Then she took his arm, and they passed down the splendid stairs together. Co-heirs to a truly human inheritance of sorrow, they bore their burden without complaint or murmur, with a self-reliance behoving children of an acute civilization. For civilization will in time kill all human sympathy.
'I will go home with you,' said Trist, 'because some precautions are necessary in order to escape observation on your journey to-morrow, and I have several suggestions to make.'
As the winter settled over Europe—here with gloom and fog, there with bright keen frosts and dazzling snow—the feeling of anxiety respecting affairs in the East slowly subsided. The general conviction was that Russia would not move against her hereditary Moslem enemy until the winter was over; for even hatred, sturdy weed though it may be, is killed by cold.
Theodore Trist, fresh from those mysterious Oriental lands which are so much more romantic from a distance, gave no opinion upon the matter, because he was a practical business-man, and fully aware of the market value of his observations.
By ten o'clock on the morning following the soirée of the Ancient Artists, he alighted from a hansom cab opposite the huge office of the journal to which his pen was pledged. A few moments later he was shaking hands uneffusively with the editor. This gentleman has been introduced before, and men at his age change little in appearance or habit. His vast head was roughly picturesque as usual, his speech manly and to the point.
'Glad to see you back,' he said, in a business-like way. 'Sit down. None the worse, I hope?' he added, in a softer tone, and accompanied his observation with a keen glance. 'None the worse for the smell of powder again?'
'No,' was the answer. 'That smell never did any man much harm.'
The editor smiled, and drew some straggling papers together upon his desk.
'I want,' said Trist, after a pause, 'to make a lot of money.'
'Ah!'
'Enough,' continued Trist gravely, 'to put into something secure, and ensure a steady income in the piping times of peace.'
The editor clasped his large hands gravely with fingers interlocked, and placed them on the desk in front of him.
'That,' he said, with raised eyebrows, 'is bad.'
'But natural,' suggested the younger man.
'When a man of your age suddenly expresses a desire for something which...'
'He has never had,' remarked Trist meekly.
'Which he has never had or wished for, it is suggestive of a change—a radical change—in that man's plan of life.'
Trist raised his square shoulders slightly and respectfully.
'Now,' continued the editor, in his most solid and convincing way, 'you—Theodore Trist—are the most brilliant war-correspondent of a brilliant and war-like generation. You are, besides that, a clever fellow—perhaps anexceptionallyclever fellow. But, my friend, there are many clever fellows in the world. It is an age of keen competition, and the first man in the race must never look back to see whose step it is that he hears behind him. We live in a time of specialities, and we must be content with specialities. You are a born war-correspondent, and I suppose your ambition is to prove that you can do something else—write a novel, or edit a religious periodical—eh?'
Trist laughed, and returned the gaze of a pair of remarkably bright eyes without hesitation.
'No,' he answered. 'I am content with the mark I have made, but there is not sufficient money to be gained at it, considering how much it takes out of a man. I am as strong as a horse yet, but I have noticed that there are some of us who, considering their years, are not the men they should be. It is a desperately hard life, and we are constantly required. If I live ten years longer, I shall be laid on the shelf, as far as active service goes.'
The editor looked much relieved, and, moreover, made no pretence of concealing his feelings.
'I have thought of that,' he said. 'Of course, we will take you on the editorial staff.'
'Now...?'
The elder man raised his head, and the kindly gray eyes searched his companion's face.
'Ah!' he said slowly. 'Thatis your game. Have you lost your nerve?'
'No.'
'Then you contemplate some great change in your plan of life.'
'Hardly,' returned Trist, with some deliberation; 'but I want to be prepared for such an emergency.'
'I am very sorry to hear it.'
'Why?'
'Because you are too young yet. And ... and, my boy, I don't want to lose the best war-correspondent that ever crossed a saddle.'
The object of this honest flattery shrugged his shoulders.
'There are plenty more coming on.'
The great man shook his head.
'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked, 'that you are going to turn your back upon a splendid career, and take up journalism? Why, my dear fellow, even at my age I would willingly change my chair for your saddle, and men say that I am at the top of the journalistic tree. Come, be candid; why are you giving up active service?'
'Because I am wanted at home, and because I must find some means of making a steady income.'
'Will you take my advice?' asked the elder man humbly.
They were like two friendly gladiators, these immovable journalists, each conscious of the strength that lay behind the gentle manner of the other, both anxious to avoid measuring steel.
Trist laughed good-humouredly.
'I will not promise.'
'No; that would be asking too much from a man who has made his own way with his own hands. My advice is: do nothing until the necessity arises. At the first rumour of war we will talk this over again. In the meantime, let us wait on events. You will write your leaders as usual, and I suppose you are busy with something in book form?'
'If,' answered Trist, 'there is war in Turkey, I will go, because I told you that I would, but that will be my last campaign.'
The editor looked at him with kindly scrutiny; then he scratched his chin.
'Why?' he asked deliberately, and with a consciousness of exceeding the bounds of polite non-interference.
'I cannot tell you—yet.'
There was a slight pause, during which neither moved, and the stillness in that little room which lay in the very heart of restless London was remarkable.
The editor looked very grave. There were no papers on his desk requiring immediate attention, but he held his pencil within his strong fingers ready, as it were, to add his notes to any news that might come before him. The responsibility of a great journalist is only second to that of a Prime Minister in a country like England, where the voice of the people is heard and obeyed. Had this man turned his attention to politics, he would perhaps have attained the Premiership; but he was a journalist, and from that small silent room his fiats went forth to the ready ears of half a nation. Few men read more than one newspaper, and we have not yet got over the weakness of attaching undue importance to words that are set in type; consequently the influence of an important journal over the mind of the nation to which it dictates is practically incalculable.
'You know,' said this modern Jove at length, 'as well as I do that therewillbe war as soon as the winter is over.'
In completion of his remark he nodded his vast head sideways, vaguely indicating the East.
'Yes,' was the meek answer; 'that is so—a war which will begin in a one-sided way, and last longer than we quite expect; but I will go.'
'I fancy,' remarked the editor after some reflection, 'that Russia will make a very common mistake, and underrate, or perhaps despise, her adversary.'
Trist nodded his head.
'They are sure to do that,' he said; 'but I suppose they will win in the end.'
'And you will be on the losing side again.
'Yes; I shall be on the losing side again.
Both men relapsed into profound meditation. Trist's meek eyes were fixed on the soft Turkey carpet—the only suggestion of ease or luxury about the room. The editor glanced from time to time at his companion's strong face, and occupied himself with making small indentations in his blotting-pad with the point of a blacklead pencil.
'Trist,' he said at length, 'I cannot do without you in this war.'
'The war has not come yet. Many things may happen before the spring; but I will not play you false. You need never fear that.'
