Presently Brenda leant back in the chair. There was a screen on the table near her—Mrs. Wylie's palm-leaf—and she extended her hand to take it, holding it subsequently between her face and the fire, so that if Trist had turned his head he could not have seen anything but her slim, graceful form, her white hand and wrist, and the screen glowing rosily. He did not turn, however, when he spoke.
'I will tell you,' he said, 'how I came to know.'
Before continuing, he rubbed his hands slowly together. Then he rose from his knees and remained standing near the fire close to her, but without looking in her direction. He seemed to be choosing his words.
'I came home,' he said at length, 'from Gibraltar in an Indian steamer, a small boat with half a dozen passengers. There was no doctor on board. One evening I was asked to go forward and look at a second-class passenger who was suffering from ... from delirium tremens.'
He stopped in an apologetic way, as if begging her indulgence for the use of those two words in her presence.
'Yes...' she murmured encouragingly.
'It was Huston.'
As he spoke he turned slightly, and glanced down at her. She had entirely regained her gentle composure now, and the colour had returned to her face. Her attention was given to his words with a certain suppressed anxiety, but no surprise whatever.
'Did,' she asked at length—'did he recognise you?'
'No.'
'And he never knew, and does not know now, that you were on board?'
It would seem that he divined her thoughts, detecting the hidden importance of her question.
'No,' he answered meaningly, as he turned and looked down at her—'no; but he has not forgotten my existence.'
She raised her eyes quickly, but their glance stopped short suddenly at the elevation of his lips. It was only by an effort that she avoided meeting his gaze.
'I do not know,' she said with a short laugh, in an explanatory way, 'much about ... about it. Is it like ordinary delirium, where people talk in a broken manner without realizing what they are saying?'
'Yes; it is rather like that.'
She examined the texture of the screen with some attention.
'Do you mind telling me, Theo,' she asked at length evenly, 'whether he mentioned your name?'
Trist reflected for a moment. He moved restlessly from one foot to the other, then spoke in a voice which betrayed no emotion beyond regret and a hesitating sympathy.
'He said that Alice had run away to join her old lover—meaning me.'
'Are you sure he meant ... you?'
'He mentioned my name; there could be no doubt about it.'
Brenda rose suddenly from her seat and crossed the room towards the window. There she stood with her back towards him, a graceful, dark silhouette against the dying light, looking into the street.
He moved slightly, but did not attempt to follow her.
'It is rather strange,' she said at length, 'that the first name she mentioned on landing at Plymouth should be yours.'
A look of blank surprise flashed across his face, and then he reflected gravely for some moments.
'I am sorry to hear it,' he said slowly, 'because it would seem that my name has been bandied between them, and if that is the case my hands are tied. I cannot help Alice as I should have liked to do.'
'I told Alice some time ago that it would be much better for us to manage this ... this miserable affair without your help.'
'You are equal to it,' he said deliberately.
She laughed with a faint gleam of her habitual brightness.
'Thank you. That is a very pretty sentiment, but it is hardly the question.'
'My help,' he continued, 'need not be obvious to every casual observer. But I am not going to leave you to fight this out alone, Brenda. I was forced to leave you once, and I am not going to do it again. What does Mrs. Wylie say to it all?'
'Nothing as yet. She is waiting on events.'
'Ah, then, she is in reserve as usual. When the time comes, we may rely upon her help. But until then...'
'Theo,' interrupted Brenda in an agonized voice, 'the timehascome!'
She started back from the window, her face as white as her snowy throat, her eyes contracted with horror.
'He is there!' she whispered hoarsely, pointing towards the window—'in the street. Coming into the house!'
Her little hands clutched his sleeve with a womanly abandonment of restraint, and he stood quite still in his self-reliant manhood. Then he found with surprise that his right arm was round her shoulders protecting her.
'Come,' he said with singular calmness—'come into another room. I—see him here.'
As he spoke he gently urged her towards the door, but she resisted, and for a moment there was an actual physical struggle.
'No,' she said, 'I will see him. It is better. Alice may come in at any moment, and before then I must know how matters stand between them.'
Trist hesitated, and at that moment the bell rang. They stood side by side looking at the closed door, listening painfully.
'Perhaps,' whispered Trist, 'the maid will say that Mrs. Wylie is out.'
They could hear the light footstep of the servant, then the click of the latch.
A murmur of words followed, ending in the raised tone of a male voice and a short sharp exclamation of fear from the maid.
Instinctively Trist sprang towards the door.
There was a sound of heavy footsteps in the passage. Trist's fingers were on the handle. He glanced towards Brenda appealingly.
'Leave it!' she exclaimed. 'Let him come in.'
Before the words were out of her lips the door was thrown open, concealing Theodore Trist.
A tall, well-built man entered the room hurriedly and stopped short, facing Brenda, who met his gaze with gentle self-possession.
'Ah!' he muttered in a thick voice, and his unsteady hand went to his long fair moustache.
It was a terribly unhealthy face upon which Brenda's eyes rested inquiringly. The skin was cracked in places, and the cheeks were almost blue. The eyelids were red and the eyes bloodshot, while there was a general suggestion of puffiness and discomfort in the swollen features. The man was distinctly repulsive, and yet, with a small amount of tolerance, he was a figure to demand pity. Despite his dissipated air, there was that indefinite sense of refinement which belongs to birth and breeding, and which never leaves a man who has once moved among gentlemen. There was even a faint suggestion of military vanity in his dress and carriage, though his figure was by no means so smart as it must have been in bygone days.
The room was rather dark, and he glanced round, failing to see Theo Trist, who was leaning against the wall behind him.
'Ah!' he repeated; 'Brenda. I suppose you are in it, too!'
She made no reply, but stood before him in all her maidenly sweetness and strength, looking into his face through the twilight with clear and steady eyes which he hesitated to meet. Into his weak soul a flood of bitter memories rushed tumultuously—memories of a time when he could meet those eyes without that sudden feeling of self-hatred which was gnawing at his heart now. His tone was not harsh nor violent, but there was an undernote of determination which was not pleasant to the ear.
'Tell me,' he continued thickly, 'where my wife is to be found.'
Trist noticed that she never took her eyes off Huston's face, never glanced past the sleek, closely-cropped head towards himself. In some subtle way her wish was conveyed to him—the wish that he should remain there and continue, if possible, to be unnoticed by Huston. This he did, leaning squarely against the wall, his meek eyes riveted on the girl's face with a calm, expectant attention. From his presence Brenda gathered that strength and self-reliance which, I think, God intends women to gather from the companionship of men.
'No, Alfred,' she answered, using his Christian name with a gentle diplomacy which made him waver for a moment and sway backwards upon his rigid legs; 'I must not tell you that yet.'
'What right have you to withhold it?'
