Theodore Trist had not over-estimated his powers in informing Brenda that he had some influence with the newspapers. The story of Captain Huston's sudden death never became public property; indeed, there was no mention made of the inquest. The result of an accident was all detail vouchsafed to the public. There was, by the way, some virtuous indignation expressed in the columns of a halfpenny weekly publication possessing a small circulation in the neighbourhood of the West India Dock Road. This just wrath was excited by the evident suppression of detail, and the scant courtesy with which their representative had been received by a gentleman—himself a journalist—who was closely connected with the disgraceful death of this British officer. In cheap type, upon a poor quality of paper, and in vile English, this self-constituted representative of the thirsting British public demanded further details. He expressed himself surprised that an enlightened nation should stand idly by while the aristocracy of the overburthened land deliberately plotted to screen its own debauched proceedings from public censure. The enlightened nation either failed to spend a halfpenny foolishly (thus neglecting its own interests), or it preferred to continue standing by. Moreover, the debauched aristocracy showed no signs of quailing beneath the lash of a relentless press. It is just possible, however, that they had neither seen the newspaper in question nor heard of its existence.
The demand for further details must have failed to reach the delinquents concerned. At all events, there was no reply, the error was never repaired, and theTimesfailed to take up the cudgels and fight for their common rights side by side with its powerful contemporary.
So Alfred Woodruff Charles Huston was laid, not with his own, but with the forefathers of someone else in Willesden Cemetery. Poor fellow! he came from a military stock, brave men and true, who had fought and drunk and finally deposited their bones in many parts of the globe. I am not by habit a sentimental person—moonlight over water, for instance, or the whisper of the pine-trees, has a certain quieting effect upon me, though it does not make me drivel; but I see the great silent pathos of our huge graveyards. If I never pitied Alfred Huston when he was alive, I pity him now in his narrow bed—one of many—an insignificant volume in God's book-shelf. Thus the Almighty is pleased to shelve us in rows. Sometimes He classifies us, and we are labelled with a title somewhat similar to that on the stones near at hand; but nowadays we stray away from the original corner of the library, and when the end comes we find ourselves among strangers. In some country churchyard it is sad enough to see a cluster of mouldering stones all bearing the same name, but infinitely more pathetic is it to wander through the serried ranks of the dead at Brookwood, Willesden, or Brompton. It is like a 'sundry' shelf, where all odd volumes are hastily thrust and soon forgotten; for poetry is side by side with commerce, fame elbows obscurity, youth lies by age. We scan the names, and find no connection. Truly these are among strangers—they sleep not with their fathers. And the shelves fill up, showing nought but titles. The books are closed, the tale is told, and so it moulders until the leaves shall flutter again beneath the searching finger of the Almighty. Sooner be buried in the common ditch beneath a weight of red-coated humanity than amidst these unknown thousands—sooner, a thousand times sooner, lie in patient solitude on untrodden rocks beneath the wave!
Alfred Huston's name is doubtless to be found in Willesden Cemetery to-day, though I do not know of anyone who will care to seek it. His wife caused it to be recorded in imperishable letters of lead, as if,mes frères, it had not as well been writ in water. It stands, moreover, in the State archives amidst a long record of heroes who drew their pay with remarkable regularity, and did little else. It was very good of her to go to the expense of those leaden letters, considering what an enormous number of mourning garments she was absolutely compelled to buy. The thought even is worthy of praise, because her mind was fully occupied with questions of crape and caps. Let us, therefore, give full credit to this widow who, in order to do more honour to her husband's memory, sent some of her dresses back four times to the milliners because the bodice would not fit.
One December morning three ladies dressed in black (two, indeed, wore widows' weeds) left Charing Cross Station for Paris. Mrs. Wylie, in her wisdom, had decreed a short banishment.
'Let us,' she said cheerily, the day after Captain Huston's semi-surreptitious funeral—'let us get away from all this fog and cold and misery. I want sunshine. Let us go south—Nice, Biarritz, Arcachon! Which shall it be?'
'We might,' suggested Alice Huston, 'stay a few days in Paris on the way.'
Brenda was reading, and before taking note of these remarks she finished a page, which she turned slowly, as one turns the page of a thoughtful book requiring slow perusal. She looked up at the clock upon the mantelpiece, and then her pensive gaze wandered towards Mrs. Wylie's face.
'Not the Riviera,' she said persuasively. 'It is like beef-tea when one is in rude health.'
'I must say,' observed Mrs. Wylie, after a pause, 'that I prefer the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.'
'Let us stay a little time in Paris first,' said Alice eagerly, 'and go on to Arcachon, or somewhere for Christmas. We might hear in Paris of nice people going South.'
The expression of the elder widow's face was not quite so sympathetic as might have been expected upon sentimental grounds.
'Why,' she inquired, with dangerous suavity, 'why are you so anxious to stay in Paris? It is no better than London in winter.'
Mrs. Huston shrugged her shoulders with childlike inconsequence. It was rather hard to expect her to have definite reasons ready for production.
'Oh, I don't know,' she answered. 'It would be a nice change. I think we would all find a place like Biarritz or Arcachon intolerably slow. We want taking out of ourselves.'
Mrs. Wylie nodded in a moderately sympathetic way. The three ladies knew that Theodore Trist was in Paris, and Mrs. Wylie, without looking in Brenda's direction, had seen a change come over the girl's face at the mention of the word. A singular change it was for so young a face—rather unpleasant, too, in its effect. For a moment her features appeared to contract, and a gray set look came into her eyes. This singular effect was slowly fading when Alice again mentioned Paris, and instantaneously the apathetic chill seemed to spread over Brenda's being again.
'I hate Paris in winter!' said Mrs. Wylie decisively. 'The wind is cutting, the streets are crowded with excited women carrying larger parcels, and more of them, than their limbs were intended to carry, and altogether it is horrible. We will stay one night if you like, but not more. In coming back we can stop perhaps. Besides ... Alice, I do not think it would do for you to be seen in Paris just now.'
Alice did not meet her friend's gaze. There was an unpleasant silence of some moments' duration, and then she murmured in a prettily petulant way:
'It is rather hard that I should be expected to bury myself alive.'
In this wise it was settled, and the three ladies passed through Paris without seeing aught of the cosmopolitan journalist, whose presence in the French capital was a matter of public discussion. Some papers even went so far as to refer to it as the immediate precursor of an outbreak of hostilities between France and Germany, and took the opportunity of reminding the citizens that every Frenchman thirsted for the gory cup of vengeance.
Mrs. Wylie was fully aware of the fact that had Theodore Trist so desired, he would have managed to see them somehow in passing; but she opined that he would not do so, and in this she was right. He actually knew that they were in Paris, but avoided them with an ease which showed his intimate acquaintance with the ways of the French capital.
Alice Huston made no attempt to disguise her contempt for Bordeaux, where a halt of one night was necessary, and arrived at mid-day at Arcachon with the full intention of disliking the place heartily. Personally, I have no interest in the town, not holding any shares in the Casino, nor claiming relationship with persons keeping hotels there; but it shall always be my honest endeavour to treat people and places alike with justice. There is no denying the fact that certain parts of the little French watering-place, more especially towards La Teste, are not savoury of odour; but Alice was hardly justified in the use of the word 'disgusting' in this respect. It happened to be blowing steadily from the westward, and, in consequence, the air was heavy with the distant continuous roar of Atlantic breakers surging on to the deserted shore across the Bassin.