Then he rose and buttoned his thick coat; for, like all great travellers, he wrapped himself up heavily in England. It is only very young and quite inexperienced men who gather satisfaction from the bravado of wearing no top-coat in winter.
'Good-bye,' he said; 'I must go up to the publishers.'
'Good-bye,' replied the editor heartily; 'look in whenever you are passing. I hope to see you one night soon at the Homeless Club; they are going to give you a dinner, I believe.'
'Yes; I heard something of it. It is very good of them, but embarrassing, and not strictly necessary.'
Trist passed out of the small room into a long passage, and thence into what was technically called the shop—a large apartment, across which stretched a heavily-built deal counter, and of which the atmosphere was warm with the intellectual odour of printing-ink.
The door-keeper, who persisted, in face of contradiction, in his conviction that Mr. Trist was a soldier, drew himself stiffly up and saluted as he held open the swing-door. It was one of those cold blustering days which come in early November. A dry biting south-east wind howled round every corner, and disfigured most physiognomies with patches of red, more especially in the nasal regions. Nevertheless, the air was clear and brisk—just the day to kill weak folks and make strong people feel stronger.
With his gloved hands buried in the pockets of his thick coat, the war-correspondent wandered along the crowded pavement of the Strand, rubbing shoulders with beggar and genius indifferently.
He was not a man much given to useless reflections or observations upon matters climatic, and so absorbed was he in his thoughts that he would have been profoundly surprised to learn that a biting east wind was withering up humanity. He looked into the shops, and presently became really interested in a display of rifles exposed in the unpretending window of a small establishment.
It is strange how the sight of those tools or instruments with which we have at one time worked for our living affects us. The present writer has seen an old soldier handle a bayonet in a curious reflective way which could not be misunderstood. The ancient warrior's face, in some subtle sense, became hardened, and his manner changed. I myself grasp a rope differently from men who have never trodden a moss-grown deck, and the curve of the hard strands within my fingers tells a tale of its own, and brings back, suddenly, ineffaceable pictures of the great seas.
Theodore Trist stood still before the upright burnished barrels which the poet has likened to organ-pipes, and to his mind there came the memory of their music, and the roar of traffic round him was almost merged into the grand, deep voice of cannon. It is in the midst of death that men realize fully the glorious gift of life, and those who have known the delirious joy of battle—have once tasted, as it were, the cup of life's greatest emotion—are aware that nothing but a battle-field can bring that maddening taste to their lips again.
This contemplative man breathed harder and deeper as his eyes rested on lock and barrel, and for some time he stood hearing nothing round him, seeing nothing but the instruments of death.
'Yes,' he murmured as he turned away at length. 'Imustgo to the Russian war.Onemore campaign, and then ... then who knows?'
Brenda left Mrs. Wylie at eleven o'clock, merely walking away from the door of Suffolk Mansions without wrap or luggage. She did not know whether she was being watched or no, but her plans were so simple, and yet so cunning, that the question gave her little trouble. Detection was impossible. Trist had seen to that, and his strategy had been the subject of some subdued laughter the night before, because Brenda complained that she felt like an army. He had unconsciously dictated to her, in his soft, suggestive way, and so complete were his instructions, so abject the obedience demanded, that there was some cause for her laughing dissatisfaction. With intelligence, education, experience, reading, and money it is no difficult matter to evade the closest watcher, and Trist was not at all afraid of such means as lay at Captain Huston's disposal for tracing the hiding-place of his wife.
When Mrs. Wylie found herself left alone, she proceeded placidly to await further events. She was convinced that, sooner or later, the husband of her protégée would appear. Whether this questionable honour would be conferred with bluster and righteous indignation, or with abject self-abuse, remained to be seen. Neither prospect appeared to have the power of ruffling the lady's serene humour. The morning newspaper received its usual attention, and subsequently there were some new books to be cut and glanced at. Lunch had already been ordered—lunch for two, and something rather nice, because Theo Trist had invited himself to partake of the lone widow's hospitality.
In her small way, Mrs. Wylie was likely to pass an eventful day, but the thought of it in nowise took away her interest in December'sTemple Bar. She was one of those happy and lovable women who are not in the habit of adding to their grievances by anticipating them; for it is an undeniable fact that sorrows as well as joys are exaggerated by anticipation. Personally, I much prefer going out to get my hair cut as soon as ever I realize the necessity. It is a mistake to put off the operation, because the scissors seem to hang over one's luxuriant locks with a fiendish click during the stilly hours.
About twelve o'clock there was a knock at the door which shut off Mrs. Wylie's comfortable suite of rooms from the rest of the house.
'Ah!' murmured the occupant of the drawing-room. 'Our violent friend. Twelve o'clock: I must get him out of the house before Theo arrives.'
She leant back and tapped the pages of her magazine pensively with an ivory paper-cutter, while her eyes rested on the door.
In the course of a few moments there was audible the sound of murmuring voices, followed shortly by footsteps.
The door was thrown open, and William Hicks made a gracefulentrée, finished, as it were, by the delicately-tinted flower he carried in his gloved fingers.
Mrs. Wylie rose at once with a most reprehensively deceitful smile of welcome. She devoutly wished William Hicks in other parts as she offered her plump white hand to his grasp.
The artist, with passable dissimulation, glanced round the room. No sign or vestige of Brenda! The rose was deftly dropped into his hat and set aside. It had cost two shillings.
'Ah! Mrs. Wylie,' he exclaimed, 'I was half afraid you would be out shopping. The wind is simply excruciating.'
'Then warm yourself at once. I am afraid I am alone.'
Hicks was, in his way, a bold man. He relied thoroughly upon a virtue of his own which he was pleased to call tact—others said its right name was 'cheek.'
'Afraid!' he said reproachfully, and with an inquiring smile.
'Yes—the girls are out.'
He laughed in a pleasant deprecating way, and held his slim hands towards the fire.
'How absurd you are!' he said. 'I merely ran in to ask if a lace handkerchief I found last night belonged to Miss Gilholme.'
He began to fumble in his pockets without any great design of finding the handkerchief. Mrs. Wylie spared him the trouble of going farther.'
'Bring it another time,' she said.
She knew the handkerchief trick well. It is very simple, my brother: pick up a lace trifle anywhere about the ballroom, and with a slight draft upon your imagination, you have a graceful excuse to call at any house you may desire the next afternoon. If there is not one to be found, one can easily buy such a thing, and it serves for years. No young man is complete without it.
For some minutes William Hicks talked airily about the soirée of the Ancient Artists, throwing in here and there, in his pleasant way, a blast upon his individual instrument, of which the note was wearily familiar to his listener.
At last, however, he let fall an observation which made Mrs. Wylie forgive him, 'à un coup,' his early call.
'I met,' he said casually, 'that fellow ... Huston this morning.'