'She is my sister. I must do the best I can for her.'
He laughed in an unpleasant way.
'By throwing her into the path of the man she has always——'
'Stop!' commanded Brenda.
'Why? Why should I stop? I suppose Trist is in England. That is why she came home, no doubt.'
'She has never spoken to Theodore Trist since she married you. Besides, that is not the question. Tell me why you want to find Alice. What do you propose to do?'
'That ismyaffair!' he muttered roughly. 'You have no business to stand between man and wife. If you persist in doing so, it must be at your own risk, and I tell you plainly that you run a chance of being roughly handled.'
As he spoke he advanced a pace menacingly. Still she never betrayed Trist's presence by the merest glance in his direction. He, however, moved slightly, without making any sound.
Huston looked slowly round the room with bloodshot, horrible eyes.
'Tell me!' he hissed, thrusting forward his face so that she drew back—not from fear, but to avoid a faint aroma of stale cigar-smoke.
'No!' she answered.
'Deny that Trist loved Alice—if you dare!' he continued, in the same whistling voice.
Still she never called for Trist's assistance. She was very pale, and the last words seemed to strike her in the face as a blow.
'I deny nothing!'
'Tell me,' he shouted hoarsely, 'where Alice is!'
'No!'
'Then takethat, you...'
He struck her with his clenched fist on the shoulder—but she had seen his intention, and by stepping back avoided the full force of the blow. She staggered a pace or two and recovered herself.
Without a sound Trist sprang forward, and the same instant saw Huston fall to the ground. He rolled over and over, a shapeless mass with limbs distended. As he rolled, Trist kicked him as he never would have kicked a dog.
'Oh ... h ... h ...!' shrieked the soldier. 'Who is that?'
'It is Trist ... youbrute!'
But Huston lay motionless, with limp hands and open mouth. He was insensible.
Leaving him, Trist turned to Brenda, who was already holding him back with a physical force which even at that moment caused him a vague surprise.
'Theo! Theo!' she cried, 'what are you doing?'
He looked into her face sharply, almost fiercely—and she caught her breath convulsively at the sight of his eyes. They literally flashed with a dull blue gleam, which was all the more ghastly in so calm a face; for though he was ashen-gray in colour, his features were unaltered by any sign of passion. Even in his wild rage this man was incongruous.
'Has he hurt you?' he asked in a dull, hollow voice; and, while he spoke, his fingers skilfully touched her shoulder in a quick, searching way never learnt in drawing-rooms.
'No—no!' she cried impatiently. 'But you have killedhim!'
She broke away from him and knelt on the floor, bending over the prostrate form of the soldier. Her bosom heaved from time to time with a bravely suppressed sob.
'Don't touch him,' said Trist, in an unconsciously commanding tone. 'He is all right.'
Obediently, she rose and stepped away, while he lifted the limp form, and placed it in a chair.
Slowly Captain Huston opened his eyes. He heaved a deep sigh, and sat gazing into the fire with a hopeless and miserable apathy. Behind him the two stood motionless, watching. Presently he began to mutter incoherently, and Brenda turned away, sickened, from the woeful sight.
'I wonder,' she whispered, 'if this sort of thing is to go on.'
Trist's mobile lips were twisted a little as if he were in bodily pain, while he glanced at her furtively. There was nothing for him to say—no hope to hold out.
They moved away to the window together without speaking, both occupied with thoughts which could not well have been pleasant. Trist's features wore a grave, concentrated expression, totally unlike the philosophical and contemplative demeanour which he usually carried in the face of the world. There was food enough for mental stones to grind, and he was not a man to take the most sanguine view of affairs. His philosophy was of that rare school which is not solely confined to making the best of other folks' troubles. His own checks and difficulties were those treated philosophically; while the griefs of others—more especially, perhaps, of Alice and Brenda—caused him an exaggerated anxiety. It has been the experience of the present writer that women are infinitely better fitted to stand adversity than men. There is a certain brave little smile which our less mobile lips can never frame. But Theodore Trist had lived chiefly among men, and his human speciality was the fighting animal. He knew a soldier as few of his contemporaries knew him; but of sweet woman-militant he was somewhat ignorant.
Perhaps he took this trouble too seriously. Of that I cannot give an opinion, for we all have an individual way of getting over our fences, and we never learn another. Personally, I must confess to a penchant for those men who go steadily, with a cool, clear head, and a firm hand, realizing full well the risk they are about to run—men who do not put ablindfaith in luck, nor look invariably for Fortune's smiles.
In Trist's place many would have uttered some trite consolatory or wildly hopeful remark, which would in no wise have deceived a young person of Brenda's austere discrimination. In this, however, he fell lamentably short of his duty. After a thoughtful pause he merely whispered:
'Here we are again, Brenda—in a tight place. There is some fatality which seems to guide our footsteps on to thorny pathways. There is nothing to be done but face it.'
'Is it,' she asked simply, 'a case for action, or must we wait upon events?'
'I would suggest ... action.'
'Yes...' she said, in little more than a whisper, after a pause, 'I think so too—more especially now ... that you suggest it. Your natural bias is, as a rule, in the direction of masterly inactivity.'
He smiled slowly.
'Perhaps ... so!'
'Therefore your conviction that action is necessary must be very strong before you would suggest it.'
'I feel,' he said, with some deliberation, 'that it will be better to keep them apart in the meantime.'
A strange, uneasy look passed across the girl's face. It happened that there was only one man on all the broad earth whom she trusted implicitly—the man at her side—and for a second that one unique faith wavered. With a sort of mental jerk—as of a person who makes a quick effort to recover a wavering balance—she restored her courageous trustfulness.
'Yes,' she murmured, 'I am sure of it.'
'And I suppose ... I suppose we must do it. You and I, Brenda?'
It was a wonderful thing how these two knew Alice Huston. Her faults were never mentioned between them. The infinite charity with which each looked upon these faults was a mutual possession, unhinted at, half concealed. Brenda knew quite well what was written between the lines of his outspoken supposition, and replied to his unasked question with simple diplomacy.
'Yes—wemust do it.'
Trist moved a little. He turned sideways, and glanced out of the window. His attitude was that of a man whose hands were in his pockets, but he was more than half a soldier—a creature morally and literally without pockets—and his hands hung at his sides.
'It is a ... a pretty strong combination.'
She smiled, and changed colour so slightly that he no doubt failed to see it.
'Yes,' she answered cheerfully. 'It succeeded once before. But Mrs. Wylie is not quite herself yet, Theo! That is why I don't want her to have any trouble in this matter. We have no right to seek her aid.'
The last words might easily have passed unheeded, but Brenda felt, even as she spoke them, that they contained another meaning; moreover, she recognised by his sudden silence that Trist was wondering whether this second suggestion had been intended. Uneasily she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking down at her gravely, and for some seconds their glances met.
