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<!DOCTYPE html>
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<title>
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Suspense, Volume II (of 3), 
by Henry Seton Merriman
</title>

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<body>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74461 ***</div>

<h1>
<br><br>
  SUSPENSE<br>
</h1>

<p><br></p>

<p class="t3">
  BY<br>
</p>

<p class="t2">
  HENRY SETON MERRIMAN<br>
</p>

<p class="t4">
  AUTHOR OF 'YOUNG MISTLEY,' 'THE PHANTOM FUTURE'<br>
  ETC.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
  IN THREE VOLUMES<br>
  VOL. II.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
  LONDON<br>
  RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON<br>
  Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen<br>
  1890<br>
</p>

<p class="t4">
  [<i>All rights reserved</i>]<br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="poem">
  Some there are who laugh and sing<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;While compassed round by sorrow;<br>
  To this ev'ning's gloom they bring<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The sunshine of to-morrow.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
  CONTENTS OF VOL. II.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p class="noindent">
  CHAPTER<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
  I. <a href="#chap01">AT SEA</a><br>
  II. <a href="#chap02">SISTERS</a><br>
  III. <a href="#chap03">ALICE RETURNS</a><br>
  IV. <a href="#chap04">TO THE FRONT</a><br>
  V. <a href="#chap05">UNDER FIRE</a><br>
  VI. <a href="#chap06">TRIST ACTS</a><br>
  VII. <a href="#chap07">QUICKSANDS</a><br>
  VIII. <a href="#chap08">MASKED</a><br>
  IX. <a href="#chap09">IN CASE OF WAR</a><br>
  X. <a href="#chap10">A PROBLEM</a><br>
  XI. <a href="#chap11">MRS. WYLIE LEADS</a><br>
  XII. <a href="#chap12">THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SEA</a><br>
  XIII. <a href="#chap13">CROSS-PURPOSES</a><br>
  XIV. <a href="#chap14">A SOCIAL CONSPIRACY</a><br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap01"></a></p>

<p class="t2">
SUSPENSE
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER I.
<br><br>
AT SEA.
</h3>

<p>
One fine day late in the autumn of
eighteen hundred and seventy-six, a
steamer emerged from the haze that
lay over the Atlantic and the northern
waters of the Bay of Biscay.  Those
who were working in the fields behind
the lighthouse of the Pointe de Raz saw
her approach the land, sight the
lighthouse, and then steer outwards again on
a course due north through the channel
dividing the Ile de Sein from the rocky
headland jutting out from this most
western point of Europe into the
Atlantic.
</p>

<p>
Those on board the steamer, looking
across the blue waters, saw the faint
outline of a high broken coast, and all
round them a sea divided into races and
smooth deep pools large enough to
anchor a whole fleet had there been
bottom within reach.  Islands, islets, and
mere rocks; some jutting high up, some
nestling low.  A dangerous coast, and a
splendid fishing-ground.
</p>

<p>
There were further points of interest
on the waters; namely, a whole fleet
of sardine-boats from Douarnenez and
Audierne, scudding here and there with
their bright brown sails, sometimes
glowing in the sun, sometimes brooding
darkly in the shadow.  It was a beautiful
picture, because the colours were
brilliant; the blue sea gradually merged
into bright green, and finished off in the
distance with yellow sand or deep-brown
cliff.  The hills towards Breste, to the
north, were faintly outlined in a shadowy
haze of blue, while close at hand the
long Atlantic sweep came bounding in
and broke into dazzling white over the
rocks.
</p>

<p>
On the deck of the steamer the
passengers paused in their afternoon
promenade, and, leaning their arms on
the high rail, contemplated the bright
scene with evident satisfaction.  The
small fishing-boats were of a more
British build than most of them had seen
for some years.  The brown lug-sails
were like the sails of an English fishing-boat,
and many of these swarthy-faced
wanderers had recollections of childhood
which came surging into their minds at
the sight of a blue sea with a brown sail
on it.  The high rocky land might well
be England, with its neat yellow
lighthouse and low-roofed cottages nestling
among the scanty foliage and careful
cultivation.  It was so very different
from Madras, so unlike Bombay, so
infinitely superior to Hong Kong.  The
breeze even was different from any that
had touched their faces for many a day,
and some of them actually felt cold&mdash;a
sensation almost forgotten.
</p>

<p>
The captain of this splendid steamer
was a gentleman as well as a good sailor,
and he endeavoured to make his
passengers feel at home while under his
care.  Therefore he now walked aft and
stood beside the chair of a beautiful
woman who was always alone, always
indifferent, always repelling.
</p>

<p>
'This is a pretty sight, Mrs. Huston,'
he said pleasantly, without looking down
at her, but standing beside her chair.
He gazed across the water towards the
Pointe de Raz, with the good-natured
patience of a man who does not intend
to be snubbed.  Once, during his first
voyage as commander, a woman had
disappeared from the deck one dark
night, and since then the shrewd
'passenger' captain had kept his eye upon
pretty women who neither flirted nor
quarrelled at sea.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' was the indifferent answer;
and the sailor's keen gray eyes detected
the fact that the fair lashes were never
raised.
</p>

<p>
'It brings the fact before one,' he
continued, 'that we are getting near
home.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' with pathetic indifference.  She
did not even make the pretence of
looking up, and yet there was no visible
interest in the book that lay upon her lap.
</p>

<p>
The sailor moved a little, and leant
his elbows upon the rail, looking round
his ship with a critical and all-seeing
eye.
</p>

<p>
'I hope,' he said cheerily, 'that there
is no one on board to whom the sight
of Eddystone will not give unmitigated
pleasure.  We shall be there before any
of us quite realize that the voyage is
drawing to an end.'
</p>

<p>
Then the beautiful woman made a
little effort.  The man's kindness of
heart was so obvious, his disinterested
desire to cheer her voluntary solitude
was so gentlemanly in its feeling and
so entirely free from any suggestion of
inquisitiveness, that she, as a lady, could
no longer treat him coldly.  All through
the voyage this same quiet watchfulness
over her comfort (which displayed itself
in little passing acts, and never in words)
had been exercised by the man, whose
most difficult duties were not, perhaps,
connected solely with the perils of the
sea.  She raised her head and smiled
somewhat wanly, and there was in the
action and in the expression of her eyes
a sudden singular resemblance to Brenda
Gilholme.  But it was a weak copy.
There was neither the invincible pluck
nor the unusual intellectuality to be
discerned.
</p>

<p>
'I shall be glad,' she said, 'to see
England again.  Although the voyage
has been very pleasant and very
... peaceful.  Thanks to you.'
</p>

<p>
'Not at all,' he answered with breezy
cheerfulness; 'I have done remarkably
little to make things pleasant.  It has
been a quiet voyage.  We are, I think, a
quiet lot this time.  Invalids mostly&mdash;in
body, or mind!'
</p>

<p>
At these last words the lady looked up
suddenly into the captain's pleasant face.
In her manner there was a faint suggestion
of coquetry&mdash;so faint as only to be
a very pleasing suggestion.  Women who
have been flirts in former years have this
glance, and they never quite lose it.
Personally speaking, I like it.  There
comes from its influence an innocent and
very sociable sensation of familiarity with
old and young alike.  Someday I shall
write a learned disquisition on the art
and so-called vice of flirting.  Look out
for it, reader.  Mind and secure an early
copy from your stationer.  From its
thoughtful pages you cannot fail to glean
some instructive matter.  And ye, oh
flirts! buy it up and show it to your
friends; for it will be a defence of your
maligned species.  Flirts are the salt of
social existence.  A girl who cannot flirt
is ... is ... well ... is not the girl
for me.
</p>

<p>
The mariner looked down into the sad
face, and smiled in a comprehensive way
which seemed in some inexplicable
manner to bring them closer together.
</p>

<p>
'Then,' said the lady, 'as I am in the
enjoyment of rude health and likely to
last for some years yet, I may infer that
you know all about me.'
</p>

<p>
The captain looked grave.
</p>

<p>
'I know,' he answered, 'just little
enough to be able to reply that I know
nothing when people do me the honour
of inquiring; and just sufficient to feel
that your affairs are better left undiscussed
by us.'
</p>

<p>
She nodded her head, and sat looking
at her own hands in a dull, apathetic way.
Woman-like, she acted in direct opposition
to his most obvious hint.
</p>

<p>
'I suppose,' she murmured, 'that
gossips have been thrashing the whole
question out with their customary zest.'
</p>

<p>
'Ceylon is a hot-bed of gossips.
Everyone is up in his neighbour's affairs,
and a fine voyage in a comfortable steamer
is not calculated to still busy tongues!'
</p>

<p>
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently,
and looked up at him with a
slight pout of her pretty lips.
</p>

<p>
'Who cares?' she asked with well-simulated
levity.  He, however, did not
choose to appear as if he were deceived,
which simple feat was well within his
histrionic capabilities; for his life was
one long succession of petty diplomatic
efforts.
</p>

<p>
'I think,' he said coolly, 'that you
have done perfectly right in keeping
yourself quite apart from the rest of
them.'  He looked round upon the other
passengers, seated or lolling about the
deck, with a fatherly tolerance.  'And
if I may suggest it, you cannot do better
than to continue doing so for the next
day or two.  Avoid more particularly
the older women.  The jealousy of a
young girl is dangerous, but the repelled
patronage of an older woman, bristling
with the consciousness of her own wearisome
irreproachability, is infinitely more
to be feared!'
</p>

<p>
This remark from the lips of a man
who undoubtedly knew more than is
usually known of the feminine side of
humanity appeared to suggest material
for thought to the somewhat shallow
brain of his hearer.  She dropped the
lightly reckless style at once, and the
thought that this honest and
simple-hearted sailor was in love with her
slowly died a natural death.  There
followed, moreover, upon its demise an
uncomfortable suggestion that, although
he was probably honest, he was not
consequently simple-hearted&mdash;that he was,
in fact, a match for her, and, knowing
it, was not at that moment disposed to
measure mental blades with her.
</p>

<p>
'I am glad,' she said humbly, 'that
my sister will be at Plymouth to meet me.'
</p>

<p>
'Did you,' inquired the sailor, 'write
from Port Said to Miss Gilholme?'
</p>

<p>
She raised her head with a questioning
air, but did not look up.
</p>

<p>
'Miss Gilholme,' she repeated&mdash;'how
do you know her name?'
</p>

<p>
'Oh,' laughed the captain, 'I am a
sort of walking directory.  There is a
constant procession of men and women
passing before me.  Many of them turn
aside and say a few words.  Sometimes
we find mutual acquaintances, sometimes
only mutual interests.  Sometimes they
pass by again, and on occasion we
become friends.'
</p>

<p>
'Then you have not met her?'
</p>

<p>
'No&mdash;I have not had that pleasure.'
</p>

<p>
'It <i>is</i> a pleasure,' said the beautiful
woman very earnestly.  Had she only
known it, her face was infinitely lovelier
in grave repose than in most piquante
<i>bouderie</i>.
</p>

<p>
'I can quite believe it,' replied the
sailor, with a gallantry which even
Mrs. Huston could not take as anything more
than conventional.
</p>

<p>
'She is my guardian angel!' murmured
she pathetically.
</p>

<p>
Her companion smiled slightly, in a
very unsympathetic way.  His opinion
of 'guardian angels' was taken from a
practical and lamentably unpoetical point
of view.  Having played the part
himself on several occasions with more or
less conspicuous success, he inclined to a
belief that the glory of guardian angelism
is of a negative description.  There
are certain people in the world who will
accept all and any service, and to whom
the feeling of indebtedness is without a
hint of shame.  In time they come to
consider such service as has previously
and hitherto been rendered them in the
light of a precedent.  Gradually the
debt seems to glide from the shoulders
of the debtor to those of the creditor,
and having once rendered a service, the
renderer has simply placed himself under
an obligation to continue doing so.
</p>

<p>
When Mrs. Huston, therefore, mentioned
the fact that her sister was her
guardian angel, the pathos of the
observation was somewhat lost upon her hearer;
who, moreover, was slightly prejudiced
against Brenda because such guardian
angels as had crossed his path were of
a weak and gullible nature.  He never
made her acquaintance, but the impression
thus conceived&mdash;though totally
erroneous&mdash;was never dispelled by such small
details of her story as came to his
knowledge in later years.
</p>

<p>
'I hear,' the captain went on to
explain, in his cheery impersonal way,
'scraps of family histories here and
there, and then am rather surprised to
meet members of these families, or
persons connected with them.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston bravely quelled a desire
to talk of her own affairs, and smiled
vaguely.
</p>

<p>
'I have no doubt,' she said with
mechanical pleasantness, 'that we have
a great many mutual acquaintances&mdash;if
we only knew how to hit upon the
vein.'
</p>

<p>
'Of course we have&mdash;the world, and
especially the Indian world, is very
small.'
</p>

<p>
'I wonder who they are?' murmured
Mrs. Huston, raising her eyes to her
companion's face.
</p>

<p>
'Mention a few of your friends,' he
suggested, looking down into her eyes
somewhat keenly.
</p>

<p>
'No&mdash;you begin!'
</p>

<p>
He changed his position somewhat,
and stood upright, free from the rail,
but his glance never left her face.
</p>

<p>
'Theodore Trist!'
</p>

<p>
Instantly she averted her eyes.  For a
moment she was quite off her guard,
and her fingers strayed in a nervous,
aimless way among the pages of her
open book.  To her pale cheeks the
warm colour mounted as if a glowing
ruby reflection had suddenly been cast
upon the delicate skin.
</p>

<p>
She expressed no surprise by word or
gesture, and there was a pause of
considerable duration before at length she
spoke.
</p>

<p>
'Where is he now?' she asked in a
low voice.
</p>

<p>
The captain stroked his grizzled
moustache reflectively.  He acted his
part well, despite her sudden and
lamentable failure.
</p>

<p>
'Let me think ... He is in Constantinople
to the best of my knowledge.
He is engaged in watching Eastern
affairs.  It seems that Turkey and Russia
cannot keep their hands off each other's
throats much longer.  At present there is
an armistice, but Trist has been through
the late war between Servia and Turkey.'
</p>

<p>
'Do you know him well?' she asked
at length, after a second pause.
</p>

<p>
'Yes.  He is a friend of mine.'
</p>

<p>
'A great friend?'
</p>

<p>
'I think I may say so.'
</p>

<p>
'He is also a friend of ours&mdash;of my
sister and myself,' said Mrs. Huston
calmly.
</p>

<p>
She had quite recovered her equanimity
by now, and the pink colour had
left her cheeks.
</p>

<p>
'I have known him,' said the captain
conversationally, 'for many years now.
Soon after he made his name he went
out to the East with me, and we struck
up a friendship.  He is not a man who
makes many friends, I imagine.'
</p>

<p>
'No,' murmured Mrs. Huston, in a
voice which implied that the subject
was not distasteful to her, but she
preferred her companion to talk while she
listened.
</p>

<p>
'But,' continued the sailor, 'those
who claim him as a friend have an
unusual privilege.  He is what we
vaguely call at sea a "good" man&mdash;a
man upon whom it is safe to place
reliance in any emergency, under all
circumstances.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' said the lady softly.
</p>

<p>
'He has been doing wonderful work
out in the East since the beginning of
the insurrection.  We have a set of men
out there such as no nation in the world
could produce except England&mdash;fellows
who go about with their lives literally in
their hands, for they're virtually
unprotected&mdash;men who are soldiers, statesmen,
critics, writers and explorers all in one.
They run a soldier's risk without the
recompense of a soldier's grave.  A
statesman's craft must be theirs, while
they are forced to keep two diplomatic
requirements ever before their eyes.
England <i>must</i> have news; the army
authorities (whose word is law) <i>must</i> be
conciliated.  Travelling by day and night
alike, never resting for many consecutive
hours, never laying aside the responsibility
that is on their shoulders, they are
expected to write amidst the din of
battle, on a gun-carriage perhaps, often
in the saddle, and usually at night when
the wearied army is asleep; they are
expected, moreover, to write well, so that
men sitting by their firesides in London,
with books of reference at hand, may
criticise and seek in vain for slip or error.
They are expected to criticise the stratagem
of the greatest military heads around
them without the knowledge possessed
by the officers who dictate their coming
and their going, throwing them a piece
of stale news here and there as they
would throw a bone to a dog.  All
this, and more, is done by our
war-correspondents; and amidst these
wonderful fellows Theodore Trist stands quite
alone, immeasurably superior to them all.'
</p>

<p>
The vehement sailor was interrupted
by the sound of the first dinner-bell, and
a general stir on deck.  At sea, meal-times
are hailed with a more visible joy
than is considered decorous on land, and
no time is lost in answering the glad
summons.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston rose languidly from her
seat and moved forward towards the
spacious saloon staircase.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' she answered thoughtfully;
'Theo must be very clever.  It is difficult
to realize that one's friends are celebrated,
is it not?'
</p>

<p>
The captain walked by her side, suiting
his crisp, firm step to her languid gait,
which was, nevertheless, very graceful in
its rhythmic ease.  Her voice was clear,
gentle, and somewhat indifferent.  On
her face there was no other expression
than the customary suggestion of pathetic
apathy.
</p>

<p>
'I suppose,' she continued in a
conventional manner, 'that he will not be
home for some time.'
</p>

<p>
'No.  There will be a big war before
this question is settled, and Trist will be
in the thick of it.'
</p>

<p>
With a slight inclination of the head
she passed away from him and disappeared
down the saloon stairs.  The captain
turned away and mounted the little brass
ladder leading to the bridge with
sailor-like deliberation.
</p>

<p>
'And, young woman,' he muttered to
himself, 'you had better go down to your
cabin and thank your God on your
bended knees that Theodore Trist is not
in England, nor likely to cross your path
for many months to come.'
</p>

<p>
He looked round him with his habitual
cheery keenness, and said a few words to
the second officer who was on duty.
Could he have seen Theodore Trist
standing at that moment on the deck of
a quick despatch-boat, racing through
the Bosphorus and bound for England,
he would not, perhaps, have laughed so
heartily at a very mild joke made by his
subordinate a few moments later.
</p>

<p>
'And yet,' he reflected as he made his
way below in answer to the second
dinner-bell&mdash;'and yet she does not seem
to me to be the sort of woman for Trist&mdash;not
good enough!  Perhaps the gossips
are wrong after all, and he does not care
for her!'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap02"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER II.
<br><br>
SISTERS.
</h3>

<p>
More than one idler in Plymouth
Station, one morning in October, turned
his head to look again at two women
walking side by side on the platform near
to the London train.  One, the taller of
the two, was exceptionally beautiful, of a
fair delicate type, with an almost perfect
figure and a face fit for a model of the
Madonna, so pure in outline was it, so
innocent in its meaning.  The younger
woman was slightly shorter.  She was
clad in mourning, which contrasted
somewhat crudely with the brighter
costume of her companion.  It was
evident that these two were sisters; they
walked in the same easy way, and especially
notable was a certain intrepid carriage
of the head, which I venture to believe
is essentially peculiar to high-born
Englishwomen.
</p>

<p>
By the side of her sister, Brenda
Gilholme might easily pass unnoticed.
Mrs. Huston was, in the usual sense of
the word, a beautiful woman, and such
women live in an atmosphere of
notoriety.  Wherever they go they are
worshipped at a distance by those beneath
them in station, patronized by those
above them, respected by their equals,
because, forsooth, face and form are
moulded with delicacy and precision.
The mind of such a woman is of little
importance; the person is pleasing, and
more is not demanded.  Only her husband
will some day awaken to the fact
that worship from a distance might have
been more satisfactory.  The effect of
personal beauty is a lamentable factor
which cannot be denied.  All men, good
and bad alike, come under its influence.
A lovely woman can twist most of us
round her dainty finger with a wanton
disregard for the powers of intellect or
physical energy.
</p>

