'Theo! Theo! I am sorry to wake you!'
Trist was a man who threw aside the heaviest sleep at a moment's notice, and was in full possession of his faculties—probably making active use of them—while others were still rubbing their eyes. The touch of a soft, warm little hand upon his wrist had awakened him before the words imprinted themselves upon his brain. Somehow he remembered them afterwards, the syllables themselves, and the manner in which they were uttered.
He looked up with a smile, and met Brenda's eyes. She was leaning over his chair, and when he looked up she stood erect with her white hands hanging before her against the soft black dress. She had learnt something at Mrs. Wylie's school of womanliness, for everything about her was as neat and trim and dainty as if there was naught else to think of than the braiding and coiling of the bright brown hair, and the pinning of the snowy collar round her throat.
'I am sorry to disturb you, Theo,' she repeated.
'Not at all,' he said. 'Why should you be? It is ten o'clock; I have been asleep two hours. What more could I require?'
'I have kept some breakfast warm for you,' she said, turning towards the table; 'but I awakened you because of these. There are four telegrams and a number of letters for you. Hans Olsen brought them off just now. He got them yesterday from the Bergen boat. We are out of the Heimdalfjord now, and Nielsen has gone. I ... only hope ... it is not war, Theo!'
He stood up and took the telegrams and letters from her hands. Then he crossed the saloon towards the table.
'It looks rather like it,' he said coolly.
He raised the cover of the dish which the steward had just placed upon the table, and Brenda, taking the hint, poured out his coffee.
She walked away from him a little and stood quite motionless, with her back turned towards him, while he tore open the thin white telegraph envelopes. One ... two ... three ... four of them, spreading the paper out upon the tablecloth. Her quick ears caught each sound, and enabled her to picture every movement made by this indifferent man.
'Yes, Brenda, it ... is ... war!'
She turned slowly and approached the table. Bending over it, she attended to his requirements in a deftly graceful way, grouping round him the toast, butter, and marmalade. He was studying a telegram spread out before him, but his fixed eyes did not appear to be taking in the purport of words written in uneven type. Furtively he looked towards her hands, and then slowly upward, terminating in one scrutinizing glance into her face.
'Where?' she asked, sitting down rather hastily opposite to him.
'Servia and Montenegro have declared war against Turkey,' he replied, busying himself with his plate.
'And you must go?'
He stirred his coffee very deliberately, and, raising the cup to his lips, took a long critical sip.
'Yes, Brenda. I must go!'
There are few more silent places than the cabin of a sailing yacht on a calm day. In a steamer it is different, for there is the ever-beating throb of life down below, in the engine-room, which is half heard and half felt. But on a sailing yacht, when the rudder-chains are taut and the breeze steady, there is no noise whatever. In the pretty saloon of theHermionethere was a singular absence of sound when Trist finished speaking. He turned again to the telegrams, neglecting his breakfast. Brenda thought that she had never experienced such an utter, breathless silence. Her ears seemed to tingle with the intensity of it, and in her brain there was a sudden vacuous sensation. She could think of nothing to say, although she strained her mind to discover some means of breaking this dreadful pause.
Furtively she raised her eyes, and at the same moment Trist looked across the table in a hurried, shifty way. Their eyes met for a brief agonizing second.
'I hope,' said Brenda sweetly, 'that your coffee is not very cold.'
'Oh no! Oh no, thank you! It is very nice,' he replied awkwardly, looking into the cup with absorbing interest.
Her question appeared to call him back from some vague, far-off dream, for he resolutely began to eat; while she hovered round, playing the hostess in a shy, constrained way. Presently he handed the open telegrams across the table to her.
'You may as well read them,' he said conversationally. 'They are very characteristic of the man who wrote them.'
She took the papers and read in a semi-tone:
'War—Serbia, Turkey—imminent. Come.'
Number two was longer:
'Where on earth are you? War. Look sharp. Montenegro is in it, too.'
The third was more serious:
'Two messages without reply. Are yen coming?'
Then number four:
'They are at it already. It will be a bad business. Come at once.'
She returned them without a word; and he, seeing the necessity of saying something, remarked pleasantly:
'It is my misfortune to be required in two places at once, or not at all.'
She stood by the table and looked at the date of the latest telegram. The four messages had been despatched within two days.
'Are you not,' she asked innocently, 'too late? It may be all over now.'
He glanced up at her in a curious, laughing way.
'No—I am afraid not. War in these semi-barbaric countries is like an illness in a young person. It is only half healed beneath a deceptive surface, and breaks out in a fresh place.'
Again she took up the telegrams. It seemed as if there were a fascination in the flimsy papers which she could not resist.
'This man seems to look upon it as rather a good joke. He takes the matter jovially.'
'Yes! He takes most things in that way. It is a good thing for him, you see. Brings up the circulation of his paper.'
'That,' she said quietly, 'is a very practical way of looking at war.'
Trist appeared to ignore, purposely, the slight reproach conveyed by her remark.
'War is a practical thing,' he replied. 'This is a splendid chance for me, and one I should be sorry to miss. It is not a surprise, Brenda. We all knew that it might come at any time, but I did not mention it, because the knowledge would only have been unsettling, and I did not think ... then ... that my sudden departure would have made much difference.'
She looked at him calmly and thoughtfully before replying, with an indifference which was not quite complimentary:
'You must not allow this ... this calamity to make any difference. I quite understand the position you are in. Of course you are pledged to this man?...'
Trist nodded a brief acquiescence.
'Then you must go. I can manage quite well alone. Mrs. Wylie is much better this morning, though she is still dull and horribly apathetic. We will go home as quickly as we can.'
There was something in her voice, a slight catch, which he could not understand, and of course he misread it. The last few words were spoken in a peculiar monotone, with feverish haste.
'I feel horribly selfish,' he said, 'thinking of my own affairs at this time. No, Brenda. I cannot go and leave you in such a fix—alone.'
'I want you to go, Theo; I do really. It would never do for you to miss this chance. You are pledged to this man (who sits comfortably at home), and I would never forgive myself if I thought that you stayed here on my account. Besides, you are a sort of public servant; it is your duty to go.'
'Yes,' he said, catching at the phrase uneasily; 'it is certainly my duty. It is my duty ... to go.'
She stood beside him quite still. Then she moved a step nearer to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
'Theo,' she pleaded, 'you must go. To please me, pack up and go.'
He smiled suddenly, but did not look up into her face, which was very pale, while her lips remained red. There was a slight quiver of her chin whenever her mouth remained for a second unclenched. It needed an effort on her part to prevent his hearing the chattering of her teeth. Involuntarily he shrunk a little away from her light touch, and glanced furtively at the white fingers on his shoulder.