Mrs. Wylie laid aside the paper-knife with which she had been trifling. The action scarce required a moment of time, but in that moment she had collected her faculties, and was ready for him with all the alertness of her sex.
'Ah! What news had he?' she inquired suavely.
'Oh, nothing much. We scarcely spoke—indeed, I don't believe he recognised me at first.'
Mrs. Wylie raised her eyebrows in astonishment.
'He came yesterday,' she said, 'to get his wife; and Brenda has gone away, too, so I am all alone for a few days.'
This was artistic, and the good lady was mentally patting herself on the back as she met Hicks's glance, in which disappointment and utter amazement were struggling for mastery.
'I do not think,' continued she calmly, 'that I shall stay in town much longer. I am expecting a houseful of quiet people—waifs and strays—at Wyl's Hall at Christmas, so must really think of going home. But I will call on your mother before going. Give her my love and tell her so.'
William Hicks was not the man to make a social blunder. He rose at once, and said 'Good-morning,' with his sweetest smile. Then he bowed himself out of the room, taking the two-shilling rose with him.
Mrs. Wylie reseated herself, and withheld her sigh of relief until the door had closed. She then took up her book again, but presently closed its pages over her fingers, and lapsed into thought.
'That young man,' she reflected, 'is finding his own level. He may give trouble yet; but Brenda goes serenely on her way, quite unconscious of all these little games at cross-purposes of which she is the centre.'
The good lady's reflections continued in this vein. She leant back with that pleasant sense of comfort which was almost feline in its supple grace. Her eyes contracted at times with a vague far-off anxiety—the reflex, as it were, of the sorrows of others upon her own placid life, from which all direct emotions were weeded now.
When, at length, the sound of a bell awoke her from these day-dreams, she rose and arranged the cheery fireplace with a sudden access of energy.
'I wonder,' she murmured, without emotion, 'who is coming now.'
With a glance round the room to see that her stage was prepared, she reseated herself.
Again the door opened, and this time the new arrival did not hurry into the room, but stood upon the threshold waiting. Mrs. Wylie looked up with a pleasant expectancy. It was Captain Huston.
The soldier glanced round the room uneasily, and then he advanced towards the fire without attempting any sort of greeting. Mrs. Wylie remained in her deep chair, and as the Captain came towards her, she watched him. His unsteady hands gave his hat no rest. Taking his stand on the hearthrug, he began at once in a husky voice.
'I have come to you, Mrs. Wylie,' he said, 'because I suspect that you know where Alice is to be found. This game of hide-and-seek to which she is treating me is hardly dignified, and it is distinctly senseless. If I choose to take decided steps in the matter, I can, of course, have her hunted down like a common malefactor.'
He spread his gaitered feet apart, and waited with confidence the result of this shot.
'In the meantime,' suggested Mrs. Wylie, with unruffled sweetness, 'it is really, perhaps, wiser that you should remain apart. I sincerely trust that this is a mere temporary misunderstanding. You are both young, and, I suppose, both hasty. Think over it, Captain Huston, and do not press matters too much. If, in a short time, you approach Alice with a few kind little apologies, I believe she would relent. You must really be less hard on us women—make some allowance for our more tender nerves and silly susceptibilities.'
By way of reply, he laughed in a rasping way, without, however, being actually rude.
'I have an indistinct recollection of having heard that before,' he observed, with forced cynicism, 'or something of a similar nature. The kind little apologies you mention are due to me as much as they are to Alice. Of course, she has omitted to draw your attention to sundry little flirtations...'
The widow stopped him with a quick gesture of disgust.
'I refuse,' she said deliberately, 'to listen to details. Alice will tell you that I treated her in the same way. These matters, Captain Huston, should be sacred between husband and wife.'
'Well, I suppose you have Alice's story through Brenda? It comes to the same thing. I can see you are prejudiced against me.'
Mrs. Wylie smiled patiently, with a suggestion of sympathy, which her companion seemed to appreciate.
'The world,' she said, 'is sure to be prejudiced against you in the present case. You must remember that the moral code is different for a pretty woman than for the rest of us. Moreover, the husband is blamed in preference, because people attribute the original mistake of marrying to him. I don't say that men are always to blame for mistaken marriages, but the initiative is popularly supposed to lie in their hands.'
Captain Huston tugged at his drooping moustache pensively. He walked to the window, with the assurance of one who knew his way amidst the furniture, and stood for some time looking down into the street. Presently he returned, avoiding Mrs. Wylie's eyes; but she saw his face, and her own grew suddenly very sympathetic.
He played nervously with the ornaments upon the mantelpiece for some moments, deeply immersed in thought. There was a chair drawn forward to the fire, at the opposite end of the fur hearthrug to that occupied by Mrs. Wylie. This he took, sitting hopelessly with his idle hands hanging at either side.
'What am I to do?' he asked, half cynically.
Before replying, the widow looked at him—gauging him.
'Do you really mean that?'
'Of course—I am helpless. A man is no match for three women.'
'To begin with, you must have more faith in other people. In myself ... Brenda ... Theo Trist.'
The last name was uttered with some significance. Its effect was startling. Huston's bloodshot eyes flashed angrily, his limp fingers clenched and writhed until the skin gave forth a creaking sound as of dry leather.
'D—n Trist!' he exclaimed. 'I will shoot him if he comes across my path!'
Mrs. Wylie did not shriek or faint, as ladies are usually supposed to do when men give way to violent language in their presence. But there came into her eyes a slight passing shade of anxiety, which she suppressed with an effort.
'But first of all,' she said, 'you must learn to restrain yourself. You must understand that bluster of any description is quite useless against myself or Theo. Alice may be afraid, but Brenda is not; and with Alice fear is closely linked with disgust. Do not forget that.'
She spoke quite calmly, with a force which a casual observer would not have anticipated. In her eagerness she leant forward, with a warning hand outstretched.
'And,' he muttered, 'I suppose I am to suppress all my feelings, and go about the world like a marble statue. It seems to me that that fellow Trist leaves his impression on you all. His doctrine is imperturbability at any price. It isn't mine!'
'Nor mine, Captain Huston. All I preach is a little more restraint. Theo goes too far, and his reticence leads to mistakes. You have been misled. You think that ... your wife and Theo Trist ... love each other.'
The soldier looked at her steadily, his weak nether lip quivering with excitement. Then he slowly nodded his head.
'That—is my impression.'
Mrs. Wylie evinced no hurry, no eagerness now. She had difficult cards, and her full attention was given to playing them skilfully. She leant back again in her comfortable chair, and crossed her hands upon her lap.