'I know what that is,' said Alice impatiently on hearing it, which they did not fail to do as soon as they were out of the train; 'that is surf. It is the same as at Madras. Horrid! I never slept a wink.'
It was only to be heard during certain winds—a very rare direction of the wind, explained the hotel porter, who understood enough English to catch what was being said. He had explained only that morning to a sentimental English lady of uncertain age, who loved the sad song of the waves with all the gushing ardour of her poetic soul, that the said song was always there, floating in the air above the pines. Besides, knowing the times of the trains and the price of hired carriages, this man was by no means ignorant in the ways of sweet deception. He was a good hotel-porter, and could lie with conviction when he tried.
Imagine a fishing village shaken up in a huge box with a fashionable watering-place, and set down pell-mell at the edge of a large inlet of the sea, and you have Arcachon. Amidst the pines, on the slopes behind the town, are villas, where hypochondriacs live and imbibe the wondrous breath of the maritime pine. Oysters are cheap, and the air is invigorating. From the westward the wind blows directly across the broad Atlantic; from the east it sighs through trackless forests. Beyond that there is little to recommend this southern town, though some of us may think highly of such important adjuncts to human happiness as oysters and atmosphere.
A certain spasmodic sociability flickers through the small English colony, consisting, as most of our Continental colonies do, of military men and retired civil servants suffering either from slender purses or unsatisfactory lungs. Among these the advent of the three ladies caused a distinct flutter, and I have reason to believe that several dresses, and not a few bonnets, were subsequently rebuilt upon new and approved lines.
The flutter was scarcely reciprocal. Brenda was not at this period inclined to indiscriminate sociability. She was in a critical frame of mind, and the intellectual standard of the average Briton residing abroad will not bear criticism. Alice found the retired civil servants intolerably trivial and dull. The old soldiers were men of a bygone day when the army had not gone to the dogs, which departure seemed to date from the time of their several resignations.
Mrs. Wylie noted these things, and took them with her usual placid cheerfulness. She had not expected much, and was in nowise disappointed—the blessed privilege of pessimists. She looked upon the three weeks spent at Arcachon as an unpleasant interlude, necessary and unavoidable, and while there made herself as comfortable as circumstances allowed, according to her wont.
Thus Christmas with its forced festivity was tided over. I sometimes wonder why that happy season in each recurring year stands out upon the road of life like public-houses on the roads we tread here below. Wise men direct Jehu by the Spotted Dog or the Marquis of Granby, and I think most of us divide our journey into stages (some consciously, others without realizing it), marked and defined by the Christmas Day at the end of each. It is the 25th of December that stands clearly marked in my memory as having been passed in some outlying corner of the world in each successive year. There is no record of the 24th or the 26th. Having devoted some thought to this matter, I have concluded that the memory is closely connected with the appetite. There are certain dishes set apart for consumption on Christmas Day, and the absence or presence in perfection of these remains indelibly engraved on the mind.
It must be confessed that the Christmas spent at Arcachon by the three ladies was not of a very festive character; but it should be remembered that two of them were widows, and the third a thoughtful young person of by no means a gay and lightsome heart.
Early in January they turned their faces homeward, and by mutual tacit consent parted company in Paris. It happened that Alice Huston met some friends there, who pressed her to stay on with them, pleading to Mrs. Wylie that a change would be beneficial to the spirits of the young widow. Brenda returned to Suffolk Mansions with the Admiral's widow.
In a quiet street leading out of the Boulevard de la Madeleine, there is a large red-stone house with golden letters, each the size of a man, between the windows of the second and third floors. These letters spell a three-syllabled word, which is known in all the civilized world as the name of the greatest journal in France. For steadiness there is no newspaper in all the new republic to rival it. No false news was ever published within the walls of that red-stone house, nor sent forth to the French-speaking world from its portals. Its correspondence is conducted with that apparent lavishness which is the secret of successful journalism in these days. Good pay to good men is a motto that might well be inscribed in golden letters beneath the window of the second floor. There is upon the first story of this house a large room furnished somewhat in the style adopted by English clubs. That is to say, the chairs, tables, and bookcases are of a heavier type than is usually found in private houses. Unlike most French rooms the floor is entirely covered with a Brussels carpet. There are several small oak tables furnished with blotting-pad, inkstand, and pen-tray. I regret to say that cigarette-ash and cigarette ends are habitually thrown upon the floor, although numerous receptacles are provided on the larger table standing in the centre of the room.
This apartment serves as an anteroom to the offices of the editor and sub-editor, and on some days in the week there may be seen an assembly of all that there is of journalistic and literary talent in France.
One evening in January, Theodore Trist was standing near the huge white-china stove talking with a group of long-haired confrères of the ready pen. They were laughing—not in that airy, careless way which is generally considered by Englishmen as the prerogative of their Gallic cousins—but softly, and without much genuine amusement. There were others in the room, seated at the smaller tables, writing, which would account for the lowered tones of the group round the stove.
Presently a liveried servant came towards them.
'Monsieur Trist,' he ventured, standing at a respectful distance from the brilliant group.
A silence fell over the talkers, while Theo Trist turned and asked by whom he was wanted.
'It is,' replied the servant, 'aportierof the Hôtel Bristol, inquiring if monsieur was in Paris at present.'
'And you said...?'
'I said that I would inquire.'
A young Frenchman, whose poems were charming all readers just then, laughed merrily.
'Jules,' he said, with a sly glance towards the Englishman, 'is discreet.'
'It would never do,' interpolated an older man, with grave approval, 'if Jules were not so. This is the home of discretion. Who knows that thisportieris aportierat all? Is it not easy to buy a hat-band with the word "Bristol" embroidered upon it? He may be an emissary from some journal of the Boulevards to collect information—the material for acanard—price two sous.'
Trist smiled meekly, and moved away with the servant at his heels.
'CeTrist,' continued the older writer, when he was out of earshot, 'cannot come and go as we can—we who write but romances and idle paragraphs. It is a political power beneath that broad forehead, behind those woman's eyes. He smells of war. It is the stormy petrel, my friends.'
'I will see him,' Trist had said to the servant as they crossed the room together. 'But do not say who I am.'
Jules bowed in grave reproach at the implied possibility of an indiscretion.
'In the small room, monsieur?'
'Yes; in the small room.'
When theportierof the Hôtel Bristol entered the small room, he found a gentleman seated at a table writing.
'You seek Monsieur Trist?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'For a public or a private purpose?'
Theportierhad received his instructions.
'It is private, monsieur, quite private. It is but a small word from a lady in the hotel.'
'An English lady?'
'An English lady, monsieur; a widow, I believe. A Madame Huston, on the second floor.'
Trist held out his hand.
'Give it to me,' he said gently; 'I am Theodore Trist. The answer shall be despatched presently. You need not wait.'
