know that you forgave me long ago."

"The memory of it is buried somewhere in the Pernamba bush, with the body of Penthouse," he answered, gently.

"But tell me," she began, and paused.

"Anything," he laughed back.

"Did you ever care for Marion Tetson?"

"Not even in those days—when she was really charming."

Several months later, at the house of a mutual friend, Mrs. Travers met General Davidson. The general beamed upon her with marked cordiality.

"I am glad to know that some English people appreciate a good thing," he said.

The rest of the company turned to see what was going on, and the old lady stared.

"I am speaking of your distinguished son-in-law, Herbert Hemming," continued the general, in a dress-parade voice, "and I assure you, madam, that when he took command of the military district of Rio Janeiro, England lost a valuable man. It is a crying shame," he added, glaring around, "that the English government had not Mrs. Travers's discernment."

The dame mumbled a meaningless reply. A curate sniggered behind his hand. Later Mrs. Travers cornered her hostess.

"Why didn't the ungrateful girl tell me?" she asked.

"Tell you what, my dear?"

"About that Rio Janeiro military district."

"You should have read the papers, my dear," replied her hostess, coldly; "then, perhaps, you would not have made yourself so ridiculous."

THE END.

GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C.