'Using primary argument,' she said concisely, 'and meeting opinion with opinion, I contend that you are mistaken. I will be perfectly frank with you, Captain Huston, because you have a certain claim upon my honesty. In some ways Alice is a weak woman. It has been her misfortune to be brought up and launched upon society as a beauty; a man who marries such a woman is assuming a responsibility which demands special qualifications. Judging from what I have observed, I am very much afraid that you possess these qualifications in but a small degree. Do you follow me?'
The man smiled in an awkward way.
'Yes. You were going to say, "I told you so."'
'That,' returned the widow, 'is a remark I never make, because it is profitless. Moreover, it would not be true, because I never told you so. Circumstances have in a measure been against you. You could scarcely have chosen a more dangerous part of the world in which to begin your married life than Ceylon. As it happens, you did not choose, but it was forced upon you. In England we live differently. A young married woman is thrown more exclusively upon the society of her husband; there is less temptation. You will find it less difficult...'
'Is married life to be described as a difficulty?' he interrupted.
Mr. Wylie did not reply at once. She sat with placidly crossed hands gazing into the fire. There was a slight tension in the lines of her mouth.
'Life,' she replied, 'in any form, in any sphere, in any circumstances,isa difficulty.'
After a moment she resumed in a more practical tone:
'Again, Alice is scarcely the woman to make a soldier's wife in times of peace. War ... would bring out her good points.'
Huston moved restlessly. Mrs. Wylie turned her soft gray eyes towards his face, and across her sympathetic features there passed an expression of real pain. She had divined his next words before his lips framed them.
'I am not a soldier, Mrs. Wylie.'
'Resigned...?' she whispered.
'No; turned out.'
Unconsciously she was swaying backwards and forwards a little, as if in lamentation, while she rubbed one hand over the other.
'Drink,' continued Huston harshly; '... drink, and Alice drove me to it.'
There was a long silence in the room after this. The glowing fire creaked and crackled at times; occasionally a cinder fell with considerable clatter into the fender, but neither of these people moved. At last Mrs. Wylie looked up.
'Captain Huston,' she said pleadingly.
'Yes.'
He looked across, and saw the tears quivering on her lashes.
'Come back to me to-morrow morning,' was her prayer. 'I cannot ... I cannot advise you yet ... because I do not quite understand. Theo Trist is coming to lunch to-day. Will you come back to-morrow?'
'I will,' he answered simply, and left the room.
As Theodore Trist mounted the broad bare staircase of Suffolk Mansions, his quick ears detected the sound of Mrs. Wylie's door being drawn forcibly to behind departing footsteps.
He continued his way without increase of speed. The person whose descent was audible came slowly to meet him, and in a few moments they were face to face upon a small stone-paved landing.
Neither departed from the unwritten code by which Englishmen regulate their actions; they merely stared at each other. Trist was unchanged, except for a slight heaviness in build—the additional weight, one might call it, of years and experience; but Huston was sadly altered since these two had met beneath a Southern sky. Both were conscious of a sudden recollection of sandy plain and camp environments, and Huston changed colour slightly, or, to be more correct, he lost colour, and his eyes wavered. He was painfully conscious of his disadvantage in this trifling matter of appearance, and he had reason to remember with dread the ruthless penetration of the calm soft eyes fixed upon him. Years before he had suspected that Theodore Trist was cognizant of a trifling fact which had at times suggested itself to him—namely, that, despite braided coat and bright sword, despite Queen's commission and Sandhurst, he, Alfred Woodruff Charles Huston, was no soldier.
Each looked at the other with the hesitation of men who, meeting, recognise a face, and half await a greeting of some description. In a moment it was too late, and they passed on—one upstairs, the other down, with unconscious symbolism—having exchanged nothing more than that expectant, hesitating stare of mutual recognition and mutual curiosity.
Each was at heart a gentleman, and under other circumstances, in the presence of a third person, or with the view of sparing a hostess anxiety, they would undoubtedly have shaken hands. But here, beneath the eye of none but their God (who, in His wisdom, has purposely planted a tiny seed of divergence in our hearts), they saw no cause for acting that which could, at its best, have been nothing but a semi-truth.
When Trist greeted Mrs. Wylie a few moments later, he detected her glance of anxiety; but it was against his strange principles to take the initiative, so he waited until she might speak.
After a few commonplaces dexterously handled, she suddenly changed her tone.
'Theo,' she said with that abruptness which invariably follows after hesitation on the brink of a difficult subject, 'there was a man in this room ten minutes ago who announced his fixed determination of shooting you the very next time you crossed his path.'
The war-correspondent shrugged his shoulders, and turning sharply round, he kicked under the grate a small smoking cinder which had fallen far out into the fender.
'That man's statements, whether in regard to things past or things future, should be accepted with caution.'
'Then you met him on the stairs?'
'Yes; I met him on the stairs....'
'And...'
'And he did not shoot,' said Trist with a short laugh as he turned and faced Mrs. Wylie.
Then he did a somewhat remarkable thing—remarkable, that is, for a man who never gave way to a display of the slightest emotion, demonstrating either sorrow or joy, hatred or affection. He took Mrs. Wylie's two hands within his, and forced her to sit in the deep basket-work chair near the fire with its back towards the window.
Standing before her with his hands thrust into the pockets of his short serge jacket, he looked down at her with quizzical affection.
'Some months ago,' he said, 'we made a contract; you are breaking that contract, unless I am very much mistaken. You have allowed yourself to be anxious about me—is that not so?'
The widow smiled bravely up into the grave young face.
'I am afraid,' she began, '...yes, I am afraid you are right. But the anxiety was not wholly on your account.'
Trist turned slowly away. The movement was an excess of caution, for his face was always impenetrable.
'Ah!' he murmured.
'I am very anxious about Alice and Brenda.'
'Ah!' he murmured again, with additional sympathy.
She did not proceed at once, so he leant back in the chair he had assumed, and waited with that peculiar patience which seemed to belong to Eastern lands, and which has been noticed before.
'Theo,' she said at last, 'has it never struck you that your position with regard to those two girls is—to say the least of it—peculiar?'
'From a social point of view?'
'Yes.'
'If,' he said in a louder tone, on his defence, as it were, 'I were constantly at home, society might have something to say about it. But, as it happens, I am never long in London, and consequently fail to occupy that prominent position in the public esteem or dislike to which my talents undoubtedly entitle me.'
'Fortunately, gossip has not been rife about it.'
'Partlyby good fortune, and partly by good management,' corrected Trist. 'With a little care, society is easily managed.'
'A tiger is easily managed, but its humours cannot be foretold.'
This statement was allowed to pass unchallenged, and before the silence was again broken, a servant announced that luncheon was ready. Mrs. Wylie led the way, and Trist followed. They were both rather absorbed during the dainty repast, and conversation was less interesting than the parlour-maid could have wished.