<p>
Brenda was not beautiful; she was
only pretty, with a dainty refinement of
heart which was visible in her delicate
face.  But her prettiness was in no way
tainted with weakness, as was her sister's
beauty.  She was strong and thoughtful,
with a true woman's faculty for hiding
these unwelcome qualities from the eyes
of inferior men.  She had grown up in
the shadow of this beautiful sister, and
men had not cared to seek for intellect
where they saw only a reflected beauty.
She had passed through a social notoriety,
but eager eyes had only glanced at her
in passing.  She had merely been Alice
Gilholme's sister, and now&mdash;here on
Plymouth platform&mdash;Alice Huston was
assuming her old superiority.  My
brothers, think of this!  It must have
been a wondrous love that overcame
such drawbacks, that passed by with
tolerance a thousand daily slights.  And
Brenda's love for her sister accomplished
all this.  Ah, and more!  In the days
that followed there was a greater wrong&mdash;a
wrong which only blind selfishness
could have inflicted&mdash;and this also Brenda
Gilholme forgave.
</p>

<p>
The sisters had met on the steamboat
landing a few moments previously.  A
rattling drive through the town had
followed, and now they were able to
speak together alone for the first time.
There had been no display of emotion.
The beautiful lips had met lightly, the
well-gloved fingers had clasped each
other with no nervous hysterical fervour,
and now it would seem that they had
parted but a week ago.  Emotion is
tabooed in the school through which
these two had passed&mdash;the school of
nineteenth-century society&mdash;and, indeed,
we appear to get along remarkably well
without it.
</p>

<p>
'My dear,' Mrs. Huston was saying,
'he will be home by the next boat if he
can raise the money.  We cannot count
on more than a week's start.'
</p>

<p>
'And,' inquired Brenda, 'can he raise
the money?'
</p>

<p>
'Oh yes!  If he can get as far as the
steamboat office without spending it.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda looked at her sister in a curious way.
</p>

<p>
'Spending it on what ... Alice?'
</p>

<p>
'On&mdash;drink!'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston was not the woman to
conceal any of her own grievances from
quixotically unselfish motives.
</p>

<p>
Brenda thought for some moments
before replying.
</p>

<p>
'Then,' she said at length, with some
determination, 'we must make sure of
our start, if, that is, you are still
determined to leave him.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston was looking down at her
sister's neat black dress, about which
there was a subtle air of refined luxury,
which seems natural to some women,
and part of their being.
</p>

<p>
'Yes, yes, I suppose we must.  By
the way, dear, you are in mourning
... for whom?'
</p>

<p>
'For Admiral Wylie,' replied Brenda
patiently.
</p>

<p>
'But it is two months&mdash;is it not?&mdash;since
his death, and he was no relation.
I think it is unnecessary.  Black is
so melancholy, though it suits your
figure.'
</p>

<p>
'I am living with Mrs. Wylie,' Brenda
explained with unconscious irony.  'Are
you still determined that you cannot live
with your husband, Alice?'
</p>

<p>
'My dear, he is a brute!  I am not
an impulsive person, but I think that if
he should catch me again, it is very
probable that I should do something
desperate&mdash;kill myself, or something of
that sort.'
</p>

<p>
'I do not think,' observed Brenda
serenely, 'that you would ever kill yourself.'
</p>

<p>
The beautiful woman laughed in an
easy, lightsome way, which was one of
her many social gifts.  It was such a
pleasantly infectious laugh, so utterly
light-hearted, and so ready in its vocation
of filling up awkward pauses.
</p>

<p>
'No, perhaps not.  But in the meantime,
what is to become of me?  Will
Mrs. Wylie take me in for a day or two,
or shall we seek lodgings?  I have some
money, enough to last a month or so;
but I must have two new dresses.'
</p>

<p>
'Mrs. Wylie has kindly said that you
can stay as long as you like.  But, Alice,
it would never do to stay in London.
You must get away to some small place
on the sea-coast, or somewhere where
you will not be utterly bored, and keep
in hiding until he comes home, and I
can find out what he intends to do.'
</p>

<p>
'My dear, I shall be utterly bored
anywhere except in London.  But
Brenda, tell me ... you have got into
a habit of talking exactly like Theo Trist!'
</p>

<p>
Brenda met her sister's eyes with a
bright smile.
</p>

<p>
'How funny!' she exclaimed.  'I
have not noticed it.'
</p>

<p>
'No, of course; you&mdash;would not
notice it.  When will he be home?'
</p>

<p>
The girl stopped and looked critically
at an advertisement suspended on the wall
near at hand.  It was a huge representation
of a coloured gentleman upon his
native shore, making merry over a
complicated pair of braces.  She had never
seen the work of art before, and for some
unknown reason in the months&mdash;ay, and
in the years that followed&mdash;her dislike for
it was almost nauseating in its intensity.
</p>

<p>
'I don't know,' she replied indifferently.
</p>

<p>
'We,' continued Mrs. Huston, following
out her own train of thought, 'are
so helpless.  We want a man to stand
by us.  Of course papa is of no use.  I
suppose he is spouting somewhere about
the country.  He generally is.'
</p>

<p>
'No,' replied Brenda, with a wonderful
tolerance.  'We cannot count on
him.  He is in Ireland.  I had a postcard
from him the other day.  He said
that I was not to be surprised or shocked
to hear that he was in prison.  He is
trying to get himself arrested.  It is, he
says, all part of the campaign.'
</p>

<p>
Again Mrs. Huston's pretty laughter
made things pleasant and sociable.
</p>

<p>
'I wonder what that means,' she
exclaimed, smoothing a wrinkle out of
the front of her jacket for the benefit of
a military-looking man, with a cigar in
his mouth, who stared offensively as he passed.
</p>

<p>
Brenda shrugged her shoulders slightly,
and said nothing.  She did not appear to
attach a very great importance to her
father's political movements, in which
culpable neglect she was abetted by the
whole of England.
</p>

<p>
'What we require,' continued Mrs. Huston,
'is an energetic man with brains.'
</p>

<p>
'I am afraid that energetic men with
brains have in most cases their own
affairs to look after.  It is only the
idle ones with tongues who have time
to devote to other people's business.'
</p>

<p>
'The "brute," my dear, is clever; we
must remember that.  And he is terribly
obstinate.  There is a sort of stubborn
bloodhoundism about him which makes
me shiver when I think that he is even
now after me, in all probability.'
</p>

<p>
'We must be cool and cunning, and
brave to fight against him,' said Brenda
practically.
</p>

<p>
At this moment the guard came
forward, and held the door of their
compartment invitingly open.  They
got in, and found themselves alone.
They were barely seated, opposite to
each other, when the train glided
smoothly away.
</p>

<p>
Brenda sat a little forward, with her
gloved hand resting on the window,
which had been lowered by the guard.
They were seated on the landward side
of the train, and as she looked out her
eyes rested on the rising hills to the
north with a vague, unseeing gaze.
</p>

<p>
A slight movement made by Mrs. Huston
caused her at length to look
across, and the two sisters sat for a
second searching each other's eyes for
the old heartwhole frankness which
never seems to survive the death of
childhood and the birth of separate
interests in life.
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' said the elder woman significantly
at last, 'is brave and cool and
cunning, Brenda.'
</p>

<p>
The girl made an effort, but the old
childish confidence was dead.  From
Theo Trist, the disciple of stoicism, she
had perhaps learnt something of a creed
which, if a mistaken one, renders its
followers of great value in the world, for they
never intrude their own private feelings
upon public attention.  That effort was
the last.  It was a beginning in itself&mdash;the
first stone of a wall destined to rise
between the two sisters, built by the
gray hands of Time.
</p>

<p>
'But,' suggested Brenda, 'Theo is in Bulgaria.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston smiled with all the
conscious power of a woman who,
without being actually vain, knows the
market value and the moral weight of
her beauty.
</p>

<p>
'Suppose I telegraphed to him that I
wanted him to come to me at once.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda fixed her eyes upon her sister's
face.  For a second her dainty lip
quivered.
</p>

<p>
'You must not do that,' she said, in
such a tone of invincible opposition
that her sister changed colour, and
looked somewhat hastily in another
direction.
</p>

<p>
'I suppose,' murmured the elder
woman after a short silence, 'that it is
quite impossible to find out when he
may return?'
</p>

<p>
'Quite impossible.  This "Eastern
Question," as it is called, is so
complicated that I have given up trying to
follow it&mdash;besides, I do not see what
Theo has to do with the matter.  We
must act alone, Alice.'
</p>

<p>
'But women are so helpless.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda smiled in a slightly ironical
way.
</p>

<p>
'Why should they be?' she asked
practically.  'I am not afraid of Captain
Huston.  He is a gentleman, at all
events.'
</p>

<p>
'He <i>was</i>!' put in his wife bitterly.
</p>

<p>
'And I suppose there is something
left of his former self?'
</p>

<p>
'Not very much, my dear.  At least,
that phase of his present condition has
been religiously hidden from my
affectionate gaze.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda drew her gloves pensively up
her slim wrists, smoothing out the
wrinkles in the black kid.  There was
in her demeanour an air of capable
attention, something between that accorded
by a general to his aide-de-camp on the
field of battle, and the keen watchfulness
of a physician while his patient speaks.
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' she said conversationally,
'would be a great comfort to us.  He
is so steadfast and so entirely reliable.
But we must do without him.  We will
manage somehow.'
</p>

<p>
'I am horribly afraid, Brenda.  It has
just come to me; I have never felt it
before.  You seem to take it so seriously,
and ... and I expected to find Theo
at home.'
</p>

<p>
'Theo is one of the energetic men
with brains who have their own affairs
to attend to,' said Brenda, in her cheery
way.  'We are not his affairs; besides,
as I mentioned before, he is in Bulgaria&mdash;in
his element, in the midst of confusion,
insurrection, war.'
</p>

<p>
'But,' repeated Mrs. Huston, with
aggravating unconsciousness of the
obvious vanity of her words, 'suppose I
telegraphed for him?'
</p>

<p>
Brenda laughed, and shook her head.
</p>

<p>
'I have a melancholy presentiment
that if you telegraphed for him he
would not come.  There is a vulgar but
weighty proverb about making one's
own bed, which he might recommend
to our notice.'
</p>

<p>
'Then Theo must have changed!'
</p>

<p>
Brenda raised her round blue eyes,
and glanced sideways out of the window.
She was playing idly with the strap of
the sash, tapping the back of her hand
with it.
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' she observed indifferently, 'is
the incarnation of steadfastness.  He
has not changed in any perceptible way.
But he is, before all else, a
war-correspondent.  I cannot imagine that
anyone should possess the power of
dragging him away from the seat of war.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston smiled vaguely for her
own satisfaction.  Her imagination was
apparently capable of greater things.  It
was rather to be deplored that, when she
smiled, the expression of her beautiful
face was what might (by a true friend
behind her back) be called a trifle
vacuous.
</p>

<p>
'He wrote,' continued the younger
sister, 'a very good article the other day,
which came just within the limits of my
understanding.  It was upon the dangers
of alliance; and he showed that an ally
who, in any one way, might at some
time prove disadvantageous, is better
avoided from the very first.  It was
<i>àpropos</i> of the Turkish-Christian
subjects welcoming a Russian invasion.  It
seems to me, Alice, that our position is
rather within the reach of that argument.'
</p>

<p>
'Being a soldier's wife, I do not know
much about military matters; but it
seems to me that a retreat should be
safely covered at all costs.'
</p>

<p>
'Not at <i>all</i> costs,' said Brenda
significantly.  Her colour had changed, and
there was a wave of pink slowly mounting
over her throat.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston smiled serenely, and
shrugged her shoulders.
</p>

<p>
'I do not see,' she expostulated
frankly, 'what harm there can be in
calling in the aid of an old friend.'
</p>

<p>
'I would rather work alone!' was
Brenda's soft reply.
</p>

<p>
And in those two casual remarks there
lay hidden from the gaze of blinder
mortals the story of two lives.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap03"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER III.
<br><br>
ALICE RETURNS.
</h3>

<p>
In her pleasant room on the second-floor
of Suffolk Mansions, Mrs. Wylie awaited
the arrival of the two sisters.
</p>

<p>
From without there came a suggestion
of bustling life in the continuous hum of
wheel-traffic and an occasional cry, not
unmelodious, from enterprising
news-vendors.  Within, everything spoke of
peaceful, pleasant comfort.  There was
a large table in the centre of the room
literally covered with periodical and
permanent literature&mdash;a pleasant table to
sit by, for there was invariably something
of interest lying upon it, a safe
stimulant to conversation.  The dullest and
shyest man could always find something
to say to the ready listener who sat in a
low cane-chair just beyond the table,
near the fire, with her back to the
window.  There were many strange
ornaments about, and a number of
curiosities such as women rarely purchase
in foreign lands; also sundry small
impedimenta suggestive of things nautical.
</p>

<p>
Withal there was in the very atmosphere
a sense of womanliness.  The
subtle odours emanating from wooden
constructions, conceived and executed by
dusky strangers, were overpowered by
the healthier and livelier smell of flowers.
Heliotrope nestled modestly in low vases
from Venice.  There was also mignonette,
and on the mantelpiece a great
snowy bunch of Japanese anemones
thrust into a bronze vase from that same
distant land, all looking, as it were, in
different directions, each carrying its
graceful head in a different way, no two
alike, and yet all lovely, as only God can
make things.
</p>

<p>
I cannot explain in what lay the charm
of Mrs. Wylie's drawing-room, though
it must have emanated from the lady
herself.  There is no room like it that I
know of, where both men and women
experience a sudden feeling of homeliness,
an entire sense of refined ease.  The
surroundings were not too fragile for the
touch of a man, and yet there was in
them that subtle influence of grace and
daintiness which appeals to the more
delicate fibres of a woman's soul, and
makes her recognise her own element.
</p>

<p>
The widowed lady herself was little
changed since we last met her in the Far
North.  But those who knew her well
were cognizant of the fact that the outward
signs of late bereavement so gracefully
worn were no cynical demonstration
of a conventional grief.  The white-haired
old man sleeping among the
nameless sons of an Arctic land was as
truly mourned by this cheerful Englishwoman
as ever husband could desire.
There was perhaps a smaller show of
cultivated grief, such as the world loves
to contemplate, than was strictly in
keeping with her widow's cap.  No lowered
tones pulled up a harmless burst of
hilarity.  No smothered sighs were
emitted at inappropriate times in order
to impress upon a world, already full
enough of sorrow, the presence of an
abiding woe.
</p>

<p>
But Brenda Gilholme knew that the
cure was incomplete.  She had carried
through, to the end, the task left her by
Theo Trist.  The <i>Hermione</i> lay snugly
anchored by the oozy banks of a Suffolk
river, and Mrs. Wylie was, so to speak,
herself again&mdash;that is to say, she was
once more a woman full of ready sympathy,
gay with the gay, sorrowing with
the afflicted.  If Brenda in her analytical
way saw and acknowledged the presence
of a difference, it was perhaps nothing
more than an overstrained feminine
susceptibility.  At all events, the general
world opined that Mrs. Wylie was as
jolly as ever.  Moreover, they insinuated
in a good-natured manner that the
Admiral was, after all, many years her
senior, and that she in all human
probability had some considerable span of
existence to get through yet, which he
could not have shared owing to advance
of infirmity.
</p>

<p>
One admirable characteristic had
survived, however, this change in her life.
The cheery independence of this lady
was untouched by the hand of sorrow.
It was her creed that at all costs a smile
should be ready for the world.  Regardless
of criticism, she trod her own path
through a hypercritical generation; and
by seeking to cast the light of a brave
hopefulness upon it, she illuminated the
road on which her near contemporaries
held their way.  One great secret of her
method was industry.  In her gentle
womanliness she sought work, not afar,
but in her own field, and found it as
all women can find work if they seek
truly.
</p>

<p>
Even while she was awaiting the
arrival of the sisters, she was not idle.
On her lap there lay a huge scrap-book,
and with scissors and paste she was busy
collecting and arranging in due order
sundry newspaper cuttings.  That scrap-book
will in after-years be historical, for
it contained every word ever printed from
the handwriting of Theodore Trist up to
the date of the day when Mrs. Wylie
sat alone in her drawing-room.  From
its pages more than one book on the art
of making war has since been compiled,
and from those printed words more than
one general of many nationalities would
confess to having learnt something.
</p>

<p>
The lady's quick ear detected the sound
of a cab suddenly stopping, and when a
bell rang a few moments later she laid
aside her scissors and rose from her seat
with no sign of surprise.
</p>

<p>
'I wonder,' she said, 'of what tragedy
or comedy this may be the beginning.'
</p>

<p>
There was a certain matronly grace
in her movements as she opened the
door and drew Brenda Gilholme to her arms.
</p>

<p>
'Alice has come with me!' said the girl.
</p>

<p>
'Yes, dear,' replied Mrs. Wylie, and
she proceeded to greet the taller sister
with a kiss also, but of somewhat less warmth.
</p>

<p>
Then the three ladies passed into the
drawing-room together.  There was a
momentary pause, during which Mrs. Huston
mechanically loosened the strings
of her smart little bonnet and looked
round the room appreciatively.
</p>

<p>
'How perfectly delicious,' she
exclaimed, 'it is to see a comfortable
English drawing-room again!  I almost
kissed the maid who opened the door;
she was such a pleasant contrast to
sneaking Cingalese servants.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie smiled sympathetically,
but became grave again instantaneously.
Her eyes rested for a second on Brenda's
face.
</p>

<p>
'Alice,' explained Brenda, coming
forward to the fireplace and raising one
neatly shod foot to the fender, 'does not
give a very glowing account of Ceylon.'
</p>

<p>
'Nor,' added Mrs. Huston with light
pathos, 'of the blessed state of matrimony.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie drew forward a chair.
</p>

<p>
'Sit down,' she said hospitably, 'and
warm yourselves.  We will have some
tea before you take your things off.'
</p>

<p>
'And now Alice,' she resumed, after
seating herself in the softly lined cane
chair near the literary table, 'tell me all
... you wish to tell me.'
</p>

<p>
'Oh,' replied the beautiful woman,
removing her gloves daintily, 'there is
not much to tell.  Moreover, the story
has not the merit even of novelty.  The
raw material is lamentably commonplace,
and I am afraid I cannot make a
very interesting thing of it.  Wretched
climate, horribly dull station, thirsty
husband.  <i>Voilà tout!</i>'
</p>

<p>
'To which, however,' suggested Mrs. Wylie
with a peculiar intonation, 'might
perhaps be added military society and
Indian habits.'
</p>

<p>
The younger woman shrugged her
shoulders and laughed.
</p>

<p>
'Oh no!' she exclaimed irresponsibly.
'But all that is a question of the past,
and the present is important enough to
require some attention.'
</p>

<p>
She extended her feet to the warmth
of the fire, and contemplated her small
boots with some satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
'Yes...?'
</p>

<p>
'I have bolted,' she said, replying to
the inferred query, 'and he is in all
probability after me.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie turned aside the screen
which she was holding between her face
and the fire.  Her intelligent eyes rested
for a moment on the speaker's face, then
she transferred her attention to Brenda,
who stood near the mantelpiece with
her two gloved hands resting on the
marble.  The girl was gazing down
between her extended arms into the fire,
and a warm glow nestled rosily round
her face.  The eyes were too sad for their
years.
</p>

<p>
'I am very sorry to hear it,' said the
widow with conviction.
</p>

<p>
'There was no alternative.  I could
not stand it any longer.'
</p>

<p>
'How did you manage it?' asked Mrs. Wylie
quietly, almost too quietly.
</p>

<p>
'Oh, I got rid of some jewellery, and
there was a Captain Markynter who was
kind enough to get my ticket and see
me off!'
</p>

<p>
A peculiar silence followed this cool
remark.  Mrs. Wylie sat quite still,
holding the palm screen before her face.
Brenda stood motionless as a statue.
Mrs. Huston curved her white wrist, and
looked compassionately at a small red
mark made by the button of her glove.
At length the uneasy pause was broken.
Without moving, Brenda spoke in a
cool, clear voice, almost monotonous.
</p>

<p>
'Alice,' she explained, 'is a great
advocate for masculine assistance.  She
considers us totally incapable of managing
our own affairs, and powerless to act for
ourselves.  She has been regretting all
day that Theo should be away, and
consequently beyond our call.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston laughed somewhat
forcedly, and drew in her feet.
</p>

<p>
'It is like this,' she explained.  'If
my husband catches me I think I shall
probably kill myself!  Theo is so strong
and reliable, and somehow ... so
<i>capable</i>, that I naturally thought of him
in my emergency.'
</p>