As the messenger left the room, Trist broke open the envelope and unfolded a dainty note. He read it carefully, and then leant back leisurely in his chair. There was a peculiar expression upon his face, half annoyed, half puzzled. And (why should it be withheld?) beneath the sun-burn on his cheeks there was a slight change of colour. Theodore Trist experienced a strange sense of warmth in his countenance, and wondered what it meant. He was ignorant of the fact that his cheek was attempting to blush. From the expression of his eyes, however, this was not a sign of pleasure. He was ashamed of that note, and after the lapse of a few minutes he rose and threw it into the stove, the brass door of which he opened deftly with the toe of his boot.
There are times in our lives when we have cause to feel ashamed of human passions, and even of human nature. Even if we be optimists, we can scarcely pass through existence without finding that human nature is a sorry business after all. It is only right that we should experience a sense of shame when brought face to face with such passions as jealousy or hatred, but God forbid that we should ever be ashamed of love! There is not too much dignity in our daily lives, and therefore let us hold one factor of it sacred. Let us leave untouched the dignity of love. If there be one seed of shame in the flower, the disease will grow and flourish until the bloom dies away entirely. From the cradle to the grave we have but one pure and holy thing in life. We are never free from it—no spot is beyond its reach—no place is too sacred, and no hovel is too miserable for it to enter there. On the battle-field, and in church, while laughing, while weeping, while singing, while sighing, we think of love. And you, my young brother, my gentle sister, who have such thoughts as these, cherish them and keep them holy; fence them round with noble efforts; keep away the canker-worm of shame. In all truth these thoughts are better than great wealth, more profitable than fame, higher than exceeding great gifts. We, also, who are farther on the road, have known what such thoughts are, and in looking back now over the trodden path we see one sunny spot—one golden field where no great trees, no gaudy flowers grow, but where a holy peace has reigned; where Ambition found no resting-place and Covetousness no root. To have passed through that meadow was sufficient reason for the creation of a life. Its pathway was very pleasant, and the scent of its modest flowers reaches us now. Those who have once loved truly have not lived in vain, even though they pass quite away and leave no trace behind.
Theodore Trist was by nature a remarkably self-contained man, and his life of late years had brought this characteristic to an exceptional pitch. He had acquired the habit of thinking, of writing, of working with a sublime disregard to the chance of his environments. On the battle-field, and amidst the roar of artillery, it had been necessary for him to write details of a successful march through fertile valleys, where the very atmosphere breathed of peace alone. In the gorgeous apartment of an Emperor's palace, seated in his rough, worn clothes, hat on head, booted, spurred, and armed, he had penned such a description of a battle, fought two days before, as will ever stand out unrivalled in the annals of warfare.
And now in the heart of gay Paris, in this neglected little room, he sat down before the glowing stove, while beneath his feet, like the pulse of an ocean steamer, the mighty press throbbed continuously, beating out its news, speaking great things and powerful words to all mankind. But these sounds he heeded not. He was thinking of other things. For half an hour he remained thus absorbed, and the result of those thirty minutes of thought went with him through life. At last he rose and looked at his watch.
'It will never do,' he said to himself, 'to funk it. I must put a stop to this. If she makes it so plain to me, the inference is that Mrs. Wylie and Brenda know something about it, or, at the least, suspect. Whatever comes in the future, I want to save Brenda that.'
At seven o'clock that evening Theodore Trist presented himself at the Hôtel Bristol, and inquired for the private salon occupied by Colonel Martyn. A small boy led the way upstairs without a word, and after a hurried tap, ushered the war-correspondent into a dimly-lighted apartment. A single lamp burnt upon a small table in the centre of the room, casting a faint pink glow all round. Mrs. Huston rose from a low chair near the table, and laid aside a copy of the French newspaper by which Trist's sole services were retained. She was alone, and there was in her graceful movements a scarcely perceptible self-consciousness, from which Trist conceived the passing notion that, although no mention had been made of it in the note received by him, he was not likely to see either Mrs. Martyn or her hen-pecked husband that evening.
The young widow was of course dressed in black, which, moreover, was relieved by no ornament; but although there was crape on the skirt, that unbecoming material was sparingly worn. The dress was opened slightly on the whitest throat imaginable, and the sleeves were loose below the elbow. Trist acknowledged inwardly that this woman had never looked so lovely as she did at that moment, with the glow of the lamp on her white throat and hands, a faint conscious blush upon her cheek, her golden hair gleaming softly.
He advanced to meet her with his impenetrable friendliness. Ah! it is those grave faces which we can never read.
'I was afraid,' said Mrs. Huston, 'that you were not in Paris ... or that even if you were you would not come.'
Trist took a chair which she had indicated with a wave of the hand.
'I have been hanging on,' he said, 'from day to day....'
Mrs. Huston looked at him with an expectant, half-inviting smile—a smile which Brenda loathed.
'For no particular reason,' continued the journalist with deliberate stolidity. 'I have fallen in with an interesting lot of men, and there is nothing to call me away.'
The young widow's expression of countenance altered from one of coquetry to well-simulated but nevertheless fictitious interest.
At this moment a waiter appeared with the information that madame was served.
'Colonel and Mrs. Martyn have unfortunately been called away this evening, so you will have to content yourself with me,' observed Mrs. Huston innocently, as she led the way down to the luxurioussalle-à-manger.
'That,' answered Trist perfunctorily, 'will be no hardship.'
The tone in which he said this almost made it a question as to whether it would not have been politer to have kept silent.
During dinner they talked easily and pleasantly, as behoved two persons knowing the world and its ways. Occasionally they sparred in a subtle underhand way which no listener could have detected, Mrs. Huston attacking, Trist parrying as usual.
'There are,' said the lady when the waiter finally left them, 'cigarettes upstairs. The Colonel always smokes and has his coffee there. Will you do the same?'
Trist bowed silently as he rose from his seat.
When they reached the salon she went to a side-table, and returned presently with a box of cigarettes. This she opened and held out to him with both hands. There was in her movements a marvellous combination of girlish grace and womanly 'finish,' and her attitude as she stood before him with her white arms outstretched, her head thrown back, and her glowing eyes seeking his, was perfect in its artistic conception.
'Please smoke,' she said in a low voice.
He did not respond at once, and, seeing his hesitation, she continued rather hurriedly:
'Surely you need not stand on ceremony withme, Theo? We ... we have been friends all our lives.'
He smiled in a slow, grave way as he took a cigarette.
'Yes,' he answered, 'we know each other pretty well.'
While he struck a match and lighted his cigarette she turned away and took a low chair, swinging the rustling skirt of her dress aside with inimitable grace. It happened that there was a seat close to it, while no other was within convenient reach. Trist remained standing before the fireplace, where some logs burned fragrantly.
'It is a pity,' she said, looking up at him in a curious, half-embarrassed way, 'that we are not cousins. I almost ... wish we were. The world would have nothing to say about our friendship then.'
Trist looked at the burnt end of his cigarette with careful criticism.
'Has the world anything to say ... about it now?'
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders, and arranged the brooch at her breast before replying in a low tone.
'Idon't care if it has.'
'What does it say?' asked the journalist, with imperturbable cruelty.