Had Trist been less honest, he could have thrown off this sense of guilt which weighed upon him. Like most reserved men, he was perhaps credited with a more versatile intellect than he really possessed. In his special line he was unrivalled, but that line was essentially manly, and thefinesseit required was of a masculine order. That is to say, it was more straightforward, more honest, and less courageous, than the natural and instinctivefinesseof a woman. This vague struggle with an over-susceptible conscience handicapped Trist seriously during thetête-à-têtemeal, and rendered his conversation very dull. He was quite conscious of this, and the effort he made to remedy the defect was hardly successful. Men of his type—that is, men of a self-contained, self-reasoning nature—are too ready to consider themselves of that heavy material which forms the solid background of social intercourse. Their very virtues, such as steadfastness, coolness, complete self-reliance, are calculated to prevent their shining in conversation, or in the lighter social amenities. A little conversational impulse is required, a gay lightness of touch, and an easy divergence from opinions previously hazarded, in order to please the average listener; but these were sadly wanting in Theodore Trist.
He was merely a strong, thoughtful man, who could think and reason quickly enough when such speed was necessary, but as a rule he preferred a slower and surer method. He was ready enough to proffer an opinion when such was really in demand, and once spoken, this would change in no way. It was the result of thought, and he forbore to uphold a conviction by argument. Argument and thought have little in common. One is froth drifting before the wind, the other a deep stream running always. Trist held fixed opinions about most things, but it was part of his self-reliant and self-sufficing nature to take no pleasure whatever in convincing others that the opinion was valuable. If men chose to think otherwise, he tacitly recognised their right to do so, and left them in peace. Although he held certain doctrines upon the better or worse ways of getting through the span of a human life creditably, he was singularly averse to airing them in any manner.
Now, Mrs. Wylie, in her keen womanliness, knew very well how to deal with this man. She was quite aware that there was, behind his silent 'laisser-aller,' a clearly-defined plan of campaign, a cut-and-dried theory or doctrine upon which his most trifling action was based. There was an object aimed at, and perhaps gained, in his every word. If Theodore Trist was a born strategist (of which I am firmly convinced), and carried his principles of warfare into the bitter strife of every-day existence, he had in Mrs. Wylie an ally or a foe, as the case might be, whose manœuvres were worthy of his regard.
She possessed a woman's intuitive judgment, brightened, as it were, and rendered keener, by the friction of a busy lifetime; and added to this, she was in the habit of acting more spontaneously, and perhaps with a greater recklessness, than came within Trist's mental compass. These were her more womanly qualities, but her character had been influenced through many years by the manly, upright nature of her husband, and it was from him that she had acquired her rare doctrine of non-interference. In woman's weaker nature there is a lamentable failing to which can be attributed a large portion of the sorrows to which the sex is liable. This is an utter inability to refrain from adding a spoke to every wheel that may roll by. Interference—silly, unjustifiable interference—in the affairs of others is woman's vice. She can no more keep her fingers out of other people's savoury pies than a cat can keep away from the succulent products of Yarmouth. It has been said by cynical people that a woman cannot keep a secret, but that is a mistake. If it be her own, she can keep it remarkably well; but if it be the property of someone else, she appears to consider it as a loan which must not be allowed to accrue interest. I have tried the effect of imparting to a woman whom it affected but slightly, and to a man whose life would be altered in some degree by it, a piece of news under the bond of secrecy—a bond which expired at a given date. The man held his peace and went on his way through life unaffected, untroubled by the knowledge he possessed. I studied him at moments when a glance or a word might have betrayed to observant eyes the fact that he was in possession of certain information. He looked at me calmly, and with no dangerous glance of intelligence, subsequently talking in a manly, honest way which was in no degree a connivance at criminal suppression. The date given had not yet arrived, but the knowledge was fresh in his mind, and he treated the matter in an honourable, business-like way. I knew that my secret was buried in that man's brain as in a sepulchre.
The woman was uneasy. I could see that the secret oppressed her. She chafed at the thought that the date mentioned was still a long way ahead. She longed to talk of the matter to me, with a view, no doubt, of craving permission to tell one person, who would certainly not repeat it. By glance or significant silence she courted betrayal; and at one time she even urged me to impart the news to a mutual friend, in order, I take it, to form a channel or an outlet for her cooped-up volume of thought. Finally, I discovered that she had forestalled the date, by writing to friends at a distance, who actually received the letters before the day, but were unable to reissue the news in time to incriminate her.
It would appear that the same characteristic defect applies to the retention of a secret as to the restraint from interference. Perhaps it is a weakness, not a vice. Mrs. Wylie never sought confidences, as women, by nature unable to retain secrets, are prone to do. Her doctrine of non-interference went so far as to embrace the small matter of passing details. She placed entire reliance in Theodore Trist, and although his behaviour puzzled her, she refrained from asking an explanation of even the smallest act. She was content that his leading motive could only be good, and therefore felt no great thirst to know the meaning of his minor actions.
The cynical-minded may opine that I am describing an impossible woman. The fault is due to this halting pen. I once drew a woman who herself recognised the portrait—a critic said that the character was impossible and unnatural.
Mrs. Wylie was very natural and very womanly, after all. She had almost forced Theo Trist to invite himself to lunch, and her anxiety respecting Alice and Brenda had been made clear to him at once. She would not interfere; but she could not surely have been expected to refrain from suggesting to him that the world and the world's opinion, if of no value to him, could not be ignored by two motherless women.
She placed before him her views upon the matter, and then she proceeded to shelve the subject; but Trist failed to help her in this, contrary to her expectation. He was distinctly dull during luncheon, and made no attempt to disguise his preoccupation. Mrs. Wylie nibbled a biscuit while he was removing the outer rind of his cheese with absurd care, and waited patiently for him to say that which was undoubtedly on his lips.
The maid had left the room; there was no fear of interruption. Trist continued to amuse himself for some moments with a minute morsel of Gorgonzola; then he looked up, unconsciously trying the temper of his knife upon the plate while he spoke.
'I had,' he said, 'an interview with my chief this morning.'
'Ah! Sir Edward, you mean?'
'Yes,' slowly, 'Sir Edward.'
Mrs. Wylie saw that she was expected to ask a question in order to keep the ball rolling.
'What about?' she inquired pleasantly.
'I informed him that I proposed burying the hatchet.'
'You are not going to give up active service!' exclaimed Mrs. Wylie in astonishment.
'I promised to go to one more campaign—the Russo-Turkish—which will come on in the spring, and after that I shall follow the paths of peace.'
Mrs. Wylie rolled up her table-napkin, and inserted it meditatively into an ancient silver ring several sizes too large for it.
'I used to think,' she murmured, 'that you would never follow the ways of peace.' Then she looked across the table into his face with that indescribable contraction of the eyes which sometimes came even when her lips were smiling.
'I am not quite sure of you now, Theo,' she added gently, as she rose and led the way towards the door.