Thus they remained for some moments while the yacht heaved gently onwards. The lamps swayed a little, but beyond that there was no motion in the pretty cabin. At last Trist reached out his hand and took the envelope from which he had torn one of the telegrams. He bent it over and smoothed it very carefully, while she watched the movements of his fingers.
'When is there a steamer to England?' she asked suddenly.
'The day after to-morrow, from Bergen, at nine o'clock in the evening.'
His answer was laconic and concise as Bradshaw.
Brenda knew then that he had expected war all along, and war was his element; she could not forget that, despite the wild incongruity of it.
'How can you manage it?' she asked simply and practically.
It would appear that he had foreseen everything, provided for every possible contingency. While she moved away from him and sat down near a small table, he answered her without a moment's thought.
'If we have the funeral to-morrow morning, I can start immediately afterwards in a small boat, and row or sail to Gudvangen, reaching there early next morning. Drive to Vossevangen, and catch the afternoon train down to Bergen.'
'It sounds very simple, but it means thirty hours without sleep.'
'I can sleep all the way across the North Sea. Don't think of me, Brenda; I'm outside the question altogether.'
He stopped, with a worried look upon his face, but did not raise his eyes. Had he done so he would inevitably have noticed a heightened colour in her cheeks, although she turned aside and gazed at nothing in particular.
'What bothers me,' he continued, 'is you and Mrs. Wylie and theHermione. What will you do?'
'I will take theHermionehome,' she said with gentle confidence. 'You can safely leave Mrs. Wylie to me.'
'I know I can, but I do not want to leave you to Mrs. Wylie. It is putting too much on your shoulders.'
She shrugged the graceful members in question, and gave a little short laugh.
'They are strong,' she answered carelessly. 'Besides, there is no choice in the matter. I simply must be left in charge because there is no one else. It seems to me that the matter in question is...' she glanced towards the closed door of Trist's late state-room, where Admiral Wylie kept his silent watch—'is whether Mrs. Wylie will consent to Fjaerholm or not.'
'Can I see her?'
'No ... no, Theo. I think it is better not. She is so strange and natural that I am afraid the sight of you might have some serious effect. Even in her dreams she is constantly recalling the sight of you ... coming down the little path ... withhimin your arms. You remember—just beside the big rock where it was too narrow for you both to carry him.'
'Yes,' he replied in a voice that might well have been rendered purposely careless. 'Yes, I remember.'
'I have not dared,' the girl continued, 'to say anything about ... about Fjaerholm. I have never seen anyone in grief like this before, Theo, and it frightens me a little.'
He had left the table, forsaking the farce of breakfast, and was now walking noiselessly backwards and forwards. At the sound of her voice, timid and deprecating, when she spoke the last words he stopped short before her.
'Then I must see her,' he said—'I must see her before I go. I have seen a good deal of ... of grief, Brenda—in other people, I mean—and know its symptoms. Some people are stunned for a time, like a man who has been thrown from a gun-carriage, but it ought not to last very long, not more than twenty-four hours. And then they usually become nervously active. If Mrs. Wylie is like that, you must employ her somehow. Tire her out if you can. But we must take it upon ourselves, now, to have the Admiral buried at Fjaerholm. She is not taking it as I thought she would, and the voyage home, or back to Bergen even, with him on board would send her mad. When he is buried it will be different; she will recover then, under your care.'
'Yes,' replied the girl. 'Yes, we must take it upon ourselves, Theo. I thought of it before.'
'If at any time,' he murmured in his gently suggestive way, 'the matter is discussed—when I am away, I mean—you can say that the whole responsibility rests with me.'
She raised her head and looked at him with a sudden light in her blue eyes.
'I am not afraid of responsibility,' she said tersely.
'No, I think you are afraid of nothing!'
She received this statement as it was made, simply, half playfully, and quite without afterthought.
After a pause he rose, collected his letters, and went on deck, leaving her seated near the small table. She also had letters, and there was a packet of magazines and journals lying unopened near at hand. But she showed no desire to learn news from the outer world. All her interests were centred within four wooden walls just then, and she sat thinking far into the forenoon. Over her head, on the lightly-built deck, the regular tread of Theo Trist acted as an accompaniment to her thoughts. It was so light, that footstep, and yet so steady, seeming to tell of a gentle force which never swerved, never turned back, and never halted.
'I wonder,' she meditated, 'if he would have gone at all events. I wonder if I have the slightest influence upon his motives or his actions. Sometimes it seems as if anyone could lead him like a child, and then suddenly there comes a conviction that no human force can move him.'
At the upper end of the fjord of the same name lies the small village of Fjaerholm. A white wooden church of conventional architecture is the most prominent, and at the same time the most unsightly, feature in the landscape. Around this edifice are clustered a few wooden houses, mostly painted white or yellow with a sparing brush, because paint is heavy freight, and can be bought only in Bergen or Christiania. Houses and church alike are roofed with red tiles of a bright and cleanly hue, which will be preserved much longer than the memory of the tiler. There is no smoke in Fjaerholm, and a long cold winter kills any moss-like growth, so everything looks clean and new.
Across the fjord, which is white and milky from the glaciers, is one farm, or what is by courtesy called a farm—a mere matter of ten acres or so divided into patches of potato, hay and wheat. Fjaerholm, like most Norwegian villages, hamlets, and homesteads, suggests a question. One cannot help wondering why it ever came there. The tillable soil is of sufficient area to nourish a single family, but no more, and yet a whole village manages to wrest a frugal sustenance from it. There is a post-office, and a postmaster who wears the inevitable spectacles and brown linen jacket; and he again suggests a question. With one mail a week, in and out on the same day—namely, Friday—what employment can he find during the other six? Yet he is as grave and busy as a young bank clerk in the presence of his manager. He is constantly walking backwards and forwards across the single unpaved street from his home to his office, from his office to his home, with two pieces of official paper held between his finger and thumb, his pen in his mouth, his elbow officially squared, and his linen jacket fluttering, all with an air of intense preoccupation. Poor postmaster! It is mean to fire off cheap sarcastic fireworks from a safe distance. There are others among us who wear a preoccupied air over nothing, and flourish our flimsy official papers with intense self-satisfaction.
Theo Trist found him to be the only intelligent man in the village (with the exception, perhaps, of an absorbed artist whose personal apparel spoke lamentably clear language upon the monetary prospects of Scandinavian art), and official dignity was tempered by a kindly, simple heart full of sympathy for the wandering sailor whose last resting-place was to be beneath the shadow of the ugly white church. The old minister, whose bleached and wrinkled face bore a faint and indefinite resemblance to his own sacerdotal ruff, simply obeyed Trist and the postmaster in every detail.
The arrival of theHermionewas a matter of no small wonder in this mountain fastness, but in a few minutes the story was known throughout the village, for the very good reason that every inhabitant possessing means of locomotion was on the small wooden pier to meet Trist and Captain Barrow when they landed. Norway is a taciturn country, and the matter was soon talked over in a mumbling, half-plaintive way.
