'We either know too much or too little,' said the girl discontentedly.
'Too much,' he affirmed without any hesitation. 'Fortunately, we have learnt to acquire a mental courage with our knowledge, or else we never would be able to face life at all.'
After this there was a pause of some duration. It would be impossible to hazard a guess at what thoughts were passing through the man's brain as he sat there blandly indifferent, placid and utterly inscrutable. His meek eyes wore no far-off, absent look. He seemed merely to be noting the shadows upon the water.
With her it was different. Plainly, she was thinking of him, for her eyes were fixed upon his face, endeavouring to decipher something there. At last, as with a sudden effort, she spoke, and in the inconsistency, the utter irrelevancy of her speech, there was the history of a woman's world.
'Either,' she said in a dull voice, 'you are on the verge of atheism, or you love Alice. Only one of those ... calamities could account for the utter hopelessness of your creed.'
At this moment Mrs. Wylie appeared on deck, and playfully chided them for staying away so long.
With the utmost unconsciousness of an unanswered question, Trist rose and crossed the deck to meet her.
'It has blown over,' said Trist softly, as the little lady came towards him.
'Yes,' replied Mrs. Wylie with obvious abstraction. She was not thinking of the weather at all. In Trist's monotonous voice there had been an almost imperceptible catch. Slight though it had been, the acute little matron detected it, and she looked keenly through the semi-darkness into her companion's face. His meek eyes met hers, softly, suavely, aggravatingly innocent as usual.
'And,' she added as an after-thought, 'how beautifully fresh it is now!'
She took a seat beside Brenda, glancing at her face as she did so. The girl welcomed her with a little smile, but said nothing. The silence was characteristic. Most young maidens would have considered it necessary to make an inane remark about the weather, just to show, as it were, that that subject had been under discussion before the arrival of this third person.
There was something very pleasant and home-like in the very movements of Mrs. Wylie's arms and hands, as she settled herself and drew her shawl closer round her. Trist seated himself on the rail near at hand, and relighted his pipe. Thus they remained for some time in silence.
'What a strange couple they are!' the matron was reflecting, as she looked slowly from one unconscious face to the other.
'There were one or two terrible flashes of lightning,' she said aloud in a conversational way; 'I was quite nervous, but the Admiral slept placidly through it all.'
Trist moved slightly, and shook the ash from his pipe over the side.
'Brenda was terrified,' he said resignedly.
'I was startled,' admitted the girl, 'that was all. And the result was a very learned discourse on courage, its source and value, by Theo.'
'I always thought,' said he to Mrs. Wylie, in a mildly disappointed tone, 'that she was plucky.'
Mrs. Wylie laughed, and then with sudden gravity nodded her head significantly.
'So she is—very plucky.'
'I think,' suggested Brenda, 'that it would be better taste, and more natural, perhaps, to discuss me behind my back.'
Trist laughed.
'I never discuss anyone,' he said. 'That is a lady's privilege and monopoly. Men are usually fully occupied in talking about themselves, and have no time to devote to the study of their surroundings.'
'I generally find that men say either too much or too little about themselves,' observed Mrs. Wylie. 'There is no medium between the super-egotistical and the hyper-reserved. Among my young men, and I have a great number, there are some who tell me everything, and others who tell me nothing. The former appear to think that the universe revolves round them, that they are superlatively interesting, and that their relations are the same in ratio to the closeness of their connection with the axis of the social world—that is, to themselves. Consequently I hear all sorts of confidences, and many totally pointless stories.'
'Which,' suggested Trist, 'never go any further.'
'Which never go any further, because their specific gravity is of such trifling importance that they make absolutely no impression upon the tenderest of sympathetic hearts.'
Brenda, who had been listening in a semi-interested way, now made a remark. She was not a brilliant conversationalist, this thoughtful little person, and rarely contributed anything striking or witty to a general intercourse. Her ideas needed the security of atête-à-têteto coax them forth.
'I think,' she said to Mrs. Wylie, 'that you must be gifted with a wonderful amount of patience, or you would never bother with your young men. The obligation and the pleasure must be all on their side.'
'It is,' put in Trist cynically, 'a sort of mother's agency. We ought to issue a circular for the benefit of provincial parents: "Young men's morals looked after; confidences received and kindly forgotten. Youths without dull female relatives preferred. Address, Mrs. Wylie, Suffolk Mansions, London, and Wyl's Hall, Wyvenwich."'
Mrs. Wylie laughed comfortably.
'I must confess,' she said, 'that the female relatives are a drawback. There are a good many stories to be listened to about hopelessly dull sisters and incapable mothers; but my young men are not so bad on the whole, and I know I do a little good occasionally. Of course there are some who require snubbing at times, and some who are not interesting; but the silent ones are my favourites, and there is only one type of talkative I really object to—a young Scotchman with hard lashless eyes, a square bony jaw, a very small nose, no complexion, and an accent.'
'I know the type,' said Trist; 'he has a theory for everything, including life. Is a hard business man, a keen arguer, and never makes a good soldier.'
'Altogether a most pleasing and fascinating young man,' interrupted Brenda, with a low laugh. 'You are both terribly cynical, I believe, beneath a gentle suavity. It only comes to the surface when you get together and lay aside the social mask. I never met this ideal Scotchman at your house, Mrs. Wylie.'
'No, my dear,' was the decisive reply, 'and I do not think you ever will.'
'You prefer young men who take but do not grab,' suggested Trist.
'Mine,' replied the lady, with tolerant complacency, 'are not brilliant youths. Some of them may get in front of the crowd, but they will do so in a quiet and gentlemanly way, without elbowing or pushing too obviously, and without using other men's shoulders as levers to help themselves forward.'
She looked straight into the young fellow's face with her pleasantly keen smile, for he was the first and the foremost of her young men, and she was justly proud of him. He had passed beyond the dense mediocrity of the crowd, and stood alone in a place which he had won unaided. He was one of those who said too little—one of the silent ones whom she loved above the others who told her everything. In her cheery, careless way, with all her assumed worldliness, she did a vast deal of good amongst these unattached young men who were in the habit of dropping in during their spare evenings at the cosy little drawing-room on the second-floor of Suffolk Mansions.
There was usually some connecting-link, some vague and distant introduction between the young men and the cheerful, worldly, childless lady who chose to make all waifs and stragglers welcome. These were generally provincial men living in chambers and working out their apprenticeships under the different styles of their different professions. Articled clerks, medical students, art students, somethings in the City, and a journalist or so. She never invited them to come, and so they came when they wanted to, often to find her out, for she was a gay little soul, and then they came again. There was always a box of cigarettes on the mantelpiece, and the broad polished table was invariably littered with the latest magazines, books, and periodicals. Mrs. Wylie was always broad awake, and the Admiral usually fell asleep as soon as the conversation waxed personal.