Trist reached the handle before her, and held the door open with that unostentatious politeness of his which made him different from the general run of society young men. As she passed, he smiled reassuringly, and said in his monotonous way:
'I am quite sure of myself.'
'Nottoosure?' she inquired over her shoulder.
'No.'
In the drawing-room he succumbed to his hostess's Bohemian persuasions, and lighted a cigarette. He seemed to have forgotten his own affairs.
'About Alice,' he began—'que faire?'
For some reason Mrs. Wylie avoided meeting his glance.
'I told Alfred Huston,' she replied, after a pause, 'that I would communicate with Alice, and that I had hopes of their living happily together yet.'
Her tone was eminently practical and business-like. Trist answered in the same way.
'I told Alice,' he said cheerily, 'that I would ask you to communicate with Huston, with the view of coming to some definite arrangement. Hide-and-seek is a slow game after a time.'
'What sort of arrangement?'
'Well ... I suggested that he should agree to leave her unmolested for a certain time, during which she could think over it.'
Mrs. Wylie's smile was a trifle wan and uncertain.
'In fact, you made the best of it?'
'Yes. What else could I do?'
The widow looked at him keenly. It was hard to believe in disinterestedness like this; and it is a very human failing to doubt disinterestedness of any description.
'I told Alfred Huston,' she said disconnectedly, 'that I trusted you to do your honest best for all concerned in this matter.'
'Which statement Huston politely declined to confirm, I should imagine.'
Mrs. Wylie shrugged her shoulders. Denial was evidently out of the question.
'Then my name was brought in?' asked Trist in a peculiar way.
'Yes.'
'By whom?'
'By me. It would have been worse than useless, Theo, to have attempted ignorance of your influence over the girls.'
For a second time Trist avoided meeting his companion's glance.
'I told Sir Edward,' he said, after a considerable space of time, 'that I must be allowed to remain in England for some time to come; it seems to me that I should have done better had I asked to be sent away on active service without delay.'
'I should hardly go so far as to say that, Theo,' remarked Mrs. Wylie placidly; 'but I think you must be very careful. I only want to call your attention to the light in which your help is likely to appear in the eyes of the world.'
'You have no...'—he hesitated before saying the word 'man,' but his listener gave a little quick nod as if to help him—'man to help you, except me; and it seems better that there should be someone whom you can play, as it were, against Huston's stronger cards—someone of whom he is afraid.'
'Yes,' replied the lady with an affectionate smile; 'I quite understand your meaning; and I think you are right, although Alfred Huston is not an alarming person: he is very weak.'
'When he is sober,' suggested Trist significantly.
The sailor's widow was too brave a woman to be frightened by this insinuation, of which she took absolutely no notice.
'And,' she continued, 'I am convinced that this reconciliation is more likely to be brought about if it is left entirely in my hands. Your influence, however subtle, will be detected by Alfred Huston, and the result will be disastrous. Unless ... unless...'
She stopped in a vague way, and moved restlessly.
'Unless what?'
'Unless you go to Alfred Huston and convince him by some means that there is no love between you and Alice.'
The laughter with which he greeted this suggestion was a masterpiece of easy nonchalance—deep, melodious, and natural; but somehow Mrs. Wylie failed to join in it.
'No,' he said; 'that would not do. If Alice and I went together, and took all sorts of solemn affidavits, I doubt whether Huston would be any more satisfied than he is at present. The only method practicable is for me to hold myself in reserve, while you manage this affair.'
He had risen during this speech, and now held out his hand.
'I have an appointment at the Army and Navy,' he said, 'and must ask you to excuse me if I run away.'
Mrs. Wylie was left in her own drawing-room nonplussed. She gazed at the door which had just closed behind her incomprehensible guest with mild astonishment.
'That,' she reflected, 'is the first time that I have seen Theo have recourse to retreat.'
It very often happens that the so-called equinoctial gales are behind their time, and do not arrive until Night has undoubtedly made good her victory over Day. When such is the case, we have a mild November, with soft south-westerly breezes varying in strength according to the lie of the land or the individual experience of farmer or townsman. At sea it blows hard enough in all good sooth, and there may be watery eyes at the wheel or on the forecastle; but there are no frozen fingers aloft, which is in itself a mercy. There is a good hearty roar through the shrouds, and certain parts of the deck are always wet, but the clear horizon and rushing clouds overhead are full of brave exhilaration.
On land, things are dirtier, more especially under foot, where the leaves lose all their crackle and subside odorously into mud. Water stands on the roadways, and in ruts elsewhere; and curled beech-leaves float thereon in vague navigation, half waterlogged like any foreign timber-ship. The tilled land, bearing in its bosom seed for next year's crops, or merely waiting fallow, is damp and soft and black; men walking thereon—rustic or sportsman—make huge impressions, and carry quite a weight on either foot. The trees stand bare and leafless, though rapid green mouldy growths relieve the wet monochrome of bark or rind.
Here, again, as at sea, the atmosphere is singularly gay and translucent. Things afar off seem near, and new details in the landscape become apparent. Any little bit of colour seems to gleam, almost to glow, and the greenness of the meadow is startling. Although there is an autumnal odour on the breeze, it has no sense of melancholy. The clouds may be gray, but they are fraught with life, and one knows that there is brightness behind. With motion, melancholy cannot live.
The effect of this soft breeziness upon different people is apparent to the most casual of observers. It freshens sailors up, and they pull on their oilskins with a cheery pugnacity; tillers of the land are busy, and wonder how long it will last; and hunting-men (provided only the land be nottooheavy) are wild with a joy which has no rival in times of peace; timid riders grow bold, and bold men reckless. It is only folks who stay indoors that complain of depression. For myself, I confess it makes me long to be at sea, and although I can see nothing but sky and chimney-pots over the ink-stand, the very shades of colour, of dark and light, are before me if I close my eyes. It is a long rolling sweep of greeny gray, with here and there a tip of dirty white, and the line of horizon is hard and clear enough to please the veriest novice with the sextant.
In November, 1876, there were a few days of such weather as I have attempted to describe, and Brenda, who spent that time on the east coast of England, in a manner learnt to associate soft winds and clear airs with the much-maligned county of Suffolk. All through the rest of her life, through the long aimless years during which she learnt to love the verdant plains with their bare mud sea-walls, she only thought of Suffolk as connected with and forming part of soft autumnal melancholy. She never again listened to the wail of the sea-gull without involuntarily waiting for the cheery cry of the snipe. Never again did she look on a vast plain without experiencing a sense of incompleteness which could only have been dispelled by the murmurous voice of the sea breaking on to shingle.
The human mind is strangely inconsistent in its reception and retention of impressions. As in modern photography, the length of exposure seems to be of little consequence. Without any tangible reason, and for no obvious use, certain incidents remain engraved upon our memory, while the detail of other events infinitely more important passes away, and only the result remains.