If an excuse to seek Mrs. Wylie's assistance was hard to find, much more so was it open to question respecting Trist's spontaneous help. Why should he offer it? By what right could she accept it? And while they looked into each other's eyes, these two wondered over those small questions. There was a reason—the best reason of all—namely, that the offer was as spontaneous and natural as the acceptance of it. But why—why this spontaneity? Perhaps they both knew. Perhaps she suspected, and suspected wrongly. Perhaps neither knew definitely.
At last she turned her head, and naturally her glance was directed downwards into Piccadilly.
'There they are,' she whispered hurriedly, 'looking into the jeweller's shop opposite. What are we to do, Theo?'
He almost forestalled her question, so rapid was his answer. There was no hesitation, no shirking of responsibility. She had simply asked him, and simply he replied.
'Go,' he said, 'and throw some things into a bag. I will stay here and watch him. When the bag is ready, leave it in the passage and come back here. I will take it, go down, and take her straight away.'
'Where?'
'I don't know,' he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.
There was a momentary hesitation on the girl's part. She perceived a terrible flaw in Trist's plan, and he divined her thoughts.
'It will be all right,' he whispered. 'No one knows that I am in England. I will telegraph to-night, and you can join her to-morrow. You ... can trust me, Brenda.'
There was a faint smile of confidence on her face as she turned away and hurried from the room.
Although her light footsteps were almost inaudible, the slightfrôlementof her dress seemed to rouse the stupefied man on the low chair near the fire. Perhaps there was in the rhythm of her movements some subtle resemblance to the movements of his wife. He raised his head and appeared to listen in an apathetic way, but presently his chin dropped heavily again upon his breast, and the dull eyes lost all light of intelligence.
Trist turned away and looked out of the window. The two ladies were still lingering near the jeweller's shop. Alice Huston appeared to be pointing out to her companion some specially attractive ornament, and Mrs. Wylie was obeying with a patient smile.
The war-correspondent smiled in a peculiar way, which might well have expressed some bitterness, had he been the sort of man to speak or think bitterly of anyone. The whole picture was so absurdly characteristic, even to the small details—such as Mrs. Wylie's good-natured patience, scarce concealing her utter lack of interest in the jewellery, and Alice Huston's eyes glittering with reflex of the cold gleam of diamonds; for there is a light that comes into the eyes of some women at the mere mention of precious stones.
While he was watching them the ladies turned and crossed the street, coming towards him. He stepped back from the window in case one of them should raise her eyes, and at the same moment Brenda entered the room.
She glanced towards Huston, who was rousing himself from the torpor which had followed his maltreatment at Trist's hands, and which was doubtless partly due to the drink-sodden condition of his mind and body.
'All I want,' whispered the war-correspondent, following her glance, 'is three minutes' start from that man.'
'You had better go!' she answered anxiously below her breath.
'Yes; they are on the stairs ... but ... tell me, Brenda, promise me on your honour, that he did not hurt you.'
'I promise you,' she said, with a faint smile.
Then he left her.
As Mrs. Wylie made her way slowly and peacefully up the broad stairs, she suddenly found herself face to face with the man whom she had last seen in the still Arctic dawn, bearing the body of her dead husband down over the rocks towards her. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but nothing more. The next instant she was holding out her gloved hand to greet him. But even she—practised, gifted woman of the world as she was—could not meet him with a smile. In gravity they had parted, gravely they now met again. He was not quite the same as other men to Mrs. Wylie, for there was the remembrance of an indefinite semi-bantering agreement made months before, while the sunshine of life seemed to be glowing round them both—an agreement that they should not be mere acquaintances, mere friends (although the friendship existing between an elderly woman and a young man is not of the ordinary, practical, every-day type—there is a suggestion of something more in it), and Trist had fulfilled the promise then given.
He had taken her quite unawares, with that noiseless footstep of his which we noticed before, and the colour left her face for a moment.
'You!' she exclaimed; 'I did not expect you.'
As he took her hand his all-seeing gaze detected a slight indication of anxiety, and he knew that his presence was not at that moment desired by Mrs. Wylie. Due credit is not always given to us men for the possession of eyes. Our womenfolk are apt to forget that we move just as much as they, and in most cases infinitely more in the world, and among the world's shoals and quicksands. We may not be so quick at reading superficial indications as our mothers, sisters, or wives; but I think many of us (while keeping vanity in bounds) are much more capable of perceiving when our presence is desired or distasteful than is usually supposed. There are some of us, methinks, who, if chivalry failed to withhold our tongues, could tell of very decided preferences shown, and shown unsought; of glances, and even words, advanced to guide us whither the water runs smoothly. And let us hope that if such have been the case, we turn to the rougher channel we love better, without a smile of self-conceit.
Twice within the last hour Theodore Trist had perceived that there was a reason why those who held Alice Huston dearest should desire that he avoided meeting her. What this reason was her own husband had unwittingly told him; confirming brutally what he had read in Brenda's unconsciously expressive face a few moments before. And yet, in face of this undoubted knowledge, he seemed deliberately to court the danger that the two women feared, and sought to avert.
He was not a man to be blinded by a false impression. Nor was he one of those who act impulsively. His mind was of too practical, too steady, and too concentrated a type to be suddenly conquered by a mere prompting of the heart. At this juncture of his life he acted coolly and with foresight. Of Alice Huston he knew enough to feel quite sure of his mastery over her. If she loved him (which supposition had been thrown in his face many times since the evening when he had first been called upon to give assistance to those who stood in Captain Huston's little cabin), he did not appear in the least afraid of his own capability of killing that love.
He turned from Mrs. Wylie and greeted the younger woman, who followed her, with a self-possessed smile; and from his manner even Mrs. Wylie could gather nothing, and she was no mean reader of human faces. She glanced at them as they stood together on the stairs and asked herself a question:
'What part is he playing, that of a scoundrel or a fool?'
She could not conceive a third alternative just then, because she did not know Alice Huston so well as Theo Trist knew her.
Before Mrs. Huston, who was blushing very prettily, had time to speak, Trist imparted his news with a certain rapid bluntness.
'Your husband is upstairs,' he said. 'Brenda will keep him in the drawing-room for a few minutes. I have a bag here with some necessaries for you. Will you come with me, or will you go upstairs to your husband?'
'Will ... I ... go with you?' stammered the beautiful woman in a frightened whisper. 'Where to, Theo?'
Mrs. Wylie leant against the broad balustrade and breathed rapidly. She was really alarmed, but even fear could not conquer her indomitable placidity.
'I will conduct you to a safe hiding-place to-night, and Brenda will join you to-morrow morning,' said Trist in a tone full of concentrated energy, though his eyes never lighted up. 'Be quick and decide, because Brenda is alone upstairs with ... him.'