At mid-day there was a simple funeral. Four bare-headed sailors bore their late chief from the pier to the scantily-tenanted churchyard. The British ensign fluttered for the first time in the cold breeze that steals down from the glacier into the Fjaerholm Valley, and the old white-haired minister, clad in his quaint Lutheran robes, read unintelligible phrases over the coffin. Then the stony earth fell heavily, for it was still damp, and Theo Trist turned in his philosophically calm way and smothered a sigh of relief.
There was something to be written in a book in the vestry of the church, a few homeopathic fees to be paid, an exchange of names and addresses to be effected with the preoccupied postmaster, and Admiral Wylie was left to his rest amidst the simple Northerners. To-day, as on that day years ago, the little village stands by the side of the silent milky fjord with its white church, yellow houses, and clean red tiles. The tide steals up as of yore to the very wall of the churchyard, but in God's garden there are more seeds sown to grow in peace and holiness till the great spring-tide calls them to flower. At the head of every short valley round the Fjaerholm fjord there is still the blue wonder of the glacier which extends in one vast field of unexplored snow and ice over the broken tableland. From its edge the same stream trickles down in white confusion, gaining strength and volume in its progress, until it runs past the church and beneath the narrow wooden bridge, a veritable river. So, even in his sleep, the old salmon-fisherman may hear perchance the sweet murmurous voice of running water, the gurgle of the rapid, and the plash of the fall.
The old minister is dead. Many years ago he joined the silent ones of Fjaerholm. The postmaster also has been removed to another sphere, where, we are told, there are no wrinkled brows, no official papers, no sealing-wax and weekly mail-bags. But many there are who remember and speak still in a wondering way of the beautiful English vessel which came and went within twelve short hours—the only yacht whose anchor has stirred up the mud of the fjord. And among the wooden crosses, amidst the unlabelled mounds, there stands to-day a simple marble cross with strange English writing on it.
Soon the story will be forgotten; and perhaps in future years, not so very far distant, after all, some member of the great wandering British army, some taciturn mountaineer, or rough-clad fisherman, will ask in vain how a sea-faring countryman came to be buried here.
There is a picture in a Frenchman's study in Paris—a small untidy apartment reeking of cigarette-smoke, littered with manuscript and proof-sheet, for the owner is a giant among journalists. It is a rough water-colour drawing of a peculiar school, semi-Parisian, semi-Scandinavian, and full of a bright hard vigour. There is a wonderful strength, a subtle dramatic force, in this rough picture, which draws one to study it more closely. The scene is evidently Scandinavian, but among the figures there are unmistakable Englishmen—notably one who, standing bareheaded in the foreground, seems to look into one's face with meek, scrutinizing eyes.
'What is this picture? who is that man?' Again and again the journalist has looked up from his table, and laid aside his discoloured, odorous cigarette-end to answer such questions.
'Ah,' he replies with quick gesture, 'I know not. But it seems that it must be a funeral—the funeral of some Englishman in Norway. I bought the picture at an exhibition of Scandinavian art, at Copenhagen; and I bought it on account of the man standing in the middle—he with the brow of an angel and the mouth of Napoleon.'
'Who is he?'
'I think it must be a man I once knew. A wonderful fellow. The Philosopher, they called him in Plevna.'
TheHermionemoved gracefully away while the postmaster stood hat-in-hand gravely saluting. A little further back a lean ill-clad figure leant against a post sketching. This was the impecunious artist who had hovered watchfully in the background since Trist and Captain Barrow first landed. There was a fair breeze, and all that day theHermionecrept down the narrow fjord and into broader waters. Among the low brown mountain-tops white clouds hung heavily, but there was blue sky overhead, and the sun shone gaily at intervals. TheHermionewas the quickest craft in those waters, so Trist determined to stay on board as long as the breeze held good. Mrs. Wylie never appeared on deck, and Brenda reported no change. The cheerful little lady seemed to have lost heart altogether, but Brenda kept her fears to herself as only women can. At lunch she attempted a little cheerfulness, and Trist promptly assisted her, but cheerfulnessà deux, when it is forced, cannot be long-lived. The solemn steward moved round them with his grave face set at zero, and the meal was soon despatched. It was already known on board that theHermionewas bound for home, and that Mr. Trist was going on by steamer—called away most inopportunely to an Eastern war.
It needed a cleverer woman than Brenda Gilholme to wear a smiling face amidst these solemn surroundings. The very elements were grave and foreboding, for there is no more melancholy scenery on earth than a narrow Norwegian fjord. It has all the grim, patient silence of the Arctic world without the Polar splendour of light and shade and colour; unrelieved by Arctic life. Lifeless, treeless hills, which rise sheer from the dead water without snow or herbage; a dull sea, often glassy, never rippling into green and silver shades like open ocean, and betraying no sign of life within its bosom.
While all goes well, the utter hopelessness is not noticed; but as soon as illness, or an anxiety, or, worst of all, dread death should come, the great solitude strikes one with a chill. All human aid, human science, human comfort, is so far and so obviously unattainable. To this Brenda was about to be left, with feelings naturally shaken by the Admiral's sudden and lonely death, for she did not possess a tittle of Theo Trist's superb nerve—a woman practically alone with men, kind enough, and very willing, but of a different grade, thinking different thoughts, and endowed with other feelings. Added to this, she was about to take upon her shoulders the sole responsibility of a lady usually cheery and independent, now apathetic, helpless and incomprehensible.
All this Theo Trist must have recognised as he paced by Brenda's side when the evening shadows crept down into the deeper valleys. The sun was hidden by a high range of hills to the north-west, and everything on the northern shore of the fjord was softly wrapt in a shimmering blue haze. The sea was very dark and lonesome, scarce rippled by the dying wind. Heavy gray clouds were catching on the mountain-tops all round, and seemed to cling sullenly to the land, creeping lower with the shadows. It could not be that Trist was ignorant of the girl's position. It was not thoughtlessness, because whatever this man's faults may have been, no one could, or ever did, accuse him of want of consideration for the feelings of others. But for some reason he never uttered one word of sympathy to Brenda. Already some vague shadow of war seemed to have fallen over his softer manner. He had learnt to respect the call of duty at the best school; in this respect he was a true soldier, with all a soldier's blind uncomplaining obedience to orders.