By way of reply she raised her eyes to his. A faint cloud of tobacco-smoke floated upwards, passed overhead, and left his strange incongruous face exposed to the full light of the shaded lamp. The beautiful eyes searched his features, and I maintain that few men could have looked down at that lovely woman, could have met those pleading eyes, could have ventured within the reach of that subtle feminine influence, unmoved. If Trist was uneasy no outward sign betrayed him; no quiver of the eyelids; no motion of the lips. During some moments there was a tense silence, while these two looked into each other's eyes, probed each other's souls. The veil which hangs round that treasure we all possess—the treasure of an unassailable, illegible, secret individuality—seemed to fall away. Without words they understood each other. Indeed, no words could have explained as that mutual searching glance had done.
Alice Huston knew then that she had met a man—the first in all probability—who was totally impervious to the baleful influence of the charms she had wielded so long, without defining or seeking to define them. She only knew that a turn of her head, a glance of her eyes, a touch of her hand, had been sufficient to work her will upon men. Without theorizing upon sexual influence she had used it unscrupulously, as most women do, and hitherto it had never failed. She was aware that she could lead men who were beyond the reach of the strongest purpose possessed by their own sex without any exercise of her will at all. Her strength lay in physical, not in moral influence. If her beauty failed she had nothing to support her.
And now she sat with interlocked and writhing fingers, gazing upwards at this man, awaiting his will. Her agonized eyes quailed beneath his gentle glance. It is a picture I recommend to the notice of such plain and unwomanly females as love to talk of woman's rights and woman's superior nature, which awaits but the opportunity of asserting itself. Ah, my sisters!—you, the womanly women!—believe me, your greatest earthly happiness lies in love as it is understood now and has been understood since the Lion lay down with the Lamb in that old Garden which we catch glimpses of still over a fence when the love-light is in our eyes.
Trist broke the silence at last, and his voice was hollow, with a singular 'far-off' sound, like the voice of a man speaking in great pain, with an effort.
'If the world has made a mistake, Alice,' he said slowly and impressively, 'I hope to God you have not!'
She made no answer. The power of speech seemed to have left her beautiful lips, which were livid and dry. She rubbed her hands together, palm to palm, in a horribly mechanical manner, which was almost inhuman in its dumb despair. Before her eyes a veil—dull, neutral-tinted, impenetrable—seemed to rise, and her vision failed. The tendons of her lovely throat were tense, like wires, beneath the milky skin.
At length her senses returned, her bosom rose and fell rhythmically, and she looked round the room in a dazed, stupid way like one who has fallen from a height.
She saw it all as in a dream. The conventional furniture of mahogany and deep red velvet, the variegated tablecloth, the hideous gilt clock upon the mantelpiece. Then she looked into the square, open fireplace, where some logs of wood smouldered warmly. Upon one of these, unaffected by the heat, lay the half-burnt cigarette which Theo Trist had thrown away before speaking.
Seeing it, she looked round the room again with drawn and hopeless eyes. Trist was not there. He had left her. There was a simple straightforwardness of action about this man which at times verged upon brutality.
Slowly Alice Huston rose from her chair. For some moments she stood motionless, and then she went to the fireplace, where she remained staring at her own reflection in the mirror, which was only partially hidden by the glass-shade covering the hideous clock.
'And,' she muttered brokenly, as she turned away with clenched fists, 'I used to think that we were not punished upon earth. I wonder how long ... how long ... I shall be able to stand this!'
In Suffolk Mansions the absence of Alice Huston left a less perceptible vacuum than that lady would have imagined. Mrs. Wylie was intensely relieved that the young widow had, so to speak, struck out a line of her own—wherever that line might tend to lead her. Brenda was less philosophical. She tried to persuade herself that her sister's presence had been a pleasure, and, like all pleasures withdrawn, had left a blank behind it. But the pretence was at its best a sorry one. It is a lamentable fact that propinquity is the most powerful factor in human loves, hatreds, and friendships. The best of friends, the most affectionate sisters, cannot live apart for a few years without fostering the growth of an intangible, silent barrier which forces its way up between them, and which we lightly call a lack of mutual interest. What is love but 'mutual interest'?
Brenda, who was herself the soul of loyalty, stood mentally aghast over the ruins of her great unselfish love. She imagined it dead, but this was not the case. In a heart like that of Brenda Gilholme, love never dies. It is only in our hearts, my brothers, and in those of a very few women that this takes place. The sisterly love was living still, but it was little else than the mere tie of blood or the result of a few mutual friendships in the past. The two women had drifted apart upon the broad waters of life.
In the meantime Mrs. Wylie was watching events. This good lady was (is still, heaven bless her!) an optimist. She is one of those brave persons who really in their hearts believe that human life is worth living for its own sake. She actually had the effrontery to maintain that happiness is attainable. There are some women like this in the world. They are not what is called intellectual—they write no books, speak no speeches, and propound no theories—but ... I would to God there were more of them!
The daily life of these two ladies soon assumed its normal routine. Brenda studied political economy, Shakespeare, and the latest biography by turns in her unproductive, resultless way. Her mind craved for food and refused nothing; while, on the other hand, it possessed no decided tastes. Before January had run out its days she heard from Alice, who had moved southwards to Monte Carlo with her friends the Martyns.
One afternoon in February Brenda was sitting alone in the drawing-room in Suffolk Mansions when a visitor arrived. It was no other than William Hicks. Hisentréewas executed with the usual faultless grace andsavoir-faire. He carried a soft hat, for it was foggy, and his long black cloak was thrown carelessly back to the full advantage of a broad astrakhan collar.
This was the first visit he had paid since the death of Captain Huston; consequently he and Brenda had not met since the ball to which Trist had conceived the bold idea of bringing his enemy. With this fact in view William Hicks smiled in a sympathetic way as he advanced with outstretched hand, but said no word. They shook hands gravely, and Brenda resumed her seat.
'Mrs. Wylie has just gone to your mother's,' she said, in some surprise.
Hick's laid aside his hat, and slowly drew off his slate-coloured gloves. The action was just a trifle stagy. He might well have been the hero of a play about to begin a difficult scene.
'Yes,' he answered meaningly; 'I know.'
Brenda turned her small, proud head, and looked at him in silence. Her attitude was hardly one of surprise, and yet it betrayed her knowledge of his possible meaning. Altogether it was scarcely sympathetic.
Hicks allowed her a few moments in which to make some sort of reply or inquiry as to his meaning, but she failed to take the cue.
'I found out by accident,' he continued, 'that Mrs. Wylie was upstairs with my mother, and had just arrived. It struck me that you might be alone here—the opportunity was one which I have waited for—so I came.'
Brenda's eyes were much steadier than his, and he was forced to turn his gaze elsewhere.
'It was very good of you,' she said with strange simplicity, 'to think of my solitude.'
Hicks caressed his matchless moustache complacently, although he was in reality not quite at ease.
'I wanted to speak to you,' he said, in a tone which deprecated the thought of a purely unselfish motive in the meritorious action.
'About ... what?' inquired the girl, without enthusiasm.
'About myself—a dull topic, I am afraid.'