In the matter of confidences Mrs. Wylie possessed real genius. She forgot things so conveniently, and never smiled when given to understand that some youthful heart was broken for the third time in one season. She never preached and rarely advised, but merely listened sympathetically. There were men who came to her and never mentioned themselves, sought no advice, made no confidences, and these she made most welcome, for she loved to study them, and wonder indefinitely over their projects, their ambitions, and their motives. Above all, she loved to watch Theo Trist. This young man was a mine of human interest to her, and with Brenda Gilholme she sought to discover its inmost depths. I believe there is a delicate instrument which betrays the presence of precious metals in the earth when brought into proximity with its surface. Mrs. Wylie had perhaps heard of such an instrument, but whether that be so or no, she deliberately used Brenda to detect the good that lay in Theo Trist. You will say that this was matchmaking pure and simple; but such it certainly could not be, for Mrs. Wylie knew full well that Brenda Gilholme and Theo Trist were people who knew their own minds, who would never be forced into anything by a third person. And treating the great question generally, she was of the comforting opinion that each individual is best left to manage his or her own affairs unaided. The matchmaker—the third person, in fact—has remarkably little to do with most marriages, though many of us are pleased to remember after the event that we had something to do with its earlier career.
If it was not match-making, Mrs. Wylie's conduct was, to say the least of it, unscrupulous; but then, my brothers, who amongst us knows a perfectly scrupulous woman? Not I,par Dieu. Charming, intelligent, fascinating, superior (ahem!), but scrupulous—no. I have not yet met her. Be it the shape of a hat or the heart of a lover, she will get it, taking it as a German clerk will take your business from you, by the means that are surest of success, without stopping to consider the silly question of an overstrained point of honour.
Trist was not, strictly speaking, merely one of Mrs. Wylie's young men. His mother was her first cousin, and she it was who had gone down to Windsor to bring home a little round-faced Eton boy to the house of sickness when Mrs. Trist's earthly pilgrimage was thought to be at an end. Since that day she had never quite lost sight of the boy, and years later she chaperoned Alice and Brenda Gilholme through an Oxford Commemoration at the undergraduate's request.
It was at her house, and through her instrumentality, that the friendship between these motherless young people was chiefly kept up. The respective fathers knew nothing of each other, and cared likewise. One was a Parliamentary monomaniac; the other a worn-out Indian Civil-servant, tottering on his last legs at Cheltenham. There had never been an interchange of pretty sentiments; such things were not in Mrs. Wylie's line of country at all. She had not wept silent tears over Brenda's bowed head, and promised to fill the place of that vague and shadowy mother whom the girl had never known. Tears of any description were unfamiliar to the comfortable, brave little lady. Some of us profess, and some there are who act without professing: of these latter was Mrs. Wylie. It is so easy to talk of filling that vacant place, and so utterly impossible to cast the faintest shadow upon the walls of the empty chamber.
With Trist it had been the same. Unquestioned he had come and gone, only to come again. Mrs. Wylie never sought to entice confidences by a kindly show of interest, and what he chose to tell (which was little enough) she listened to with small comment. If she had in any slight degree influenced his strangely-blended character, her influence had been all and entirely beneficial.
Such, briefly, was the social relationship existing between these three persons brought together upon the deck of theHermionebeneath the magic of an Arctic night. Amidst such vast and grandiose scenery the trim yacht looked petty and insignificant; but these three persons had no appearance of being out of place. They were of that adaptable material which appears to yield to its environments and takes the shape of the receptacle in which it finds itself. Yet is it, like certain boneless marine animals, independent of its surroundings, having a perfect shape of its own, into which it invariably returns when left alone.
A brilliantly capable woman, an intellectual girl, and a gifted man could not well be in their social element in a deserted fjord, amidst gloomy mountains which weigh down men's minds and keep back all mental growth; but there was no sign of discomfort, no suspicion of boredom. This world was theirs, and with it they were content.
The stillness that had come over them was broken at length by the voice of Admiral Wylie, raised in the cabin below and heard through the open skylight.
'Brenda—little woman! Brenda—ahoy! Come and play to me!' cried the pleasantly raucous tones.
The girl rose from her seat at once, and passed down the little stairway with a light responsive laugh, leaving the other occupants of the deck in silence.
Presently the sound of her playing reached them. It was characteristic of herself: so perfectly trained, so technically faultless, and yet as innately and pathetically sweet, was it.
Trist moved restlessly at the sound of it, and Mrs. Wylie, watching him, saw the blue puffs of smoke follow each other with unnatural rapidity from his lips. She leant back, and drew her shawl cosily around her.
At length Trist spoke, busying himself with his pipe and giving it his full attention.
'Brenda,' he remarked conversationally, 'has been lecturing me upon the evils attending an excessive spirit of independence.'
'I have no doubt that her remarks were worthy of your consideration.'
'They were. Brenda's remarks generally are worthy of consideration.'
'Were they of a personal nature?' inquired Mrs. Wylie, with a slight suggestion of mischief in her tone.
'Decidedly so. She has a pleasant way of telling me my faults. But I like it, because she is invariably right. Perfect sincerity is a rare thing in these times.'
Mrs. Wylie did not reply to this melancholy truth. She was looking past her companion across the glassy water, with her eyelids slightly contracted and her rather thin lips pressed closely together. It was an expression very familiar to Theo Trist, and he waited silently. Presently she made a little movement, and looked at him with a faint suggestion of surprise, as if she had just landed on firm earth after a long, long mental voyage.
'She was quite right, Theo!' was the result.
He smiled vaguely, and looked obstinate.
'If,' said Mrs. Wylie in an explanatory way, 'I were a different sort of woman to what I am, I should consider myself very much ill-used at being deprived of a fuller confidence. I should strive, and nag, and persist until I had wormed out of you your ambitions, your joys, your sorrows, and your possible motives. That is what Brenda means, I think. Theoretically, she is right; practically and personally she is wrong.'
'Is it not,' suggested the young fellow in self-defence, 'the height of egoism to inflict thoughtlessly upon other people one's petty, temporary, and often imaginary woes?'
'Not always, Theo. There is one case where it is real kindness to be a little selfish, and to speak openly of one's feelings and thoughts. I once had a little boy of my own, though it was years ago, when I was quite a different person to ... to what I am now, so I can hardly pretend to know much of a mother's feelings; but I am convinced that it is truer kindness to tell one's mother too much than too little. She knows—her mere natural instinct tells her—that there is something wrong, and in the intensity of her love and anxiety she exaggerates things unduly.
They were both speaking lightly and only half gravely, but there was something pathetic in their ignorance, however indifferent and conversational their tones might be. Both were speaking vaguely and speculatively of something they had never known, something they never could know from personal experience.
'Perhaps it is better....' Trist began, and then he stopped suddenly, withheld by a quick remembrance of the utter misery that weighed down the heart of the little Eton boy who had gazed stupidly out of the cab window as he passed over Windsor bridge fifteen years ago. He could hear again the rattle of the shaky wheels, the vibration of the windows; and again the sound of this kindly woman's voice, lovingly lowered, came to his recollection.
'No,' he said, correcting himself, 'it cannot be better, but as things have turned out, perhaps it is as well that there is no one at home listening too eagerly to the cry of the paper-boy when I am away.'