<p>
'Naturally,' echoed Mrs. Wylie mechanically.
</p>

<p>
At that moment she was not thinking
whether her monosyllabic remark was
cruelly sarcastic or simply silly.  Her
whole mind was devoted to the study of
Brenda's face, upon which the firelight
glowed; but in the proud young features
there was nothing legible&mdash;nothing
beyond a somewhat anxious thoughtfulness.
</p>

<p>
'I think,' continued Mrs. Huston,
'that we may count on a week's start.
My affectionate husband cannot be here
before then.'
</p>

<p>
To this neither lady made reply.  The
servant came in, and in a few moments
tea was served.  Brenda presided over
the little basket table, and prepared each
cup with a foreknowledge of the several
tastes.  During this there was no word
spoken.  From the nonchalance of the
ladies' manner one might easily have
imagined that the younger couple had
just come in from a long day's shopping.
</p>

<p>
'Have you,' asked the widow at
length, as she stirred her tea placidly,
'thought of what you are doing?'
</p>

<p>
'Oh yes!' was the laughing rejoinder,
in which, however, there was no mirth.
'Oh yes!  I have thought, and thought,
and thought, until the subject was
thrashed out dry.  There was nothing
else to do but think, and read
yellow-backed novels, all the voyage home.'
</p>

<p>
'Then,' murmured the widow, with
gentle interrogation, 'this Captain
Parminter did not come home with you?'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston changed colour, and her
lips moved slightly.  She glanced
towards Mrs. Wylie beneath her dark
lashes, and answered with infinite
self-possession:
</p>

<p>
'No!  And his name is Markynter.'
</p>

<p>
The palm-leaf did not move.  Presently,
however, Mrs. Wylie laid it
aside, and asked for some more tea.
</p>

<p>
'Well,' she said cheerily, 'I suppose
we must make the best of a very bad
bargain.  What do you propose to do next?'
</p>

<p>
In the most natural and confiding
way imaginable, Mrs. Huston looked up
towards her sister, who was still standing.
There was an almost imperceptible
shrug of her shoulders.
</p>

<p>
'Brenda,' she answered, 'says that I
must run away and hide in some small
village, which is not exactly a cheerful
prospect.'
</p>

<p>
'It would hardly do,' said Brenda, as
if in defence of her own theory, 'to go
down to Brighton and stay at the
Bedford Hotel, for instance.'
</p>

<p>
'If,' added Mrs. Wylie in the same
tone, 'you really want to avoid your
husband, you must certainly hide; but
I do not see what you can gain by such
a proceeding.  It can never be permanent,
and you will soon get tired of
chasing each other round England.'
</p>

<p>
'Perhaps he will get tired of it first.'
</p>

<p>
'If he does, what will your position
be?  Somewhat ambiguous, I imagine.'
</p>

<p>
'It cannot be worse than it is at present.'
</p>

<p>
'Oh yes,' replied the widow calmly.  'It can!'
</p>

<p>
She set her empty cup on the tray,
and sat with her two hands clasped
together on her lap.  She had not come
through fifty years of life, this placid
lady, without learning something of the
world's ways, and she recognised instantly
what Alice Huston's position was.  It
was the old story which is told every
day in all parts of the world, more
especially, perhaps, in India&mdash;the
wearisome tale of a mistaken marriage
between a man of small intellect and a
woman of less.  If both husband and
wife be busy, the one with his bread-winning,
the other with her babies, such
unions may be a near approach to animal
happiness&mdash;no more can be hoped for.
The very instincts of it are animal, and
as such it is safe.  But if one or both
be idle, the result is simply 'hell.'  No
other expression can come near it.
</p>

<p>
Captain Huston's military duties were
not such as occupied more than a few
hours of the week, and during the rest
of his existence he was actively idle.
His mind was fallow; he was totally
without resource, without occupation,
without interest.  There is no man on
earth to beat the ordinary British
military officer in downright futile
idleness.  The Spanish Custom-house
official runs a close race with the Italian
inn-keeper in this matter, but both
enjoy their laziness, and are never bored.
When our commissioned defender is
naturally of an idle turn of mind, he
is intensely bored; his existence is one
long yawn, and the faculty of enjoyment
dies a natural death within his soul.  I
can think of no more despicable sample
of humanity than a man who cannot
find himself something to do under all
circumstances, and in all places; and
surely no one can blame his Satanic
majesty for a proverbial readiness to
supply the deficiency from his own
store of easy tasks.
</p>

<p>
If Alice Gilholme had searched through
the entire army-list, she could scarcely
have found a man less suitable to be her
husband than Captain Huston.  Petty,
short-sighted jealousy on his part, vapid
coquetry on hers, soon led to the
inevitable end, and the result was thrown
upon the hands of Brenda and Mrs. Wylie
with easy nonchalance by the
spoilt child of society.
</p>

<p>
It was no sudden disillusionment for
Brenda, but merely one more wretched
curtain torn aside to display the hideous
reality of human existence and human
selfishness.  No thought of complaint
entered the girl's head.  With a pathetic
silence she simply applied herself to the
task set before her, with no great hope
of reaching a satisfactory solution.
</p>

<p>
Before the three ladies had spoken
further upon the subject chiefly occupying
their thoughts, the drawing-room
door was thrown open, and with studied
grace William Hicks crossed the threshold.
</p>

<p>
The hat that he carried daintily in
his left hand was not quite the same in
contour as those worn by his contemporaries.
To ensure this peculiarity, the
artist was forced to send to Paris for his
head-gear, where he paid a higher price
and received an inferior article.  But
the distinction conferred by a unique hat
is practically immeasurable and without
price.  Mr. Hicks' gloves were also out
of the common; likewise his strangely-cut
coat and misshapen continuations.
</p>

<p>
The <i>tout ensemble</i> was undoubtedly
pleasing.  It must have been so, because
he was obviously satisfied, and the
artistic eye is the acknowledged
arbitrator in matters of outward adornment,
whether it be of mantelshelves or
human forms divine.
</p>

<p>
The three ladies turned to greet him
with that ready feminine smile which is
ever there to lubricate matters when the
social wheel may squeak or grate.
</p>

<p>
'Oh, bother!' whispered Brenda to
herself, as she held out her hand.
</p>

<p>
'What?' exclaimed Hicks, with
languid surprise and visibly deep
pleasure.  'Mrs. Huston!  I am delighted.
When I left my studio and plunged into
all this mist and gloom this afternoon, I
never thought that both would be
dispelled so suddenly.'
</p>

<p>
'Is it dispelled?' asked Mrs. Huston,
glancing playfully towards the window.
</p>

<p>
'In here it is.  But then,' he added, as
he shook hands with Mrs. Wylie, 'there
is never any mist or gloom in this room.'
</p>

<p>
With a pleasant laugh, as if deprecating
his own folly, he turned to greet
Brenda, who had stood near the mantelpiece
with her gloved hand extended.
Then his manner changed.  Moreover,
it was a distinctly advantageous
alteration.  One would have imagined, from
the expression of his handsome but
thoroughly weak face, that if there was
anybody on earth whom he respected
and admired, almost as much as he
respected and admired William Hicks,
that person was Brenda.
</p>

<p>
For her he had no neatly-turned
pleasantry&mdash;no easy, infectious laugh.
</p>

<p>
'I did not know you were coming
home, Mrs. Huston,' he said, turning
again to that lady.  Then his social
training enabled him to detect unerringly
that he might be on a dangerous trail,
and with ready skill he turned aside.
'This is not the best time of year,' he
continued, 'to return to your native
shores.  Personally I am rather disgusted
with the shore in question, but we must
surely hope for some more sunshine
before we finally bid farewell to the orb
of day for the winter.  We poor artists
are the chief sufferers, I am sure.'
</p>

<p>
'At all events,' put in Mrs. Wylie
easily, 'you take it upon yourselves to
grumble most.  There is always
something to displease you&mdash;the want of
daylight, the scarcity of buyers, or the
hopeless stupidity of the hanging-committee.'
</p>

<p>
'I think I confine my observations to
the weather,' murmured Hicks, gazing
sadly into the fire, towards which bourne
Brenda's glance was also apparently
directed, for she presently pressed the
glowing coals down with the sole of her
dainty boot, and quite lost the studied
poesy of the artist's expression.  'I am,
I think,' he continued humbly, 'independent
of buyers and hanging-committees.
I do not exhibit at Burlington
House, and you know I never sell.'
</p>

<p>
'Indeed,' said Mrs. Huston, with
slight interest, for the elder lady had
turned away and was busy with her
second cup of tea, which was almost
cold.
</p>

<p>
'No,' answered Hicks, with the
eagerness that comes to egotistical
talkers when they are sure of a new
listener.  'No.  I don't care to enter
into competition with men who depend
more upon conventional training than
natural talent.  The Royal Academy is
only a human institution, and, perhaps,
it is only natural that their own students
should be favoured before all others.
I am not an Academy student, you know!'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston contented herself with
no more compromising affirmative than
a gracious inclination of the head.  It is
just possible that, fresh from Ceylon,
and consequently deplorably ignorant of
artistic affairs as she was, the knowledge
that William Hicks was not an Academy
student had been denied her.  This most
lamentable fact, however, if it existed,
she concealed with all the cleverness of
her sex, and Hicks came to the
conclusion, later on, that she must have
known.  He could not conceive it possible
that a woman moving in intelligent
circles, although in the outer rims
thereof, and far from the living centre of
Kensington, could be unaware of such
an important item in his own personal
history; this being no mean part of
the artistic history of the nineteenth
century.
</p>

<p>
Enveloped as he was, however, in
conceit, he had the good taste to perceive
that his bewildering presence was on this
particular occasion liable to be considered
bliss of an alloyed description, and in a
short time he took his leave.
</p>

<p>
As he was moving round and saying
good-bye, Mrs. Huston returned to the
artistic question, from which they had
never strayed very far.  Indeed, art was
somewhat apt to become a nauseating
subject of conversation wherever William
Hicks was allowed to influence matters
to any extent.
</p>

<p>
'You have never sent pictures to the
Academy, then?' she asked innocently.
</p>

<p>
'Oh no!' he answered with mild
horror.  'Good-bye, so glad to see you
home again.'
</p>

<p>
And then he vanished.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie watched his retreating
figure with a pleasant and sociable
expression on her intelligent face.
</p>

<p>
'That,' she was reflecting, 'is a
lie!'  She happened to know that Hicks had
been refused a place on the walls of
Burlington House.
</p>

<p>
If I were a ghost, or if I ever come
to be one, I shall not take up the old,
time-worn craft of frightening people
during the stilly hours.  Instead of such
uninteresting work, I shall make a
collection in a phantom pocket-book of
asides and murmured reflections.  From
such, an interesting study of earthly
existence, and more particularly of social
life, might well be made.
</p>

<p>
On those phantom pages might, for
instance, be inscribed the reflections of
William Hicks as he made his way down
the broad staircase of Suffolk Mansions.
</p>

<p>
'Whew!' was their tenor; 'ran right
into it.  She's left him; I could see that.
Seems to me she's on the verge of a
catastrophe&mdash;divorce or separation, or
something like that.'
</p>

<p>
In the drawing-room Mrs. Wylie was
saying reflectively to either or both of
her companions:
</p>

<p>
'This is the beginning of it.  That
man will tell everyone he meets before
going to bed to-night that you are home.
He did not ask where your husband was,
which shows that he wanted to know;
consequently he will wonder over it, and
will take care to tell everyone what he
is wondering about.'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap04"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IV.
<br><br>
TO THE FRONT.
</h3>

<p>
A week later Brenda was sitting in the
same apartment again.  But this time
she was alone.  From pure kindness of
heart Mrs. Wylie had managed to allow
the girl an afternoon's leisure, and Brenda
was spending this very happily amidst
her books and magazines.  She was, in
her way, a literary person, this brilliant
young scholar; but, belonging to a
universal age, universality was also hers.
With the literary she could show herself
well-read; with the purely pleasure-seeking
she could also find sympathy.  In these
times of mixed circles, men and women
must needs be able to talk upon many
subjects, whether they know aught about
them or nothing.
</p>

<p>
Brenda Gilholme was not, however, a
brilliant talker.  She could have written
well had she been moved thereto by that
restless spirit which makes some people
look upon existence as a blank without
pens and paper.  But as yet she was
content to read, and her young mind
thirsted for the grasp of other folks'
thoughts as a fisherman's fingers itch for
the rod.
</p>

<p>
During the last week Alice Huston's
presence in Mrs. Wylie's household had
not been an unmixed success.  There
was a slight and almost imperceptible
impatience in the widow's manner,
in the inflection of her pleasant voice,
in her very glance when her eyes rested
upon her guest's gracious form.
Gradually the story had come out, and
some details were related with unguarded
carelessness, resulting in the conclusion,
as far as Mrs. Wylie and Brenda were
concerned, that Captain Huston might
also have a story to tell, differing in tone
and purport from that related by his
wronged spouse.  Her case against her
husband was not very clear, and in her
relation of it there was in some vague
way a sense of suppression and easy
adaptation both pointing to the same
end.  If Brenda felt this and drew her
own conclusions from it, she allowed no
sign of such conclusions to appear, but
accepted the situation without comment.
The natural result of this unfeminine
behaviour was a wane of confidence
between the sisters.  It is easy enough,
even for the most reticent person, to
make known to some chosen familiar
certain details hitherto suppressed when
once the subject is broached; but to
continue confiding in a bosom friend
who accepts all statements without surprise,
horror or sympathy is a different
matter.
</p>

<p>
Brenda's manner of listening was
neither forbidding nor indifferent.  It
was merely unenthusiastic, and its chief
characteristic was a certain measured
attention, as if the details were imprinting
themselves indelibly upon a prepared
mental surface, where they might well
remain intact and legible for many years.
Mrs. Wylie, glancing at the two sisters
over her book, or her palm-leaf screen,
conceived a strange thought.  She
imagined that she detected in Brenda's
manner and demeanour a certain subtle
resemblance to the manner and demeanour
of one who was far away, and
whose influence upon the girl's life could
not well have been very great, namely,
Theodore Trist.
</p>

<p>
When the war-correspondent was not
on active service, he lived in London,
and, as was only natural to one of his
calling, moved in such intervals in a
circle of men and women influential in
the political world.  He was a reticent
speaker, but an excellent listener, and
Mrs. Wylie, as the wife of an active
naval politician, had many opportunities
of watching in her placid way this strange
young man among his fellows.  Theodore
Trist's chief fault was, in her eyes,
a lack of enthusiasm.  He waited too
patiently on the course of events, and
moved too guardedly when he moved at
all.  It was a very womanly view of a
man's conduct, and one held, I think, by
nineteen out of twenty mothers who
have brought brilliant sons into the world.
</p>

<p>
These characteristics the widow now
began to see developing subtly in the
soul of Brenda Gilholme, and a keen
study of the girl during this trying time
only confirmed her suspicions.  She
began to feel nervously sure that the
companionship of Mrs. Huston was bad
for her, and with this knowledge to urge
her she calmly forced her way in between
the two sisters.
</p>

<p>
If Brenda lacked enthusiasm (which
failure is characteristic of this calculating
and practical generation), she atoned for
the want by a wondrous steadfastness.
By word, and deed, and silence, she
demonstrated continuously her intention
to stand by her sister and do for her all
that lay in her power.  In this spirit of
dumb devotion Mrs. Wylie was pleased
to see a suggestion of Theo Trist's
soldierly obedience to the call of duty in
which there was no question of personal
inclination.  She may have been right.
Women see deeper into these subtle
human influences than men.  There are
many small powers at work in every-day
life, guiding our social barque,
withholding us or urging us on, dictating,
commanding, approving, or disapproving;
and the motive of these is woman's will.
The eye that guides is a woman's heart;
the brake that checks is a woman's
instinct.  Mrs. Wylie was probably,
therefore, quite right in her supposition;
for it is such men as Theo Trist who
leave the impress of their individuality
upon those who come in contact with
them&mdash;men who speak little and listen
well, who think deeply and never speak
of their thoughts.  It is not your
talkative man with a theory for every
emergency, with a most wonderful and
universal knowledge, who rules the world.
The influence of these is comparatively
small.  Their experience is too vast to be
personal, and thus loses weight.  Their
theories are too indefinite, too sweeping,
and too general for practical application
to human affairs, which are things not to
be generally treated at all.  We are a
sheepish generation.  Our thoughts are
held in common; we theorize in crowds
and hold principles in a multitude, but
God's grand individuality is not dead
yet.  It lives somewhere in our hearts,
and at strange odd moments we still act
unaccountably, according to the dictates
of that enfeebled organ.
</p>

<p>
There is a subtle difference between
the male and female intellects respecting
anxiety.  Most women can conceal it
better than their brothers and husbands
when the necessity for concealment arises,
but they suffer no less on that account.
In fact, the weight of it is greater and
more wearing, because in solitude they
brood over it more than men.  They
have not the same power of laying it
aside and taking up a book or occupation
with the deliberate intention of courting
absorption, as possessed by us.
</p>

<p>
Brenda was apparently immersed in
the pages of an intellectual monthly
review, but at times her sweet innocent
eyes wandered from the lines and rested
meditatively on the glowing fire.  The
girl was restless.  She moved each time
she turned a page, glancing sometimes
at the small clock on the mantelpiece,
sometimes towards the window, whence
an ever-waning light fell gloomily upon her.
</p>

<p>
There was in her soul a vague sense of
discomfort, which was as near an approach
to imaginative anxiety as her strong
nature could compass; and to this she
was gradually giving way.  Her interest
in the magazine upon her lap had never
been else than perfunctory, and now she
could not take in the meaning of the
carefully rounded and somewhat affected
phrases.
</p>

<p>
Alice Huston had been a week in
Mrs. Wylie's chambers, and there was
no positive reason now to suppose that
her husband was not in London.  But
the beautiful woman possessed little sense
of responsibility, and none of consideration
for others.  She simply refused to leave
town until the following Monday,
because, she argued, the sound of wheels,
the gay whirl of life, was so intensely
refreshing to her.  Mrs. Wylie would
scarcely interfere, because she was not
quite certain that Captain Huston was
unfit to take care of his wife.  She could
not decide whether it was better to keep
them apart or to allow Alice to run into
the danger of being followed and claimed
by her husband.  The widow had very
successfully followed a placid principle
of non-interference all through her life,
and now she applied it to the calamitous
affairs of Captain and Mrs. Huston.  She
recognised very clearly that the man had
made as evil a bargain as the woman.
In both there was good material, capable
of being wrought into good results by
advantageous circumstances.  The
circumstance of their coming together and
contracting a life-long alliance was
disadvantageous to the last degree, <i>voilà tout</i>.
It was a matter for themselves to settle.
There are some people who, in a crisis,
form themselves into a reserve&mdash;not
necessarily out of range, but beyond the
din and confusion of the melée: of these
was Mrs. Wylie.  If necessity demanded
it, she was capable of leading an assault
or withstanding an attack, but as a
clear-headed, watchful commander of reserves
she was incomparable.
</p>

<p>
Brenda knew this.  She had an
analytical way of studying such persons
as influenced her daily life, and in most
cases she arrived at a very accurate
result.  That Mrs. Wylie was watching
events, but would not influence them,
she was well aware, and, moreover, she
now felt that someone was needed who
would calmly step to the front and act
with a bold acceptance of responsibility.
That she herself was the person to take
this position seemed undeniable.  There
could be no one else.  No other could
be expected to assume the task.
</p>

<p>
But there was another, and Brenda
would not confess, even indefinitely in
her own thoughts, that she knew it.
</p>

<p>
At length she laid her book down,
and sat gazing softly into the fire.
When the bell rang at the end of the
long passage beside the kitchen-door,
she never moved.  When the maid
opened the drawing-room door, with
the mumbled announcement of a name
to whose possessor no door of
Mrs. Wylie's was ever shut, Brenda failed
to hear the name, and half turned her
head without much welcome in her eyes.
</p>

