CHAPTER VII.
HEMMING LEARNS SOMETHING ABOUT HIS ARMY
In Pernamba, up the Plado, life had taken on a brighter aspect for at least two of the inhabitants. Marion Tetson was thankful beyond the power of speech, because the fever had left Hicks. True, it had left him thin and weak as a baby, but his very helplessness made him dearer in her eyes. That one who had been so big and strong should ask her to lift his head whenever he wanted a drink, and should have his pillow turned for him without displaying a sign of rebellion, stabbed her to the innermost soul with wonder and pity. Hicks was happy because she was near him all day, her eyes telling what her lips were longing to say, if his dared to question. Then he could half remember some things which were as part of his dreaming—wonderful, magic things with all the glamour of dreams, free from the weariness of the fever. But he said nothing of these just then to Marion, though she read his thoughts like a book while he lay there very quiet, smiling a little, his gaze following her every movement. To Hemming also he wore his heart on his sleeve. Of this fact he was blissfully ignorant. Mrs. Tetson often came to his room and gave him motherly advice about not talking too much and not thinking too hard. Hicks felt no desire to talk, but as for thinking, Lord, she might as well have told him to stop breathing. He thought more in ten minutes now than he had before in any three hours. They were comforting thoughts, though, for the most part, and Marion knew that they did him more good than harm.
Hemming kept up a show of interest in the army. He lectured the officers and drilled the men, and dined almost every night at the mess, which he had remodelled on the English plan. But most of the time he kept his eye on the President. It was a job he did not care about,—this prying into another man's business,—but somehow he could not put it by him, things were so obviously out of order. He kept his monocle polished, his ears open, and his mouth shut. He was always willing to listen to the President's dreary conversations. The life lacked excitement for one who had run the gauntlet of a hundred vital dangers. He had given up all special correspondence, but did a good deal of fiction when the mood was on him. The longing to return to a more active existence grew stronger every day, but his friendship for the Tetsons and for Hicks kept him at his post.
Hemming's morning coffee was always served in his room at six o'clock. That left him about two and a half hours of the cool of the day in which to work. Breakfast, with its queer dishes of hot meats, and claret, tea, and coffee to drink, came on about nine. Breakfast was a family affair, and after it every one retired for a nap. Hemming usually drank his coffee before he dressed, but one morning Smith found him pacing the room, booted and spurred, and attired in stained breeches and a faded tunic. There were cigar ashes on the floor beside the bed. A volume of Stevenson's "Men and Books" lay open on the pillow.
"Fill my flask," he said, "and let the President know that I may not be back until evening."
"Very good, sir," replied the valet. "Will I order your horse, sir?"
While the man was out of the room Hemming pulled open a drawer in his desk, in search of revolver cartridges. The contents of the drawer were in a shocking jumble. In his despatch-box at large among his papers he found half a dozen cartridges, a cigarette from the army and navy stores at home, and a small bow of black ribbon. He picked up the bow, kissed it lightly, and instead of restoring it to the box put it in his pocket.
"She liked me well enough in those days—or else she did some—ah—remarkable acting," he said.
Turning on his heel he found Smith in the doorway.
Your horse is ready, sir," said the man. Hemming blushed, and, to hide his confusion, told Smith to go to the devil. He rode away with an unloaded revolver in his holster.