Years afterwards, when Brenda recalled the memory of that evening (and every detail of it was as clear as day), there came to her an indefinite understanding. In her own heart she had knowledge then of his motive, and she wondered a little over it. Few men, reflected she, would have divined that sympathy was the only thing she could not have borne just then. That it was not thoughtlessness she knew at the time, although she moved and lived and acted in a mechanical, unthinking way, without pausing to seek motives or assign reasons. There was sufficient evidence of Trist's forethought at every turn, and silent testimony to his powers of organization. Captain Barrow was a good sailor and an honest man—an ideal sailing-master for Admiral Wylie's yacht—but beyond that the old man's capabilities were limited. The clearest brain and brightest male intellect on board lived behind the steward's grave eyes, and to these two men Trist gave, in his gentle way, such instructions as he thought they needed.
During the voyage home Brenda was, so to speak, always running against Theo Trist. In her intercourse with Captain Barrow or the steward, she invariably found herself in some degree forestalled by the man who was already many miles away. 'Yes, miss, Mr. Trist said we was to do that if...' etc., etc., or, 'Ay, Miss Brenda, Mr. Trist thought the same.' Such remarks were the common reception offered to her most brilliant strokes of management, and, strange to say, she did not appear to resent this preconceived interference. This was the first vessel she had commanded, and there was a certain sense of comfort in meeting, as it were, with this opinion which coincided with her own. In a sense the responsibility was still shared, and if the result seemed to insinuate that another course might in some cases have been wiser, there was always the satisfaction of looking back and laying a share of the blame upon that silent acquiescence. This was something of the same spirit (an intensely human one it is) that prompts the cook to refer triumphantly to the work of Mrs. Beeton when the pudding turns out a failure.
But Trist did not consider it necessary to tell her of his arrangements made for her future benefit. Such reference would naturally have led to the question of his approaching departure for the seat of war, and this question was untasteful to him just then.
'And now, Brenda,' he said about eleven o'clock that evening, when theHermionewas creeping onward between the dismal ranges of bare hill and rock that border the Sognfjord—'and now, Brenda, go to bed. You have had a hard time of it since Wednesday. We cannot reach Gudvangen before two o'clock to-morrow morning, and it is mere folly for you to stay up any longer. Say ... good-bye ... and go to bed!'
In the gray twilight her sweet face changed suddenly. Her cheeks lost all colour, and a peculiar ashen-gray hue fell upon her motionless features, while into her eyes there came such a look of horror that Trist, seeing it, was struck dumb. In a peculiar mechanical way they continued to walk side by side. She seemed to experience some difficulty in breathing, for the muscles of her round white throat moved hurriedly at short intervals. He stared straight in front of him with a dull, vacant expression in his eyes, while his stern mouth was twisted slightly to one side.
At last, just as they were turning amidships to walk aft, she spoke without raising her eyes, and her articulation was slightly muffled.
'I would rather stay on deck, but ... do youwantme to go?'
'No.—Stay!'
After a short silence she spoke again, in quite a different tone.
'I suppose,' she said, 'that you can form no idea yet of what you are going to—how long it will last, and who will be victorious.'
'Turkey,' he replied guardedly, 'will probably win. I do not imagine that there will be much for me to do. It all depends upon how soon Turkey gets to work. What is wanting in strategical skill will be made up in bloodthirstiness, I should imagine.'
She shuddered, but made no reply.
'I may be back in a fortnight,' he added coolly, 'and if Russia gets dragged into it, I may not get home for a year or two.'
'At all events, it will be a horrible war.'
'Probably.'
She laughed in a short, sarcastic way.
'You have already assumed the first coat of your mental and moral war-paint.'
'It is my trade, Brenda.'
'Then do not let us talk shop,' she said sharply. At times this learned little person was intensely womanly. As soon as the words were spoken she seemed to repent of them, for she added in a softer tone, 'Though I am afraid I began it.'
He looked down at her with meek, questioning eyes.
'Yes,' he said softly; 'you began it.'
'I had a reason for doing so.'
'I know you had.'
This remark made her laugh in a slightly embarrassed way.
'I wanted,' she then explained, 'to request you to take care of yourself—Theo.'
'I always do that,' he answered with some gravity; 'I am not the sort of person to expose myself to unnecessary danger.'
'I am not quite sure of that,' she said in her searching way. 'But, still, I should like to be able to tell Mrs. Wylie—later—that you promised to be careful. You see, her nerves will perhaps be a little shaken; she may be anxious.'
'I hope not,' he replied. 'It would never do for anyone to be anxious about me. It is a thing I have always tried to avoid, and Mrs. Wylie says that she never troubles about me. It would spoil my nerve, Brenda ... if I thought that there was somebody at home watching and waiting for news.'
She laughed suddenly in an almost defiant way, and the sound of her laughter was discordant in the silence only broken by a whispering breeze.
'And you would be nothing without nerve.'
'No,' he answered stupidly; 'I should be nothing without nerve.'
'Although you never expose yourself to unnecessary danger?...'
She turned suddenly and left him. There was a boat slung high up on the davits, and, passing round it, she went and stood beside the rail with her hands resting on it. The boat hid her from the eyes of anyone on deck.
Trist walked aft, and stood for a moment beside the steersman in an indifferent attitude, with his hands in his pockets, looking aloft.
'I am afraid the wind is dropping,' he said.
'Yessir—it's slackening a bit,' replied the man.
Then Trist slowly followed Brenda.
For a moment or two he stood behind her, and there seemed to be a dull tension in the very atmosphere. Then at last he spoke, in his soft, emotionless way.
'The wind is dropping,' he said; 'and we cannot expect it to rise again before the sun comes up. Let us be practical and have some rest. Go to your stateroom and try to sleep. I will lie down for a couple of hours in the saloon.'
She did not answer at once. Then she turned and passed round the boat in the other direction, so that he did not see her face. Moving towards the companion, she answered him quietly.
'Yes—it will be better.'
No other word passed between them. She went below, and presently Trist followed her. He lay down on the cabin sofa, but did not sleep. He took up a novel instead, and read assiduously.
By three o'clock in the morning Theo Trist was on deck again. The sun was already high up in the heavens; the morning air was fresh and invigorating.
Captain Barrow now did a strange thing. He took all sail off theHermioneand allowed her to drift on the rising tide towards Gudvangen. There was noticeable about the movements of the men a singular desire to avoid any noise whatsoever. Trist and the Captain moved about among them, here and there, helping noiselessly. The Captain gave his orders in a lowered voice. The carpenter was at his post forward by the cathead, but he awaited the order to let go the anchor in vain. All this was the result of instructions imparted by Trist to Captain Barrow.
'Put me ashore,' he had said, 'before you let go the anchor. The ladies must not be awakened on any account. Let the men make as little noise as they can in lowering the boat and taking in sail.'