Mrs. Wylie's eyebrows moved imperceptibly beneath her veil. She thought she saw light.
Mrs. Huston played nervously with a tassel that was hanging from her dainty muff for the space of a moment; then she raised her eyes, not to Trist's face, but to Mrs. Wylie's. Instantly she lowered them again.
'I will go with you!' she said, almost inaudibly, and stood blushing like a schoolgirl between two lovers.
Mrs. Wylie raised her head, sniffing danger like an old hen when she hears the swoop of long wings above the chicken-yard. Her eyes turned from Alice Huston's face, with a slow impatience almost amounting to contempt, and rested upon Theodore Trist's meek orbs, raised to meet hers meaningly. Then somehow her honest tongue found itself tied, and she said nothing at all. The flood of angry words subsided suddenly from her lips, and she waited for the further commands of this soft-spoken, soft-stepping, soft-glancing man, with unquestioning obedience.
He moved slightly, looked down at the bag in his hand, and then glanced comprehensively from the top of Mrs. Huston's smart bonnet to the sole of her small shoe. He could not quite lay aside the old campaigner, and the beautiful woman was moved by a strange suspicion that this young man was not admiring her person, but considering whether her attire were fit for a long journey on a November evening.
'Come, then!' he said.
Still Mrs. Huston hesitated.
Suddenly she appeared to make up her mind, for she went up two steps and kissed Mrs. Wylie with hysterical warmth. This demonstration seemed to recall Trist to a due sense of social formula. He returned, and shook hands gravely with the widow.
'Go to Brenda!' he whispered, and the matron bowed her head.
Again she raised her eyebrows, and there was a flicker of light in her eyes like that which gleams momentarily when a person is on the brink of a great discovery.
The next minute she was running upstairs, while the footsteps of the two fugitives died away in the roar of traffic.
'Theo,' she said to herself, while awaiting an answer to her summons at her own door, 'must be of a very confiding nature. He expects such utter and suchblindfaith at the hands of others.'
The maid who opened the door was all eagerness to impart to her mistress certain vague details and incomprehensible sounds which had reached her curious ears. She had a thrilling tale of how Captain Huston, 'lookin' that funny about the eyes,' had rung loudly and pushed roughly through the open door; how there had been loud words in the drawing-room, and then a noise like 'movin' a pianer'; how a silence had followed, and, finally, how Mr. Trist (and not Captain Huston, as might have been expected) had left just a minute ago. But the evening milkman was destined, after all, to receive the first and unabridged account of these events. Mrs. Wylie merely said, 'That will do, Mary,' in her unruffled way, and passed on.
She entered the drawing-room, and found Brenda standing near the window, with one hand clasping the folds of the curtain.
Captain Huston was sitting on a low chair beside the fire, weeping gently. His bibulous sobs were the only sound that broke an unpleasant silence. Brenda was engaged in adding to her experiences of men and their ways a further illustration tending towards contempt. Her eyes were dull with pain, but she carried her small head with the usual demure serenity which was naught else but the outcome of a sweet, maidenly pride, as she advanced towards Mrs. Wylie.
'He is quite gentle and tractable now!' she whispered.
Mrs. Wylie took her hand within her fingers, clasping it with a soft protecting strength.
'Is he ... tipsy?'
'No!' answered Brenda, with a peculiar catch in her breath; 'he is only stupefied.'
'Stupefied ... how?'
'I ... I will tell you afterwards.'
The quick-witted matron had already discovered that some of her furniture was slightly displaced, so she did not press her question.
At this moment Captain Huston rose to his feet, and took up a position on the hearthrug.
'I do not know,' he said, with concentrated calmness, 'whether the law has anything to say against people who harbour runaway wives; but, at all events, society will have an opinion on the subject.'
He ignored the fact that he had in no way greeted Mrs. Wylie, addressing his remarks to both ladies impartially. By both alike his attack was received in silence.
'I will find her,' he continued. 'You need have no false hopes on that score. All the Theodore Trists in the world (which is saying much—for scoundrels are common enough) will not be able to hide her for long!'
Mrs. Wylie still held Brenda's hand within her own. At the mention of Trist's name there was an involuntary contraction of the white fingers, and the widow suddenly determined to act.
'Captain Huston,' she said gravely, 'when you are calmer, if you wish to talk of this matter again, Brenda and I will be at your service. At present I am convinced that it is better for your wife to keep away from you—though I shall be the first to welcome a reconciliation.'
He shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly to the door. It was Brenda who rang the bell. Captain Huston passed out of the room without another word.
It would almost seem that the ingenuous Mary anticipated the call, for she was waiting in the passage to show Captain Huston out. She returned almost at once to the drawing-room, with a view (cloaked beneath a prepared question respecting tea) of satisfying her curiosity regarding the sound which had suggested the moving of a 'pianer.' But there was no sign of disorder; everything was in its place, and Brenda was standing idly near the mantelpiece.
'We will take tea at once, Mary,' said Mrs. Wylie, unloosening her bonnet-strings.
Mary was forced to retire, meditating as she went over the inscrutability and coldness of the ordinary British lady.
'Ah!' sighed Mrs. Wylie, when the door was closed. 'Now tell me, Brenda! What has happened? Did these two men meet here? I am quite in the dark, and have a sort of dazed feeling, as if I had been reading Carlyle at the French plays, and had got them mixed up.'
'Theo came first,' answered Brenda, 'to warn us that Captain Huston had come home in the same steamer as himself, without, however, recognising him. While we were talking, the other came in. He did not see Theo, who was behind the door...'
'I suppose he was tipsy?'
'No; he was quite sober. He looked horrible. His eyes were bloodshot—his lips unsteady...'
Mrs. Wylie stopped the description with a sharp, painful nod of her head. To our shame be it, my brothers, she knew the rest!
'Was he quite clear and coherent?'
'Yes!'
'But ... just now...' argued Mrs. Wylie, vainly endeavouring to make Brenda resume the narrative—'just now he was quite stupid?'
'Yes.'
'What happened, Brenda?'
At this moment Mary brought in the tea and set it briskly down on a small table. Brenda stepped forward, and began pouring out.
'What happened, Brenda?' repeated Mrs. Wylie, when the door was closed.
Then she approached, took the teapot from her hand, and by gentle force turned the motherless girl's face towards herself.
'My darling,' she whispered, drawing the slim form to her breast, 'why should you hide your tears fromme?'
I have endeavoured to make it clear that this girl was not an emotional being. There were no hysterical sobs—merely a few silent tears, and the narrative was continued.
'He came in, and asked me to tell him where Alice was. I refused, and then...'
'Then...?'
'He tried to hit me.'
'Tried ... Brenda?'