<p>
She was preparing to rise politely
from her seat when a dark form passed
between the window and herself.  There,
upon the hearthrug, within touch of
her black skirt, stood Theo Trist!
Theo&mdash;quiet, unemotional, strong as
ever; Theo&mdash;with a brown face, and
his bland, high forehead divided into
two portions of white and of mahogany,
where the fez had rested, keeping off
the burning sun, but casting no shadow;
Theo&mdash;to the fore, as usual, in his calm,
reliable individuality, just at the moment
when he was required.
</p>

<p>
Brenda gave a little gasp, and the
eyes that met his were, for a second,
contracted with some quick emotion,
which he thought was fear.
</p>

<p>
'Theo!' she exclaimed, '<i>Theo!</i>'  Then
she stopped short, checking herself
suddenly, and as she rose he saw the
frightened look in her eyes again.
</p>

<p>
They shook hands, and for a brief
moment neither seemed able to frame
a syllable.  Brenda's lips were dry,
and her throat was parched&mdash;all in a
second.
</p>

<p>
He looked round the room as if
seeking someone, or the indication of a
presence, such as a work-basket, a
well-known book, or some similar token.
Brenda concluded that he was wondering
where Mrs. Wylie might be, and
suddenly she found power to speak in
a steady, even voice.
</p>

<p>
'Mrs. Wylie is out!' she said.  'I
expect her in by tea-time.'
</p>

<p>
He nodded his head&mdash;indicated the
chair which she had just left&mdash;and,
when she was seated, knelt down on
the hearthrug, holding his two hands
to the fire.
</p>

<p>
'Where is Alice?' he asked, in a
peculiar monotone.
</p>

<p>
'She is out with Mrs. Wylie&mdash;&mdash;  Then
... you know?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes, Brenda, I know!' he answered
gravely.
</p>

<p>
The girl sat forward in her low chair,
with her two arms resting upon her
knees, her slim, white hands interlocked.
For a time she was off her guard,
forgetting the outward composure taught
in the school of which she was so apt
a pupil.  She actually allowed herself to
breathe hurriedly, to lean forward, and
drink in with her eager eyes the man's
every feature and every movement.  He
was not looking towards her, but of her
fixed gaze he was well aware.  The
sound of her quick respiration was close
to his ear; her soft, warm breath
reached his cheek.  With all his iron
composure, despite his cruel hold over
himself, he wavered for a moment, and
the hands held out to the glow of the
fire shook perceptibly.  But his meek
eyes never lost their settled expression
of speculative contemplation.  Whatever
other men might do, whatever
women might suffer, Theodore Trist
was sufficient for himself.  The flame
leapt up, and fell again with a little
bubbling sound, glowing ruddily upon
the two faces.  He remained quite
motionless, quite cold.  It was the
face of the great Napoleon
again&mdash;inscrutable, deep beyond the depth of
human soundings, cruel and yet sweet&mdash;but
the high forehead seemed to suggest
an infinite possibility of something else;
some lack of energy, or some great
negation, which cancelled at one blow
the resemblance that lay in lip and chin
and profile.
</p>

<p>
Presently Brenda leant back in the
chair.  There was a screen on the table
near her&mdash;Mrs. Wylie's palm-leaf&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
'I will tell you,' he said, 'how I came
to know.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
He stopped in an apologetic way, as if
begging her indulgence for the use of
those two words in her presence.
</p>

<p>
'Yes...' she murmured encouragingly.
</p>

<p>
'It was Huston.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Did,' she asked at length&mdash;'did he
recognise you?'
</p>

<p>
'No.'
</p>

<p>
'And he never knew, and does
not know now, that you were on
board?'
</p>

<p>
It would seem that he divined her
thoughts, detecting the hidden importance
of her question.
</p>

<p>
'No,' he answered meaningly, as he
turned and looked down at her&mdash;'no;
but he has not forgotten my existence.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes; it is rather like that.'
</p>

<p>
She examined the texture of the screen
with some attention.
</p>

<p>
'Do you mind telling me, Theo,' she
asked at length evenly, 'whether he
mentioned your name?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'He said that Alice had run away to
join her old lover&mdash;meaning me.'
</p>

<p>
'Are you sure he meant ... you?'
</p>

<p>
'He mentioned my name; there could
be no doubt about it.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
He moved slightly, but did not attempt
to follow her.
</p>

<p>
'It is rather strange,' she said at length,
'that the first name she mentioned on
landing at Plymouth should be yours.'
</p>

<p>
A look of blank surprise flashed across
his face, and then he reflected gravely
for some moments.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'I told Alice some time ago that it
would be much better for us to manage
this ... this miserable affair without
your help.'
</p>

<p>
'You are equal to it,' he said deliberately.
</p>

<p>
She laughed with a faint gleam of her
habitual brightness.
</p>

<p>
'Thank you.  That is a very pretty
sentiment, but it is hardly the question.'
</p>

<p>
'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?'
</p>

<p>
'Nothing as yet.  She is waiting on
events.'
</p>

<p>
'Ah, then, she is in reserve as usual.
When the time comes, we may rely upon
her help.  But until then...'
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' interrupted Brenda in an
agonized voice, 'the time <i>has</i> come!'
</p>

<p>
She started back from the window,
her face as white as her snowy throat,
her eyes contracted with horror.
</p>

<p>
'He is there!' she whispered hoarsely,
pointing towards the window&mdash;'in the
street.  Coming into the house!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Come,' he said with singular calmness&mdash;'come
into another room.  I&mdash;see him here.'
</p>

<p>
As he spoke he gently urged her
towards the door, but she resisted, and
for a moment there was an actual physical
struggle.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
Trist hesitated, and at that moment
the bell rang.  They stood side by side
looking at the closed door, listening
painfully.
</p>

<p>
'Perhaps,' whispered Trist, 'the maid
will say that Mrs. Wylie is out.'
</p>

<p>
They could hear the light footstep of
the servant, then the click of the latch.
</p>

<p>
A murmur of words followed, ending
in the raised tone of a male voice and a
short sharp exclamation of fear from the maid.
</p>

<p>
Instinctively Trist sprang towards the door.
</p>

<p>
There was a sound of heavy footsteps
in the passage.  Trist's fingers were on
the handle.  He glanced towards Brenda
appealingly.
</p>

<p>
'Leave it!' she exclaimed.  'Let him
come in.'
</p>

<p>
Before the words were out of her lips
the door was thrown open, concealing
Theodore Trist.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap05"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER V.
<br><br>
UNDER FIRE.
</h3>

<p>
A tall, well-built man entered the
room hurriedly and stopped short, facing
Brenda, who met his gaze with gentle
self-possession.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he muttered in a thick voice,
and his unsteady hand went to his long
fair moustache.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
The room was rather dark, and he
glanced round, failing to see Theo Trist,
who was leaning against the wall behind
him.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he repeated; 'Brenda.  I suppose
you are in it, too!'
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
'Tell me,' he continued thickly,
'where my wife is to be found.'
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'What right have you to withhold it?'
</p>

<p>
'She is my sister.  I must do the best
I can for her.'
</p>

<p>
He laughed in an unpleasant way.
</p>

<p>
'By throwing her into the path of the
man she has always&mdash;&mdash;'
</p>

<p>
'Stop!' commanded Brenda.
</p>

<p>
'Why?  Why should I stop?  I
suppose Trist is in England.  That is
why she came home, no doubt.'
</p>

<p>
'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?'
</p>

<p>
'That is <i>my</i> affair!' 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.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Huston looked slowly round the room
with bloodshot, horrible eyes.
</p>

<p>
'Tell me!' he hissed, thrusting forward
his face so that she drew back&mdash;not
from fear, but to avoid a faint aroma
of stale cigar-smoke.
</p>

<p>
'No!' she answered.
</p>

<p>
'Deny that Trist loved Alice&mdash;if you
dare!' he continued, in the same whistling
voice.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'I deny nothing!'
</p>

<p>
'Tell me,' he shouted hoarsely, 'where
Alice is!'
</p>

<p>
'No!'
</p>

<p>
'Then take <i>that</i>, you...'
</p>

<p>
He struck her with his clenched fist
on the shoulder&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Oh ... h ... h ...!' shrieked the
soldier.  'Who is that?'
</p>

<p>
'It is Trist ... you <i>brute</i>!'
</p>

<p>
But Huston lay motionless, with limp
hands and open mouth.  He was insensible.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Theo!  Theo!' she cried, 'what are
you doing?'
</p>

<p>
He looked into her face sharply,
almost fiercely&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
'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.
</p>

<p>
'No&mdash;no!' she cried impatiently.  'But
you have killed <i>him</i>!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Don't touch him,' said Trist, in an
unconsciously commanding tone.  'He
is all right.'
</p>

<p>
Obediently, she rose and stepped away,
while he lifted the limp form, and placed
it in a chair.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'I wonder,' she whispered, 'if this
sort of thing is to go on.'
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;no hope to hold out.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;more especially, perhaps, of Alice and
Brenda&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;men who do not
put a <i>blind</i> faith in luck, nor look
invariably for Fortune's smiles.
</p>

<p>
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:
</p>

<p>
'Here we are again, Brenda&mdash;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.'
</p>

<p>
'Is it,' she asked simply, 'a case
for action, or must we wait upon
events?'
</p>

<p>
'I would suggest ... action.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes...' she said, in little more
than a whisper, after a pause, 'I think
so too&mdash;more especially now ... that
you suggest it.  Your natural bias is,
as a rule, in the direction of masterly
inactivity.'
</p>

<p>
He smiled slowly.
</p>

<p>
'Perhaps ... so!'
</p>

<p>
'Therefore your conviction that action
is necessary must be very strong before
you would suggest it.'
</p>

<p>
'I feel,' he said, with some deliberation,
'that it will be better to keep them
apart in the meantime.'
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;the man
at her side&mdash;and for a second that one
unique faith wavered.  With a sort of
mental jerk&mdash;as of a person who makes
a quick effort to recover a wavering
balance&mdash;she restored her courageous
trustfulness.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' she murmured, 'I am sure of it.'
</p>

<p>
'And I suppose ... I suppose we
must do it.  You and I, Brenda?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Yes&mdash;<i>we</i> must do it.'
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;a creature
morally and literally without pockets&mdash;and
his hands hung at his sides.
</p>

<p>
'It is a ... a pretty strong combination.'
</p>

<p>
She smiled, and changed colour so
slightly that he no doubt failed to
see it.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;the best
reason of all&mdash;namely, that the offer
was as spontaneous and natural as the
acceptance of it.  But why&mdash;why this
spontaneity?  Perhaps they both knew.
Perhaps she suspected, and suspected
wrongly.  Perhaps neither knew definitely.
</p>

<p>
At last she turned her head, and
naturally her glance was directed
downwards into Piccadilly.
</p>

<p>
'There they are,' she whispered hurriedly,
'looking into the jeweller's shop
opposite.  What are we to do, Theo?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'Where?'
</p>

<p>
'I don't know,' he replied, with a
shrug of the shoulders.
</p>

<p>
There was a momentary hesitation on
the girl's part.  She perceived a terrible
flaw in Trist's plan, and he divined her
thoughts.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
There was a faint smile of confidence
on her face as she turned away and
hurried from the room.
</p>

<p>
Although her light footsteps were
almost inaudible, the slight <i>frôlement</i> of
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'All I want,' whispered the war-correspondent,
following her glance, 'is
three minutes' start from that man.'
</p>

<p>
'You had better go!' she answered
anxiously below her breath.
</p>

<p>
'Yes; they are on the stairs ... but
... tell me, Brenda, promise me on
your honour, that he did not hurt you.'
</p>

<p>
'I promise you,' she said, with a faint
smile.
</p>

<p>
Then he left her.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap06"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VI.
<br><br>
TRIST ACTS ON HIS OWN RESPONSIBILITY.
</h3>

<p>
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&mdash;practised,
gifted woman of the world as
she was&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;there is a
suggestion of something more in it), and
Trist had fulfilled the promise then given.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'<i>You!</i>' she exclaimed; 'I did not
expect you.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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:
</p>

<p>
'What part is he playing, that of a
scoundrel or a fool?'
</p>

<p>
She could not conceive a third alternative
just then, because she did not know
Alice Huston so well as Theo Trist knew her.
</p>

<p>
Before Mrs. Huston, who was blushing
very prettily, had time to speak,
Trist imparted his news with a certain
rapid bluntness.
</p>

<p>
'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?'
</p>

<p>
'Will ... I ... go with you?'
stammered the beautiful woman in a
frightened whisper.  'Where to, Theo?'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie leant against the broad
balustrade and breathed rapidly.  She
was really alarmed, but even fear could
not conquer her indomitable placidity.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie's eyebrows moved imperceptibly
beneath her veil.  She thought
she saw light.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'I will go with you!' she said, almost
inaudibly, and stood blushing like a
schoolgirl between two lovers.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Come, then!' he said.
</p>

<p>
Still Mrs. Huston hesitated.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Go to Brenda!' he whispered, and
the matron bowed her head.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
The next minute she was running
upstairs, while the footsteps of the two
fugitives died away in the roar of traffic.
</p>

<p>
'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 such <i>blind</i> faith at the hands of
others.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
She entered the drawing-room, and
found Brenda standing near the window,
with one hand clasping the folds of the
curtain.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'He is quite gentle and tractable
now!' she whispered.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie took her hand within her
fingers, clasping it with a soft protecting
strength.
</p>

<p>
'Is he ... tipsy?'
</p>

<p>
'No!' answered Brenda, with a peculiar
catch in her breath; 'he is only
stupefied.'
</p>

<p>
'Stupefied ... how?'
</p>

<p>
'I ... I will tell you afterwards.'
</p>

<p>
The quick-witted matron had already
discovered that some of her furniture
was slightly displaced, so she did not
press her question.
</p>

<p>
At this moment Captain Huston rose
to his feet, and took up a position on
the hearthrug.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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&mdash;for scoundrels
are common enough) will not be able to
hide her for long!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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&mdash;though I shall
be the first to welcome a reconciliation.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'We will take tea at once, Mary,'
said Mrs. Wylie, unloosening her bonnet-strings.
</p>

<p>
Mary was forced to retire, meditating
as she went over the inscrutability
and coldness of the ordinary British
lady.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'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...'
</p>

<p>
'I suppose he was tipsy?'
</p>

<p>
'No; he was quite sober.  He looked
horrible.  His eyes were bloodshot&mdash;his
lips unsteady...'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie stopped the description
with a sharp, painful nod of her head.
To our shame be it, my brothers, she
knew the rest!
</p>

<p>
'Was he quite clear and coherent?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes!'
</p>

<p>
'But ... just now...' argued
Mrs. Wylie, vainly endeavouring to
make Brenda resume the narrative&mdash;'just
now he was quite stupid?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes.'
</p>

<p>
'What happened, Brenda?'
</p>

<p>
At this moment Mary brought in the
tea and set it briskly down on a small
table.  Brenda stepped forward, and began
pouring out.
</p>

<p>
'What happened, Brenda?' repeated
Mrs. Wylie, when the door was closed.
</p>

<p>
Then she approached, took the teapot
from her hand, and by gentle force
turned the motherless girl's face towards
herself.
</p>

<p>
'My darling,' she whispered, drawing
the slim form to her breast, 'why should
you hide your tears from <i>me</i>?'
</p>

<p>
I have endeavoured to make it clear
that this girl was not an emotional
being.  There were no hysterical
sobs&mdash;merely a few silent tears, and the
narrative was continued.
</p>

<p>
'He came in, and asked me to tell
him where Alice was.  I refused, and
then...'
</p>

<p>
'Then...?'
</p>

<p>
'He tried to hit me.'
</p>

<p>
'Tried ... Brenda?'
</p>

<p>
'Well ... he just reached me.'
</p>

<p>
'And ... Theo?' asked Mrs. Wylie.
'What did Theo do?'
</p>

<p>
There was a short pause, during which
both ladies attended to their cups with
an unnatural interest.
</p>

<p>
'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!'
</p>

<p>
'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?'
</p>

<p>
'No; he frightened me a little, that
was all.'
</p>

<p>
'I am very glad you had Theo!'  Mrs. Wylie
purposely turned away as
she said these words.
</p>

<p>
Brenda sipped her tea, and made no reply.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda laughed suddenly, but her
hilarity finished in a peculiar, abrupt way.
</p>

<p>
'Telle est la vie!' she murmured, as
she rose obediently.  'What a labour
this enjoyment sometimes is!'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap07"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VII.
<br><br>
QUICKSANDS.
</h3>

<p>
'Wot's this&mdash;runaway couple?' asked a
pallid and slipshod waiter of his
equally-unwholesome colleague in the
dining-room attached to a large City
railway-station.
</p>

<p>
'D'no,' answered the second, with
weary indifference; 'we don't offen see
<i>that</i> sort down 'ere.'
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'Indeed,' yawned the other with
withering sarcasm.
</p>

<p>
'Yes, indeed!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
In the meantime Trist and Alice
Huston were turning their attention to
dinner.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Theo, I have so <i>much</i> to tell you,'
whispered Mrs. Huston once when the
waiter was exchanging civilities with the
cook's assistant down a speaking-tube.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' replied Trist, interested in his
bread; 'wait until we are in the train.'
</p>

<p>
'Where are we going?'
</p>

<p>
'I will tell you afterwards; these
fellows might hear.  Will you have
wine?  What shall it be, something
light&mdash;say Niersteiner?'
</p>

<p>
He softened his apparent brusqueness
with a smile, and she blushed promptly,
which was an unnecessary proceeding.
Trist's sang-froid was phenomenal.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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 ... I <i>hoped</i>, 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?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Oh  why ... did you ever let me
marry him?' sobbed Alice miserably.
</p>

<p>
He glanced at her with a peculiar
twist of his lips, downwards, to one side.
Then he shrugged his shoulders very
slightly.
</p>

<p>
'I? ... What had I to do with it, Alice?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'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&mdash;even if I had taken it
upon myself to exert it, which would
have been an unwarrantable liberty.'
</p>

<p>
'I was so young,' she pleaded, 'and so
inexperienced.'
</p>

<p>
'Twenty-two,' he observed reflectively;
'and you had your choice, I suppose, of
all the best men in London.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'I hope,' he continued imperturbably,
'that this misunderstanding is only
temporary...'
</p>

<p>
She laughed bitterly, and examined the
texture of her lace handkerchief with a
gracefully impatient poise of the head.
</p>

<p>
'Huston ... loves you.'
</p>

<p>
'And <i>you</i>,' she answered pertly, 'hate
him!  Why?  Tell me why, Theo.'
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'And what is my husband's redeeming point?'
</p>

<p>
'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.
</p>

<p>
'I only had Brenda,' she murmured
sorrowfully; 'and she is like you.  She
listens and listens and listens, but never
gives any real advice.'
</p>

<p>
'If she had, would you have taken it?'
suggested Trist.
</p>

<p>
The graceful shoulders moved interrogatively
and indifferently.
</p>

<p>
'I suppose not.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'I don't believe you care a fig what
becomes of me!' said Mrs. Huston at
length in a reckless way.
</p>

<p>
He looked at her with a slow grave
smile, but made no other answer.
</p>

<p>
'Do you?' she asked coquettishly.
</p>

<p>
He was quite grave now, and her
breathing became slightly accelerated.
</p>

<p>
'Yes!' quite simply.
</p>

<p>
Presently Trist roused himself, as if
from unpleasant reflections, and began
talking about the future.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'If Russia declares war, I shall kill
myself, I think.'
</p>

<p>
He laughed, and changed his position,
drawing in his feet, and leaning forward
with his hands clasped between his
knees.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'What sort of understanding?' she
inquired, with that nonchalant impatience
of detail which seems to be the special
prerogative of beautiful women.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
She sighed, and leant back wearily,
looking at him in a curious, snake-like
way beneath her lowered lids.
</p>

<p>
'Three months will make no difference.'
</p>

<p>
'Nevertheless ... try it.'
</p>

<p>
'I want,' she said in a dull voice,
'... a divorce!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'You cannot get that, Alice.  It is
impossible!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Eh?' he inquired.
</p>

<p>
'I could make it possible,' she said
jerkily, and her voice died away in a
sickening little laugh.
</p>

<p>
For some moments there was a horrible
silence, and then Theo Trist spoke
in a strange, thick voice, quite unlike
his own.
</p>