'You forget poor me,' said Mrs. Wylie merrily. She had a wonderful way of slipping round a grave subject.
'Not at all. But I should imagine that you generally look at the births, deaths, and marriages before studying the list of killed and wounded.'
'Invariably. I look upon you as a person eminently capable of taking care of himself. And I should hope that if there were anything wrong you would have the good grace to let me know before the penny papers shriek it forth to the world.'
'That sounds inconsistent.'
'Nevertheless, it is not so. I am not an anxious person, Theo. I never lie awake on stormy nights at Wyl's Hall and think of you—probably sleeping peaceably in tropic calms—but I like to hear occasionally of your movements, and I like to hear people talk of you, because I can say, "I know him"—that is all.'
'Then.... Brenda is wrong?' murmured Trist with a suggestion of relief in his manner.
'Yes, Brenda is wrong, because I am not your mother, and have no desire to pretend to that doubtful felicity. It is an honour which I distinctly decline.'
'I am sorry....'
'Oh, don't mention it. You are hardly to blame. But I imagine that you would make a very bad son.'
Trist laughed and rose to his feet. His pipe was empty, and having knocked the ashes out against the rail, he dropped it into his pocket. Then he stood before her waiting until she should make a movement to go below.
'Nevertheless,' said Mrs. Wylie casually, without looking up as she drew her shawl comfortably around her previous to rising'—nevertheless, I should like you to understand that if ever I can be of use to you (for an old woman might on occasions be useful to the most independent of young men, Theo), I am ready to do anything for you. Any little odd maternal jobs without pretending to the maternal honour, you understand.'
She rose and stepped to the side of the vessel, looking round the fjord and over the mountains in a practical, weather-wise way. Trist followed her, and stood a little behind, in his still unemotional manner, with his meek eyes raised to a distant snowfield, where the pink reflection of the north-western sky hovered yet.
'It need not be a one-sided transaction,' he said in the same worldly, hopelessly every-day tone of voice. 'There may be little odd filial jobs without acknowledging the filial ties, you understand.'
Mrs. Wylie laughed her easy, flowing laugh, and walked briskly forward; for the Admiral was calling her now in his genial, tyrannical autocracy.
'Yes,' she said cheerily. 'It may be so.'
And so this compact was made at last—a compact of which his share was to be commenced rudely and suddenly within twenty-four hours, while hers was harder perhaps, and infinitely sadder, extending into years yet unopened and unthought of.
The two fishermen went off in opposite directions again the next day, the Admiral taking the gig and sailing down the fjord to the distant river, while Trist went ashore in Nielsen's boat to fish the stream that ran past the little mountain homestead.
It was a dull foreboding day; for the clouds had fallen over the summits and all was gray. The gorges were darksome, and over everything there seemed to have come a sudden gloomy melancholy. Without actually raining, the gray mist overhead dissolved softly into a falling dampness which was more subtly penetrating than driving rain itself. The sea was of a dull gray, and looked muddy. Those Arctic fjords can make a wondrous show when the sun shines, and fleecy white clouds nestle upon the shoulders of the grim mountains, but when a gray pall hangs motionless one thousand feet above the sea, there is no more dismal prospect on earth. It seems as if the rain would softly fall for ever and a day—as if nothing could ever brush aside the heavy vaporous veil, and let the gay blue sky peep through again.
But it was a grand fishing-day, despite a chill breeze too weak to move the clouds, and the fishermen went off in high feather. The ladies stood on deck and waved departing wishes for good luck. Before the breeze Admiral Wylie scudded away, while Trist's progress in the heavier boat was slower, owing to the northern deliberation of Nielsen's movements. They saw him land, and immediately he was surrounded by a skipping, dancing bevy of little white-haired children—merry little boys who begged him in their monotonous Norse to throw a stone far, far across the sea. Willingly he obliged them, while eager hands were outstretched to hold his rod and gaff. Then the little maidens had to be attended to, notably one quaint little figure in a dress made upon the same lines as her mother's, reaching to her heels, with true golden hair, plaited and pressed close against her tiny head in gleaming coils, who looked up into his face with a wondrous pair of blue eyes, which seemed to speak some deep unearthly language of their own.
This little one went up the path towards the river in triumph, standing upon the lid of his creel with her little fingers closely clutching the collar of his coat, while the boys and older girls ran by his side chattering gaily.
'And that,' said Mrs. Wylie in her semi-sarcastic way as she turned to go below with the view of consulting the steward about dinner, 'is the man whose element is war.'
She waited a moment, but Brenda made no reply beyond a short, mirthless laugh.
During that day the clouds never lifted. It was twilight from morning till night. At times it drizzled in a silent, feathery way, and occasionally it rained harder. The temperature grew hot and cold, unaccountably, at intervals, and the roar of the river was singularly noticeable.
At six o'clock in the evening Nielsen's boat dropped alongside, and Trist clambered on board theHermione. The ladies, having heard the sound of oars, came on deck to meet him.
'Ah,' said Brenda; 'you are the first home again.'
'Yes. I have three, so I am content,' was his reply. 'Is there no sign of the Admiral?'
'Not yet.'
As they spoke they moved aft and stood beneath the awning, looking down the deserted fjord. There was no sail, no suggestion of life to break the monotony of its waters. Presently Trist took a pair of binoculars from a small covered box screwed to the after-rail, and gazed steadily at a certain point on the southern shore where there was a gap in the bleak wall of mountain.
'The boat,' he said, 'seems to be lying there still; I can just see something yellow near the large rock overhanging the river.'
Mrs. Wylie looked at her watch. In half an hour dinner would be ready, and the boat was five miles away. Even with a stiff breeze the Admiral, whose punctuality was proverbial, could not hope to be in time. She turned, and, looking forward, perceived the steward standing at the open galley door, telescope in hand, wearing upon his keen North-country face a look of holy resignation.
'That old gentleman,' said Mrs. Wylie in an undertone, as she looked towards the distant boat, 'is going to get himself into trouble. The steward is annoyed.'
Presently Trist went below to change his clothes, and when he returned, twenty minutes later, the ladies were still on deck, standing near the after-rail, looking down the fjord towards the river. It was nothing alarming for a salmon-fisherman to be an hour late for dinner, and there was no display of anxiety on the part of Mrs. Wylie. She was not, as I have endeavoured to explain, a worrying woman, and she was, moreover, a sailor's wife, endowed with a brave, cheery heart, and well accustomed to wait for wind, weather, or mishap. She appeared to be more afraid of the steward's displeasure than of anything else, laughing at it with mock foreboding, after the manner of ladies who feel that they are beloved by their inferiors.
About half-past seven a fresh breeze sprang up, blowing across the fjord fitfully, and consequently favourable to sailing either way. Brenda had been watching Mrs. Wylie and Theo furtively, for she was of a somewhat anxious temperament, and could not understand the levity with which they were pleased to treat Admiral Wylie's prolonged absence.