'Well ... he just reached me.'
'And ... Theo?' asked Mrs. Wylie. 'What did Theo do?'
There was a short pause, during which both ladies attended to their cups with an unnatural interest.
'I have never seen him like that before,' murmured the girl at length. 'I did not know that men were ever like that. It was ... rather terrible ... almost suggestive of some wild animal. He knocked him down and ... and kicked him round the room like a dog!'
'My poor darling,' whispered Mrs. Wylie. 'I ought never to have left you here alone. We might have guessed that that man Huston would be home soon. Did he hurt you, Brenda?'
'No; he frightened me a little, that was all.'
'I am very glad you had Theo!' Mrs. Wylie purposely turned away as she said these words.
Brenda sipped her tea, and made no reply.
It had been twilight when Mrs. Wylie returned home, and now it was almost dark. The two ladies sat in the warm firelight, with their feet upon the fender. Tea laid aside, they continued sitting there while the flames leapt and fell again, glowing on their thoughtful faces, gleaming on the simple jewellery at their throats. From the restless streets came a dull, continuous roar as of the sea. I hear it now as I write, and would fain lay aside the pen and wonder over it; for it rises and falls, swells and dies again, with a long, slow, mournful rhythm full of life, and yet joyless; soporific, and yet alive with movement. There is no sound on earth like it except the hopeless song of breaking waves. Both alike steal upon the senses with an indefinable suggestion of duration, almost amounting to a glimmer of what is called eternity. Both alike reach the heart with a subtle, undeniable lovableness. Londoners and sailors cannot resist its music, for both return to it in their age, whithersoever they may have wandered.
Mrs. Wylie it was who moved at last, rising with characteristic determination, as if the pastime of thought were a vice not wisely encouraged. She stood before Brenda in her widow's weeds, looking down through the dim light with a faint smile.
'Come,' she said; 'we must get ready for dinner. Remember that Mrs. Hicks is going to call for you at eight o'clock to take you to that Ancient Artists' Guild soirée. I should put on a white dress if I were you, and violets. The gifted William Hicks, whom we met in the Park this afternoon, asked what flowers he should bring, and I suggested violets.'
Brenda laughed suddenly, but her hilarity finished in a peculiar, abrupt way.
'Telle est la vie!' she murmured, as she rose obediently. 'What a labour this enjoyment sometimes is!'
'Wot's this—runaway couple?' asked a pallid and slipshod waiter of his equally-unwholesome colleague in the dining-room attached to a large City railway-station.
'D'no,' answered the second, with weary indifference; 'we don't offen seethatsort down 'ere.'
'There's a sort,' continued the first attendant, pulling down his soup-stained waistcoat, 'o' haristocratic simplicity about them and their wants as pleases my poetic and 'igh-born soul.'
'Indeed,' yawned the other with withering sarcasm.
'Yes, indeed!'
The sarcasm was treated with noble scorn by its victim, who was called away at that moment by a bumping sound within the lift-cupboard.
In the meantime Trist and Alice Huston were turning their attention to dinner.
The novelty of the situation pleased the lady vastly. There was a spice of danger coupled with a sense of real security imparted by the presence of her calm and resourceful companion which she appreciated thoroughly. For Trist there was, however, less enjoyment in the sense of novelty. A war-correspondent is a man to whom few situations are, strictly speaking, novel, and it is, or should be, his chief study to acquire the virtue of adaptability, and never to allow himself to be carried away by the forces of environment.
His sense of chivalry was too strong to allow the merest suggestion of weariness, but in his inmost heart there was a vague uneasiness at the thought that there was still an hour before the train for the east coast left, not the station where they were at present, but one near at hand. He knew that to the fugitive every moment is of immeasurable value, but for the time being he feared no pursuit. His measures had been too carefully taken for that, and all the private detectives in London could not approach this impenetrable strategist in cunning or foresight.
Only an hour had passed since he and Alice Huston had met on the stairs of Suffolk Mansions, and since then the excellent construction of a London cab and the justly-praised smoothness of London roadways had effectually put a stop to any conversation of a connected or confidential nature.
At first Alice had been too frightened to resent this, and subsequently the manner of her companion, which was at once reassuring and repelling, had checked her efforts. Now the pallid waiters were almost within earshot, and Theodore Trist, who concealed a keen power of observation beneath a demeanour at times aggravatingly stolid, was fully aware that they were interested, and consequently inquisitive. The result of this knowledge was a singular lack of the ordinary outward signs of mystery. He spoke in rather louder tones than was his wont, told one or two amusing anecdotes, and laughed at them himself, while Mrs. Huston unconsciously aided him by smiling in a slightly weary way. This last conjugal touch of human nature went far to convince the waiter that the two were after all nothing more interesting than husband and wife.
'Theo, I have somuchto tell you,' whispered Mrs. Huston once when the waiter was exchanging civilities with the cook's assistant down a speaking-tube.
'Yes,' replied Trist, interested in his bread; 'wait until we are in the train.'
'Where are we going?'
'I will tell you afterwards; these fellows might hear. Will you have wine? What shall it be, something light—say Niersteiner?'
He softened his apparent brusqueness with a smile, and she blushed promptly, which was an unnecessary proceeding. Trist's sang-froid was phenomenal.
By a simple subterfuge, of which he was almost ashamed, he had obtained tickets to a small east-coast watering-place without leaving any trace whatever, and at seven o'clock they left Liverpool Street Station, in the same compartment, without having allowed the railway officials to perceive that they were acquainted. There were but few first-class passengers in the train, and they were alone in the compartment. The light provided was not a brilliant specimen of its kind; reading or pretending to read was out of the question. There was nothing to do but talk, so Trist gave himself over to the tender mercies of his companion, and for the time vouchsafed his entire attention to the details of a story too common and too miserable to recapitulate here. Probably you, who may turn these pages, know the story; if not, an old traveller takes the liberty of wishing that you never may.
'And,' said Mrs. Huston between half-suppressed sobs, when the tale was told, 'I simply could not stand it any longer, so I came home. I ... Ihoped, Theo, to find you in England, and when Brenda told me that you were in the East, busy with some horrid war, it was the last straw. I wonder why people want to fight at all. Why can't the world live in peace?'