<p>
'Alice,' he said, 'do you ever think
of Brenda?  Do you ever think of
<i>anyone</i> but yourself?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Oh,' she muttered angrily, 'you are
all against me!  No one cares for me;
no one makes allowances.'
</p>

<p>
Trist smiled in a slow, strong way
which was infinitely pathetic.
</p>

<p>
'No,' he said, 'no one makes allowances;
you must never expect that.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap08"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VIII.
<br><br>
MASKED.
</h3>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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&mdash;so to speak.  This is a
success, is it not?  There are a great
many celebrities in the room.'
</p>

<p>
'Indeed?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes; and I always feel a slight
difference in the atmosphere when there is
someone present with a name one likes
to hear.'
</p>

<p>
He looked round the room with
glistening eye and delicate nostrils
slightly distended, as if sniffing his native
atmosphere of Fame.
</p>

<p>
'One can generally recognise a celebrated
man or woman, I think,' he continued.
'There is an indefinite feeling
of power&mdash;a strength of individuality
which seems to hover round them like
an invisible halo.'
</p>

<p>
'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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;less true human
sympathy.
</p>

<p>
Brenda literally writhed beneath the
flood of harmony.  She tried not to
listen&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Thank God, I have done it!' he
muttered, beneath the whirl of polite
applause that greeted the stout lady's
elephantine bow.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;in
fact, she was sure that he had not
intended to do so.  And here he was&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
'I hope,' said Hicks meaningly, 'that
you are not growing weary.  It is early yet.'
</p>

<p>
He looked round the room, with a
pleasant nod for an acquaintance here
and there whom he had not seen before.
</p>

<p>
'Oh no,' said Brenda lightly in reply.
'I just happened to wonder what the
time might be.  I hope it was not rude.'
</p>

<p>
He laughed forgivingly, still looking
about him.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he exclaimed in an altered tone.
'Is that not Trist?  Dear old Theo Trist!'
</p>

<p>
'Yes.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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.
</p>

<p>
'This afternoon,' he said.  'Only this
afternoon.  I landed at Plymouth this
morning.'
</p>

<p>
The next moment he was standing
before her with his brown face bowed,
his hand extended.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
Instinctively, and without knowing
her motive, she answered in the same
way, conscious that it was his wish.
</p>

<p>
'I am very glad to see you back,' she said.
</p>

<p>
Then he turned to Hicks, and shook
hands with more warmth than that
ethereal being had expected.
</p>

<p>
'You see, Hicks,' he said, 'I cannot
resist flying at once to pay my respects
at the shrine of Art&mdash;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.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Will you come,' he said, 'and have
some tea or an ice, or something?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he said; 'Crozier is going to
sing.  Shall we wait?  It is a pity to
miss Sam Crozier.'
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless he made no attempt to
stop, and they passed through the doorway
into a smaller gallery, which was
almost deserted.
</p>

<p>
'I am in luck to-night; everything I
have attempted has been a success.  So
we shall probably find the refreshment-room
empty.'
</p>

<p>
She laughed in a nervous way, and her
touch upon his arm wavered.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'That is why I must see you.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes, ... I know.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'There is a sofa half-way up the
stairs,' said Trist.  'It is a good position,
quite out of earshot, and very visible&mdash;therefore
harmless; let us occupy it!'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'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&mdash;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.'
</p>

<p>
The girl turned her face slightly, and
her childlike blue eyes sought his with a
quaint air of scrutiny.
</p>

<p>
'When,' she said, 'you left Suffolk
Mansions this afternoon with Alice, you
had no intention of returning to London
to-night.'
</p>

<p>
There was no mistaking the deliberation
of her assertion.  She was defying
him&mdash;daring him to deny.
</p>

<p>
He met her glance for a moment&mdash;no longer.
</p>

<p>
'That,' he confessed airily, after a
pause, 'is so!'
</p>

<p>
'And,' continued the girl with more
confidence, 'since that time your views
respecting Alice have become modified
or changed in some way, perhaps?'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
'Brenda,' he whispered at length, 'I
have had an awful scare!'
</p>

<p>
She drew in a deep breath with a
little shivering sound, and moistened her
lips&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
There was a long pause, during which
the faint echo of distant applause came
to their ears.
</p>

<p>
'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?'
</p>

<p>
A dull red colour slowly mounted
over her white throat to her face&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
During that time their two souls
merged, as it were, into a complete
understanding&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Ah! these little mistakes!  We spend
a small portion of our lives in making
them, and the rest in trying to repair.
</p>

<p>
'Give me,' said Brenda, 'her address,
and I will go to her to-morrow.'
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'I have heard of the place,' said Brenda
composedly.  'Have you been there and
back this evening?'
</p>

<p>
'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&mdash;here it is&mdash;of things that
Alice would like you to take to her to-morrow.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda took the paper and glanced at
it rapidly.
</p>

<p>
'It is a long one,' she said with a short,
hard laugh.  'Is she quite resigned to
burying herself alive for a short time?'
</p>

<p>
'Ye&mdash;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.'
</p>

<p>
The girl drew a sharp breath of relief.
</p>

<p>
'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.'
</p>

<p>
'It is questionable whether much
thinking is profitable at any time.'
</p>

<p>
Trist looked at her in a curious, doubtful
way, and then he rose from his seat.
</p>

<p>
'I will take you home now,' he said,
'if you are ready.  It is nearly one
o'clock.'
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Then she took his arm, and they
passed down the splendid stairs together.
Co-heirs to a truly human inheritance of
sorrow, they bore their burden without
complaint or murmur, with a self-reliance
behoving children of an acute civilization.
For civilization will in time kill all human
sympathy.
</p>

<p>
'I will go home with you,' said Trist,
'because some precautions are necessary
in order to escape observation on your
journey to-morrow, and I have several
suggestions to make.'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap09"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IX.
<br><br>
IN CASE OF WAR.
</h3>

<p>
As the winter settled over Europe&mdash;here
with gloom and fog, there with bright
keen frosts and dazzling snow&mdash;the feeling
of anxiety respecting affairs in the
East slowly subsided.  The general
conviction was that Russia would not move
against her hereditary Moslem enemy
until the winter was over; for even
hatred, sturdy weed though it may be, is
killed by cold.
</p>

<p>
Theodore Trist, fresh from those
mysterious Oriental lands which are so
much more romantic from a distance,
gave no opinion upon the matter, because
he was a practical business-man, and
fully aware of the market value of his
observations.
</p>

<p>
By ten o'clock on the morning following
the soirée of the Ancient Artists, he
alighted from a hansom cab opposite
the huge office of the journal to which
his pen was pledged.  A few moments
later he was shaking hands uneffusively
with the editor.  This gentleman has
been introduced before, and men at his
age change little in appearance or habit.
His vast head was roughly picturesque
as usual, his speech manly and to the point.
</p>

<p>
'Glad to see you back,' he said, in a
business-like way.  'Sit down.  None
the worse, I hope?' he added, in a softer
tone, and accompanied his observation
with a keen glance.  'None the worse
for the smell of powder again?'
</p>

<p>
'No,' was the answer.  'That smell
never did any man much harm.'
</p>

<p>
The editor smiled, and drew some
straggling papers together upon his desk.
</p>

<p>
'I want,' said Trist, after a pause, 'to
make a lot of money.'
</p>

<p>
'Ah!'
</p>

<p>
'Enough,' continued Trist gravely,
'to put into something secure, and ensure
a steady income in the piping times
of peace.'
</p>

<p>
The editor clasped his large hands
gravely with fingers interlocked, and
placed them on the desk in front of him.
</p>

<p>
'That,' he said, with raised eyebrows,
'is bad.'
</p>

<p>
'But natural,' suggested the younger man.
</p>

<p>
'When a man of your age suddenly
expresses a desire for something
which...'
</p>

<p>
'He has never had,' remarked Trist
meekly.
</p>

<p>
'Which he has never had or wished
for, it is suggestive of a change&mdash;a
radical change&mdash;in that man's plan of
life.'
</p>

<p>
Trist raised his square shoulders
slightly and respectfully.
</p>

<p>
'Now,' continued the editor, in his
most solid and convincing way,
'you&mdash;Theodore Trist&mdash;are the most brilliant
war-correspondent of a brilliant and war-like
generation.  You are, besides that, a
clever fellow&mdash;perhaps an <i>exceptionally</i>
clever fellow.  But, my friend, there are
many clever fellows in the world.  It is
an age of keen competition, and the first
man in the race must never look back to
see whose step it is that he hears behind
him.  We live in a time of specialities,
and we must be content with specialities.
You are a born war-correspondent, and I
suppose your ambition is to prove that
you can do something else&mdash;write a
novel, or edit a religious periodical&mdash;eh?'
</p>

<p>
Trist laughed, and returned the gaze
of a pair of remarkably bright eyes
without hesitation.
</p>

<p>
'No,' he answered.  'I am content
with the mark I have made, but there is
not sufficient money to be gained at it,
considering how much it takes out of a
man.  I am as strong as a horse yet, but
I have noticed that there are some of us
who, considering their years, are not the
men they should be.  It is a desperately
hard life, and we are constantly required.
If I live ten years longer, I shall be laid
on the shelf, as far as active service goes.'
</p>

<p>
The editor looked much relieved, and,
moreover, made no pretence of concealing
his feelings.
</p>

<p>
'I have thought of that,' he said.
'Of course, we will take you on the
editorial staff.'
</p>

<p>
'Now...?'
</p>

<p>
The elder man raised his head, and
the kindly gray eyes searched his
companion's face.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he said slowly.  '<i>That</i> is your
game.  Have you lost your nerve?'
</p>

<p>
'No.'
</p>

<p>
'Then you contemplate some great
change in your plan of life.'
</p>

<p>
'Hardly,' returned Trist, with some
deliberation; 'but I want to be prepared
for such an emergency.'
</p>

<p>
'I am very sorry to hear it.'
</p>

<p>
'Why?'
</p>

<p>
'Because you are too young yet.  And
... and, my boy, I don't want to lose
the best war-correspondent that ever
crossed a saddle.'
</p>

<p>
The object of this honest flattery
shrugged his shoulders.
</p>

<p>
'There are plenty more coming on.'
</p>

<p>
The great man shook his head.
</p>

<p>
'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked,
'that you are going to turn your back
upon a splendid career, and take up
journalism?  Why, my dear fellow, even at
my age I would willingly change my
chair for your saddle, and men say that
I am at the top of the journalistic tree.
Come, be candid; why are you giving
up active service?'
</p>

<p>
'Because I am wanted at home, and
because I must find some means of
making a steady income.'
</p>

<p>
'Will you take my advice?' asked the
elder man humbly.
</p>

<p>
They were like two friendly gladiators,
these immovable journalists, each
conscious of the strength that lay behind
the gentle manner of the other, both
anxious to avoid measuring steel.
</p>

<p>
Trist laughed good-humouredly.
</p>

<p>
'I will not promise.'
</p>

<p>
'No; that would be asking too much
from a man who has made his own way
with his own hands.  My advice is: do
nothing until the necessity arises.  At
the first rumour of war we will talk this
over again.  In the meantime, let us
wait on events.  You will write your
leaders as usual, and I suppose you
are busy with something in book form?'
</p>

<p>
'If,' answered Trist, 'there is war in
Turkey, I will go, because I told you
that I would, but that will be my last
campaign.'
</p>

<p>
The editor looked at him with kindly
scrutiny; then he scratched his chin.
</p>

<p>
'Why?' he asked deliberately, and
with a consciousness of exceeding the
bounds of polite non-interference.
</p>

<p>
'I cannot tell you&mdash;yet.'
</p>

<p>
There was a slight pause, during
which neither moved, and the stillness
in that little room which lay in the
very heart of restless London was
remarkable.
</p>

<p>
The editor looked very grave.  There
were no papers on his desk requiring
immediate attention, but he held his
pencil within his strong fingers ready,
as it were, to add his notes to any news
that might come before him.  The
responsibility of a great journalist is only
second to that of a Prime Minister in a
country like England, where the voice
of the people is heard and obeyed.  Had
this man turned his attention to politics,
he would perhaps have attained the
Premiership; but he was a journalist,
and from that small silent room his
fiats went forth to the ready ears of
half a nation.  Few men read more
than one newspaper, and we have not
yet got over the weakness of attaching
undue importance to words that are set
in type; consequently the influence of an
important journal over the mind of the
nation to which it dictates is practically
incalculable.
</p>

<p>
'You know,' said this modern Jove at
length, 'as well as I do that there <i>will</i>
be war as soon as the winter is over.'
</p>

<p>
In completion of his remark he nodded
his vast head sideways, vaguely
indicating the East.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' was the meek answer; 'that is
so&mdash;a war which will begin in a one-sided
way, and last longer than we quite
expect; but I will go.'
</p>

<p>
'I fancy,' remarked the editor after
some reflection, 'that Russia will make
a very common mistake, and underrate,
or perhaps despise, her adversary.'
</p>

<p>
Trist nodded his head.
</p>

<p>
'They are sure to do that,' he said;
'but I suppose they will win in the end.'
</p>

<p>
'And you will be on the losing side again.
</p>

<p>
'Yes; I shall be on the losing side again.
</p>

<p>
Both men relapsed into profound
meditation.  Trist's meek eyes were fixed
on the soft Turkey carpet&mdash;the only
suggestion of ease or luxury about the room.
The editor glanced from time to time
at his companion's strong face, and
occupied himself with making small indentations
in his blotting-pad with the point
of a blacklead pencil.
</p>

<p>
'Trist,' he said at length, 'I cannot
do without you in this war.'
</p>

<p>
'The war has not come yet.  Many
things may happen before the spring;
but I will not play you false.  You need
never fear that.'
</p>

<p>
Then he rose and buttoned his thick
coat; for, like all great travellers, he
wrapped himself up heavily in England.
It is only very young and quite
inexperienced men who gather satisfaction
from the bravado of wearing no top-coat
in winter.
</p>

<p>
'Good-bye,' he said; 'I must go up
to the publishers.'
</p>

<p>
'Good-bye,' replied the editor heartily;
'look in whenever you are passing.  I
hope to see you one night soon at the
Homeless Club; they are going to give
you a dinner, I believe.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes; I heard something of it.  It is
very good of them, but embarrassing,
and not strictly necessary.'
</p>

<p>
Trist passed out of the small room
into a long passage, and thence into
what was technically called the shop&mdash;a
large apartment, across which stretched
a heavily-built deal counter, and of
which the atmosphere was warm with
the intellectual odour of printing-ink.
</p>

<p>
The door-keeper, who persisted, in
face of contradiction, in his conviction
that Mr. Trist was a soldier, drew himself
stiffly up and saluted as he held open
the swing-door.  It was one of those
cold blustering days which come in early
November.  A dry biting south-east
wind howled round every corner, and
disfigured most physiognomies with
patches of red, more especially in the
nasal regions.  Nevertheless, the air was
clear and brisk&mdash;just the day to kill
weak folks and make strong people feel
stronger.
</p>

<p>
With his gloved hands buried in the
pockets of his thick coat, the
war-correspondent wandered along the crowded
pavement of the Strand, rubbing shoulders
with beggar and genius indifferently.
</p>

<p>
He was not a man much given to
useless reflections or observations upon
matters climatic, and so absorbed was he
in his thoughts that he would have been
profoundly surprised to learn that a biting
east wind was withering up humanity.
He looked into the shops, and presently
became really interested in a display of
rifles exposed in the unpretending window
of a small establishment.
</p>

<p>
It is strange how the sight of those
tools or instruments with which we have
at one time worked for our living affects
us.  The present writer has seen an old
soldier handle a bayonet in a curious
reflective way which could not be
misunderstood.  The ancient warrior's face,
in some subtle sense, became hardened,
and his manner changed.  I myself grasp
a rope differently from men who have
never trodden a moss-grown deck, and
the curve of the hard strands within my
fingers tells a tale of its own, and brings
back, suddenly, ineffaceable pictures of
the great seas.
</p>

<p>
Theodore Trist stood still before the
upright burnished barrels which the poet
has likened to organ-pipes, and to his
mind there came the memory of their
music, and the roar of traffic round him
was almost merged into the grand, deep
voice of cannon.  It is in the midst of
death that men realize fully the glorious
gift of life, and those who have known
the delirious joy of battle&mdash;have once
tasted, as it were, the cup of life's
greatest emotion&mdash;are aware that nothing
but a battle-field can bring that maddening
taste to their lips again.
</p>

<p>
This contemplative man breathed harder
and deeper as his eyes rested on lock and
barrel, and for some time he stood hearing
nothing round him, seeing nothing
but the instruments of death.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' he murmured as he turned away
at length.  'I <i>must</i> go to the Russian
war.  <i>One</i> more campaign, and then
... then who knows?'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap10"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER X.
<br><br>
A PROBLEM.
</h3>

<p>
Brenda left Mrs. Wylie at eleven o'clock,
merely walking away from the door of
Suffolk Mansions without wrap or
luggage.  She did not know whether she
was being watched or no, but her plans
were so simple, and yet so cunning, that
the question gave her little trouble.
Detection was impossible.  Trist had
seen to that, and his strategy had been
the subject of some subdued laughter the
night before, because Brenda complained
that she felt like an army.  He had
unconsciously dictated to her, in his soft,
suggestive way, and so complete were his
instructions, so abject the obedience
demanded, that there was some cause for
her laughing dissatisfaction.  With
intelligence, education, experience, reading,
and money it is no difficult matter to
evade the closest watcher, and Trist was
not at all afraid of such means as lay at
Captain Huston's disposal for tracing the
hiding-place of his wife.
</p>

<p>
When Mrs. Wylie found herself left
alone, she proceeded placidly to await
further events.  She was convinced that,
sooner or later, the husband of her
protégée would appear.  Whether this
questionable honour would be conferred
with bluster and righteous indignation,
or with abject self-abuse, remained to be
seen.  Neither prospect appeared to have
the power of ruffling the lady's serene
humour.  The morning newspaper received
its usual attention, and subsequently
there were some new books to
be cut and glanced at.  Lunch had
already been ordered&mdash;lunch for two,
and something rather nice, because Theo
Trist had invited himself to partake of
the lone widow's hospitality.
</p>

<p>
In her small way, Mrs. Wylie was
likely to pass an eventful day, but the
thought of it in nowise took away her
interest in December's <i>Temple Bar</i>.  She
was one of those happy and lovable
women who are not in the habit of adding
to their grievances by anticipating
them; for it is an undeniable fact that
sorrows as well as joys are exaggerated
by anticipation.  Personally, I much
prefer going out to get my hair cut as
soon as ever I realize the necessity.  It
is a mistake to put off the operation,
because the scissors seem to hang over
one's luxuriant locks with a fiendish click
during the stilly hours.
</p>

<p>
About twelve o'clock there was a
knock at the door which shut off Mrs. Wylie's
comfortable suite of rooms from
the rest of the house.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' murmured the occupant of the
drawing-room.  'Our violent friend.
Twelve o'clock: I must get him out
of the house before Theo arrives.'
</p>

<p>
She leant back and tapped the pages
of her magazine pensively with an ivory
paper-cutter, while her eyes rested on the
door.
</p>

<p>
In the course of a few moments there
was audible the sound of murmuring
voices, followed shortly by footsteps.
</p>

<p>
The door was thrown open, and
William Hicks made a graceful <i>entrée</i>,
finished, as it were, by the delicately-tinted
flower he carried in his gloved
fingers.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie rose at once with a most
reprehensively deceitful smile of welcome.
She devoutly wished William Hicks in
other parts as she offered her plump
white hand to his grasp.
</p>

<p>
The artist, with passable dissimulation,
glanced round the room.  No sign or
vestige of Brenda!  The rose was deftly
dropped into his hat and set aside.  It
had cost two shillings.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!  Mrs. Wylie,' he exclaimed, 'I
was half afraid you would be out shopping.
The wind is simply excruciating.'
</p>

<p>
'Then warm yourself at once.  I am
afraid I am alone.'
</p>

<p>
Hicks was, in his way, a bold man.
He relied thoroughly upon a virtue of
his own which he was pleased to call
tact&mdash;others said its right name was 'cheek.'
</p>