She now noticed a subtle change in Trist's manner. His meek eyes acquired a strange quickness of movement, and for the first time she saw him glance sideways, or, to be more explicit, she perceived that he turned his eyes in a certain direction without turning also his head. This direction was invariably down the fjord towards the river. There was no actual change in his manner, for he walked backwards and forwards beside them, upright yet humble, firmly yet softly, as usual; but there seemed to be a new influence in his presence. It was one of command. The girl suddenly and unaccountably felt that this soft-spoken man was no longer a mere guest on board theHermione. In the absence of Admiral Wylie the actual command of the ship fell upon his shoulders, and in his gentle, passive way he had assumed the responsibility, almost unconsciously, without ostentation.
Brenda was in no manner surprised when he presently turned to Mrs. Wylie and said:
'It is no use waiting any longer. I think you and Brenda had better go down to dinner, while I take the longboat and sail down to see what is delaying them.'
The hostess made no attempt to combat his decision, but amended it hospitably.
'You must have some dinner first,' she said decisively. There was no interchange of anxious doubts, no alleviating suggestions of obvious worthlessness, such as timid people proffer readily to persons suffering from suspense; and Brenda felt that there was a great courage behind the smiling woman's face at her side.
Trist went forward to where Captain Barrow was standing, smoking his evening pipe just abaft the mainmast.
'Will you get out the long-boat, please,' the ladies heard him say, 'with mast, and sail, and one man?'
Presently he joined them in the saloon, where they were pretending to dine, and hurriedly drank some soup. No one spoke, and the sound of the sailors' movements as they lowered the long-boat was the only break in an uncomfortable silence. The steward moved noiselessly and lithely, as behoved his calling.
'Your oilskins are in your state-room, sir,' he whispered presently to Trist, who soon afterwards passed through the narrow doorway into his little apartment.
When he came out he was fully clad against the fine cold rain which was falling now. Even in heavy sea-boots he managed to walk smoothly.
The lamp had been lighted in the saloon, and he stood for a moment within its rays, looking at the two ladies. It was an incongruous and unconsciously dramatic picture thus formed in the refined little saloon, the two gracious women smiling wistfully at the straight, slim man in gleaming waterproofs. The very contrast between their delicate evening-dresses and his seaman-like attire was a shock. The white tablecloth, adorned with polished silver and odorous flowers, seemed a mockery, because there were two empty chairs beside it.
He leant over the back of his chair, and, reaching his wine-glass, which stood half full, he emptied it.
'Do not be anxious,' he said; 'I expect we shall be back before you have finished dinner.'
And he passed out of the saloon, swinging his sou'-wester by its strings.
'We will keep some dinner warm for you both,' called out Mrs. Wylie cheerfully, and from a distance he answered:
'Thank you!'
While continuing their homeopathic meal they heard the sound of men's voices, the creak of a block, and immediately afterwards the rush of the long-boat through the water under heavy sail.
It was very cold that evening, and, owing to the heavy clouds, almost dark. Nevertheless the ladies went on deck immediately after the farce of dinner had been carried to an end. At first they talked in a scrappy, strained way, and then lapsed into silence. Wrapped closely in their cloaks, they walked side-by-side fore and aft. Owing to the fine drizzle which blew across the fjord, it was now impossible to distinguish any object more than a mile away from the yacht, and the two women were enveloped in a silent gray veil of suspense.
Until ten o'clock they continued their vigil—alone on the deck except for the watchful steward standing within the galley-door. Then Brenda espied a sail looming through the gray mist.
'There is one of the boats,' she said gently, but there was a faint thrill of dread in her voice.
Mrs. Wylie made no answer, but walked to the after-rail, out from beneath the awning, into the rain. Brenda followed, and there they stood waiting.
'It is the gig,' said the elder woman half to herself, otherwise the horrible moments passed mutely by.
There was but one man in the boat. Trist had undoubtedly sent for help. Contrary to etiquette, the sailor did not make for the steps hanging amidships, but came straight beneath the counter of theHermione, lowering his sail deftly, and standing up to touch his dripping sou'-wester as the boat fell alongside.
The sailor was young and impulsive. He did not think much of yachtsman etiquette just then, but stood up in his boat, holding on to the rail of the vessel with both hands.
'Please, marm,' he said hurriedly and unevenly, 'I waited at the mouth of the river as the Admiral told me to do until seven o'clock, and he never came. Then I landed, and clambered up a bit to look for him. When a' was a bit up I saw the long-boat comin' and Mr. Trist steering her, so I went down again. Mr. Trist's gone up the river, marm, and me and Barker waited for two hours and heard nothin'. Then Barker says I'd better come on board an' tell yer, marm.'
'You did quite right, Cobbold,' replied Mrs. Wylie, in a singularly monotonous voice. 'You had better come on board and get something to eat; you look tired.'
But the man did not move. He shook his head.
'No, marm,' he said bashfully, 'I'm not wantin' anything t'eat. And I'm not tired ... only I'm a bit ... scared! I should like to go back, marm, at once to the river.'
Mrs. Wylie thought for a moment deeply.
'I will go back with you,' she said at length. Then she went forward to where Captain Barrow stood with the rest of the crew, now thoroughly aroused to anxiety, grouped behind him.
'Captain Barrow,' she said, in a tone slightly raised, so that all might hear her, 'the Admiral has not come back yet. I am afraid that he has either hurt himself or is lost in the mist. I will go back with Cobbold in the gig. But ... it will not be necessary to keep the men up.'
In the meantime, Brenda had not been idle. She ran down below and found the steward already in the saloon procuring waterproofs. He was kneeling before an open locker when she entered the little cabin, and, turning his head, he saw her.
'Are you going too, miss?' he asked.
'Yes, Clarke, I am going.'
'Then will you put this flask of brandy into your pocket, miss? I don't like to give it to the missus. It's kinder suggestive like.'
She took the little bottle, and while he helped her on with her waterproof cloak he spoke again in his kindly Northumbrian familiarity:
'It's a good thing we've got Mr. Trist with us this night, that it is! He's what Captain Barrow would call a strong tower.'
Brenda smiled rather wanly as she hurried away.
'Yes,' she answered; 'I am very glad we have him to rely upon.'
Mrs. Wylie seemed scarcely to notice that Brenda stepped into the boat and sat down beside her. The little lady was making a brave fight against her growing anxiety. She even laughed when the sail filled with a loud flap, and nearly precipitated Cobbold into the water. Crouching low, the two women sat in silence. It was now blowing stiffly, and perhaps Cobbold would have done better to take a reef in the light sail; but in his anxiety to reach the river without delay he risked the lives of his two passengers more freely than he would have dared to do in a cooler moment. As is usually the case, his confidence was greater under excitement, and no mishap befell the little boat.
When they reached the mouth of the river they found the long-boat lying alongside the huge shelving rock used as a landing-stage on account of its convenience during all varieties of tide.