Brenda and Alice only passed four days in the little hamlet selected for them by Theodore Trist as a safe hiding-place; but during that time a great new influence came into Brenda's soul.
She had always been sensitive to the beauties of Nature. A glorious landscape, a golden sunset, or the soft silver of moon-rise, had spoken to her in that silent language of Nature which appeals to the most prosaic heart at times; but never until now had one of earth's great wonders established a longing in her soul—a longing for its constant company which is naught else but passionate love. She had hitherto looked upon the sea as an inconvenience to be overcome before reaching other countries. Perhaps she was aware that this inconvenience possessed at times a charm, but not until now had she conceived it possible that she, Brenda Gilholme, should ever love it with an insatiable longing such as the love of sailors. On board theHermioneshe had passed her apprenticeship; had, as the admiral was wont to say, learnt the ropes; but never had she loved the sea for its own grand incomprehensible sake as she loved it now.
Its gray mournful humours seemed to sympathize with her own thoughts. Its monotonous voice, rising and falling on the shingle shore, spoke in unmistakable language, and told of other things than mere earthly joys and sorrows.
I who write these lines learnt to love the sea many years ago, when I had naught else but water to look upon—from day to day, from morning till night, through the day and through the darkness, week after week, month after month. The love crept into my heart slowly and very surely, like the love of a boy, growing into manhood, for some little maiden growing by his side. And now, whether on its bosom or looking on it from the noisy shore, that love is as fresh as ever. The noise of breaking water thrills the man as it thrilled the boy—the smell of tar, even, makes me grave.
Men may love their own country, but the sea, with its ever-varying humours, kind and cruel by turn, exacts a fuller devotion. A woman once told me of her love for her native country. She happened to be a practical, prosaic, middle-aged woman of the world. We were seated on a gorgeous sofa in a blaze of artificial light, amidst artificial smiles, listening to the murmurs of artificial conversation. Something moved her; some word of mine fell into the well of her memory and set the still pool all rippling. I listened in silence. She spoke of Dartmoor, and I think I understood her. At the end I said:
'What Dartmoor is to you, the sea is to me;' and she smiled in a strange, sympathetic way.
That is the nearest approach that I have met of a love for land which is akin to the love of sea.
In Brenda's case, as in all, this new-found passion influenced her very nature. If love—love, I mean, of a woman—will alter a man's whole mode of life, of action, and of thought, surely these lesser passions leave their mark as well.
Undoubtedly the girl caught from the great sea some of its patient contentment; for the ocean is always content, whether it be glistening beneath a cloudless sky, or rolling, sweeping onwards before the wind in broad gray curves. Those who work upon the great waters are different from other men in the possession of a certain calm equanimity, which is like no other condition of mind. It is the philosophy of the sea.
At first Brenda had dreaded the thought of being imprisoned, as it were, in this tiny east coast fishing village with her sister. This was no outcome of a waning love, but rather a proof that her feelings towards her sister were as true and loyal as ever. She feared that Alice would lower herself in her sight. She dreaded the necessarytête-à-têtesbecause she felt that her sister's character had not improved, and could not well bear the searching light of a close familiarity.
After the first hour or two, however, the sisters appeared to settle down into a routine of life which in no way savoured of familiarity. The last two years had hopelessly severed them, and now that they were alone together the gulf seemed to widen between them.
Brenda was aware that some great change had come over her life or that of her sister. They no longer possessed a single taste or a single interest in common. Whether the fault lay entirely at her own door, or whether Alice were partially or wholly to blame, the girl did not attempt to decide. She merely felt that it would be simple hypocrisy to pretend a familiarity she did not feel. Yet she loved her sister, despite all. The tie of blood is strangely strong in some people; with others it is no link at all.
After an uncomfortable meal had been bravely sat out subsequent to Brenda's arrival, the younger sister announced her intention of going out for a long ramble down the coast. Alice complained that she had no energy, predicted that the dismal flat land and muddy sea were about to prove fatal to her health, and subsided into a yellow-backed novel. This was a fair sample of their life in exile.
Alice deluged her weak intellect with fiction of no particular merit, and Brenda learnt to love the sea. For her the bleak deserted shore, the long, low waves rolling in continuously, the dirty sweeping of sand-banks near the shore, and the endless fields of shingle, acquired a mournful beauty which few can find in such things.
Only once was reference made to Theodore Trist, and then the subject was tacitly tabooed, much to the relief of Brenda. This happened during the first evening of their joint exile. Doubtless a sudden fit of communicativeness came over Alice just as they come to the rest of us—at odd moments, without any particularraison d'être.
The miserable shuffling waiter had removed all traces of their simple evening meal, and Brenda was looking between the curtains across the sea, which shimmered beneath the rays of a great yellow moon. Alice had taken up her novel, but its pages had no interest for her just then. She had appropriated the only easy-chair in the room, and was leaning back against its worn leather stuffing with a discontented look upon her lovely face. Her small red mouth had acquired of late a peculiar 'set' expression, as if the lips were habitually pressed close with an effort.
'Theo,' she said, without looking towards the tall, slim form by the window, 'has changed.'
Brenda moved the curtain a little more to one side, so that the old wooden rings rattled on the pole. Then she leant her shoulder against the framework of the window, and turned her face towards the firelight. Her gentle gaze rested on the beautiful form gracefully reclining in the deep chair. She noted the easy repose of each limb, the proud poise of the golden head, and the clearcut profile showing white against the dingy background. There was no glamour in her eyes, such as would have blinded the judgment of nine men out of ten; but there was in its place the great tie of sisterly love.
Brenda, looking on that beauty, knew that it was the curse of her sister's life. Instead of envying her, she was mentally meting out pity and allowance.
'I suppose,' she said, without much encouragement in her manner, 'that we have all changed in one way or another.'
'But Theo has changed in more than one way.'
'Has he?'
'Yes. His manner is quite different from what it used to be; and he seems self-absorbed—less energetic, less sympathetic.'
Brenda did not answer at once. She turned slightly, and looked out of the window, resting her fingers upon the old wooden framework.
'You see,' she suggested, 'he has other interests in life now. He is a great man, and has ambition. It is only natural that he should be absorbed in his own affairs.'
Mrs. Huston raised her small foot, and rested the heel of her slipper on the brass fender, while she contemplated the diminutive limb with some satisfaction.
'I have met one or two great men,' she said meditatively, 'and I invariably found them very much like ordinary beings, rather less immersed in 'shop,' perhaps, and quite as interesting—not to say polite.'
Brenda winced.
'Was Theo not polite?'
'Hardly, my dear.'