It is to be hoped that William Hicks did not expect an indignant denial; for such was not forthcoming. Brenda leant back in her chair in the manner of one composing herself to the consideration of a long and, probably, dull story. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, but she betrayed no signs of agitation or suspense.
Hicks slipped his cloak from his shoulders and rose. He stood on the hearthrug before her, looking down upon her as she reclined gracefully in the deep chair.
'Brenda,' he said, in a carefully modulated tone, 'I am only a poor painter—that is to say, I am not making much money out of art. I am, however, making a name which will no doubt be valuable some day. In the meantime I am fortunately in a position to disregard the baser uses of art, and to seek her only for herself. I have a certain position already, and I am content even withit. I intend to do better—to make a greater name. And in that aim—you can help me!'
He was quite sincere, but the habit of posing was so strong upon him that the magnificence of his offer perhaps lost a little weight by the sense of study, of forethought, of preparation, as it were, in the manner of delivering it.
There was a singular suggestion of Theodore Trist's school of life in the manner in which Brenda looked up now and spoke—a deliberate ignorance, almost, of the smoother social methods.
'Are you,' she inquired, 'asking me to be your wife?'
Hicks stared at her vacantly. He was wondering what sequence of thought brought Theodore Trist into his mind at that moment. The question remained unanswered for some time.
'Yes,' he said at length weakly.
In all his private rehearsals of this scene, he had never conceived the possibility of having to answer such a query. It was hard to do with dignity; and for the first time, perhaps, in his life he was not quite content with his own method. After a momentary silence he recovered his usualaplomb. Brenda was, he argued, after all but a girl, and all girls are alike. Flattery reaches them every one.
'I have,' he said eagerly, giving her no opportunity of interrupting him, 'known many people—moved in many circles. I am not an inexperienced schoolboy, and therefore my conviction should carry some weight with it. I am certain, Brenda, that I could find no more suitable wife if I searched all the world over. Your influence upon my art cannot fail to be beneficial—you are eminently fitted to take a high place in the social world; such a place as my wife will find awaiting her. I have made no secret of my financial position; and as to my place in the art world of this century, you know as much as I could tell you.'
He paused with a graceful wave of his white hand, and intimated his readiness to receive her answer. He even moved a step nearer to her, in order that he might with grace lean over her chair and take her hand when the proper moment arrived.
There was no emotion on either side. Neither forgot for a second that they were children of a self-suppressing generation, which considers all outward warmth of joy or sorrow to be 'bad form.' William Hicks had delivered his words with faultless intonation—perfect pitch—allowing himself (as an artist) a graceful gesture here and there. Brenda took her cue from him.
'It is very good of you to make me such an advantageous offer,' she said, in an even and gentle voice, in which no ring of sarcasm could have been detected by much finer ears than those of William Hicks, which organs were partially paralyzed by self-conceit; 'but I am afraid I must refuse.'
The artist was too much surprised to say anything at all. A refusal—tohim! One of the most popular men in London. A great, though unappreciated painter—a perfect dancer—a social lion. He had been run after, I admit that, for most men are who take the trouble to be universally and impartially polite; but he had never taken the trouble of investigating the desirability or otherwise of those who ran after him. He had not quite realized that there was not a woman among them worthy to button Brenda's glove.
'Will you not,' he stammered, with blanched face, 'reconsider your ... determination?'
The girl shook her head gravely.
'No!' she replied. 'There is not the slightest chance of my ever doing that, and I am very, very sorry if from anything I have said or done you have been led to believe that my answer could possibly have been otherwise.'
To this Hicks made no direct reply. He could not with truth have accused her of the conduct she suggested. The fact merely was that he had not excepted Brenda from the rest of womankind, and it had always been his honest conviction that he had only to ask any woman in the world to be his wife to make that woman the happiest of her sex as well as the proudest. There is nothing extraordinary in this mild self-deception. We all practise it with marvellous success. It is a fallacy I myself cherished for many years, until the moment came (a happy moment for my near relatives, no doubt!) when I made the lamentable discovery that I was not in such demand after all.
Hicks had never been refused before, for the simple reason that he had never hitherto thought fit to place his heart at any maiden's feet.
'But why,' he pleaded, 'will you not marry me?'
Her answer was ready.
'Because I do not love you.'
'But that will come,' he murmured. 'I will teach you to love me!'
She raised her eyes to his face and looked calmly at him. Even in such a moment as this the habit of studying and dissecting human minds was not laid aside. It seemed as if she were pondering over his words, not in connection with herself at all, but in a general sense. She was wondering, no doubt, if there were women who could be coerced into loving this man. As for herself she had no doubts whatever. William Hicks possessed absolutely no influence over her, but she felt at that moment as if it were possible that a mancouldmake her love him even against her will if he were possessed of the necessary strength of purpose. In a vague, indefinite way she was realizing that woman is weaker than man—is, in fact, a weaker man, with smaller capabilities of joy and sorrow, of love, hatred, devotion, or remorse; and, in a way, William Hicks profited by this thought. She respected him—not individually, but generally—because he was a man, and because she felt that some women could look up to him and admire him for his mere manhood, if she herself was unable to do so because he fell short of her standard.
In the meantime Hicks had realized the emptiness of his boast. From her calm glance he had read that her will was stronger than his own—that she did not love him, and never would. We, my brothers, who have passed through the mill can sympathize with this young fellow, despite his follies, his vanity, his conceit, his affectation; for I verily believe that Brenda cured him of them all in those few moments. Most of us can, I think, look back to the time when we were severally foolish, vain, conceited, and affected—many of us have been cured by the glance of some girl's eyes.
The artist dropped his argument at once. He turned away and walked to the window, where he stood with his back towards her, looking out into the dismal misty twilight. Thus the girl allowed him to stand for some time, and then she rose and went to his side.
'Willy,' she said, 'I am very, very sorry!'
She was beginning to think now that he really loved her in his way, although by some curious oversight he had omitted to mention the fact.
He turned his head in her direction, and his hand caressed his moustache with its habitual grace.
'I don't quite understand it,' he murmured. 'Of course ... it is a bitter disappointment to me. I have been mistaken.'
She made no attempt to alleviate his evident melancholy—expressed no regret that he should have been mistaken. The time for sympathy was past, and she allowed him to fight out his bitter fight alone. Presently he went towards the chair where he had thrown his cloak and hat. These he took up, and returned to her with his hand outstretched.
'Good-bye, Brenda!' he said, for once without affectation.
'Good-bye,' she replied simply, and long after William Hicks had left the room she stood there with her white hands hanging down at either side like some delicate flower resting on the soft black material in which she was clad.
When Mrs. Wylie returned home about five o'clock she found the drawing-room still in darkness. The maid had offered to light the gas, but Brenda told her to leave it. In the pleasant glow of the firelight the widow found her young friend sitting in her favourite chair with interlocked fingers in her lap.
Mrs. Wylie closed the door before she spoke.
'This is bad,' she said.
'What is bad?'
'I believe,' replied Mrs. Wylie in her semi-serious, semi-cheerful way, 'that I have warned you already against the evil practice of sitting staring into the fire.'