Trist tugged pensively at the arm-rest, and looked out into the darkness without replying. He did not seem at that moment prepared to answer the extremely pertinent and relevant question propounded. If Mrs. Huston had expected a proper show of masculine emotion, she must have been slightly disappointed; for during no part of her narrative had the incongruous face opposite to her, beneath the ludicrous lamp, displayed aught else than a most careful and intelligent attention. What she required was sympathy, not attention. Her story was not calculated to withstand too close a study. Being in itself emotional, it was eminently dependent upon an emotional reception; it was, in fact, a woman's narrative, fit for relation by a peaceful fireside, in the hush of twilight, on the top (so to speak) of tea and muffins, and to a woman's ear. Retailed to a hard practical man of the world in a noisy train, where the more pathetic vocal inflections were inaudible; after dinner, and while narrator and listener wore thick wraps and gloves, it lost weight most lamentably. She ought to have thought of these trifles, which, however, are no trifles. You, dear madam, know better than to attempt to soften your husband's stony heart when he is protected by gloves, or boots, or top-coat. Ah! these little things make a mighty difference.
Trist was an ardent follower of that school of philosophy which seeks to ignore the emotions. By means of cold suppression he would fain have wiped all passions out of human nature, and, having moved amidst bloodshed and among men engaged in bloodshed, he had learnt that our deepest feelings are, after all, mere matters of habit. From the Eastern lands he knew so well, it is probable that he had brought back some reflection of that strange Oriental apathy of life which is incomprehensible to our more highly-strung Western intellects.
When Mrs. Huston pushed her dainty veil recklessly up over the front of her bonnet, and made no pretence of hiding the tears that rendered her lovely face almost angelic in its pathos, Trist made no further acknowledgment of emotion than a momentary contraction of the eyelids. He continued tugging pensively at the leather arm-rest, while his eyes only strayed at times from the flashing lights of peaceful village or quiet town to the beautiful form crouching against the sombre cushions opposite to him.
'Oh why ... did you ever let me marry him?' sobbed Alice miserably.
He glanced at her with a peculiar twist of his lips, downwards, to one side. Then he shrugged his shoulders very slightly.
'I? ... What had I to do with it, Alice?'
There was something in his voice, a certain dull concentration, which had the singular effect of checking her sobs almost instantaneously, although her breast heaved convulsively at short intervals, like the swell that follows a storm at sea, long after the rage has subsided.
She touched her eyes prettily with a diminutive handkerchief, and made an effort to recover her serenity, smoothing a wrinkle out of the front of her dress.
'Well,' she sighed, 'I suppose you had as much influence over me as anybody. And ... and you never liked him, Theo. I could see that, and lately the recollection of it has come back to me more vividly.'
'You forget that I was in China at the time of your engagement. My influence could not have been very effective at such a range—even if I had taken it upon myself to exert it, which would have been an unwarrantable liberty.'
'I was so young,' she pleaded, 'and so inexperienced.'
'Twenty-two,' he observed reflectively; 'and you had your choice, I suppose, of all the best men in London.'
In some vague way Mrs. Huston's eyes conveyed a contradiction to this statement, although her lips never moved. A man less dense than this war-correspondent appeared to be would have understood readily enough what that glance really signified.
'I hope,' he continued imperturbably, 'that this misunderstanding is only temporary...'
She laughed bitterly, and examined the texture of her lace handkerchief with a gracefully impatient poise of the head.
'Huston ... loves you.'
'Andyou,' she answered pertly, 'hate him! Why? Tell me why, Theo.'
'I hate no one in the world,' he answered. 'Not on principle, but because I have met no one as yet whom I could hate. There has invariably been some redeeming point.'
'And what is my husband's redeeming point?'
'His love for you,' answered Trist promptly, and with such calm assurance that his companion evacuated her false position at once, and returned to her original line of argument.
'I only had Brenda,' she murmured sorrowfully; 'and she is like you. She listens and listens and listens, but never gives any real advice.'
'If she had, would you have taken it?' suggested Trist.
The graceful shoulders moved interrogatively and indifferently.
'I suppose not.'
During the silence that followed, Trist looked at his watch, openly and without disguise. The journey, which was a short one, was almost half accomplished, and the train was now running at a breakneck pace through the level Suffolk meadows. Hardly a light was visible over all the silent land. There were no tunnels and no bridges, consequently the sounds of travel were reduced to a minimum. It is the petty local trains that make the most noise; the great purposeful expresses run almost in silence. In this, my brothers, I think we resemble trains in some degree. There are those among us who make little way upon Life's iron track with a great noise; and those who travel far are silent.
'I don't believe you care a fig what becomes of me!' said Mrs. Huston at length in a reckless way.
He looked at her with a slow grave smile, but made no other answer.
'Do you?' she asked coquettishly.
He was quite grave now, and her breathing became slightly accelerated.
'Yes!' quite simply.
Presently Trist roused himself, as if from unpleasant reflections, and began talking about the future.
'I should like to know,' he said, 'exactly what you think of doing, because I have not much time. At any moment Russia may declare war against Turkey, and I shall have to go at once.'
'If Russia declares war, I shall kill myself, I think.'
He laughed, and changed his position, drawing in his feet, and leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.
'No,' he said with genial energy, 'I would not do that, if I were you. If I may be allowed to make a suggestion, it seems to me that you will do well to come to a distinct understanding with Huston, either through the mediation of Mrs. Wylie or by letter. You cannot go on long like this.'
'What sort of understanding?' she inquired, with that nonchalant impatience of detail which seems to be the special prerogative of beautiful women.
'Ask him to give you three months to think over matters; at the expiration of that time you can have an interview with him, and come to some definite agreement respecting the future.'
She sighed, and leant back wearily, looking at him in a curious, snake-like way beneath her lowered lids.
'Three months will make no difference.'
'Nevertheless ... try it.'
'I want,' she said in a dull voice, '... a divorce!'
For a moment a veil seemed to have been lifted from his eyes; all meekness vanished, and the glance was keen, far-sighted, almost cruel.
'You cannot get that, Alice. It is impossible!'
She turned her face quite away from him and looked out of the window, jerking the arm-rest nervously. Her breath clouded the glass. She murmured something inaudible.
'Eh?' he inquired.
'I could make it possible,' she said jerkily, and her voice died away in a sickening little laugh.
For some moments there was a horrible silence, and then Theo Trist spoke in a strange, thick voice, quite unlike his own.
'Alice,' he said, 'do you ever think of Brenda? Do you ever think ofanyonebut yourself?'
The words came as a cold and chilling surprise to Mrs. Huston, and she began slowly to realize that she had met with something which was entirely new to her. She had come in contact with a man upon whom the effect of her beauty was of no account. Her powers of fascination seemed suddenly to have left her, and across her mind there flashed a gleam of that unpleasant light by the aid of which we are at times enabled to see ourselves as others see us. It was only natural and womanlike that she should resent the shedding of this light, and visit her resentment, not upon the disclosure made by it, but on the illuminator of the unpleasant scene.
'Oh,' she muttered angrily, 'you are all against me! No one cares for me; no one makes allowances.'
Trist smiled in a slow, strong way which was infinitely pathetic.
'No,' he said, 'no one makes allowances; you must never expect that.'
