The sapper's honest face flamed crimson. "I thought you wanted to know about him," he stammered.
"Of course I am glad to hear that he is so successful—and so happy," she replied, and her mouth took on a hardness strange and new to it. She remembered the passionate appeal in her own letter—the cry of love that had awakened no answering cry—and her pride and anger set to work to tear the dreams from her heart. But a dream built by the Master Workman, of stuffs lighter than the wind, outlasts the heavy walls of kings' monuments.
CHAPTER VIII.
HEMMING UNDERTAKES A DIGNIFIED WORK
Hemming went through the Turko-Grecian campaign from beginning to end, with much credit to himself and profit to the syndicate. He worked hard, and, on occasions, risked life and limb. No word of legitimate news of actions got out of the country ahead of his. When the fighting was over, he wrote a careful article on the uselessness of the sword in modern battles. He described the few occasions in which he had seen a blooded sword in action. He damned them all—the pointed blade of the infantry officer, and the cutting sabre of the cavalry trooper. They would do for hill raids, or charges against savages, but before the steady fire of men on foot, armed with rifles of the latest pattern, they were hopeless. Their day had passed with the passing of the ramrod, he said. After heading it "Cold Steel in Modern Warfare," he decided that it would be a pity to waste it on the New York News Syndicate; for of late he had become dissatisfied with his arrangements with the syndicate. He had found that, out of the dozen or more war-correspondents whom he had met during the campaign, only two were allowed so small a sum as he for expenses, and not one was paid so small a salary. So he mailed his wise story to a big London weekly, and wrote to Dodder for a raise in his salary and expenses. At this time he was living quietly in Athens, with a number of friends,—merry fellows, all,—but he missed O'Rourke's whimsical conversations and kindly comradeship.
The big London weekly published Hemming's article, and commented upon it editorially. It also sent him a modest check—more modest than its size and reputation would lead one to suppose. Mr. Dodder's letter arrived at about the same time. The manager of the syndicate was firm, though gentle. He pointed out that already Hemming drew more money than any other correspondent connected with the concern. He explained that, even now, Mr. Wells frequently grumbled. "And after all," he concluded, "you are a new man, and we are helping you to a reputation."
"We'll see about that," said Hemming, and wrote to say that he would like to take a holiday until more fighting turned up. He sent them his address for the next six months—Maidmill-on-Dee, Cheshire, England. Then he sold his horse, packed his things, and sailed for England.
At Maidmill-on-Dee, in a stone cottage with a slated roof, lived an old couple named Thomson. During the brief married life of Hemming's parents, these two good folk had looked after their bodily welfare—Thomson as gardener and groom, and Mrs. Thomson as cook. Hemming's father, though well connected, had made his livelihood as a country doctor. The people in Maidmill-on-Dee still remembered him as a handsome, generous man with the manner of a lord lieutenant of the county, and with always a good horse in his stables. Hemming's mother had been the daughter of a scholarly, though poor, country vicar. She had been a beauty in a frail, white way, and a lover of her husband, her home, and good literature. When the doctor had died of blood-poisoning, contracted during a simple operation upon one of his many poor patients, she had tried, for awhile, to take heart again, but had followed him within a year. After the deaths of the parents a wealthy relative had remembered the son, and, finding him a youth of promise, had given him some money.
Hemming drove from the station in the public bus. He passed the house where so much of his earlier years had been spent, and told the driver to take him to Joseph Thomson's. They rattled down the quiet, single street, and drew up at the stone threshold. He helped the driver pile his bags and boxes beside the door. Then he dismissed the conveyance, and paused for awhile before entering the cottage, with a warm, new feeling of homecoming in his heart. The low, wide kitchen was unoccupied, but the door leading to the garden behind stood open. He sat down in a well-worn chair and looked about. The October sunlight lit up the dishes on the dresser. A small table by a window was laid with plates and cups for two. He heard voices in the garden. A woman, stout and gray-haired, entered with a head of Brussels sprouts in her hand, and with her cotton skirt kilted up, displaying a bright, quilted petticoat. Hemming got up from his chair, but she was not looking toward him, and she was evidently hard of hearing. He stepped in front of her and laid his hands on her shoulders.
"Susan," he said, beaming.