The man watching there had heard or seen nothing of Mr. Trist or Admiral Wylie. The ladies sat for some time in the stern of the gig, wrapped in their waterproof cloaks, without speaking. Then Brenda begged to be landed. She was shivering with cold and anxiety. She walked slowly up the smooth surface of the rock and disappeared. Once out of sight of the two boats which lay heaving softly on the bosom of the rising tide, she quickened her pace, keeping to the narrow path trodden on the peaty soil by Admiral Wylie and Theo Trist in turn. It was probable that the human beings who had passed along that scarcely visible track, from the days of the Flood down to the time that this little English maiden pressed her way through the silver-birch trees, could be counted upon the fingers of two hands. There was nothing to attract the curious up the deep gorge formed by this unknown stream. Far inland, over impassable rocks, lay the corner of a huge glacier from whence the river received its chill waters. There was no natural beauty to draw thither the artist, no animal life to attract the naturalist, no vast height to tempt the mountaineer. Here century after century the trout had lain, head up stream, to catch what God might send them. In the lower waters, year after year, the sturdy salmon had pressed past each other through rill and whirlpool, with gills flattened to the fresh cool waters of the snow-field.
In all human probability no woman's footprint had impressed itself upon that turf before.
The valley took a turn westward round a great sloping forest of pine and silver-birch, harmoniously mingled, about half a mile from the sea, and soon afterwards the hills closed menacingly over the noisy river. The water here was very rough and broken. At times a great smooth pool, half an acre in extent, twenty feet in depth, would lie at the foot of a series of roaring waterfalls of no great height, but infinite variety. Again, there were long broken rapids, which only a salmon could expect to stem, and here and there smooth runs almost navigable for a boat.
Regardless of peaty pool and treacherous rivulets running over brilliant turf, Brenda hurried on. The mere bodily fatigue was a comfort to her, the very act of breaking the small branches in her way a solace. It was now nearly midnight, and already on the snowfield above her the pearly pink light of morning crept on its glistening way. The twilight was no longer lowering, but full of fresh promise. A new day softly smiled upon the silent land which had known no night; but to the solitary girl it brought little hope.
Suddenly she stopped and listened intently. A distant crackle of dry wood beneath a human tread repeated itself. Someone was approaching rapidly.
A moment later Theo Trist stood before her, but she scarcely recognised him. Her first feeling was one of utter surprise that his meek eyes could look so resolute. The man's face was changed, and he who stood before Brenda was not the well-bred, quiet gentleman, but the lost soldier. She did not realize then that he had been fifteen hours on his feet with hardly any food. She scarcely noticed that his clothes were wet, and clinging to his limbs, and that he was without his waterproof. All she saw, all she had eyes for, was that strange incongruous face where resolution dominated so suddenly.
He it was who broke the silence, and he was forced to shout, because they were so close to the river.
'Where is Mrs. Wylie?' he asked.
'She is at the mouth of the river,' replied Brenda—'in the boat, waiting.'
'Come away!' he shouted, beckoning with his head, and they moved through the pine-wood further inland, where the brawl of the stream was less disagreeable.
Then he took her hand in his, and looked down into her face with unconscious scrutiny.
'You must go back to her, Brenda,' he said, 'and tell her that Admiral Wylie is dead. I found him in a whirlpool about half a mile above here.'
'When was that?' asked the girl mechanically.
'Oh, an hour ago. I have been all this time in the water recovering ... getting him ashore.'
'Was he quite dead?'
'Quite dead. It must have happened early in the day, for his lunch was still in his creel.'
'Where is he ... now?' whispered Brenda, looking through the trees from which Trist had emerged.
'Through there, on the bank. I began carrying him down to the boat, but had to give it up.'
She said nothing, but moved a step or two towards the spot indicated. Then he took her hand within his and led the way. Presently they came out of the thicker wood on to the rocky ground near the river, and soon afterwards came into sight of a still form lying on the turf beneath Trist's waterproof. There were stones on the corners of the mackintosh to prevent it being blown away, but the wind penetrated between them and the stuff rippled with a slight sound. The upper part of the body only was covered, and there was, in the wet waders and misshapen brogues, a suggestion of simple pride. In bad weather the Admiral had always fished in an old black sou'-wester, and this lay by his side with his creel and rod. The old sportsman had died in harness, with the quick burr-r-r of the reel sounding in his ears and a 'taut line' bending his rod; for Trist found the gut broken.
The man who had looked on death so often, who had slept amidst the groans of the dying and the heartrending cries of the sore-wounded, now knelt and simply drew back the covering from the still gray face. Death was so familiar to him that the sight of it brought no shock, and he scarcely realized what he was doing. Mechanically Brenda knelt down on the turf, her dress touching the dead man's hand. For some moments she remained thus, while the rosy light of dawn crept down the mountain side. Behind her stood Trist, silently watching. Presently he looked round and noted the increase of daylight; then he touched her shoulder.
'Come, Brenda,' he said. 'The day is breaking. We must go. I will walk back with you to the boat.'
She rose and shook her head decisively.
'No,' she answered. 'You must stay here—beside him. I will go back alone. It is better for me to tell Mrs. Wylie.'
'You are not afraid?' he inquired.
'No. I am not afraid.'
She spoke in her simple, quiet way, which was not without a certain force, despite her gentle voice. It was no boast of courage that she was making, but a plain statement of fact. She was not afraid, because she felt that it was her duty, and no soldier ever possessed a clearer, braver sense of duty than did Brenda Gilholme.
Trist walked by her side a few paces.
'I wish,' he said, 'that I could have spared you some of this.'
'Do not think of me,' she replied. 'You seem to consider me, Theo, a weak, foolish girl, who should be spared every little pain and trouble.'
'I should like...' he began, and then he stopped abruptly, so much so as to cause an awkward silence. 'Well,' he added at length in a different tone, 'I will wait here—but you must not come back. Send one of the men—the stronger of the two: Cobbold.'
'I think both the men had better come,' she suggested. They were now standing beneath the small, stunted pines upon a silent carpet of dead sweet-scented needles. As she spoke, she looked up into his face with a quiet scrutiny which was full of suggestive anxiety.
'Why?' he asked, with a faint smile.
'Because you must be completely exhausted. You have been on your feet for nearly twenty-four hours. Besides, you are wet through, and dragged down by the weight of your clothes.'
'I am wet,' he admitted, 'but not tired. It is my profession to ignore fatigue. Send Cobbold, Brenda! The other man must stay with you.'
He drew back some branches for her to pass unscratched through the thicket, but did not offer to accompany her any further.
'Will you not let me come?' he asked again as she passed him. 'This is a horrible task you have set yourself.'
She stood beside him for a moment beneath his upraised arm, looking straight in front of her. Her shoulder was almost touching his wet coat, which hung loosely. All around them the trees dripped mournfully, while, through the low entanglement, the voice of the mournful river sang its ancient dirge.
'It is only my share of the task,' she answered. 'Why should you have it all to do—Theo? Besides ... I never expected life to be all sunshine.'