<p>
'Afraid!' he said reproachfully, and
with an inquiring smile.
</p>

<p>
'Yes&mdash;the girls are out.'
</p>

<p>
He laughed in a pleasant deprecating
way, and held his slim hands towards the fire.
</p>

<p>
'How absurd you are!' he said.  'I
merely ran in to ask if a lace handkerchief
I found last night belonged to Miss
Gilholme.'
</p>

<p>
He began to fumble in his pockets
without any great design of finding the
handkerchief.  Mrs. Wylie spared him
the trouble of going farther.'
</p>

<p>
'Bring it another time,' she said.
</p>

<p>
She knew the handkerchief trick well.
It is very simple, my brother: pick up a
lace trifle anywhere about the ballroom,
and with a slight draft upon your
imagination, you have a graceful excuse
to call at any house you may desire the
next afternoon.  If there is not one to be
found, one can easily buy such a thing,
and it serves for years.  No young man
is complete without it.
</p>

<p>
For some minutes William Hicks
talked airily about the soirée of the
Ancient Artists, throwing in here and
there, in his pleasant way, a blast upon
his individual instrument, of which
the note was wearily familiar to his
listener.
</p>

<p>
At last, however, he let fall an
observation which made Mrs. Wylie forgive
him, 'à un coup,' his early call.
</p>

<p>
'I met,' he said casually, 'that fellow
... Huston this morning.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie laid aside the paper-knife
with which she had been trifling.  The
action scarce required a moment of time,
but in that moment she had collected
her faculties, and was ready for him with
all the alertness of her sex.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!  What news had he?' she inquired suavely.
</p>

<p>
'Oh, nothing much.  We scarcely
spoke&mdash;indeed, I don't believe he
recognised me at first.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie raised her eyebrows in
astonishment.
</p>

<p>
'He came yesterday,' she said, 'to get
his wife; and Brenda has gone away,
too, so I am all alone for a few days.'
</p>

<p>
This was artistic, and the good lady
was mentally patting herself on the back
as she met Hicks's glance, in which
disappointment and utter amazement were
struggling for mastery.
</p>

<p>
'I do not think,' continued she calmly,
'that I shall stay in town much longer.
I am expecting a houseful of quiet
people&mdash;waifs and strays&mdash;at Wyl's Hall at
Christmas, so must really think of going
home.  But I will call on your mother
before going.  Give her my love and tell
her so.'
</p>

<p>
William Hicks was not the man to
make a social blunder.  He rose at
once, and said 'Good-morning,' with his
sweetest smile.  Then he bowed himself
out of the room, taking the two-shilling
rose with him.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie reseated herself, and withheld
her sigh of relief until the door had
closed.  She then took up her book
again, but presently closed its pages over
her fingers, and lapsed into thought.
</p>

<p>
'That young man,' she reflected, 'is
finding his own level.  He may give
trouble yet; but Brenda goes serenely on
her way, quite unconscious of all these
little games at cross-purposes of which
she is the centre.'
</p>

<p>
The good lady's reflections continued
in this vein.  She leant back with that
pleasant sense of comfort which was
almost feline in its supple grace.  Her
eyes contracted at times with a vague
far-off anxiety&mdash;the reflex, as it were, of
the sorrows of others upon her own
placid life, from which all direct
emotions were weeded now.
</p>

<p>
When, at length, the sound of a bell
awoke her from these day-dreams, she
rose and arranged the cheery fireplace
with a sudden access of energy.
</p>

<p>
'I wonder,' she murmured, without
emotion, 'who is coming now.'
</p>

<p>
With a glance round the room to see
that her stage was prepared, she reseated
herself.
</p>

<p>
Again the door opened, and this time
the new arrival did not hurry into the
room, but stood upon the threshold
waiting.  Mrs. Wylie looked up with
a pleasant expectancy.  It was Captain
Huston.
</p>

<p>
The soldier glanced round the room
uneasily, and then he advanced towards
the fire without attempting any sort of
greeting.  Mrs. Wylie remained in her
deep chair, and as the Captain came
towards her, she watched him.  His
unsteady hands gave his hat no rest.
Taking his stand on the hearthrug, he
began at once in a husky voice.
</p>

<p>
'I have come to you, Mrs. Wylie,' he
said, 'because I suspect that you know
where Alice is to be found.  This game
of hide-and-seek to which she is treating
me is hardly dignified, and it is distinctly
senseless.  If I choose to take decided steps
in the matter, I can, of course, have her
hunted down like a common malefactor.'
</p>

<p>
He spread his gaitered feet apart, and
waited with confidence the result of this
shot.
</p>

<p>
'In the meantime,' suggested Mrs. Wylie,
with unruffled sweetness, 'it is
really, perhaps, wiser that you should
remain apart.  I sincerely trust that this
is a mere temporary misunderstanding.
You are both young, and, I suppose,
both hasty.  Think over it, Captain
Huston, and do not press matters too
much.  If, in a short time, you approach
Alice with a few kind little apologies, I
believe she would relent.  You must
really be less hard on us women&mdash;make
some allowance for our more tender
nerves and silly susceptibilities.'
</p>

<p>
By way of reply, he laughed in a
rasping way, without, however, being
actually rude.
</p>

<p>
'I have an indistinct recollection of
having heard that before,' he observed,
with forced cynicism, 'or something of
a similar nature.  The kind little
apologies you mention are due to me as much
as they are to Alice.  Of course, she has
omitted to draw your attention to sundry
little flirtations...'
</p>

<p>
The widow stopped him with a quick
gesture of disgust.
</p>

<p>
'I refuse,' she said deliberately, 'to
listen to details.  Alice will tell you that
I treated her in the same way.  These
matters, Captain Huston, should be
sacred between husband and wife.'
</p>

<p>
'Well, I suppose you have Alice's
story through Brenda?  It comes to the
same thing.  I can see you are prejudiced
against me.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie smiled patiently, with a
suggestion of sympathy, which her
companion seemed to appreciate.
</p>

<p>
'The world,' she said, 'is sure to be
prejudiced against you in the present
case.  You must remember that the
moral code is different for a pretty
woman than for the rest of us.  Moreover,
the husband is blamed in preference,
because people attribute the
original mistake of marrying to him.  I
don't say that men are always to blame
for mistaken marriages, but the initiative
is popularly supposed to lie in their
hands.'
</p>

<p>
Captain Huston tugged at his drooping
moustache pensively.  He walked
to the window, with the assurance of one
who knew his way amidst the furniture,
and stood for some time looking down
into the street.  Presently he returned,
avoiding Mrs. Wylie's eyes; but she saw
his face, and her own grew suddenly
very sympathetic.
</p>

<p>
He played nervously with the ornaments
upon the mantelpiece for some
moments, deeply immersed in thought.
There was a chair drawn forward to the
fire, at the opposite end of the fur
hearthrug to that occupied by Mrs. Wylie.
This he took, sitting hopelessly
with his idle hands hanging at either side.
</p>

<p>
'What am I to do?' he asked, half cynically.
</p>

<p>
Before replying, the widow looked at
him&mdash;gauging him.
</p>

<p>
'Do you really mean that?'
</p>

<p>
'Of course&mdash;I am helpless.  A man
is no match for three women.'
</p>

<p>
'To begin with, you must have more
faith in other people.  In myself
... Brenda ... Theo Trist.'
</p>

<p>
The last name was uttered with some
significance.  Its effect was startling.
Huston's bloodshot eyes flashed angrily,
his limp fingers clenched and writhed
until the skin gave forth a creaking
sound as of dry leather.
</p>

<p>
'D&mdash;n Trist!' he exclaimed.  'I will
shoot him if he comes across my path!'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie did not shriek or faint, as
ladies are usually supposed to do when
men give way to violent language in
their presence.  But there came into her
eyes a slight passing shade of anxiety,
which she suppressed with an effort.
</p>

<p>
'But first of all,' she said, 'you must
learn to restrain yourself.  You must
understand that bluster of any description
is quite useless against myself or
Theo.  Alice may be afraid, but Brenda
is not; and with Alice fear is closely
linked with disgust.  Do not forget that.'
</p>

<p>
She spoke quite calmly, with a force
which a casual observer would not have
anticipated.  In her eagerness she leant
forward, with a warning hand outstretched.
</p>

<p>
'And,' he muttered, 'I suppose I am
to suppress all my feelings, and go about
the world like a marble statue.  It seems
to me that that fellow Trist leaves his
impression on you all.  His doctrine is
imperturbability at any price.  It isn't mine!'
</p>

<p>
'Nor mine, Captain Huston.  All I
preach is a little more restraint.  Theo
goes too far, and his reticence leads to
mistakes.  You have been misled.  You
think that ... your wife and Theo
Trist ... love each other.'
</p>

<p>
The soldier looked at her steadily, his
weak nether lip quivering with excitement.
Then he slowly nodded his head.
</p>

<p>
'That&mdash;is my impression.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie evinced no hurry, no
eagerness now.  She had difficult cards,
and her full attention was given to
playing them skilfully.  She leant back
again in her comfortable chair, and
crossed her hands upon her lap.
</p>

<p>
'Using primary argument,' she said
concisely, 'and meeting opinion with
opinion, I contend that you are
mistaken.  I will be perfectly frank with
you, Captain Huston, because you have
a certain claim upon my honesty.  In
some ways Alice is a weak woman.  It
has been her misfortune to be brought
up and launched upon society as a
beauty; a man who marries such a
woman is assuming a responsibility
which demands special qualifications.
Judging from what I have observed, I
am very much afraid that you possess
these qualifications in but a small degree.
Do you follow me?'
</p>

<p>
The man smiled in an awkward way.
</p>

<p>
'Yes.  You were going to say, "I
told you so."'
</p>

<p>
'That,' returned the widow, 'is a
remark I never make, because it is
profitless.  Moreover, it would not be true,
because I never told you so.  Circumstances
have in a measure been against
you.  You could scarcely have chosen a
more dangerous part of the world in
which to begin your married life than
Ceylon.  As it happens, you did not
choose, but it was forced upon you.  In
England we live differently.  A young
married woman is thrown more exclusively
upon the society of her husband;
there is less temptation.  You will find
it less difficult...'
</p>

<p>
'Is married life to be described as a
difficulty?' he interrupted.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Wylie did not reply at once.
She sat with placidly crossed hands
gazing into the fire.  There was a slight
tension in the lines of her mouth.
</p>

<p>
'Life,' she replied, 'in any form, in
any sphere, in any circumstances, <i>is</i> a
difficulty.'
</p>

<p>
After a moment she resumed in a
more practical tone:
</p>

<p>
'Again, Alice is scarcely the woman
to make a soldier's wife in times of peace.
War ... would bring out her good points.'
</p>

<p>
Huston moved restlessly.  Mrs. Wylie
turned her soft gray eyes towards his
face, and across her sympathetic features
there passed an expression of real pain.
She had divined his next words before
his lips framed them.
</p>

<p>
'I am not a soldier, Mrs. Wylie.'
</p>

<p>
'Resigned...?' she whispered.
</p>

<p>
'No; turned out.'
</p>

<p>
Unconsciously she was swaying backwards
and forwards a little, as if in lamentation,
while she rubbed one hand over
the other.
</p>

<p>
'Drink,' continued Huston harshly;
'... drink, and Alice drove me to it.'
</p>

<p>
There was a long silence in the room
after this.  The glowing fire creaked
and crackled at times; occasionally a
cinder fell with considerable clatter into
the fender, but neither of these people
moved.  At last Mrs. Wylie looked up.
</p>

<p>
'Captain Huston,' she said pleadingly.
</p>

<p>
'Yes.'
</p>

<p>
He looked across, and saw the tears
quivering on her lashes.
</p>

<p>
'Come back to me to-morrow
morning,' was her prayer.  'I cannot ... I
cannot advise you yet ... because I do
not quite understand.  Theo Trist is
coming to lunch to-day.  Will you
come back to-morrow?'
</p>

<p>
'I will,' he answered simply, and left
the room.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap11"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XI.
<br><br>
MRS. WYLIE LEADS.
</h3>

<p>
As Theodore Trist mounted the broad
bare staircase of Suffolk Mansions, his
quick ears detected the sound of
Mrs. Wylie's door being drawn forcibly to
behind departing footsteps.
</p>

<p>
He continued his way without increase
of speed.  The person whose descent
was audible came slowly to meet him,
and in a few moments they were face
to face upon a small stone-paved landing.
</p>

<p>
Neither departed from the unwritten
code by which Englishmen regulate
their actions; they merely stared at
each other.  Trist was unchanged,
except for a slight heaviness in build&mdash;the
additional weight, one might call
it, of years and experience; but Huston
was sadly altered since these two had
met beneath a Southern sky.  Both were
conscious of a sudden recollection of
sandy plain and camp environments, and
Huston changed colour slightly, or, to
be more correct, he lost colour, and his
eyes wavered.  He was painfully conscious
of his disadvantage in this trifling
matter of appearance, and he had reason
to remember with dread the ruthless
penetration of the calm soft eyes fixed
upon him.  Years before he had
suspected that Theodore Trist was
cognizant of a trifling fact which had at
times suggested itself to him&mdash;namely,
that, despite braided coat and bright
sword, despite Queen's commission and
Sandhurst, he, Alfred Woodruff Charles
Huston, was no soldier.
</p>

<p>
Each looked at the other with the
hesitation of men who, meeting, recognise
a face, and half await a greeting of
some description.  In a moment it was
too late, and they passed on&mdash;one
upstairs, the other down, with unconscious
symbolism&mdash;having exchanged nothing
more than that expectant, hesitating
stare of mutual recognition and mutual
curiosity.
</p>

<p>
Each was at heart a gentleman, and
under other circumstances, in the presence
of a third person, or with the view of
sparing a hostess anxiety, they would
undoubtedly have shaken hands.  But here,
beneath the eye of none but their God
(who, in His wisdom, has purposely
planted a tiny seed of divergence in our
hearts), they saw no cause for acting that
which could, at its best, have been
nothing but a semi-truth.
</p>

<p>
When Trist greeted Mrs. Wylie a few
moments later, he detected her glance of
anxiety; but it was against his strange
principles to take the initiative, so he
waited until she might speak.
</p>

<p>
After a few commonplaces dexterously
handled, she suddenly changed
her tone.
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' she said with that abruptness
which invariably follows after hesitation
on the brink of a difficult subject, 'there
was a man in this room ten minutes ago
who announced his fixed determination
of shooting you the very next time you
crossed his path.'
</p>

<p>
The war-correspondent shrugged his
shoulders, and turning sharply round, he
kicked under the grate a small smoking
cinder which had fallen far out into the
fender.
</p>

<p>
'That man's statements, whether in
regard to things past or things future,
should be accepted with caution.'
</p>

<p>
'Then you met him on the stairs?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes; I met him on the stairs....'
</p>

<p>
'And...'
</p>

<p>
'And he did not shoot,' said Trist
with a short laugh as he turned and
faced Mrs. Wylie.
</p>

<p>
Then he did a somewhat remarkable
thing&mdash;remarkable, that is, for a man
who never gave way to a display of the
slightest emotion, demonstrating either
sorrow or joy, hatred or affection.  He
took Mrs. Wylie's two hands within his,
and forced her to sit in the deep basket-work
chair near the fire with its back
towards the window.
</p>

<p>
Standing before her with his hands
thrust into the pockets of his short serge
jacket, he looked down at her with
quizzical affection.
</p>

<p>
'Some months ago,' he said, 'we
made a contract; you are breaking that
contract, unless I am very much
mistaken.  You have allowed yourself to
be anxious about me&mdash;is that not so?'
</p>

<p>
The widow smiled bravely up into the
grave young face.
</p>

<p>
'I am afraid,' she began, '...yes, I
am afraid you are right.  But the anxiety
was not wholly on your account.'
</p>

<p>
Trist turned slowly away.  The movement
was an excess of caution, for his
face was always impenetrable.
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he murmured.
</p>

<p>
'I am very anxious about Alice and Brenda.'
</p>

<p>
'Ah!' he murmured again, with
additional sympathy.
</p>

<p>
She did not proceed at once, so he
leant back in the chair he had assumed,
and waited with that peculiar patience
which seemed to belong to Eastern
lands, and which has been noticed
before.
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' she said at last, 'has it never
struck you that your position with regard
to those two girls is&mdash;to say the least of
it&mdash;peculiar?'
</p>

<p>
'From a social point of view?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes.'
</p>

<p>
'If,' he said in a louder tone, on his
defence, as it were, 'I were constantly at
home, society might have something to
say about it.  But, as it happens, I am
never long in London, and consequently
fail to occupy that prominent position in
the public esteem or dislike to which
my talents undoubtedly entitle me.'
</p>

<p>
'Fortunately, gossip has not been rife
about it.'
</p>

<p>
'<i>Partly</i> by good fortune, and partly
by good management,' corrected Trist.
'With a little care, society is easily
managed.'
</p>

<p>
'A tiger is easily managed, but its
humours cannot be foretold.'
</p>

<p>
This statement was allowed to pass
unchallenged, and before the silence was
again broken, a servant announced that
luncheon was ready.  Mrs. Wylie led
the way, and Trist followed.  They
were both rather absorbed during the
dainty repast, and conversation was less
interesting than the parlour-maid could
have wished.
</p>

<p>
Had Trist been less honest, he could
have thrown off this sense of guilt which
weighed upon him.  Like most reserved
men, he was perhaps credited with a
more versatile intellect than he really
possessed.  In his special line he was
unrivalled, but that line was essentially
manly, and the <i>finesse</i> it required was of
a masculine order.  That is to say, it
was more straightforward, more honest,
and less courageous, than the natural and
instinctive <i>finesse</i> of a woman.  This
vague struggle with an over-susceptible
conscience handicapped Trist seriously
during the <i>tête-à-tête</i> meal, and rendered
his conversation very dull.  He was
quite conscious of this, and the effort he
made to remedy the defect was hardly
successful.  Men of his type&mdash;that is,
men of a self-contained, self-reasoning
nature&mdash;are too ready to consider
themselves of that heavy material which
forms the solid background of social
intercourse.  Their very virtues, such as
steadfastness, coolness, complete self-reliance,
are calculated to prevent their shining in
conversation, or in the lighter social
amenities.  A little conversational
impulse is required, a gay lightness of
touch, and an easy divergence from
opinions previously hazarded, in order to
please the average listener; but these
were sadly wanting in Theodore Trist.
</p>

<p>
He was merely a strong, thoughtful
man, who could think and reason
quickly enough when such speed was
necessary, but as a rule he preferred a
slower and surer method.  He was
ready enough to proffer an opinion when
such was really in demand, and once
spoken, this would change in no way.
It was the result of thought, and he
forbore to uphold a conviction by
argument.  Argument and thought have
little in common.  One is froth drifting
before the wind, the other a deep stream
running always.  Trist held fixed
opinions about most things, but it was
part of his self-reliant and self-sufficing
nature to take no pleasure whatever in
convincing others that the opinion was
valuable.  If men chose to think otherwise,
he tacitly recognised their right to do
so, and left them in peace.  Although he
held certain doctrines upon the better or
worse ways of getting through the span of
a human life creditably, he was singularly
averse to airing them in any manner.
</p>

<p>
Now, Mrs. Wylie, in her keen
womanliness, knew very well how to
deal with this man.  She was quite
aware that there was, behind his silent
'laisser-aller,' a clearly-defined plan of
campaign, a cut-and-dried theory or
doctrine upon which his most trifling
action was based.  There was an object
aimed at, and perhaps gained, in his
every word.  If Theodore Trist was a
born strategist (of which I am firmly
convinced), and carried his principles of
warfare into the bitter strife of every-day
existence, he had in Mrs. Wylie an ally
or a foe, as the case might be, whose
manœuvres were worthy of his regard.
</p>