Then Mrs. Huston's tears began to flow again, and the self-contained man opposite to her sat with white bloodless lips and contracted eyes staring into the blackness of the night.
The soirée of the Ancient Artists' Guild was in the full flow of its success. There had been some excellent music, and the programme promised more. The brilliancy of the attendance was equal to the highest hopes of the most ambitious committee. Long hair and strange dresses vouched for the presence of self-conscious intellect; small receding foreheads, hopeless mouths, and fair but painted faces, announced the presence of that shade of aristocracy which prefers to patronize.
William Hicks was not on the committee of the Ancient Artists, but he moved about from group to group, dispensed ices, and exchanged artistic jargon with a greater grace than was at the command of that entire august body. By some subtle means, peculiarly his own, he managed to convey to many the erroneous idea that he was in some indefinite way connected with the obvious success of this soirée; and several stout ladies went so far as to thank him, later on, for a pleasant evening, which gratitude he graciously and deprecatingly disowned in such a way as to make it appear his due. The pleasant evening had been in most cases spent between a nervous concern as to the effect produced by personal and filial adornment, and an ill-disguised contempt for common women who flaunt titles and diamonds (both uncoveted) in the faces of their superiors, possessing neither. But we men cannot be expected to understand those things.
Chiefly was William Hicks' devotion laid at Brenda's feet. For her was reserved his sweetest smile, just tempered with that suggestion of poetic pathos which he knew well how to sprinkle over his mirth. To her ear was retailed the very latest witticism, culled from the brain of some other man, and skilfully reproduced, not as a cutting, but as a modest seedling. To her side he returned most often, and over her chair stooped most markedly.
It has been hinted already that Hicks, with all his talents and mental gifts, was not an observant man. In certain small diplomacies of social life he was no match for the quiet-faced girl whom he was pleased to honour this evening with his conspicuous attention.
She was miserably anxious, but she hid it from him; and he talked on, quite ignorant of the fact that she was in no manner heeding his words. Her quick, acquired smile was ready enough; when an answer was required, she was equal to the occasion. Ah! these social agonies! There is a sort of pride in enduring them with cheerful stoicism.
'I am glad,' murmured Hicks, with a deprecating smile, 'that my mother succeeded in dragging you here. It is a sort of intellectual treat for me. We painters are so incurably shoppy in our talk, that it is really a relief to have you at my mercy—so to speak. This is a success, is it not? There are a great many celebrities in the room.'
'Indeed?'
'Yes; and I always feel a slight difference in the atmosphere when there is someone present with a name one likes to hear.'
He looked round the room with glistening eye and delicate nostrils slightly distended, as if sniffing his native atmosphere of Fame.
'One can generally recognise a celebrated man or woman, I think,' he continued. 'There is an indefinite feeling of power—a strength of individuality which seems to hover round them like an invisible halo.'
'Ye-es,' murmured Brenda vaguely. A moment later she was conscious of having looked round the room as if in search of halos, and wondered uncomfortably whether her companion had seen the movement.
Then a stout lady, with a very dark complexion, suddenly raised an exquisite voice, and a complete silence acknowledged its power instantaneously. It was a quaint old song, with words that might have had no meaning whatever, beyond trite regrets for days that could never come again, had they been sung with less feeling—less true human sympathy.
Brenda literally writhed beneath the flood of harmony. She tried not to listen—tried vainly to look round her and think cynical thoughts about the hollow shams of society, but some specially deep and tender note would reach her heart, despite the wall of worldliness that she had built around it. It would seem that that stout cheery woman could see through the smiles, through the affected masks, and penetrate to the heart, which is never quite safe from the sudden onslaught of youthful memories surviving still, youthful hopes since crushed, and youthful weaknesses never healed.
Brenda looked round the room with a semi-interested little smile (such as we see in church sometimes when a preacher has got well hold of his audience), and suddenly her face grew white, her breath seemed to catch, and for some seconds there was no motion of her throat or bosom. Respiration seemed to be arrested. With an effort she recovered herself, and a great sigh of relief filled her breast.
Among a number of men beneath the curtained doorway she had recognised an upright sturdy form, beside which the narrower shoulders and sunken chests of poetic and artistic celebrities seemed to shrink into insignificance. The way in which this man carried his head distinguished him at once from those around him. He was of quite a different stamp from his companions, most of whom depended upon some peculiarity of dress or hair to distinguish them from the very ordinary ruck of young men.
Across that vast room Trist's eyes met Brenda's, and although his calm face changed in no way, betrayed by no slightest tremor that he had come with the wild hope of meeting her, his lips moved.
'Thank God, I have done it!' he muttered, beneath the whirl of polite applause that greeted the stout lady's elephantine bow.
At the other end of the room Hicks noticed with some surprise that Brenda drew her watch from her belt, and consulted it with particular attention. She was counting the number of hours since she had last seen Theodore Trist, with signs of travel still visible on his dress and person, just starting off on a new journey, without rest or respite. It was now midnight. She had never thought that he would return the same night—in fact, she was sure that he had not intended to do so. And here he was—calm, thoughtful, almost too cool as usual, without sign of fatigue or suggestion of hurry. His dress was faultless, his appearance and demeanour politely indifferent.
'I hope,' said Hicks meaningly, 'that you are not growing weary. It is early yet.'
He looked round the room, with a pleasant nod for an acquaintance here and there whom he had not seen before.
'Oh no,' said Brenda lightly in reply. 'I just happened to wonder what the time might be. I hope it was not rude.'
He laughed forgivingly, still looking about him.
'Ah!' he exclaimed in an altered tone. 'Is that not Trist? Dear old Theo Trist!'
'Yes.'
Brenda had apparently followed the direction indicated by her companion's gaze, and was now looking towards the new-comer with an inimitable little smile which completely quashed all attempts to divine whether she were surprised, or pleased, or politely interested.
Trist was making his way slowly across the room, exchanging greetings here and there. Brenda, in her keen observant way, conceived a sudden idea that his manner was not quite natural. Although of a kindly spirit, Trist was not a genial man with a smile full of affection for the merest acquaintance; and the girl, in some vague way, felt that he was shaking hands with men and women who were profoundly indifferent to him. Indeed, he seemed to go out of his way to do so.
'When did you get home?' she heard someone ask him; and the reply was delivered in clear tones, audible at a greater distance than Trist's voice usually was, as if with intention.
'This afternoon,' he said. 'Only this afternoon. I landed at Plymouth this morning.'
The next moment he was standing before her with his brown face bowed, his hand extended.
'You see, Brenda,' he said, 'I have turned up again. A veritable dove without the leaf in my mouth. I am an emblem of peace.'
Instinctively, and without knowing her motive, she answered in the same way, conscious that it was his wish.
'I am very glad to see you back,' she said.