To a yacht's crew such instructions were easy of comprehension. These are of different construction to the hardy mariners who man our passenger steamers. The latter gentry can not deign tolaya coil of rope or the brass nozzle of a hose-pipe on the deck, at five a.m. All such things are cast violently and dragged backwards and forwards over the heads of the sleeping passengers in a frank, sailor-like way. Again, such members of the crew as possess a taste for mechanical engineering are at perfect liberty to take the cover off the donkey-engine and indulge in a few experimental and spasmodic revolutions during the smaller hours of the morning. These sounds impart a hearty and nautical feeling to the sleepers below decks, and serve to remind them that they are nationally of a seafaring turn. Being of a commercial spirit, I shall some day start a line of passenger steamers, carrying crews who do not wear sea-boots in tropical and dry latitudes, who can stoop to lay things down on deck, and do not work violently from five to six o'clock in the morning, so that the rest of the day may be spent in graceful leisure.
Captain Barrow had directed his mental researches more towards the vagaries of fickle ocean and wayward weather than to the question of human motives. Through a long and somewhat monotonous life the old mariner had not hitherto found the necessity of studying his fellow-men very closely. Able-bodied seamen are a class of beings who vary little in mental accomplishment or bias. Their bodies must be able; their minds are of secondary importance. Nevertheless, it occurred to him that Theo Trist was singularly anxious to get ashore without disturbing the ladies.
The boat was lowered noiselessly, and into it were thrown the young fellow's portmanteau, creel and rods. Then Trist shook hands with the crew, the steward, and finally with Captain Barrow himself. This ceremony being performed with due solemnity, he threw his leg over the rail and prepared to jump into the boat, which was already manned. At this moment Brenda appeared on deck. She was still dressed in black, which sombre attire suited her dainty style of face and form to perfection.Du reste, she looked as bright and fresh as Aurora.
Captain Barrow glanced beneath his shaggy eyebrows at Trist, and saw on his face—nothing: absolutely nothing. The man was simply impenetrable.
Brenda came towards them with a smile. She leant over the rail, for Trist was now in the boat, and held out her small hand steadily.
'Good-bye, Theo.'
'Good-bye ... Brenda.'
And with his own hands he shoved off.
So theHermionenever dropped anchor at Gudvangen. Before the boat reached the pier there was a man waiting for her. In Norway, persons connected in any way with the hire of horses or carriols do not appear to sleep at all. Even in this peaceful land the spirit of competition disturbs men's rest.
Brenda, standing on the deck of theHermione, saw Trist shake hands with the boat's crew and climb on to the wooden pier. Then he turned, and evidently directed the men to return to the yacht. The wind was fair, so Captain Barrow set sail as soon as the boat came alongside; and before the sails were fairly filled, Brenda saw Trist mount his carriol and drive away at a smart trot into the narrow, darksome gorge of the Nerodal. To her ears came the sound of his horse's feet upon the hard road, and she turned away with dull anguish in her eyes.
On the evening of the third day Theo Trist was seated in a train that glided smoothly into King's Cross Station. It was five o'clock, and in three hours the war-correspondent intended to leave London again. As time goes and new things grow up around us, our constitutions become more adaptable. The human frame endures to-day fatigues and hardships of a description undreamt of three hundred years ago. I believe that it would have been hard to find in the reign of Queen Bess a man ready to undertake an unbroken journey by carriol, steamer, train, steamer, train, and train again from a Norwegian station to the pretty little town of Belgrade on the Danube. To Theo Trist this undertaking was of no great matter, and there are plenty of men around who would smile at the hardship.
Whatever speed may be attained by our fastest express the human brain can outvie. During the first hour or so our thoughts lag behind, we are still living the life that is left there, thinking of the people who dwell there, feeling the emotions experienced there. But presently our thoughts come racing along and overtake the material body. An interest is taken in passing stations; the scenery acquires beauty, and for a time mind and body travel together. After another space our thoughts start away again, in front this time, and the coming alteration in daily routine becomes a reality. We anticipate the change that is approaching, and thus the shock of it is broken. Anyone who has made a long and rapid journey will understand me, and those who have left behind them something dear, some bright period of their existence, will, with me, bless this wise provision.
To Theo Trist nothing seemed more natural than to find himself amidst an excited crowd of porters on the platform. To be hustled on all sides by human forms, to have to push his way through an over-crowded humanity, brought to his mind no thought of contrast. Three days before he had lived in a world almost devoid of life. Here he forced his way through life in a world too small for it.
All around him greetings were being exchanged—hands pressed hands, and lips touched lips. In and out, the porters forced their hurried passage. Cabmen shouted, and porters called. Everyone was smiling at or abusing someone else. Only Trist was alone. No one sought his face amidst the new ones on the platform—no one smiled at him. Here, as at the edge of the Norwegian river, he was alone, in a studied, cultivated solitude. In three hours he would leave Charing Cross, still alone, still unheeded. Amidst this noise and confusion he sought his light baggage, and his was the first cab to leave the station.
Through the dusty streets he drove, looking calmly on the well-known sights, listening vaguely to the well-known sounds and cries. His life had been a kaleidoscope, and in all places, all situations, and all circumstances, he unconsciously made a place for himself.
In late July London is supposed to be empty, but as Trist drove through the narrow thoroughfares down towards Oxford Street, the pavement was crowded. Oxford Street was gay, dusty, noisy. Seven Dials, in those days, innocent of model-lodging houses, reeked of fever. Through all these the war-correspondent drove indifferently; but when the cab rattled down Wellington Street he sat forward. In the Strand he was at home, recognised of many, recognising some. The cab drew up before a large stone house, labelled by a single diminutive brass-plate on the door—and waited. A minute later Trist entered a small room at the back of the building. A gray-haired man of square build with an enormous head rose to greet him.
'At last!' said this man. 'If you remember, Trist, I did not want you to go so far away while this Eastern Question was unsettled.'
'I remember perfectly,' said Trist almost inaudibly, as he laid aside his hat and looked up towards a clock suspended on the wall, with the air of a man knowing his surroundings well.
'And still you went—you ruffian!' said the other, courteously indicating a chair and reseating himself.
Trist smiled sweetly and said nothing.
'I suppose,' continued the large-headed man jovially, 'that there was a distinct and irresistible attraction.'
'There was!' said Trist, with impenetrable gravity.
'And how did you leave that jolly old boy, the Admiral?'
'Dead!'
'Ah! Dead?'
The editor leant forward and pressed a small white button at the side of his desk. Simultaneously the door opened, and a man in livery stood silently waiting.
'Send Mr. Deacon!'
'Yessir.'
'Dead, is he?' continued the editor, in a different tone. 'I am sorry to hear that. It must have been sudden. Just give me a few details.'
While speaking he had taken a pencil and paper. Trist told him in a few words what had taken place in the Heimdalfjord, and as he spoke the editor wrote. A minute later Mr. Deacon, a small man, who looked incapable of taking the initiative in anything whatsoever, appeared.