<p>
She possessed a woman's intuitive
judgment, brightened, as it were, and
rendered keener, by the friction of a busy
lifetime; and added to this, she was in
the habit of acting more spontaneously,
and perhaps with a greater recklessness,
than came within Trist's mental
compass.  These were her more womanly
qualities, but her character had been
influenced through many years by the
manly, upright nature of her husband,
and it was from him that she had acquired
her rare doctrine of non-interference.
In woman's weaker nature there
is a lamentable failing to which can be
attributed a large portion of the sorrows
to which the sex is liable.  This is an
utter inability to refrain from adding a
spoke to every wheel that may roll by.
Interference&mdash;silly, unjustifiable
interference&mdash;in the affairs of others is woman's
vice.  She can no more keep her fingers
out of other people's savoury pies than a
cat can keep away from the succulent
products of Yarmouth.  It has been said
by cynical people that a woman cannot
keep a secret, but that is a mistake.  If
it be her own, she can keep it remarkably
well; but if it be the property of
someone else, she appears to consider it
as a loan which must not be allowed to
accrue interest.  I have tried the effect
of imparting to a woman whom it
affected but slightly, and to a man whose
life would be altered in some degree by
it, a piece of news under the bond of
secrecy&mdash;a bond which expired at a
given date.  The man held his peace
and went on his way through life
unaffected, untroubled by the knowledge he
possessed.  I studied him at moments
when a glance or a word might have
betrayed to observant eyes the fact that
he was in possession of certain
information.  He looked at me calmly, and
with no dangerous glance of intelligence,
subsequently talking in a manly, honest
way which was in no degree a connivance
at criminal suppression.  The
date given had not yet arrived, but the
knowledge was fresh in his mind, and he
treated the matter in an honourable,
business-like way.  I knew that my
secret was buried in that man's brain as
in a sepulchre.
</p>

<p>
The woman was uneasy.  I could see
that the secret oppressed her.  She
chafed at the thought that the date
mentioned was still a long way ahead.
She longed to talk of the matter to me,
with a view, no doubt, of craving
permission to tell one person, who would
certainly not repeat it.  By glance or
significant silence she courted betrayal;
and at one time she even urged me to
impart the news to a mutual friend, in
order, I take it, to form a channel or an
outlet for her cooped-up volume of
thought.  Finally, I discovered that she
had forestalled the date, by writing to
friends at a distance, who actually
received the letters before the day, but
were unable to reissue the news in time
to incriminate her.
</p>

<p>
It would appear that the same characteristic
defect applies to the retention
of a secret as to the restraint from
interference.  Perhaps it is a weakness, not
a vice.  Mrs. Wylie never sought
confidences, as women, by nature unable to
retain secrets, are prone to do.  Her
doctrine of non-interference went so far
as to embrace the small matter of passing
details.  She placed entire reliance in
Theodore Trist, and although his
behaviour puzzled her, she refrained from
asking an explanation of even the smallest
act.  She was content that his leading
motive could only be good, and therefore
felt no great thirst to know the
meaning of his minor actions.
</p>

<p>
The cynical-minded may opine that I
am describing an impossible woman.
The fault is due to this halting pen.  I
once drew a woman who herself recognised
the portrait&mdash;a critic said that
the character was impossible and unnatural.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie was very natural and very
womanly, after all.  She had almost
forced Theo Trist to invite himself to
lunch, and her anxiety respecting Alice
and Brenda had been made clear to him
at once.  She would not interfere; but
she could not surely have been expected
to refrain from suggesting to him that
the world and the world's opinion, if of
no value to him, could not be ignored by
two motherless women.
</p>

<p>
She placed before him her views upon
the matter, and then she proceeded to
shelve the subject; but Trist failed to
help her in this, contrary to her
expectation.  He was distinctly dull during
luncheon, and made no attempt to
disguise his preoccupation.  Mrs. Wylie
nibbled a biscuit while he was removing
the outer rind of his cheese with absurd
care, and waited patiently for him to say
that which was undoubtedly on his lips.
</p>

<p>
The maid had left the room; there
was no fear of interruption.  Trist
continued to amuse himself for some
moments with a minute morsel of
Gorgonzola; then he looked up, unconsciously
trying the temper of his knife
upon the plate while he spoke.
</p>

<p>
'I had,' he said, 'an interview with
my chief this morning.'
</p>

<p>
'Ah!  Sir Edward, you mean?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' slowly, 'Sir Edward.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie saw that she was expected
to ask a question in order to keep the
ball rolling.
</p>

<p>
'What about?' she inquired pleasantly.
</p>

<p>
'I informed him that I proposed burying
the hatchet.'
</p>

<p>
'You are not going to give up active
service!' exclaimed Mrs. Wylie in astonishment.
</p>

<p>
'I promised to go to one more
campaign&mdash;the Russo-Turkish&mdash;which will
come on in the spring, and after that I
shall follow the paths of peace.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie rolled up her table-napkin,
and inserted it meditatively into an
ancient silver ring several sizes too large
for it.
</p>

<p>
'I used to think,' she murmured,
'that you would never follow the ways
of peace.'  Then she looked across the
table into his face with that indescribable
contraction of the eyes which sometimes
came even when her lips were smiling.
</p>

<p>
'I am not quite sure of you now, Theo,'
she added gently, as she rose and led the
way towards the door.
</p>

<p>
Trist reached the handle before her,
and held the door open with that
unostentatious politeness of his which made
him different from the general run of
society young men.  As she passed, he
smiled reassuringly, and said in his
monotonous way:
</p>

<p>
'I am quite sure of myself.'
</p>

<p>
'Not <i>too</i> sure?' she inquired over her
shoulder.
</p>

<p>
'No.'
</p>

<p>
In the drawing-room he succumbed
to his hostess's Bohemian persuasions, and
lighted a cigarette.  He seemed to have
forgotten his own affairs.
</p>

<p>
'About Alice,' he began&mdash;'que faire?'
</p>

<p>
For some reason Mrs. Wylie avoided
meeting his glance.
</p>

<p>
'I told Alfred Huston,' she replied,
after a pause, 'that I would communicate
with Alice, and that I had hopes of their
living happily together yet.'
</p>

<p>
Her tone was eminently practical and
business-like.  Trist answered in the same
way.
</p>

<p>
'I told Alice,' he said cheerily, 'that
I would ask you to communicate with
Huston, with the view of coming to
some definite arrangement.  Hide-and-seek
is a slow game after a time.'
</p>

<p>
'What sort of arrangement?'
</p>

<p>
'Well ... I suggested that he should
agree to leave her unmolested for a
certain time, during which she could think
over it.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie's smile was a trifle wan
and uncertain.
</p>

<p>
'In fact, you made the best of it?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes.  What else could I do?'
</p>

<p>
The widow looked at him keenly.  It
was hard to believe in disinterestedness
like this; and it is a very human failing
to doubt disinterestedness of any description.
</p>

<p>
'I told Alfred Huston,' she said
disconnectedly, 'that I trusted you to do
your honest best for all concerned in this
matter.'
</p>

<p>
'Which statement Huston politely
declined to confirm, I should imagine.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie shrugged her shoulders.
Denial was evidently out of the question.
</p>

<p>
'Then my name was brought in?'
asked Trist in a peculiar way.
</p>

<p>
'Yes.'
</p>

<p>
'By whom?'
</p>

<p>
'By me.  It would have been worse
than useless, Theo, to have attempted
ignorance of your influence over the
girls.'
</p>

<p>
For a second time Trist avoided meeting
his companion's glance.
</p>

<p>
'I told Sir Edward,' he said, after a
considerable space of time, 'that I must
be allowed to remain in England for
some time to come; it seems to me that
I should have done better had I asked to
be sent away on active service without
delay.'
</p>

<p>
'I should hardly go so far as to say
that, Theo,' remarked Mrs. Wylie
placidly; 'but I think you must be
very careful.  I only want to call your
attention to the light in which your help
is likely to appear in the eyes of the
world.'
</p>

<p>
'You have no...'&mdash;he hesitated
before saying the word 'man,' but his
listener gave a little quick nod as if to
help him&mdash;'man to help you, except me;
and it seems better that there should be
someone whom you can play, as it were,
against Huston's stronger cards&mdash;someone
of whom he is afraid.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' replied the lady with an affectionate
smile; 'I quite understand your
meaning; and I think you are right,
although Alfred Huston is not an
alarming person: he is very weak.'
</p>

<p>
'When he is sober,' suggested Trist
significantly.
</p>

<p>
The sailor's widow was too brave a
woman to be frightened by this insinuation,
of which she took absolutely no
notice.
</p>

<p>
'And,' she continued, 'I am convinced
that this reconciliation is more
likely to be brought about if it is left
entirely in my hands.  Your influence,
however subtle, will be detected by Alfred
Huston, and the result will be disastrous.
Unless ... unless...'
</p>

<p>
She stopped in a vague way, and
moved restlessly.
</p>

<p>
'Unless what?'
</p>

<p>
'Unless you go to Alfred Huston and
convince him by some means that there
is no love between you and Alice.'
</p>

<p>
The laughter with which he greeted
this suggestion was a masterpiece of
easy nonchalance&mdash;deep, melodious, and
natural; but somehow Mrs. Wylie failed
to join in it.
</p>

<p>
'No,' he said; 'that would not do.
If Alice and I went together, and took
all sorts of solemn affidavits, I doubt
whether Huston would be any more
satisfied than he is at present.  The
only method practicable is for me to
hold myself in reserve, while you manage
this affair.'
</p>

<p>
He had risen during this speech, and
now held out his hand.
</p>

<p>
'I have an appointment at the Army
and Navy,' he said, 'and must ask you to
excuse me if I run away.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie was left in her own
drawing-room nonplussed.  She gazed at the
door which had just closed behind her
incomprehensible guest with mild astonishment.
</p>

<p>
'That,' she reflected, 'is the first time
that I have seen Theo have recourse to
retreat.'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap12"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XII.
<br><br>
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SEA.
</h3>

<p>
It very often happens that the so-called
equinoctial gales are behind their time,
and do not arrive until Night has
undoubtedly made good her victory over
Day.  When such is the case, we have
a mild November, with soft south-westerly
breezes varying in strength
according to the lie of the land or the
individual experience of farmer or
townsman.  At sea it blows hard enough in
all good sooth, and there may be watery
eyes at the wheel or on the forecastle;
but there are no frozen fingers aloft,
which is in itself a mercy.  There is a
good hearty roar through the shrouds,
and certain parts of the deck are always
wet, but the clear horizon and rushing
clouds overhead are full of brave
exhilaration.
</p>

<p>
On land, things are dirtier, more
especially under foot, where the leaves lose
all their crackle and subside odorously
into mud.  Water stands on the roadways,
and in ruts elsewhere; and curled
beech-leaves float thereon in vague
navigation, half waterlogged like any foreign
timber-ship.  The tilled land, bearing
in its bosom seed for next year's crops,
or merely waiting fallow, is damp and
soft and black; men walking thereon&mdash;rustic
or sportsman&mdash;make huge impressions,
and carry quite a weight on either
foot.  The trees stand bare and leafless,
though rapid green mouldy growths
relieve the wet monochrome of bark or
rind.
</p>

<p>
Here, again, as at sea, the atmosphere
is singularly gay and translucent.  Things
afar off seem near, and new details in
the landscape become apparent.  Any
little bit of colour seems to gleam,
almost to glow, and the greenness of
the meadow is startling.  Although
there is an autumnal odour on the
breeze, it has no sense of melancholy.
The clouds may be gray, but they are
fraught with life, and one knows that
there is brightness behind.  With motion,
melancholy cannot live.
</p>

<p>
The effect of this soft breeziness upon
different people is apparent to the most
casual of observers.  It freshens sailors
up, and they pull on their oilskins with
a cheery pugnacity; tillers of the land
are busy, and wonder how long it will
last; and hunting-men (provided only
the land be not <i>too</i> heavy) are wild with
a joy which has no rival in times of
peace; timid riders grow bold, and bold
men reckless.  It is only folks who stay
indoors that complain of depression.  For
myself, I confess it makes me long to be
at sea, and although I can see nothing
but sky and chimney-pots over the
ink-stand, the very shades of colour, of dark
and light, are before me if I close my
eyes.  It is a long rolling sweep of greeny
gray, with here and there a tip of dirty
white, and the line of horizon is hard
and clear enough to please the veriest
novice with the sextant.
</p>

<p>
In November, 1876, there were a few
days of such weather as I have attempted
to describe, and Brenda, who spent that
time on the east coast of England, in a
manner learnt to associate soft winds and
clear airs with the much-maligned county
of Suffolk.  All through the rest of her
life, through the long aimless years
during which she learnt to love the
verdant plains with their bare mud
sea-walls, she only thought of Suffolk as
connected with and forming part of soft
autumnal melancholy.  She never again
listened to the wail of the sea-gull
without involuntarily waiting for the cheery
cry of the snipe.  Never again did she
look on a vast plain without experiencing
a sense of incompleteness which could
only have been dispelled by the
murmurous voice of the sea breaking on to
shingle.
</p>

<p>
The human mind is strangely inconsistent
in its reception and retention of
impressions.  As in modern photography,
the length of exposure seems to be of
little consequence.  Without any tangible
reason, and for no obvious use, certain
incidents remain engraved upon our
memory, while the detail of other events
infinitely more important passes away,
and only the result remains.
</p>

<p>
Brenda and Alice only passed four days
in the little hamlet selected for them by
Theodore Trist as a safe hiding-place;
but during that time a great new influence
came into Brenda's soul.
</p>

<p>
She had always been sensitive to the
beauties of Nature.  A glorious landscape,
a golden sunset, or the soft silver
of moon-rise, had spoken to her in that
silent language of Nature which appeals
to the most prosaic heart at times; but
never until now had one of earth's great
wonders established a longing in her
soul&mdash;a longing for its constant company
which is naught else but passionate love.
She had hitherto looked upon the sea as
an inconvenience to be overcome before
reaching other countries.  Perhaps she
was aware that this inconvenience
possessed at times a charm, but not until
now had she conceived it possible that
she, Brenda Gilholme, should ever love
it with an insatiable longing such as the
love of sailors.  On board the <i>Hermione</i>
she had passed her apprenticeship; had,
as the admiral was wont to say, learnt the
ropes; but never had she loved the sea
for its own grand incomprehensible sake
as she loved it now.
</p>

<p>
Its gray mournful humours seemed to
sympathize with her own thoughts.  Its
monotonous voice, rising and falling on
the shingle shore, spoke in unmistakable
language, and told of other things than
mere earthly joys and sorrows.
</p>

<p>
I who write these lines learnt to love
the sea many years ago, when I had
naught else but water to look upon&mdash;from
day to day, from morning till night,
through the day and through the darkness,
week after week, month after month.
The love crept into my heart slowly and
very surely, like the love of a boy,
growing into manhood, for some little maiden
growing by his side.  And now, whether
on its bosom or looking on it from the
noisy shore, that love is as fresh as ever.
The noise of breaking water thrills the
man as it thrilled the boy&mdash;the smell of
tar, even, makes me grave.
</p>

<p>
Men may love their own country, but
the sea, with its ever-varying humours,
kind and cruel by turn, exacts a fuller
devotion.  A woman once told me of
her love for her native country.  She
happened to be a practical, prosaic,
middle-aged woman of the world.  We
were seated on a gorgeous sofa in a blaze
of artificial light, amidst artificial smiles,
listening to the murmurs of artificial
conversation.  Something moved her; some
word of mine fell into the well of her
memory and set the still pool all rippling.
I listened in silence.  She spoke of
Dartmoor, and I think I understood her.  At
the end I said:
</p>

<p>
'What Dartmoor is to you, the sea is
to me;' and she smiled in a strange,
sympathetic way.
</p>

<p>
That is the nearest approach that I
have met of a love for land which is
akin to the love of sea.
</p>

<p>
In Brenda's case, as in all, this new-found
passion influenced her very nature.
If love&mdash;love, I mean, of a woman&mdash;will
alter a man's whole mode of life, of
action, and of thought, surely these lesser
passions leave their mark as well.
</p>

<p>
Undoubtedly the girl caught from the
great sea some of its patient contentment;
for the ocean is always content, whether
it be glistening beneath a cloudless sky,
or rolling, sweeping onwards before
the wind in broad gray curves.  Those
who work upon the great waters are
different from other men in the possession
of a certain calm equanimity, which is
like no other condition of mind.  It is
the philosophy of the sea.
</p>

<p>
At first Brenda had dreaded the thought
of being imprisoned, as it were, in this
tiny east coast fishing village with her
sister.  This was no outcome of a waning
love, but rather a proof that her feelings
towards her sister were as true and loyal
as ever.  She feared that Alice would
lower herself in her sight.  She dreaded
the necessary <i>tête-à-têtes</i> because she felt
that her sister's character had not
improved, and could not well bear the
searching light of a close familiarity.
</p>

<p>
After the first hour or two, however,
the sisters appeared to settle down into a
routine of life which in no way savoured
of familiarity.  The last two years had
hopelessly severed them, and now that
they were alone together the gulf seemed
to widen between them.
</p>

<p>
Brenda was aware that some great
change had come over her life or that of
her sister.  They no longer possessed a
single taste or a single interest in common.
Whether the fault lay entirely at her own
door, or whether Alice were partially or
wholly to blame, the girl did not attempt
to decide.  She merely felt that it would
be simple hypocrisy to pretend a familiarity
she did not feel.  Yet she loved her
sister, despite all.  The tie of blood is
strangely strong in some people; with
others it is no link at all.
</p>

<p>
After an uncomfortable meal had been
bravely sat out subsequent to Brenda's
arrival, the younger sister announced her
intention of going out for a long ramble
down the coast.  Alice complained that
she had no energy, predicted that the
dismal flat land and muddy sea were
about to prove fatal to her health, and
subsided into a yellow-backed novel.
This was a fair sample of their life in
exile.
</p>

<p>
Alice deluged her weak intellect with
fiction of no particular merit, and Brenda
learnt to love the sea.  For her the
bleak deserted shore, the long, low
waves rolling in continuously, the dirty
sweeping of sand-banks near the shore,
and the endless fields of shingle, acquired
a mournful beauty which few can find
in such things.
</p>

<p>
Only once was reference made to
Theodore Trist, and then the subject
was tacitly tabooed, much to the relief
of Brenda.  This happened during the
first evening of their joint exile.
Doubtless a sudden fit of communicativeness
came over Alice just as they come
to the rest of us&mdash;at odd moments,
without any particular <i>raison d'être</i>.
</p>

<p>
The miserable shuffling waiter had
removed all traces of their simple
evening meal, and Brenda was looking
between the curtains across the sea,
which shimmered beneath the rays of a
great yellow moon.  Alice had taken up
her novel, but its pages had no interest
for her just then.  She had appropriated
the only easy-chair in the room, and was
leaning back against its worn leather
stuffing with a discontented look upon
her lovely face.  Her small red mouth
had acquired of late a peculiar 'set'
expression, as if the lips were habitually
pressed close with an effort.
</p>

<p>
'Theo,' she said, without looking
towards the tall, slim form by the
window, 'has changed.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda moved the curtain a little
more to one side, so that the old wooden
rings rattled on the pole.  Then she
leant her shoulder against the framework
of the window, and turned her face
towards the firelight.  Her gentle gaze
rested on the beautiful form gracefully
reclining in the deep chair.  She noted
the easy repose of each limb, the proud
poise of the golden head, and the
clearcut profile showing white against the
dingy background.  There was no
glamour in her eyes, such as would have
blinded the judgment of nine men out of
ten; but there was in its place the great
tie of sisterly love.
</p>

<p>
Brenda, looking on that beauty, knew
that it was the curse of her sister's life.
Instead of envying her, she was mentally
meting out pity and allowance.
</p>

<p>
'I suppose,' she said, without much
encouragement in her manner, 'that
we have all changed in one way or another.'
</p>

<p>
'But Theo has changed in more than
one way.'
</p>

<p>
'Has he?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes.  His manner is quite different
from what it used to be; and he seems
self-absorbed&mdash;less energetic, less sympathetic.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda did not answer at once.  She
turned slightly, and looked out of the
window, resting her fingers upon the old
wooden framework.
</p>

<p>
'You see,' she suggested, 'he has
other interests in life now.  He is a
great man, and has ambition.  It is only
natural that he should be absorbed in his
own affairs.'
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Huston raised her small foot,
and rested the heel of her slipper on the
brass fender, while she contemplated the
diminutive limb with some satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
'I have met one or two great men,'
she said meditatively, 'and I invariably
found them very much like ordinary
beings, rather less immersed in 'shop,'
perhaps, and quite as interesting&mdash;not to
say polite.'
</p>