As Mrs. Huston delivered herself of this opinion, with a faint tinge of bitterness in her manner, she turned and looked towards her sister, as if challenging her to attempt a palliation of Trist's conduct.
Brenda neither moved nor spoke. The moonlight, flooding through the diamond panes of the window, made her face look pale and wan. There were deep shadows about her lips. Without, upon the shingle, the sea boomed continuously with a low, dreamlike hopelessness.
I wish I were a great artist, to be able to paint a picture of that small parlour in an east coast village inn. But there would be a greater skill required than the mere technicalities of art. These would be needed to deal successfully with the cross-lights of utterly different hues—the cold, green-tinted moonlight, the ruddy glow of burning driftwood washed from the deck of some Baltic trader; and the reflection of each in turn upon quaint old bureaux, bright with the polish of half a dozen generations; gleaming upon Indian curio, and shimmering over the glass of dim engravings. All this would require infinite skill; but no brush or pencil could convey the old-day mournfulness that seemed to hang in the atmosphere. Perhaps it found birth in the murmuring rise and fall of restless waves, or in the flicker of the fire, in the quick crackle of the sodden wood. My picture should be called 'The Contrast,' and in the gloom of the low ceiling I should bring out with loving care two graceful forms—two lovely faces.
The one—the more beautiful—in all the rosiness of young life, glowing in the firelight. The other, pale and wan, with an exquisite beauty, delicate and yet strong, resolute and yet refined. Of two working in the field, one is taken, the other remaineth. Around us are many workers, and of every two we look upon, one seems to have the preference. One has greater joy, the other greater sorrow; and, strive as we will, think as we will, argue as we will, we can never tell 'why.' We can never satisfy that great question of the human mind. Life has been called many things: I can express it in less than a word—in a mere symbol—?—a note of interrogation, the largest at the compositor's command.
In this great field of ours, where we all work blindly, many are taken, and many left. Moreover, those who would wish to go remain, and those who cling to work are taken. She who grindeth best passeth first.
Brenda never answered her sister's challenge. She turned her eyes away, facing the cold moonlight, staring at the silver sea with eyes that saw no beauty there.
'O God!' she whispered, glancing upwards into the glowing heavens with that instinct which comes alike to pagan and Christian, 'send a great war, so that Theo may go to it.'
Mrs. Wylie had undertaken the task of reconciling Alice Huston and her husband without any great hope of success. The widow's married life had been an exceptionally happy one, but even in her case there had been small drawbacks, mostly arising, it is true, from the untoward work of fate, but, nevertheless, undoubted drawbacks, and undeniably appertaining to married life.
It would have been hard to find two people less calculated to assimilate satisfactorily than Alice and Alfred Huston; and yet there was love between them.
The weak-minded soldier undoubtedly loved his wife: as for her, it would be hard to give a reliable opinion. She was, I honestly believe, one of those beautiful women who go through life without ever knowing what love really is.
With another woman for his helpmate, Huston might reasonably have been expected to reform his ways. With another husband, Alice might have made a good and dutiful wife.
Assuredly the task that had fallen upon Mrs. Wylie's handsome shoulders was not overburdened with hope. She was, however, of an evenly sanguine temperament, and I think that it is such women as she who help us men along in life—women who trust for the best, and work for the best, without any high-flown ideals, without poetic notions respecting woman's influence and woman's aid; who, in fact, are desperately practical, and make a point of expecting less than they might reasonably get.
Mrs. Wylie was by no means ignorant of the fact that a reconciliation between such a couple as Mr. and Mrs. Huston was not calculated to be of a very permanent or deeply-rooted character; but she had lived a good many years in a grade of society which delights to watch the inner life of others. She had seen and heard of so many unsuitable matches, which, having been consummated, had proved the wonderful power of love. It is only the very young and inexperienced who shake their heads upon hearing of an engagement, and prophesy unhappiness. No man can tell to what end love is working. The wise are silent in such matters, because there are some mistakes which lead to good, and some wise actions of which the result is unmitigated woe.
The widow therefore held her peace, and set to work as if there could be but one result to her efforts. She communicated with Alice Huston in her hiding-place, with Captain Huston at the club of which he was still a member, and with Trist by word of mouth. Brenda was, so to speak, in the enemy's country. Her reports were therefore to be received, but no acknowledgment could be made. In this respect she was like a spy, because she was without instruction from headquarters, and, nevertheless, had to act and report her action.
Her first and, indeed, only communication reached Mrs. Wylie the morning after her interviews with Theo Trist and Captain Huston. It was only a few words scribbled on the back of a visiting card, and slipped into an envelope previously addressed and stamped:
'Whatever you do, keep Theo and Alice apart.'
Mrs. Wylie turned the card over and read the neatly-engraved name on the other side. Then she read the words aloud, slowly and thoughtfully, once more:
'Whatever you do, keep Theo and Alice apart.'
'Brenda knows,' reflected the practical woman of the world, 'that Huston is jealous of Theo. She also knows that I am quite aware of this jealousy. It would be unnecessary to warn me of it; therefore this means that Brenda has discovered a fresh reason.'
She broke off her meditations at this point by rising almost hurriedly, and walking to the window. For a considerable time she watched the passing traffic; then she returned to the fire-place.
'Poor Brenda!' she murmured—'my poor Brenda! And ... Alice is so silly!'
The connection between these two observations may be a trifle obscure to the ordinary halting male intellect; but I think I know what Mrs. Wylie meant.
Later on in the day she sent a note to Captain Huston, requesting him to come and see her, and by the same messenger despatched a few words to Theo Trist—her reserve force—forbidding him to come near.
'My reserves,' she said to herself as she closed the envelope energetically, 'are thus rendered useless; but Brenda is reliable. I must do as she tells me.'
Captain Huston received the widow's note at his club. It was only eleven o'clock, and, consequently, there was plenty of time before he need put in an appearance at Suffolk Mansions. He was an idle man, and, like all idle men, fond of lounging about the streets gazing abstractedly into shops, and getting generally into the way of such foot-passengers as might have an object in their walk.
There is no haven for loungers in London except Piccadilly in the morning, and to this spot the soldier turned his steps. After inspecting the wares of a sporting tailor, he was preparing to cross the road with a view of directing his course down St. James's Street, when someone touched him on the shoulder.
Huston turned with rather more alacrity than is usually displayed by a British gentleman with a clear conscience, and for some seconds gazed in a watery manner at a fair, insipid face, ornamented by a wondrous moustache. There was a peculiarity about this moustache worth mentioning. Although an essentially masculine adornment, it, in some subtle way, suggested effeminacy.
'Mr. ... eh ... Hicks,' murmured Huston vaguely, and without much interest.
Hicks forgave magnanimously this Philistine want of appreciation.
'Yes, Captain Huston. How are you?'
'I? ... Oh! I'm all right, thanks.'