He answered nothing, and she went forward slowly, almost reluctantly, from beneath the branches he was holding up. To them both there seemed something pleasant, some vague suggestion of comfort, in her thought that this was a task they had to perform in common, each doing a worthy share. At a later period there came another task for them to perform, and the mutual trust which was now planted grew into an upright tree. They did not know that the burden of it was to fall chiefly on the weaker shoulders, as they parted, after having tacitly apportioned the work that lay before them.
The girl went her way, revolving in her quick and capable brain all that she was so suddenly called upon to do; while the man, left by the still form that lay upon the turf, was already organizing things in an experienced, practical way. It happened that he was never to carry out his own plans, but he did not suspect this at the time; he had no presentiment that he was to be called away to other work—nobler, braver work—leaving this sorrowful task half done in the hands of her who had volunteered to be his lieutenant.
Before the sun's rays had crept down the bare mountain side to the sea, the two boats moved away from the rock that seemed to guard the mouth of the river.
In the gig—the first boat to get away—were seated Mrs. Wylie and Brenda, while the sailor Cobbold steered. Trist followed in the long-boat, steering himself, while the sailor crouched down forward. Between the two men lay, beneath the thwarts, the genial, kind-hearted old sportsman, who would never hear the glad rattle of the reel again, who would no more watch, with keen dancing eyes, the straining line. Never again would he recount his day's adventures in the cosy cabin, giving the salmon his full due, throwing in here and there a merry little detail to his own discomfiture. Now he lay, with his waders slowly drying, his eyes peacefully closed, his brown, weather-beaten hands limply clenched. Trist had reeled in the severed line, divided the useless rod, and laid aside the empty creel, all in his silent, emotionless way, with no look of horror in his soft eyes.
To him the suddenness of Admiral Wylie's death was no shock. He had seen the Reaper at work before, and this was ripe corn, ready for the sickle—a pleasing contrast to the brave young stalks he had seen mown down in thousands. He had a strange, semi-Biblical contempt for death in itself. The mere ceremony of dying was for him, as it was for the Apostles and writers of old, a matter of small interest. They tell of lives, and not of deaths. Trist loved to watch men live and strive and fight; to see them die caused him small emotion; to hear them speak last explanatory words, full of repentance, perhaps, or pharisaical self-exoneration, moved him to gentle pity, but altered in no whit or jot his estimate of the life that was done.
Admiral Wylie's life had been a success. His death had been a worthy finish to a quiet, homely tale—the only dramatic point of interest in a long uneventful course of daily incidents. He died, as Trist said later to an old soldier, in his waders. Most men would prefer to die in their boots; it is a more manly way of taking that last step over the brink into the unfathomable waters of eternity. And waders, sea-boots, or Hessians will hamper no man's tread upon the Silent Shore, if he have only picked his steps through the mud that lies on this side.
In the gig the two women sat without speaking, while the water, surging and bubbling beneath bow and stern, seemed to chatter garrulously. Mrs. Wylie leant back against the cushions with her arms folded beneath her cloak. The rain had ceased, and great white clouds hovered far above the mountains. All around was fresh and fair, like a maiden smiling with tears still on her lashes.
Brenda sat upright, ready, as it were, for anything. She had told Mrs. Wylie simply and straightforwardly that Theo Trist had found the Admiral—dead; and the news had been received quietly and composedly. Mrs. Wylie was one of those rare women who are really and truly independent of outside opinion. She passed through her joys and sorrows as seemed best to her own judgment, and left the world to form its own opinion.
Many there are who have the courage to face a great grief with bold front and unflinching eyes, but they fear to be considered hard and heartless. Happy is the man or woman who can look back to a period of sorrow without having to regret an excess of some description—excess of demonstration or excess of reserve. Mrs. Wylie was not a demonstrative woman. She laughed readily, in her cheery, infectious way, because she found that laughter is wanted in the world; but she rarely wept, because she knew that tears are idle. And so no tears came to her eyes when Brenda laid her soft warm hands upon her arm and told her the news. The two men had stood a little way off, respectfully, so that they were practically alone, but if Mrs. Wylie ever shed tangible, visible tears for her husband, she shed them in solitude, and spoke her thoughts to none.
All through that terrible journey up the fjord (for the wind was light at dawn, as it mostly is in Arctic seas), Brenda waited for those tears that never came—listened for the words that were never spoken. She stared straight in front of her towards theHermione, and never actually looked into her companion's face; but she knew the expression that was there: the slightly raised lower lids, the close-pressed lips, and the far-off speculation in the eyes.
A little way behind them the longboat was forging through the water. Brenda could hear the plashing of the divided waves round its curved stern; but the sound neither approached nor receded, and she never turned her head to see how it might fare with the mournful freight. For the first time in her life this little maid was realizing that there was earnest work in the world for her to do, that there was a place which, but for her, must needs remain vacant, because none other could fill it. She knew and recognised that Mrs. Wylie needed someone in her great sorrow—needed a woman, neededher—Brenda Gilholme. No one else could satisfy this vague craving for a silent sympathy; not even Theo Trist, with his man's strength and his woman's tact.
And so Brenda was content to be in the house of mourning, because she felt that her rightful place was there, and the feeling quenched in a small degree that feverish thirst to be doing something—some good in the world—which burnt her brave young soul, parched by the acrid after-taste of the fruit of the tree of knowledge.
There was work for Theo Trist—tangible, honest work—and there was also labour for Brenda's hands and heart: a thousand little alleviating attentions, delicate shy sympathies, and a constant companionable courage; none of which she had learnt in Latin, Greek or Hebrew; which cannot be defined by Euclid, summed up by algebra, nor valued by arithmetic. In fact, Brenda Gilholme was verging on the discovery that the most important part of her dainty anatomy was her heart, and not her head.
The gig ran alongside, and Brenda, stepping on deck, first said a few hurried words to Captain Barrow and the steward, who were standing together at the companion. Then the smaller boat moved away, and the long-boat took its place.
'The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord!' said Captain Barrow, looking severely at the steward, with the honest salt tears running down his cheeks as the two men received the cold burden from the arms of Trist and Barker.
Brenda turned slowly and looked into Theo Trist's face, on which there was even now no sign of fatigue. He had raised his eyes to hers on hearing Captain Barrow's simple words, and now they looked at each other in a strangely wondering way. Neither had thought of the Hand whose work this was until that moment.
So the joint command of theHermionelapsed into new hands—the man's command above decks, and the woman's rule below.
In both regions the new director stepped into the vacant place quietly, unostentatiously and confidently. Old Captain Barrow was as the potter's clay in Trist's gentle yet firm hands. The young fellow's strange subtle influence soon made itself felt upon the men. The Admiral had ruled by genial heartiness, coupled with the force of past experience implied by his title; the young journalist (who did not pretend to be a sailor) enforced obedience by the magnetic attraction of his implacable will.
Mrs. Wylie uttered no complaint, sued for no sympathy—she was simply stunned—and, in her imperious little way, Brenda took over all the smaller household duties, assumed all minor responsibilities, and gave the widow no rest.