'Sudden death of Admiral Wylie,' said the editor in a monotone, as he held out the paper towards Mr. Deacon, without looking, however, in his direction. 'Short paragraph—look up details of career.'
'Nothing sensational and nothing very personal,' put in Trist with gentle severity.
'No,' added his companion, 'nothing of that sort. Admiral Wylie was a personal friend of my own.'
Mr. Deacon vanished, and closed the door behind him with scrupulous noiselessness.
'When can you go?' asked the editor.
'Eight-twenty from Charing Cross,' was the reply, given in Trist's most soothing way. He leant back in his deep chair, and passed his hand round his clean-shaven chin in a thoughtful, almost indolent, manner. Then he waited for his companion to continue the conversation.
'It was rather a risky thing waiting for you; but I heard from Lloyd's this morning that your boat arrived at Hull in time for you to be here by five-thirty. If that boat had been late, my boy, I should have sent another man.'
Again Trist smiled.
'I very nearly did not come at all.'
This remark appeared to have rather a peculiar effect upon the editor. He received it with unsympathetic gravity, and, resting his heavy arms upon his desk, he leant forward. While playing with a pencil in an easy, thoughtful way, he fixed his eyes upon Trist's face with a kindly scrutiny. Gray eyes they were, of a shade merging on green, with at times a suggestion of brown. Such eyes have a singular power of expressing kindness of heart, in which they differ greatly from the gray of a blue shade, such as Trist's, which have gentleness but no loving-kindness. It is usual to hold in abhorrence all shades of green in respect to human orbs, but this is mere prejudice. There is no such thing—despite Thackeray—as a green eye; and the noblest character, the truest gentleman and kindest-hearted being who has crossed the present writer's path possesses eyes of a gray shade slightly tinged with green. Again, there is another person I know. She ... well—she is herself; and her eyes are of a deep gray, which assume at times a distinctly green hue.
Before speaking the editor shook his massive head incredulously.
'My impression of you, Trist, is that you are a man who never "very nearly" doesanything. While actually reading my telegram you made up your mind whether you were going or not, and after that no power on earth would have altered your decision. Of course, it sometimes pays (especially with ladies) to appear vacillating, and desirous of placing the deciding vote in someone else's hands. No doubt you practise this amiable fraud at times. I am sorry, but I don't believe that you "very nearly" did not come, seeing that you are here.'
Trist laughed without denying this insinuation.
'And now,' he said, 'that I am here, perhaps it would be wiser to get to business, and leave my personal failings for discussion behind my back when I am gone.'
'Yes,' answered the other briskly, 'let us get to business. You must leave in two hours. Now about terms. Are they to be the same as for the Franco-Prussian?'
'No!' answered Trist.
'Ah!'
'Your terms were generous for the Franco-Prussian War,' replied the correspondent, 'but now they would be miserly.'
The editor raised his august eyebrows and waited in quizzical silence. He appeared to be amused.
'I was a young man then, and a beginner. You did me a great kindness, and I am not going to repay it by such a mean ruse as working below the market price. I am worth more now, and I expect more. It is only natural that my health will give in some day, or my reputation may die, in either of which cases I shall have little to live upon. During this war and the disturbances of some description which will undoubtedly follow, I mean to make money.'
The great man laughed aloud.
'Capital!' he exclaimed—'capital! What a head for business! My dear Trist, you are worth four times as much money as we gave you in '70, and I am authorized to offer you that sum.'
'I think that istoomuch.'
'Not at all. It is merely a business-like speculation. You risk your life, and we pay you. Your life goes up in market-value; we pay you more. Do you accept?'
'Yes.'
'That is right. I have the agreement ready in my desk for you to sign. Personally speaking, I think they might have offered you more, but you have the publishers clamouring for a book, and I suppose you will representLe Paysas well as ourselves.'
'Yes; I telegraphed to them from Hull. But I am quite content; in fact, it is more than I expected. I will make a good thing out of it.'
'We shall,' observed the editor, with a keen smile, 'be having you on the turf when you come back, or launching into ... matrimony.'
'Both amusements,' suggested Trist coolly, 'being so eminently calculated to forward the career of a special war-correspondent.'
The editor was busy collecting various papers that lay in apparent disorder on his desk—telegrams, foreign and English; 'flimsies' from the news agencies and Lloyd's; printed matter and manuscript.
'No, Trist,' he said, without looking up; 'we cannot have you marrying yet. The warlike public cannot do without you, my boy.'
'It is wonderful,' murmured Trist ambiguously, 'what we can do without when we try. I am not, however, going to do without something to eat. I will go along to the club and dine now. You will be here when I come back?'
'I shall be here until two in the morning,' returned the journalist.
If Theo Trist had hoped to pass through London without meeting anyone except the editor of the mighty journal, from whose coffer he was soon to draw the income of a Continental prince, he was disappointed. It would seem, however, that he was upon this point, as on many, broadly indifferent. He went to a club, where he was almost certain of meeting some of his friends—a club of which the members never leave town because the calendar bids them do so; never quite lay aside their labour; and appear to sleep when others are awake, working while others sleep.
He went there because it was conveniently near at hand, and he was sure of having rapid attention given to his desires. As he entered the dining-room a young man rose from one of the small square tables with dramatic surprise.
'Theodore Trist, by all that's sacred!' exclaimed this youth. He was of medium height with a fair moustache, such as lady novelists delight to write about. This manly adornment was the prominent thing about him. But for it, his face was that of a fair and somewhat weak-minded girl. It curled away from either side of his full red lips (usually moist), with a most becoming languor. Its golden hue completed perfectly the harmony of his delicately tinted pink and white face. A shade lighter than his hair, it was itself of delicate texture, and the bewitching curl was in need of constant attention on the part of a long white finger and thumb. The top joint of the finger bent backwards with a greater suppleness than a manly person would perhaps admire. There was always an abundance of cuff and deep turn-down collar, of which the points overlapped the flap of a wide-cut waistcoat. In the matter of necktie, a soft silken material of faded hue rivalled the golden moustache in obtruding itself before the public gaze. Dark-blue eyes devoid of depth, and a slightly aquiline nose, complete the picture. This man was no ordinary being. Had he been dressed like an ordinary being—like, let us say, a tea-broker—men and women would still have looked at him twice. Kensington lion-hunters would still have kept him in touch, so to speak, on the chance of his developing from puppyhood into cubhood, and so on to the maturity of a London lion. But he made the most of such personal peculiarities as Providence had thought fit to assign to him. His tailor thought him slightly eccentric. 'Bit orf 'is chump,' that sartorial artist was wont to observe in his terse, clipping way; and he charged something extra for padded shoulders; and continuations, baggy from waist to ankle. Sundry small singularities of dress purchase a cheap notoriety, and to these the wise tailor gave his full consent with an eye to advertisement. It is an easy matter to trim with silk braid a coat of material usually worn without trimming, and the effect is most satisfactory to a man desirous of being looked at in public places. Again, the additional cost of a broad braid down the outer seam of one's dress-unmentionables is trifling, while the possession of it 'stamps a man, don't cher know.' Personally I do not know how it stamps a man, but on good authority I have it. A peculiar cut of collar is obtainable for the mere trouble of asking and running up a bill. But chiefest of all is a name. In such a thing there is to-day much more than in Shakespeare's time, and in this one most aggravating point the young man who rose to greet Theodore Trist as he entered the club dining-room failed most ignominiously. His name was William Hicks. In order to battle successfully against such a heavy handicap, the young man was forced, like a good general, to spare no expense in his outfit. This most commonplace association of two good English names cost their possessor as much per annum as would enable a thrifty maiden lady (or four German clerks) to live comfortably.