Brenda laughed softly, and met the kind gaze of the gray eyes that were searching her face.
'It has always seemed to me,' she said, 'that your philosophy is wanting in courage. It is the philosophy of a moral coward. It is braver and better to think out all thoughts—good and bad, sad and gay—as they come.'
Mrs. Wylie loosened her bonnet-strings, unhooked her sealskin jacket, and sat down.
'No,' she answered argumentatively. 'It is not the creed of a coward, no more than it is cowardly to avoid temptation. A practical man, however brave he may be, will do well to avoid temptation. A sensible woman will avoid thought.'
'I was thinking,' replied the girl diplomatically, 'of tea!'
From the expression of the widow's face it would seem that she accepted this statement with reservations. She made, however, no remark.
After a little pause she looked across at Brenda in a speculative way, and no doubt appreciated the grace and beauty of that fire-lit picture.
'Willie Hicks,' she said, 'has been here?'
'Yes. How did you know?' inquired Brenda rather sharply.
'Emma told me.'
'Ah!'
'Brenda,' said the widow in a softer tone, after a pause of some duration.
'Yes!'
'I have constructed a little fable for myself, in some part founded upon fact. Would you like to hear it?'
'Yes,' replied the girl with a slightly exaggerated moue of indifference; 'tell me.'
'Shortly after I arrived at the Hicks', Willie went out. I happened to know this, because I was near the window in the drawing-room and saw him. I also noticed that his gait was slightly furtive. I thought, "That young man does not want me to know that he has gone out." On my way home I met him going in the contrary direction. He avoided seeing me, and did it remarkably well, as might have been expected. But there was a change in his gait, and even in his attitude. The strange thought came into my head that he had been here to see you. Then I began to wonder what had caused the change I detected. It seemed as if William Hicks had passed through some experience—had received a lesson. The final flight of my imagination was this: that you, Brenda, had given him that lesson.'
Mrs. Wylie ceased speaking and leant back comfortably. Brenda was sitting forward now with her two hands clasped around her knees. She was looking towards her companion, and her eyes glowed in the ruddy light.
'I think,' she said, 'we should respect his secret. Naturally he would prefer that we were silent.'
'We are neither of us talkative.... Then ... then my fable was true?'
Brenda nodded her head.
'I am glad,' murmured the widow after a short silence, 'that he has brought matters to an understanding at last. It is probable that he will turn out a fine fellow when he has found his level. He is finding it now. His walk was different as he returned home. All young men are objectionable until they have failed signally in something or other. Then they begin to settle down into manhood.'
'He misrepresents himself,' said Brenda gently. 'When he lays aside his artistic affectation he is very nice.'
'But,' added Mrs. Wylie with conviction, 'he is not half good enough for you.'
Brenda smiled a little wistfully and rose to preside at the tea-tray, which the maid brought in at that moment.
And so William Hicks was tacitly laid aside. People who live together—husband and wife, brother and sister, woman and woman—soon learn the art of deferring a subject which can gain nothing by discussion. There are perforce many such topics in our daily life—subjects which are best ignored, explanations which are best withheld, details best suppressed.
During their simple tea and the evening that followed there were other things to talk of, and it was only after dinner, when they were left alone with their work and their books, that Mrs. Wylie made reference to the afternoon's proceedings.
'On my way back from the Hicks',' she said conversationally, 'I met Sir Edward.'
'Ah! Indeed!
Brenda looked up from the heavy volume on her lap and waited with some interest. Mrs. Wylie paused some time before continuing. She leant to one side and took up a large work-basket, in which she searched busily for something.
'Yes,' she murmured at length, with her face literally in the basket; 'and ... Theo is in St. Petersburg!'
'St. Petersburg!' repeated Brenda slowly. 'In the winter. I rather envy him!'
'I do not imagine,' said Mrs. Wylie, still occupied with the dishevelled contents of her work-basket, 'that he is there on pleasure.'
Brenda laughed lightly.
'Theo,' she observed in a casual way, 'is not much given to pleasure in an undiluted state.'
'I like a man who takes life and his life's work seriously.'
'So do I,' assented Brenda indifferently.
She knew that Mrs. Wylie was studying her face with kindly keenness, and so she smiled in a friendly way at the fire, which seemed to dance and laugh in reply.
'Is it generally known that he is in St. Petersburg?' she asked with some interest.
'Oh no! Sir Edward told me in confidence. He says that it does not matter much, but that he and Theo would prefer it not being talked about.'
'Why has he gone?' asked the girl.
Mrs. Wylie laid aside the basket and looked across at her companion with a curious, baffled smile.
'I don't know,' she answered. 'I had not the ... the...'
'Cheek?'
'Cheek to ask.'
Brenda returned to her book.
'I suppose,' she said presently, as she turned a page, 'that it means war.'
The widow shrugged her shoulders.
'We must not get into the habit,' she suggested, 'of taking it for granted that every action of Theo's means that.'
'He lives for war,' said the girl wearily as she bent over her book with decision.
Mrs. Wylie worked on in silence. She had no desire to press the subject, and Brenda's statement was undeniable.
They now returned to their respective occupations, but Brenda knew that at times her companion's eyes wandered from the work towards her own face. Mrs. Wylie was evidently thinking actively—not passively, as was her wont. The result was not long in forthcoming.
'My dear,' she said energetically, 'I have been thinking. Let us go down to Wyl's Hall.'
Brenda pondered for a few seconds before replying. It was the first time that there had been any mention of the old Suffolk house since its master's sudden death. Mrs. Wylie had never crossed the threshold of this, the birthplace of many Wylies (all good sailors and true men), since she returned in theHermioneto Wyvenwich a childless widow. All this Brenda knew, and consequently attached some importance to the suggestion. During the last six months they had lived on in an unsettled way from day to day. Both had, perhaps, been a little restless. There was a want of homeliness about the chambers in Suffolk Mansions; not so much, perhaps, in the rooms themselves as in the stairs, the common door with its civil porter, and the general air of joint proprietorship. What we call vaguely 'home' is nothing but a combination of small things with their individual associations. The milkman with his familiar cry, the well-known bang of the front door, the creaking of the wooden stairs; such trifles as these make up our home, form the frame in which our life is placed, and each little change is noted. The present writer first realized the true meaning of death by noting the absence of a small vase from the nursery mantelpiece. It was a trifling little thing of brown ware, shaped quaintly, and round the bowl of it was a little procession of Egyptian figures following each other in stately angularity. One day it was broken, and I have never forgotten the feeling with which I first looked at the mantelpiece and sought in vain the familiar little jar.
To women these small associations are, perhaps, dearer than they are to us men. No doubt they love to be known and greeted by their neighbours, rich or poor, while we are often indifferent. The want of human sympathy, of human interest and mutual aid is the most prominent feature in town life. Men live and die, rejoice and grieve, laugh and weep almost under the same roof, and never share their laughter or mingle their tears. Faces may grow familiar, but hearts remain estranged, because perforce each man must fight for himself on the pavement, and there is no time to turn aside and lend a helping hand.