She forced her to take an interest in smaller things, and allowed no time for thought. She herself literally put her to bed by the light of the morning sun, and calmly announced her intention of sharing the state-room. The Admiral was carried below, and laid on Trist's bed, and the latter moved, next day, into the room vacated by Brenda.
For him there was no rest that night. He did not even change the clothes in which he had been swimming a few hours before, while bringing ashore the dead man. By seven o'clock in the morning theHermionewas ready for sea—awning furled, stanchions stowed away, and the great sails shaken out.
About this time Brenda came on deck. She looked round for a moment in utter surprise at the changed appearance of the ship; then she walked aft, to where Trist was standing near the rail talking in a low voice to Nielsen, who, hurriedly summoned, had come on board to pilot the yacht down the Heimdalfjord.
The Englishman's back was turned towards her, and he did not hear her light tread upon the deck, but his companion raised his rough sable hat respectfully, and Trist turned round at once. Brenda saw that he noticed her black dress, and involuntarily glanced down at his own shabby tweed suit, which was discoloured and wrinkled.
'Have you had any rest?' were his first words.
'Yes; thank you. I slept for at least two hours.' She smiled a little as she looked at him, and his glance rested on her faultlessly-dressed head, her dainty form, and proud little face.
'And Mrs. Wylie?' he inquired softly.
'She is sleeping now.'
He nodded his head, and they both turned, standing side by side, looking forward to where the men were at work with the anchor. Nielsen had left them, and was talking to Captain Barrow on the forecastle.
'Captain Barrow,' he explained, in a tone which in some way implied a joint-control, 'has got all ready for sea. The tide begins to run down at half-past seven, when we will get in the anchor and go.'
She nodded her head wisely and gravely, like a field-officer receiving a brother-commander's report—receiving it, moreover, with satisfaction.
'You have been very prompt,' she murmured frankly, as she looked round and mentally noted the work that had been done.
He turned his head hastily, as if about to begin some lengthy explanation or to assign a reason for his promptitude, but seemed to change his mind, for he stood looking at her vaguely for a moment, and then turned his eyes away.
At this moment the steward came towards them with his gliding, noiseless steps. He was carrying two mugs of coffee—not the thin cups used in the cabin, but rough stout mugs intended for deck use. Moreover, he brought them in the lid of the biscuit-box, with some biscuits lying round them, as he brought early coffee every morning to whosoever might be keeping the last watch.
He stood silently in front of Brenda, and made no attempt to apologize for the seaman-like roughness of the repast, while she took her mug and biscuit.
Even when the steward had left them, Trist made no remark respecting this tacit treatment of Brenda as an officer of the ship; and she it was who broke the silence, speaking slowly and suggestively, as if waiting for him to approve or propose an amendment. It was absurdly like the report of a junior departmental commander to his senior.
'Oh, Theo,' she said, 'I have moved most of my things into the large stateroom, as I think it will be better for me to sleep with Mrs. Wylie. You can go into my cabin as soon as you like now—the steward and I have put it all right for you.'
'Thank you!' he said, sipping his coffee.
'Will you not go and change now? It cannot be good to keep on those clothes.'
'Not yet,' he answered, with a smile. 'They are quite dry now, and the sun is shining, so I am warm. Besides, there are one or two things I want to ask your opinion about, and we may not have the chance later on.'
He moved a little, and she, falling into his step, walked by his side. Thus they paced backwards and forwards slowly in the early morning splendour—she neat, trim, and lightsome; he weary, worn, untidy, but strong and restful—until they had consulted mutually upon certain points requiring immediate decision. When they had finished their coffee and biscuit, each swung the empty mug idly, one finger curled through the handle, with unconscious youthfulness of gesture.
'The nearest village,' he began in his meek way, 'is Fjaerholm; we shall be there by this time to-morrow with a fair breeze. There is a church there and a churchyard, although the village itself is a tiny place, almost surrounded by glaciers, and rarely visited. It will hardly do, perhaps, to approach the question yet, but if we can find out before we leave the Heimdalfjord what Mrs. Wylie's opinion is, it will simplify matters. Whether, I mean, we are to make for Fjaerholm, with the view of burying him there, or to go down the Sognfjord, catch a steamer to Bergen, and so home.'
There was a short pause when he had finished speaking. Brenda appeared to be lost in a reverie. At length she spoke.
'Which course do you recommend, Theo?' she asked.
'My opinion can be of little value. It is a matter of personal feeling which only Mrs. Wylie can decide.'
'Yes. But she may be in that frame of mind where a decided opinion—your opinion—might be a comfort to her.'
As she made this suggestion she turned her head and looked up to see whether he had fully grasped her meaning, and he nodded his head slightly, admitting that her argument might very well be of value.
'I am afraid, Brenda,' he said apologetically, 'that I am rather hard and practical in these matters. My opinion is that Fjaerholm churchyard is as good as any other. It would be a horrible journey home for her and ... for you.'
'I think Fjaerholm would be best.'
'I am sure of it. Of course, Mrs. Wylie may have decided feelings on the subject, and if so we must give in, and leave theHermione; though I think she will be better here among her own surroundings than on board a crowded passenger steamer—an object of curiosity and ostentatious sympathy.'
'I do not think,' said the girl, after a short pause, 'that she will be influenced by any mistaken sentiment.'
'Nor I. And of course it is mere sentiment. We English have a way of leaving our dead all over the world, and no doubt there are more of us in the sea than of any other nation.'
She looked at him in a vague, wistful way. At times she failed to understand him. There were certain humours which came over him at odd times—hard practical humours of which the heartlessness seemed assumed and unnatural—and of these she could not detect the motive.
'I will try,' she said, 'to find out Mrs. Wylie's feelings on the subject.'
'Yes, Brenda, do!' he murmured, in a way which seemed to imply that the matter was safe in her hands.
They continued to walk up and down in silence—each wrapt in individual thought. There was a little frown on the girl's face, an almost imperceptible contraction of the eyelids, forming a slight perpendicular wrinkle which might deepen and grow permanent with sorrow or years. The clear, heavenly-blue eyes were wide open and somewhat restless, and in the whole face there was that intangible, indescribable presence which we call intellect, because we dare not call it soul.
Suddenly Trist stopped and looked down at her so persistently that she was forced to raise her eyes.
'Don't!' he said ambiguously, with his slow, deprecating smile.
She laughed in a short curious tone, and changed colour.
'Don't what?'
'Don'tthink about me,' he said with sudden earnestness.
For a moment an expression of pain rested in her eyes, and she opened her lips as if about to speak; but he bade her keep silence with an admonishing shake of the head, and she stood with slightly parted lips looking up into his unreadable face.
'Don't!' he murmured again, and moved forward decisively. They continued to walk in silence for some moments.
'How did you know that I was thinking of you?' she asked quietly, at length.
'I can always tell. There is a peculiar stony silence which comes over you at times, and I always feel its presence. Very often you remain without speaking for some time, but that is a different silence, and then without looking towards you I feel suddenly that the other has come—that the other has come ... Brenda, and that you are thinking about me!'
'You ought to be highly gratified!' she observed with a lamentable attempt at playfulness.