He would have given much to be labelled by such a nomenclature as 'Theodore Trist'—a poetic assimilation of letters quite unnecessary for the war-correspondent, and even wasted upon him. His work would have been equally popular if signed William Hicks, whereas the artist, who was some day going to surprise the old world and make the spirits of its ancient masters shake in their ethereal shoes, was dragged down and held back by the drysalting name of Hicks. For certain reasons, to which even the unmercenary soul of William was forced to bow, there was no hope of ever changing it for something more poetic. Certain it was (and perhaps the artist knew it) that there were many houses to which Theodore Trist had an ever-welcome entry, while he—William Hicks—was excluded. It could only be the name that drew this line, and, indeed, it was in many cases nothing else; for the name of Trist is rare, and in a certain county, far away from town, very powerful, whereas the milkman who supplies me with an opaque fluid of more or less nourishing qualities is called Hicks, and from the number of little Hickses who require everlasting boots, there is no present fear of the poetic surname becoming extinct.
Without any great show of cordiality, Trist shook the long, nerveless hand extended to him. He even went so far as to nod familiarly over Hicks' shoulder to a servant who, having drawn back a chair, fulfilled his immediate duty by waiting.
'Where have you come from, old man?' asked the artist. 'You look as if you had been sleeping in your shirt for a week.'
Like many of his tribe, Hicks had a great notion of being all things to all men. He prided himself exceedingly upon his powers of adaptability to environment. With men he was, therefore, slangy; with women tender and poetic. With the former he could not be manly, and for this quality he substituted an inordinate use of language more descriptive than that usually employed by gentlemen in the presence of ladies. Not possessing the slightest vein of humour, he assumed with women the poetic mantle, and surrounded himself for the time being with a halo of melancholy. There are people who, while endeavouring to be all things, are nothing—while seeking to render themselves valuable to the many, are of use to none.
'I have not been sleeping much in anything,' replied Trist, 'and just at the moment a wash is what I require. After that some dinner.'
This served as an answer to Hicks, and an order to the waiter at the same time; and with a nod Trist passed on to the dressing-rooms.
'Where will Mr. Trist dine?' asked Hicks, turning to the waiter, and speaking somewhat sharply, as people do who fear the ridicule of their inferiors.
'At my table, sir!' with a certain air of possession.
'Then just move my plate ... and things ... to the same, will you?'
When the war-correspondent returned to the dining-room, he found Hicks established at the table where he invariably sat, and the waiter holding a chair in readiness for him with a face of the most complete stolidity. Without betraying either pleasure or annoyance, he took the proffered chair and attacked his soup in a business-like way, which did not promise conversational leisure.
'In a deuce of a hurry, old man!' suggested the artist.
'Yes. Have to catch a train.'
'Going off to the East, I suppose?' asked Hicks carelessly.
With his shallow blue eyes persistently fixed on Trist's face, he stroked his moustache daintily.
'Yes.'
'To-night?'
'At eight-twenty,' replied Trist, meeting his gaze with gentle impatience.
'Ah! Lady Pearer was asking me the other day if you were there, or on the way to the seat of war.'
'Lady Pearer? Don't know her,' observed Trist, with his mouth full of bread.
'She seemed to know you.'
The suggestion of a smile flickered across Trist's face, but his entire attention was absorbed just then by a bony piece of turbot. He made no answer, and silently shelved the subject in a manner which was not strictly complimentary to Mr. Hicks' fair and aristocratic friend.
The artist was one of those exceedingly pleasant persons who can never quite realize that their presence and conversation might, without serious inconvenience, be dispensed with. The mere fact of being seen in friendly intercourse with a person of his social distinction was, in his own simple heart, worthy of the consideration of greater men than Theodore Trist. In recounting the fact later, of his having dined with the celebrated war-correspondent on the eve of his departure for Bulgaria, he took exceeding great care to omit the mention of certain details. Moreover, he allowed it to be understood that the farewell feast was organized by Trist, and that there was some subtle political meaning in the hurried interview thus obtained.
'Trist,' he said, with a suggestion of melancholy, to Lady Pearer and other of his friends, 'is a strange fellow. He has a peculiar repelling manner, which causes people to imagine that he is indifferent to them. Now, when I dined with him at the "Press" the other night,' etc., etc.
Trist continued his dinner with that tranquillity of demeanour which marked his movements upon all occasions, but more especially, perhaps, when he was displeased or very much on the alert. The silence which followed the collapse of the Lady Pearer incident did not appear in the least irksome to him, whatever it may have been to his companion.
Hicks toyed with the rind of his late cheese, and wondered whether the novel bow of his voluminous dress-tie was straight.
'By the way,' he said at length, 'have you not been in Norway with the Wylies?'
The young artist had at one time been a protégé of Mrs. Wylie's, but her protection had been gradually withdrawn.
'The fair Brenda was with them, n'est-ce pas?'
Trist broke his bread with grave deliberation and looked stolid. After a momentary pause he raised his eyes to his companion's face.
'Eh?' he murmured softly.
'Miss Gilholme,' explained the other, with an involuntary change of manner.
'Yes, she was there.'
'I thought,' reflected Hicks aloud, as he stroked his moustache contentedly, 'that I remembered her telling me that she was going to Norway. How is she?'
'Very well, thank you.'
'Is she any stouter?' with affectionate interest.
'I don't know,' replied Trist suavely.
'Because,' continued the other in his best 'private-view-of-the-Academy' style, 'that is the only fault I have to find with her. Her figure is perfect, except that she is a trifle too slight—if you understand.'
'Indeed,' very gently.
'From an artistic point of view, of course,' explained Hicks with a graceful wave of his hand, full of modest deprecation. For some unknown reason a sudden sense of discomfort had come over him.
'Ah, I am not an artist ... thank goodness!'