Brenda did not lose sight of the possibility that Mrs. Wylie might be longing for the familiar faces and pleasant voices of the humble dwellers in Wyvenwich; but the proposal to return to Wyl's Hall was apparently unpremeditated, and therefore the girl doubted its sincerity.
'Not on my account?' she inquired doubtfully, without looking up.
'No. On my own. I am longing for the old place, Brenda. This fog and gloom makes one think of the brightness of Wyvenwich and the sea, which is always lovely in a frost. Let us go at once—to-morrow or the next day. The winter is by no means over yet, and London is detestable. Even if we are snowed up at Wyl's Hall, it does not matter much, for it is always bright and cheery despite its loneliness. We will take plenty of books and work.'
The girl made no further demur, and presently caught the infection of her companion's cheerful enthusiasm. Mrs. Wylie possessed the pleasant art of making life a comfortable thing under most circumstances, and for such as her a sudden move has no fears. While Trist adapted himself to circumstances, Mrs. Wylie seemed to adapt circumstances to herself, which is, perhaps, the more difficult art.
The good lady seemed somewhat relieved when the move was finally decided upon and arranged; nevertheless, there was a look of anxiety on her round face when she sought her room that night.
'I wish,' she observed to her own reflection in the looking-glass, 'that I knew what to do. I must be a terrible coward. It would be so very easy to ask Brenda outright ... though ... I know what the answer would be ... poor child! And I might just as well have spoken out boldly when I went to see him that night. It is a difficult predicament, because—they are both so strong!'
It does not fall to the lot of many travellers by sea to plough through the yellow broken waters of the German Ocean where the coast of Suffolk lies low and fertile. Thus it happens that these shores are little visited, and never overrun by the cheap tourist. Upon this bleak, shingly shore there are little villages and small ancient towns quite unknown to the August holiday-seeker, who prefers crowding down to the south coast. The main-line of the Great Eastern Railway runs its northward course far inland, and sends out at intervals a small feeler, often a single line traversed but once or twice a day. Between these sleepy lines there are tracts of country where the roads are mere beds of sand or shingle, quite unfit for polite traffic—broad marshes intersected by sluices and waterways too broad to jump, too unimportant to bridge, and at the edge of the sea a great hopeless plain of unfathomable shingle. Five miles across this country are equal to twelve upon a moderately good road. Driving is impossible, riding impracticable, and walking unpleasant. There is, indeed, a tiny coastguard path near the sea, but this is often lost amidst the shingle; and even when the land rises to thirty feet, in soft, sandy cliff, the walking is but doubtful.
The glory of this coast has departed; many of its villages and towns—once important—have likewise gone ... into the sea. It is dreary, if you will. I admit that it is dreary, but in its very mournfulness there is a great beauty. I do not speak of the ruins of bygone monasteries, of the tall, square-towered churches, of the quaint black fishing hamlets—though these are picturesque enough—but of the land itself. The long, unbroken shingle shore, where is visible, upon the clean stones, a plank or an old basket for miles away—where the shore retreats in ridges to the green seawall or bank, each ridge marking the effect of some great storm. And over the sea-wall, inland, a great wild, deserted marsh, or 'mesh,' as it is called in Suffolk, dotted here and there with black-hulled, white-sailed windmills, duly set at low tide by the solitary 'mesh'-man to pump the water into the sluices and so into the sea.
A golden sunset over these lands seen from the sea-wall is a wondrous sight, for the land gleams like the heavens. The brilliant westering light searches out all still waters craftily hidden amidst marsh-grass and bulrush, making each pool and slow stream reflect the gold of heaven.
But Suffolk by the sea is not all marsh. There are high sand-dunes, where oaks grow to a wonderful stature and a mighty toughness; where clean-limbed beeches rustle melodiously in the breeze that is never still on the hottest autumn day; and where pines grow straight and tall despite the salty breath of ocean.
The little town of Wyvenwich lies upon the northern slope of such a bank as this. Before it spreads a bleak sandy plain seven miles across, while behind all is fertility and leafy luxuriance. To the south, over the hill, and past the ruins of a forgotten monastery, lies a vast purple moor, which undulates inland until a mixed forest of pine, oak and beech shuts out further investigation. The red heather literally hangs over the sea, and a high tide, coupled with a north-easterly gale, beating against the soft sand-cliffs, never fails to reduce the breadth of Wyvenwich Moor a yard or so. The heathland slopes gently down to a vast marsh, in the midst of which stands a solitary red-brick cottage, the home of the marsh-man. The nearest house to it is the Mizzen Heath Coast-guard Station, set back from the greedy sea upon the height of the moor; and beyond that, surrounded by trees on all sides except the front, is Wyl's Hall.
The parish register tells of Wylies since the thirteenth century. Nothing of great importance, perhaps, but the name is there, and the possessors of it appear to have done their duty faithfully in the state of life in which they were placed. Baptism, marriage, death—what could human ambition require beyond that? And now the old race is extinct. A lonely widow, childless, almost kinless, lives in Wyl's Hall; and the last possessor of the name, kindly honest Admiral Wylie, lies in his great solitude among the nameless northern dead, far away in the deserted Norse churchyard upon the mountain-side.
Brenda Gilholme found a place for herself in the great human mill where we are all so many 'hands' serving our little looms, feeding our insignificant crushers with honest raw material which goes away from us and never comes again. Even to her analytical, deep-searching mind it was clear that Mrs. Wylie had need of someone to bear her company in her widowhood, and so she stayed unquestioningly at Wyl's Hall now that Mrs. Wylie had returned there.
Here she lived just like an ordinary little country maiden who knew nothing of Greek verbs and was profoundly ignorant respecting political economy. She knew all about the tides, and sympathized with old Godbold, the marsh-man, when the north-east winds blew against the ebbing tide, and laughed at all his five creaking windmills. She learnt the names of all the six stalwart coastguardsmen stationed at Mizzen Heath, and was deeply versed in the smuggling lore of this famous smuggling country, where the most honest and law-abiding man can scarcely look at the long deserted coast, the intersected marshland, and the silent sandy roads, without thinking of contraband wares. These coastguardsmen, with their civil tongues and ready ways, occupied an important position in the domestic economy of Wyl's Hall. Their little turf refuge was at the foot of the kitchen garden, and there a pleasant-spoken man was to be found by night and day.
Women are weak where sailors are concerned. Mrs. Wylie set an evil example with the London newspaper, and the portly cook followed with surreptitious cold pudding when her dishes were washed on a warm evening. There was always something requiring a man's hand at Wyl's Hall, and the coastguards had a certain leisure, during which the most somnolent could scarcely sleep. No man slumbers quite peacefully about five o'clock in the evening, however actively employed he may have been during the previous night; and, indeed, at all times of day or night there was usually one of the six Mizzen Heath guardians awake and off duty.
Into this little world, shut off by shallow seas in front, closed in by vast moors behind, Brenda had quietly made her way like some new and gracious flower when the flowers of earth were still frozen in. In it she had found a place, among its denizens a welcome. And this was life. This the end and aim of all existence. To do a little good, to leave a pleasant memory in a few hearts. Ah, my brothers, the marble slabs in every church tell of men's virtues and men's deeds; lauding them and praising them beyond their value! 'And of Mary, his wife, who died at the age of seventy-six.' A short record, a simple statement. We do not hear ofhervirtues andherdeeds, and only a few of us vaguely surmise that she may have had a hand in the shaping of that wonderful vessel, her lord and master, whose good name will go down to posterity—an example to men unborn. Could the life of 'Mary, his wife,' be dissected, I think it would prove to be a cleaner record.