Then he turned to Hicks, and shook hands with more warmth than that ethereal being had expected.
'You see, Hicks,' he said, 'I cannot resist flying at once to pay my respects at the shrine of Art—only arrived in London this afternoon, and here I am in full war-paint, with a flower in my coat and my heart in my eyes. What pictures have I to admire? You may as well tell me.'
Hicks laughed in his semi-sad way, and mentioned a few pictures of note, which were carefully remembered by his hearer. Then Trist turned to Brenda and offered her his arm.
'Will you come,' he said, 'and have some tea or an ice, or something?'
Brenda appeared to hesitate for a moment, then gave in with that reluctant alacrity which is to be observed when a lady is making a sacrifice of her own inclination.
As they moved away together through the crowded room there was a sudden hush, and succeeding it a louder buzz of expectant conversation. Trist looked over the heads of the people towards the little flower-bedecked platform at the end of the room.
'Ah!' he said; 'Crozier is going to sing. Shall we wait? It is a pity to miss Sam Crozier.'
Nevertheless he made no attempt to stop, and they passed through the doorway into a smaller gallery, which was almost deserted.
'I am in luck to-night; everything I have attempted has been a success. So we shall probably find the refreshment-room empty.'
She laughed in a nervous way, and her touch upon his arm wavered.
'We must run the risk,' he continued, 'of being talked about; but I must see you alone for a few minutes. It is strange, Brenda, that we are always getting into hot water together.'
'Oh!' she said indifferently, 'the risk is not very great. People do not talk much about me. Alice possesses that unfortunate monopoly in our family.'
'That is why I must see you.'
'Yes, ... I know.'
They had passed through the smaller room and out of it into a brilliant corridor, whence a broad flight of stairs led up to the refreshment-room.
'There is a sofa half-way up the stairs,' said Trist. 'It is a good position, quite out of earshot, and very visible—therefore harmless; let us occupy it!'
When they were seated, Brenda leant back with that air of grave attention which was peculiarly hers, and which, I venture to think, is rarely met with in women.
'When,' said Trist in a smooth and even tone, 'I got back to town, I figuratively tore my hair, and said to myself: "Where shall I find Brenda—where shall I find Brenda to-night?" I took a hansom back to my rooms, changed, and then drove to Suffolk Mansions. Mrs. Wylie told me where you were; I gave chase, and ... and I caught you.'
The girl turned her face slightly, and her childlike blue eyes sought his with a quaint air of scrutiny.
'When,' she said, 'you left Suffolk Mansions this afternoon with Alice, you had no intention of returning to London to-night.'
There was no mistaking the deliberation of her assertion. She was defying him—daring him to deny.
He met her glance for a moment—no longer.
'That,' he confessed airily, after a pause, 'is so!'
'And,' continued the girl with more confidence, 'since that time your views respecting Alice have become modified or changed in some way, perhaps?'
He moved with some uneasiness, and appeared particularly wishful to avoid encountering her frank gaze. He clasped his two hands around his raised knee, and stared at the carpet with a non-committing silence which was almost Oriental in its density.
'Brenda,' he whispered at length, 'I have had an awful scare!'
She drew in a deep breath with a little shivering sound, and moistened her lips—first the lower, and then the upper. There was a momentary gleam of short, pearly teeth, and the red Cupid's-bow of her mouth reassumed its usual contour of demure self-reliance.
There was a long pause, during which the faint echo of distant applause came to their ears.
'I wonder,' said the girl at length, 'how many men would have taken as much trouble as you have taken to-night for the sake of such a trifling affair as a woman's good name?'
A dull red colour slowly mounted over her white throat to her face—a painful blush of intense shame, which she was too proud to attempt to hide. The deliberation with which she spoke the words, and then held up her burning face that he might see, had he wished, was very characteristic.
Trist himself changed colour, and his firm lips opened as if he were about to reply hastily. He checked himself, however, and they sat through several painful moments without motion.
During that time their two souls merged, as it were, into a complete understanding—so entire, so perfect and faithful, that no spoken words could ever have brought its semblance into existence. He knew that his painful task was now finished, that Brenda now understood his reason for coming back to London at once. Moreover, he was aware that she had divined the cause of his sudden geniality on first arriving at the soirée, and there was no need to tell her that all London could now find out, if it pleased, that the war-correspondent, Theodore Trist, had arrived home from the East that afternoon, and was seen by many in the evening at a public place of entertainment.
But Brenda was not content with divination of motives. It was her evil habit to proceed to analysis, and in this pastime she made a mistake. Trist's motive in running away, as it were, from the dangerous proximity of a desperate and beautiful woman was clear; and although a large majority of men would, under the circumstances, have had the generosity to do the same, she was pleased to consider this act a most wondrous thing—her reason for doing so being that she was convinced that Trist loved her sister with all the cruel and taciturn strength of his nature. This was an utter mistake, and Theo Trist was unaware of its existence.
Ah! these little mistakes! We spend a small portion of our lives in making them, and the rest in trying to repair.
'Give me,' said Brenda, 'her address, and I will go to her to-morrow.'
'She is at the Castle Hotel, Burgh Ferry, Suffolk. There is a train from Liverpool Street Station leaving at ten o'clock to-morrow for Burgh Station, which is four miles from Burgh Ferry.'
'I have heard of the place,' said Brenda composedly. 'Have you been there and back this evening?'
'Yes. I just had time to install Alice comfortably in the hotel, which is really nothing more than an inn, and is the largest house in the village. I have a list for you—here it is—of things that Alice would like you to take to her to-morrow.'
Brenda took the paper and glanced at it rapidly.
'It is a long one,' she said with a short, hard laugh. 'Is she quite resigned to burying herself alive for a short time?'
'Ye—es.... I put things rather strongly. She has consented to communicate with her husband through Mrs. Wylie, with the view of coming to some sort of agreement.'
The girl drew a sharp breath of relief.
'There ... were ... a good many tears,' added Trist rather unevenly. 'I would suggest a good supply of books,' he said a moment later in a practical way. 'It is a dreadfully dull little place (which makes it safer), and too much thinking is hardly desirable at the present time.'
'It is questionable whether much thinking is profitable at any time.'
Trist looked at her in a curious, doubtful way, and then he rose from his seat.
'I will take you home now,' he said, 'if you are ready. It is nearly one o'clock.'
She rose a little wearily, and, lifting her gloved hand, skirmished deftly over her hair in order to make sure that it had not become deranged. He noted the curve of her white arm, and the quick play of her fingers, while he stood erect and motionless, waiting. No passing light of emotion was visible in his eyes, which possessed a strange, unreflective power of observation. That round white arm was looked upon as a beautiful thing, and nothing more. And she was a trifle weary. Her face betrayed no sign of mental or natural anxiety.