Hicks glanced uneasily across the table at his companion. There was something in the calm tone of his voice that was not quite natural, a peculiar thrill as if of some suppressed emotion which might have been laughter, but was more probably anger. William Hicks was not endowed with that species of brute courage which enables its possessor to enter boldly into controversy, wordy or otherwise. He was eminently a lover of peace, and for its gentle sake was ever ready to suppress pride, honour, or any other inconvenient passion likely to prove inimical to its preservation.
He had mixed with men and women of all shades and tastes. They were mostly affected, hypocritical, insincere, and utterly wearisome; but there is one virtue which we cannot help acquiring from contact with our fellow-beings, however silly, however shallow and profitless, their influence may be. This virtue is tact, and William Hicks possessed a sufficiency of it to smooth his own path through life. If he failed to use it for the benefit of others, neglected to render the footsteps of others less stony and less difficult, he was, perhaps, no worse in such respect than the majority of us.
He now began to perceive that he had taken the wrong road towards gaining the esteem (or perhaps the toleration) of this plain-spoken, honest student of war.
Trist was not to be impressed by the social position of this dilettante dabbler in the fine arts. Soul, pure unvarnished soul, had no effect upon his mental epidermis. Poetry in curious dress-clothes, behind a singular cambric tie, failed to touch his inmost being. Then a brilliant inspiration came to this ambitious youth who attempted to be all things to all men. For once he would be natural. On this one occasion sincerity should grace his actions and his wondrous thoughts.
'I say, Trist,' he remarked almost earnestly, 'I met Martin of the Royal Engineers the other day, and he told me that it is common mess-room gossip in Ceylon that Alice Huston is having a miserable life of it out there.'
Trist had almost finished his dinner. He looked up gravely, and there was in his eyes a worried expression, which, however, the artist (who, like most self-satisfied people, was not observant) failed to see.
'I am sorry to hear that,' quietly, almost indifferently.
'Yes,' continued the other in the perfunctorily sympathetic tone which we all assume while revelling in the recital of evil tidings. 'They say that Huston drinks, that he is madly jealous and coldly indifferent by turns. He always was a brute. I remember when he was young he was a gourmand, and professed to be a great judge of claret. Now a boy who thinks of his interior when he ought to be hardening his muscles will, in all human probability, turn out a drinker.'
While Hicks was giving the benefit of his opinion, Trist had risen from the table, and now stood with his two hands upon the back of his chair looking down thoughtfully at his companion. The artist was peeling an early pear with great delicacy of fingering. Before the war-correspondent had time to say anything, he continued:
'I suppose,' he said somewhat pathetically, 'that you and I are more interested in the Gilholmes than most people. To a certain extent they rely upon us as old friends. That is why I tell you this. I never repeat gossip, you know.'
The last addition was made in a deprecating way, as if to apologize for a celebrity which placed certain personal peculiarities within public reach. Trist had not heard that reticence was one of his companion's characteristics, and he treated the remark with silent contempt. He did not even smile in response to the sympathetic glance of the soulless blue eyes.
'If,' he observed, 'they rely upon us, they will expect us to hold our tongues. The truest friendship is shown in talking of anything but one's friends. I must go now. Good-night!'
The artist rose and held out his delicate hand. Within Trist's brown and sunburnt fingers the shapely limb looked small and frail and very useless. The very manner in which Hicks stood was in strong contrast to the sturdy deportment of his companion. If Brenda Gilholme should at any future day be forced to rely upon one of these strikingly dissimilar men, the choice would surely be no hard task; for one was all latent energy, quiet, reserved, and manly force, while the other was a mere creature of drawing-room and boudoir, a lady's knight, a dandy, an effeminate egoist.
And the stronger man, Theo Trist, went out from the brilliant chamber down the broad and silent stairs, out of the huge door, wrapt in his own thoughts as in a cloak which shielded him from men's eyes, for he saw no one, heard no sound, and was sensible of no definite feeling.
This great stone building was as a home to him—the only home he had ever known. The faces of the servants were pleasantly familiar; the stillness of the vast rooms, the very softness of the rich carpet beneath his feet, were distinct pleasures, and imparted a pleasant feeling of homeliness. And from this he passed out in the bright August evening alone and absorbed. To the war he gave no thought, neither meditated over the ripening fruits of his pen. There was before his meek and pensive eyes a vision which would not be cast aside. He saw a yacht rolling gently on the still waters of a northern fjord. The sails were hastily clewed up or lowered, hanging idle in the soft breeze. Away behind, clear and hard in the morning light, were brown hills rising sheer from the water—bleak rocks of unlovely contour. But the soul of the whole picture looked from the eyes of a slight young girl, clad in sober black, standing bareheaded, so that the sun gleamed on her soft brown hair, beside the stern rail, smiling bravely.
He had left Brenda alone in the midst of sorrow, and now he knew that she was on her way home to England to meet more of it. There is nothing so sad in human life as the bitter realization of human helplessness. Alice Huston was miserable, and Trist knew that he could do nothing. He was fully aware that misery with her meant misery to others. She was too impulsive—too selfish, perhaps—to keep her sorrows to herself, and Brenda would sooner or later be dragged into the trouble. He smiled to himself at the remembrance of William Hicks' words. The idea of Brenda Gilholme—the gifted, the capable, the learned—seeking the aid of thisexaltéartist was ludicrous, and yet Trist did not smile over it for long. He wished that there had been another man—such a man as himself, he unconsciously decided—near Brenda at this time.
Accustomed as he was to act alone, he perhaps assigned to the spirit of independence a greater importance in the average nature of men and women than such spirit really occupies. Independence or self-dependence is a quality which, being possessed, brings with it a certain blindness. A man such as Theodore Trist, whose every action and thought receives its motive from a calm, straightforward independence, cannot quite realize that there are people to whom the necessity of thinking and acting on their own responsibility is little short of agony. He was sensible in a vague manner that Brenda Gilholme was an exceptional girl in many ways, but he never through all his life quite understood that she was one in a thousand. His life and work brought him into contact with men, and men exceptionally ignorant of women and their ways. In his dreamy, chivalrous way, he gave women credit for a much greater self-dependence and self-sufficiency than they possess—bless them all! In leaving Brenda to bring home Mrs. Wylie, and in a sense to take command of theHermione, he acted somewhat in the spirit of a soldier who, leaving his subordinate behind while he goes forth to other work, feels that his late duties are made over to hands and brain in all probability as competent as his own, but merely wanting in opportunity. And he started on his flying journey across Europe without the knowledge that Brenda was quietly assuming responsibilities from which many older women would have shrunk aghast.
Now that this news of further trouble coming to meet her, as it were, from the East, touched him in passing, he never for one moment doubted Brenda's capability to meet it, and act in the quickest and wisest manner. But there was a vague apprehension, nevertheless, and he thought with discomfort of the girl's utter loneliness.