And so Brenda, in her way, was doing her share of unrecorded good, working out her small existence in a daily round of trivial self-sacrifices, self-suppressions, self-abnegations, as the majority of women are doing round us now. In a manner she was happy, for youth itself is a happiness, because it is a deceptive glamour of anticipation—anticipation which, thank God! we can never learn to recognise as destined to certain disappointment. At times she vaguely questioned the benefit accruing from the possession of an exceptional education, but fortunately she was unaware that she was endowed with an exceptional intellect. She did not suspect that she could have scanned the wide expanse of sea and land spread out around the coastguards' refuge without finding a human mind worthy so much as to hold mere passing intercourse with hers.
She never looked upon this existence as permanent. It could not last. Something would come, some change for good or evil, and the powers—the infinite womanly powers of love and self-sacrifice—would have a larger scope. Meanwhile she did her duty by Mrs. Wylie with unfailing energy and inexhaustible cheerfulness. Between these two women, as between the elder and Theo Trist, there had been no definite exchange of sentiments. Both would have said that their tacit devotion to each other was nothing else than a practical worldly arrangement of mutual advantage and equal benefit.
Mrs. Wylie was almost her old self again. At times the former cheerfulness of demeanour would lighten up the old house. There was the same capable sense of comfort in her presence, the same readiness to make the best of unpropitious environments. Her own sorrow, never publicly aired, was hidden deeply beneath a certain cheerfulness which can only be described as worldly. Worldliness is not a vice, it is a social virtue. Why should we parade our sorrows and clothe ourselves in a meek coat of obtrusive resignation? There is enough grief in life to justify a little slurring over, a little avoidance of grievous topics. If Mrs. Wylie never referred to her late husband in touching terms, it was not because his memory was devoid of meaning to her; it was because she cordially disliked any approach to cant, because the memory was too sacred a thing to be discussed. Of course, society at large and her neighbours in particular had a say in the matter—the usual kind of say—flavoured with tea and thin bread, garnished with spite and kindly malice. But Mrs. Wylie had always been rashly indifferent to criticism. She had chosen to ignore the precious advice of sundry female counsellors, who knew infinitely more about her affairs and their mismanagement than she did herself. And this was the result—the neighbourhood would talk, it is a way neighbourhoods have, and really there was cause for it. Cause, indeed—I should think so! Why, Miss Ferret, the elderly unmarried daughter of the late vicar of Wyvenwich, had never even been told the details of the small tragedy in Norway. And instead of coming down quietly to Wyl's Hall the widow had actually lived in her chambers in town—a flat, near Piccadilly. A flat, indeed, and Admiral Wylie scarce cold in his grave! There is some deep reproach in this which is not quite clear to my obtuse male brain, but I am assured upon the best authority that the matter was much spoken of at Wyvenwich. There are some people whose chief aim in life seems to be to avoid being spoken of. They try all their days to walk in a trodden path, to live a vegetating existence, which is so absolutely commonplace and everyday, so compassed about by rule and the safe guiding of precedent, that there is absolutely nothing left to speak about. Then they shake their lace-caps, or pull down their starched waistcoats, and, in the self-laudation of their bloodless hearts, are happy.
All through February and March the two ladies had lived happily at Wyl's Hall, without longing for the busier life of London. The human mind is even more adaptable to circumstances than the body that carries it. Small interests soon take the place of large, and quietude follows on excitement without any great mental change being necessary.
At times Mrs. Wylie heard about Theodore Trist—usually a vague rumour that he was in London, or Paris, or Berlin. In his deliberate way he was building up for himself a great reputation in that inner diplomatic world which is a sealed chamber for prying journalism of the cheaper sort. Upon certain international subjects the newspaper he served was without rival, but the closest observer could not detect his pen or assign any statement to him. The secret remained inviolate between himself and his editor. The position of Theodore Trist was unique, and has not since been approached. His grasp of the great subject of war was extraordinary at this time of his life, when all his faculties were in full strength. From the lock of a Berdan rifle to the construction of a trench, from the strap of a knapsack to the details of a treaty, his knowledge was unrivalled. In diplomacy he could have made his mark had he so wished, but he contented himself with studying the art as a sailor learns astronomy—merely as a factor in his profession. In some countries he was cordially hated—notably in Germany, where the peculiar circumstances of his position were incomprehensible. The Teutonic mind cannot grasp certain motives which solely depend upon a sense of honour or find birth in a scrupulous uprightness. Far be it from this impartial pen to speak ill of any man or men; but having lived among Germans in their own country, in their daily life and work, also in other countries and in different circumstances; having had transactions—friendly, commercial, and unfriendly—with them, I hereby make note of the fact that our self-complacent neighbours are mentally and totally unable to comprehend why a man, possessing certain knowledge and certain power, should hesitate to use it for his own personal benefit.
That which we in our trammelled smallness call 'scruple' they possess not; and to that cause must be assigned the reason that the great Teutonic nation never understood Theodore Trist. His position was to them an anomaly. They could not realize that he was capable of serving two nations—France and England—honestly at the same time, and so they distrusted him. He was hated because he had dared to criticise a military policy which was modestly considered in Berlin as the ablest yet conceived since armies first ruled the world. Added to this there was the rankling sore of an unforgotten story, told bluffly and with scathing sarcasm in a French and English newspaper simultaneously—the story of a dastardly attempt to extract information from a faithful Alsatian peasant woman by means of what in barbarous ages we would have denominated infamous torture.
Once Mrs. Wylie heard directly from Theodore Trist—a short note, sent with some quaint old jewellery he had brought back from the Slavonski Bazar in Moscow for herself and Brenda.
March was drawing to a close, and the low Suffolk lands were already green by reason of their dampness, when a second communication arrived at Wyl's Hall from the busy correspondent.
'May I,' he asked tersely, 'come down for a day or two to see you? Please answer by telegraph.'
The note came at breakfast-time, and a messenger was at once despatched to Wyvenwich with a telegram.
'It is quite an age since we have seen Theo,' observed Mrs. Wylie pleasantly, as she wrote out the message.
Brenda, who was occupied with her letters, acquiesced carelessly; but in a few moments she laid the communications aside and took up the newspaper. With singular nonchalance she opened it and went towards the window. There was nothing very peculiar in this action, and yet the girl's movements were in some slight and inexplicable way embarrassed. It seemed almost as if she did not wish Mrs. Wylie to notice that she was looking at the newspaper. During breakfast there was a furtive anxiety visible in the manner and voice of these deceitful women. Each attempted to rejoice openly over the advent of Theodore Trist, and at the same time carefully avoided seeking a reason for his unusual mode of procedure; for Trist was a man who never invited himself. Indeed, his habit was one of apprehensive self-suppression; except in the battle-field, he was nervously afraid of beingde trop.