'And,' he continued in his gently deliberate way, 'when I look at you the same expression is always there. You are always striving to say something which is difficult. Don't say it, Brenda! If it is a question, don't ask it.'
'Why not?'
'Because those things are better left unsaid—those questions are better left unasked. The answer cannot be satisfactory.'
'Then you advocate going through life without ever understanding our fellow-creatures, without ever attempting to enter into each other's joys and sorrows, without pitying, sympathizing, or admiring?'
'No, I do not go so far as that. But I have no patience with people who are constantly fishing for sympathy, constantly confiding imaginary woes to others who have their own affairs to worry them. You should never seek trouble, Brenda. It comes only too naturally of its own free will,' he said in a quick anxious way, endeavouring to keep the conversation in a safe and general channel.
'It seems to me,' she answered after a long pause, 'that stoicism is your aim and creed. To endure, and simply to endure, is your estimate of life. He who endures best, who carries the brightest face before the world, utters the fewest complaints, and deceives most successfully his fellow-creatures, has lived the best life. You never try to see a meaning in it all—you never seek an ulterior motive which is only and solely for our good.'
'My dear Brenda,' said Trist with animation, 'am I a cripple? Am I blind or dumb, or halt—that I have aught to endure?'
'You have something,' was the grave rejoinder. 'There is something, but I do not know what it is, and I would sooner see you openly miserable—cynical, heartless,anythingbut what you are.'
He laughed aloud, and she shrugged her shoulders with a little smile.
'You should really devote your energies to novel-writing,' he said gaily. 'You see romance where none exists. For you, indigestion is nothing else than a broken heart. An unfortunate gravity of demeanour (like mine) means a cankering sorrow, and every smile is hollow.'
No answering smile came over her face, and she seemed suddenly to remember that Mrs. Wylie might be awake and requiring her presence.
She moved away a little, and stood watching the men at work forward at the windlass. Then she turned and looked past him across the sea.
'I cannot help feeling,' she said, 'that in some way you must owe me a grudge. Of course I had nothing to do with it in reality; but she was my sister, and despite your denial, despite your forbearance and wonderful charity, you must, in your inmost heart, blame Alice.'
He turned his meek eyes towards her face with a patient smile.
'My dear Brenda,' he said remonstratingly, 'what firm convictions you have! Once before—long ago—you hinted at this ... matter, and in reply I insinuated that Alice was nothing to me. Her influence has no weight on my actions; it in no way affects my coming or my going. Please don't think of me and my affairs.'
She moved away slowly, reluctantly, without replying, gliding across the deck with noiseless tread, and so the strange interview terminated with a curious questioning silence on both sides. There was something that she did not dare to ask, something he dreaded, for his eyes were dull with a great suspense as he stood watching her go away from him.
Then he pushed back from his forehead the black sou'-wester he still wore, despite the brilliant sunshine, and somewhat wearily wiped his brow.
There was about this man a strange uncanny quiet. His calm eyes were not devoid of intellect, as most calm eyes are; his mouth and chin were not those of a sensuous, self-indulgent person. In a word, his repose was unnatural. There was in his being a vague suggestion of endurance, as Brenda had discovered. Had he been a parson, one would have said, with that careless, casual judgment of our fellows which is so often terribly correct, that he was conscious of an utter unfitness for priesthood. Had he been a soldier, one would have assigned to him a nervous hatred towards bloodshed and the means of shedding blood. But he had chosen his own profession, and in it had made a decided mark. It was one of those peculiar callings for which peculiar men are specially created by Providence—men endowed with incongruous talents, and contradictory habits of thought and action. Into such callings men are never forced: they force their own way, or they drift into some other means of making a livelihood, and, possessing no peculiar gifts, make no peculiar impression upon the moral and mental sands of their time.
Theodore Trist was undoubtedly created for a special purpose, and so distinct was the destination, that he had, without the aid of circumstance or environment, drifted into the peculiar line of life for which his talents were intended. He was a war-correspondent, and nothing else (unless it were a soldier, in which profession one most important gift would have been lost—that of writing critically and brilliantly). In a few years he had climbed the unsteady ladder of fame, and was now firmly planted on its uppermost rungs. He possessed health, strength, and energy—there was war brooding in the East—he was not blind, nor dumb, nor halt, so what could man wish for more? Yet Brenda Gilholme told him to his face, in her thoughtful, convincing way, that there was something in his life that called for a stoical endurance, and he, failing to laugh scornfully, denied the accusation with visible discomfort.
After she had left the deck, he continued to pace slowly fore and aft by himself. Presently the tide turned, and the anchor came clanking up from its rocky lodging. The huge mainsail spread its broad white bosom to the breeze, and theHermionebegan to rise and fall almost imperceptibly. The breeze was light, but the vast expanse of sail caught every passing breath, and steerage-way was soon acquired. Silently, graciously as she had arrived, the yacht left the little forgotten corner of this Northern world, rippling through the foamless waters with stately deliberation. Trist took no part in the well-drilled hurry that attended the departure. He was no sailor: his command was not the loud-voiced autocracy of the master mariner. It was subtle, indefinite, immeasurable.
On the bosom of the receding tide theHermioneleft those still waters. Soon she passed the mouth of the river where Admiral Wylie had met his sportsman's fate. So close was she to the high land, that the flow of the river swung her round a little. All who were on deck instinctively ceased their occupations, and stood with idle hands gazing thoughtfully up the deserted gorge. They could hear the breeze whispering among the still pines, murmuring through the fairy silver birches; and behind, in a perspective of sound, the echoing laughter of the river in its rocky bed.
Theo Trist stood alone, apparently emotionless, but when the mouth of the gorge had been shut out of view by the brown slope of a huge hill, Captain Barrow came and stood beside him.
'And now, Mr. Trist,' said the old sailor, 'you'll need some rest. There's a time for all things—a time for tears and a time for laughter, a time for work and a time for sleep.'
Trist looked at the old man in a vague, semi-stupid way.
'And you would suggest that this is a time for sleep, Captain Barrow?'
'Yes—I would that.'
Then he took the young man's arm, and gently forced him to leave the deck.
Trist found the saloon deserted. He passed into his new state-room, and there he mechanically proceeded to make some sort of a toilet. A suit of blue serge was the darkest he possessed, and this he donned, toning it down with a black necktie. He shaved and bathed in a dull, dignified way, as a condemned criminal might do upon the morning of his execution—after a sleepless night.
Then he returned to the saloon. The steward was setting the breakfast-table in the forward part of the cabin near the mainmast, where the dining-room was tacitly understood to be. Further aft were low chairs, a sofa, a piano, and other furniture, constituting a drawing-room.
Trist sank into a low chair, and watched the man's quick, noiseless movements with perfunctory interest. The steward glanced towards him, and his movements became, if possible, more supernaturally silent than before. Then suddenly his long sallow face relaxed into a satisfied smile, and, for his own edification, he nodded his head in a pleased, told-you-so sort of manner.
Trist was asleep.