<p>
Brenda winced.
</p>

<p>
'Was Theo not polite?'
</p>

<p>
'Hardly, my dear.'
</p>

<p>
As Mrs. Huston delivered herself of
this opinion, with a faint tinge of
bitterness in her manner, she turned and
looked towards her sister, as if challenging
her to attempt a palliation of Trist's
conduct.
</p>

<p>
Brenda neither moved nor spoke.
The moonlight, flooding through the
diamond panes of the window, made her
face look pale and wan.  There were
deep shadows about her lips.  Without,
upon the shingle, the sea boomed
continuously with a low, dreamlike
hopelessness.
</p>

<p>
I wish I were a great artist, to be
able to paint a picture of that small
parlour in an east coast village inn.
But there would be a greater skill
required than the mere technicalities of
art.  These would be needed to deal
successfully with the cross-lights of
utterly different hues&mdash;the cold,
green-tinted moonlight, the ruddy glow of
burning driftwood washed from the
deck of some Baltic trader; and the
reflection of each in turn upon quaint old
bureaux, bright with the polish of half
a dozen generations; gleaming upon
Indian curio, and shimmering over the
glass of dim engravings.  All this would
require infinite skill; but no brush or
pencil could convey the old-day
mournfulness that seemed to hang in the
atmosphere.  Perhaps it found birth in the
murmuring rise and fall of restless waves,
or in the flicker of the fire, in the quick
crackle of the sodden wood.  My
picture should be called 'The Contrast,'
and in the gloom of the low ceiling I
should bring out with loving care two
graceful forms&mdash;two lovely faces.
</p>

<p>
The one&mdash;the more beautiful&mdash;in all
the rosiness of young life, glowing in the
firelight.  The other, pale and wan,
with an exquisite beauty, delicate and
yet strong, resolute and yet refined.  Of
two working in the field, one is taken,
the other remaineth.  Around us are
many workers, and of every two we look
upon, one seems to have the preference.
One has greater joy, the other greater
sorrow; and, strive as we will, think as
we will, argue as we will, we can never
tell 'why.'  We can never satisfy that
great question of the human mind.
Life has been called many things: I can
express it in less than a word&mdash;in a mere
symbol&mdash;<span style="font-size: larger; font-weight: bold">?</span>&mdash;a note of interrogation, the
largest at the compositor's command.
</p>

<p>
In this great field of ours, where we
all work blindly, many are taken, and
many left.  Moreover, those who would
wish to go remain, and those who
cling to work are taken.  She who
grindeth best passeth first.
</p>

<p>
Brenda never answered her sister's
challenge.  She turned her eyes away,
facing the cold moonlight, staring at the
silver sea with eyes that saw no beauty
there.
</p>

<p>
'O God!' she whispered, glancing
upwards into the glowing heavens with
that instinct which comes alike to pagan
and Christian, 'send a great war, so that
Theo may go to it.'
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap13"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIII.
<br><br>
CROSS-PURPOSES.
</h3>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie had undertaken the task of
reconciling Alice Huston and her husband
without any great hope of success.  The
widow's married life had been an
exceptionally happy one, but even in her case
there had been small drawbacks, mostly
arising, it is true, from the untoward
work of fate, but, nevertheless, undoubted
drawbacks, and undeniably appertaining
to married life.
</p>

<p>
It would have been hard to find two
people less calculated to assimilate
satisfactorily than Alice and Alfred Huston;
and yet there was love between them.
</p>

<p>
The weak-minded soldier undoubtedly
loved his wife: as for her, it would be
hard to give a reliable opinion.  She was,
I honestly believe, one of those beautiful
women who go through life without
ever knowing what love really is.
</p>

<p>
With another woman for his helpmate,
Huston might reasonably have been
expected to reform his ways.  With another
husband, Alice might have made a good
and dutiful wife.
</p>

<p>
Assuredly the task that had fallen upon
Mrs. Wylie's handsome shoulders was
not overburdened with hope.  She was,
however, of an evenly sanguine temperament,
and I think that it is such women
as she who help us men along in life&mdash;women
who trust for the best, and work
for the best, without any high-flown
ideals, without poetic notions respecting
woman's influence and woman's aid;
who, in fact, are desperately practical,
and make a point of expecting less than
they might reasonably get.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie was by no means ignorant
of the fact that a reconciliation between
such a couple as Mr. and Mrs. Huston
was not calculated to be of a very
permanent or deeply-rooted character; but
she had lived a good many years in a
grade of society which delights to watch
the inner life of others.  She had seen
and heard of so many unsuitable matches,
which, having been consummated, had
proved the wonderful power of love.  It
is only the very young and inexperienced
who shake their heads upon hearing
of an engagement, and prophesy
unhappiness.  No man can tell to what
end love is working.  The wise are silent
in such matters, because there are some
mistakes which lead to good, and some
wise actions of which the result is
unmitigated woe.
</p>

<p>
The widow therefore held her peace,
and set to work as if there could be but
one result to her efforts.  She communicated
with Alice Huston in her hiding-place,
with Captain Huston at the club
of which he was still a member, and with
Trist by word of mouth.  Brenda was,
so to speak, in the enemy's country.
Her reports were therefore to be received,
but no acknowledgment could be made.
In this respect she was like a spy, because
she was without instruction from headquarters,
and, nevertheless, had to act and
report her action.
</p>

<p>
Her first and, indeed, only communication
reached Mrs. Wylie the morning
after her interviews with Theo Trist and
Captain Huston.  It was only a few
words scribbled on the back of a visiting
card, and slipped into an envelope
previously addressed and stamped:
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
'Whatever you do, keep Theo and
Alice apart.'
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Mrs. Wylie turned the card over and
read the neatly-engraved name on the
other side.  Then she read the words
aloud, slowly and thoughtfully, once
more:
</p>

<p>
'Whatever you do, keep Theo and
Alice apart.'
</p>

<p>
'Brenda knows,' reflected the practical
woman of the world, 'that Huston is
jealous of Theo.  She also knows that I
am quite aware of this jealousy.  It would
be unnecessary to warn me of it; therefore
this means that Brenda has discovered
a fresh reason.'
</p>

<p>
She broke off her meditations at this
point by rising almost hurriedly, and
walking to the window.  For a considerable
time she watched the passing traffic;
then she returned to the fire-place.
</p>

<p>
'Poor Brenda!' she murmured&mdash;'my
poor Brenda!  And ... Alice is so silly!'
</p>

<p>
The connection between these two
observations may be a trifle obscure to
the ordinary halting male intellect; but
I think I know what Mrs. Wylie meant.
</p>

<p>
Later on in the day she sent a note to
Captain Huston, requesting him to come
and see her, and by the same messenger
despatched a few words to Theo Trist&mdash;her
reserve force&mdash;forbidding him to come
near.
</p>

<p>
'My reserves,' she said to herself as
she closed the envelope energetically,
'are thus rendered useless; but Brenda is
reliable.  I must do as she tells me.'
</p>

<p>
Captain Huston received the widow's
note at his club.  It was only eleven
o'clock, and, consequently, there was
plenty of time before he need put in an
appearance at Suffolk Mansions.  He was
an idle man, and, like all idle men, fond
of lounging about the streets gazing
abstractedly into shops, and getting generally
into the way of such foot-passengers as
might have an object in their walk.
</p>

<p>
There is no haven for loungers in
London except Piccadilly in the morning,
and to this spot the soldier turned his
steps.  After inspecting the wares of a
sporting tailor, he was preparing to cross
the road with a view of directing his
course down St. James's Street, when
someone touched him on the shoulder.
</p>

<p>
Huston turned with rather more
alacrity than is usually displayed by a
British gentleman with a clear
conscience, and for some seconds gazed in
a watery manner at a fair, insipid face,
ornamented by a wondrous moustache.
There was a peculiarity about this
moustache worth mentioning.  Although an
essentially masculine adornment, it, in
some subtle way, suggested effeminacy.
</p>

<p>
'Mr. ... eh ... Hicks,' murmured
Huston vaguely, and without much interest.
</p>

<p>
Hicks forgave magnanimously this
Philistine want of appreciation.
</p>

<p>
'Yes, Captain Huston.  How are you?'
</p>

<p>
'I? ... Oh!  I'm all right, thanks.'
</p>

<p>
There was a faint suggestion of movement
about the soldier's left leg as if
intimating a desire to continue on its way
towards St. James's Street; but this was
ignored by Hicks in his own inimitable way.
</p>

<p>
'I caught sight of you the other day,'
he said graciously; 'and I also had the
pleasure of meeting Mrs. Huston at
Mrs. Wylie's.'
</p>

<p>
'Oh yes,' vaguely.
</p>

<p>
The soldier made a violent effort,
pulled himself together, and stepped
into the road.  The artist stepped with
him, and, furthermore, slipped his gloved
hand within his companion's arm with a
familiar ease which seemed to say that
they would live or die together until the
passage was safely accomplished.
</p>

<p>
'How <i>is</i> Mrs. Huston?' inquired he
when they had reached the opposite
pavement.
</p>

<p>
That lady's husband looked very stolid
as he answered:
</p>

<p>
'Quite well, thanks.'
</p>

<p>
He mentally wriggled, poor fellow,
and in sympathy his arm became lifeless
and repelling.  Hicks removed his hand
from the unappreciative sleeve.
</p>

<p>
'Do you know,' he asked pleasantly,
'whether Trist happens to be in town?'
</p>

<p>
Huston began to feel uncomfortable.
He was afraid of this society prig, and
honestly wished to save his wife's name
from the ready tongue of slander.
</p>

<p>
'I don't,' he answered abruptly&mdash;'why?'
</p>

<p>
This sudden question in no way disconcerted
Hicks, who met the soldier's
unsteady, and would-be severe, gaze with
bland innocence.
</p>

<p>
'Because I happen to know a Russian
artist who is very anxious to meet him,
that is all.'
</p>

<p>
'Ah!  I have seen him since I came
home, but I could not say where he is
now.'
</p>

<p>
If Hicks had been a really observant
man (such as he devoutly considered
himself to be), he would have noticed that
his companion raised a gloved finger to
his cheek, and tenderly pressed a slight
abrasion visible still just on the bone in
front of the ear.
</p>

<p>
'He is generally to be heard of,' said
the artist in that innocently-significant
tone which may mean much or nothing,
according to the acuteness or foreknowledge
of the listener, '... he is generally
to be heard of at Suffolk Mansions.
That is to say, when Brenda is staying
there.'
</p>

<p>
Captain Huston's dull eyes were for a
moment actually endowed with life.  He
stroked his drooping moustache, which
was apparently placed there by a merciful
Providence for purposes of justifiable
concealment, and his moral attitude
became visibly milder.  He had just
begun to realize that his own private
affairs might not, after all, be of
paramount importance to the whole of
society.
</p>

<p>
'Is there,' he asked with military
nonchalance, 'supposed to be something
between Trist and Brenda?'
</p>

<p>
Hicks laughed, and, before replying,
waved his hand gracefully to a friend in
the stock-jobbing line, who had previously
crossed the road in order to be recognised
by him in passing.
</p>

<p>
'Oh no,' he answered cheerfully; 'I
did not mean that at all.  Now that I
think of it, however, you were quite
justified in taking it thus.  They have
always been great friends&mdash;that was all
I meant.  Their mothers were related, I
believe.'
</p>

<p>
Captain Huston looked slightly
disappointed.  He did not, however, display
such eagerness to walk either faster or
slower, or in some other direction, now.
</p>

<p>
'Trist,' he observed as he opened his
cigar-case sociably, 'is a queer fellow.
Have a cigar?'
</p>

<p>
'Oh, I never smoke, you know&mdash;never.
No, thanks.'
</p>

<p>
The captain grunted, and put his case
back with a suppressed sigh.  He had
not known, but hoped.  Then he waited
for a reply to his leading and ambiguous
remark.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' mused Hicks at length; 'he is.
I dined with him the night he left for
the Servian frontier.'
</p>

<p>
This detail, interesting as it was, had
but slight reference to the general
characteristics of Theodore Trist.  Huston
tried again after he had lighted his
cigar.
</p>

<p>
'One never knows where one has him.'
</p>

<p>
Hicks looked mildly sympathetic.  He
even gave the impression of being about
to look in his pockets on the chance of
finding the war-correspondent there.
</p>

<p>
'No; he is always on the move.  I
was once told that the Diplomatic Corps
call him the Stormy Petrel, because he
arrives before the hurricane.'
</p>

<p>
'And sits smiling on the top of the
waves afterwards, while we poor devils
sink,' added the soldier with a disagreeable
laugh.
</p>

<p>
'He has not the reputation of being a
coward,' said Hicks, who despised personal
courage as a mere brute-like attribute.
</p>

<p>
The man of arms did not like the turn
of the conversation.
</p>

<p>
'No; I believe not,' he said rather
hurriedly, as if no man could be a coward.
'What I don't like about him is a
certain air of mystery which he cultivates.
It pleases the women, I suppose.'
</p>

<p>
'That,' suggested the other calmly,
'is probably part of his trade.  If he
talked much there would be nothing
original left in him to write!  All these
diplomatic fellows get that peculiar
reticence of manner&mdash;a sort of want of
frankness, as it were.  That is the great
difference between art practised by the
tongue, and art stimulated by the eye
and created for the pleasure of the eye.'
</p>

<p>
Huston looked at the burning end of
his cigar with bibulous concentration.
He knew absolutely nothing about art,
and cared less.  It is just possible that,
in his hideous ignorance, he doubted the
purity of the pleasure vouchsafed by
the pictorial productions of the artist at
his side.
</p>

<p>
'<i>We</i>,' continued Hicks, with a deprecating
wave of the hand, 'can always be
frank.  The bolder we are, the higher
we aim, the ... eh ... the better.'
</p>

<p>
'Yes ... yes,' murmured Huston.
'But tell me&mdash;what made you think that
Trist was out of town?'
</p>

<p>
'Oh, nothing!' airily.  'Nobody stays in
town at this time of the year unless they
can't help it; that is all!  But I suppose
these newspaper men hardly think of the
seasons.  They do not seem to realize
the difference between summer and
winter&mdash;between joyous spring and
dismal autumn.  I saw a man sketching
the other day in a cold east wind on the
Thames Embankment.  He was only a
"black and white" man, you know;
but he seemed to know something about
drawing.  His fingers were blue.'
</p>

<p>
Like many weak-minded people,
Alfred Huston was subject to sudden fits
of obstinacy.  He felt now that Hicks
wished to lead him away from the
subject originally under discussion, and
in consequence was instigated by a
sudden desire to talk and hear more of
Theodore Trist.
</p>

<p>
'That is another thing,' he said,
'about Trist that I do not like.  He
pretends to despise personal discomfort.
It is mere affectation, of course, and on
that account, perhaps, all the more
aggravating.'
</p>

<p>
'Carried away by enthusiasm, I suppose?'
</p>

<p>
The soldier laughed.
</p>

<p>
'Trist never was carried away by
anything.  He sits on a box of cartridges,
and writes in that beastly note-book of
his as if he were at a review.  If all
his countrymen were being slaughtered
round him he would count them with
his pencil and take a note of it.'
</p>

<p>
Hicks gave a few moments' careful
attention to the curl of his moustache.
Then he glanced curiously at his
companion's vacant physiognomy.  There
was evidently some motive in this sudden
attack on Trist.  Both these men
distrusted the war-correspondent, but were
in no way prepared to test the value
of that force which is said to arise
from union.  They distrusted each other
more.
</p>

<p>
Presently they parted, each absorbed
in his own selfish fears as before.  Here,
again, was Vanity and her hideous sister
Jealousy.  If one of these be not found
at the bottom of all human misery,
I think you will find the other.  With
these two men both motives were at
work.  Each was jealous of Trist, and
neither would confess his jealousy to the
other; while Vanity was wounded by
the war-correspondent's simple silence.
He ignored them, and for that they
hated him.  His own path was apparently
mapped out in front of him, and
he followed it without ostentation,
without seeking comment or approbation.
</p>

<p>
William Hicks was, as Mrs. Wylie
had said, finding his own level.  He was
beginning to come under the influence
of a vague misgiving that his
individuality was not such as commands the
respect of the better sort of women.  In
his own circle he was a demi-god; but
the gratification to be gathered from the
worship of a number of weak-kneed
uncomely ladies was beginning to pall.
In fact, he had hitherto been intensely
satisfied with the interesting creature
called William Hicks; but now there
was a tiny rift within the lute upon
which he always played his own praises.
He had not hitherto realized that man is
scarcely created for the purpose of being
worshipped by the weaker sex, and
lately there had been in his mind a
vague desire to be of greater account
among his fellow-men.  Of athletics,
sport, or the more manly accomplishments
he knew nothing; indeed, he had
up to this period despised them as the
pastime of creatures possessed of little
or no intellect; now he was at times
troubled by a haunting thought that it
would have been as well had he been
able to play lawn-tennis, to ride, or
shoot, or row, or drive&mdash;or even walk
ten miles at a stretch.  This was not the
outcome of any natural taste for healthy
exercise, but a mere calculation that
such accomplishments carry with them
a certain weight with energetic and
well-found young ladies.  The curse of
jealousy has a singular way of opening
our eyes, <i>mes frères</i>, to sundry small
shortcomings of which we were not
aware before.  When I saw Angelina,
for instance, dance with young Lightfoot
in former days, my own fantastic toes
suddenly became conscious of clumsiness.
Hicks was jealous of Theodore
Trist, and while, in a half-hearted way,
despising the sturdy philosopher's soldier-like
manliness, he could not help feeling
that Brenda Gilholme admired Trist for
this same quality.  He was fully satisfied
that he was in every other way a superior
man to the war-correspondent, although
the latter had made a deep mark upon
the road he had selected to travel; but
he wished, nevertheless, that he himself
could assume at times the quiet strength
of independence that characterized Trist's
thoughts and actions.
</p>

<p>
The young artist was celebrated in his
own circle&mdash;that is to say, among a
certain coterie of would-be artistic souls,
whose talents ran more into words than
into action.  They admired each other
aloud, and themselves with a silent
adoration wonderful to behold.  Most
of them possessed sufficient means to
live an idle, self-indulgent life in a small
way.  Such pleasures as they could not
afford were conveniently voted unprofitable
and earthly.  They hung upon the
outskirts of the best society, and were
past-masters in the art of confusing the terms
'having met' and 'knowing' as applied
to living celebrities.  Among them were
artists who had never exhibited a picture,
authors who had never sold a book, and
singers who had never faced an audience.
The vulgar crowd failed to appreciate
them, and those who painted and sold,
wrote and published, sang and made
money, tolerantly laughed at them.
Hicks was clever enough to know that
his mind was in reality of a slightly
superior order, and weak enough to value
its superiority much more highly than it
deserved.  He was undoubtedly a clever
fellow in his way, but a moderate
income and a doting mother had combined
to kill in him that modicum of ambition
which is required to make men push
forward continuously in the race of life.
Had he been compelled to work for his
daily bread, he might have been saved
from the clutches of London society; but
as a rising young artist, with pleasant
manners and some social accomplishments,
he was received with open arms,
and succumbed to the enervating round
of so-called pleasure.  He continued to
be 'rising,' but never rose.
</p>

<p>
Hicks did not confess deliberately to
himself that he was in love with Brenda
Gilholme, but he made no pretence of
ignoring the fact that she occupied in
his thoughts a place quite apart.  He
respected her, and in that lay the great
difference.  The unkempt and
strangely-attired damsels who were pleased to
throw themselves mentally at his feet
were not such as command respect.  In
his heart he despised them a little; for
contempt is invariably incurred by
affectation of any description.
</p>

<p>
And so each went on his way&mdash;the
idle soldier, the vain artist, and the
absorbed journalist, each framing his
life for good or evil&mdash;pressing upward,
or shuffling down, according to his bent;
each, no doubt, peering ahead, as sailors
peer through rime and mist, striving to
penetrate the blessed veil drawn across
the future.  Ah!  Let us, my brothers,
thank God that, despite necromancer,
astrologer, thought-reader, or chiromancer,
we know absolutely nothing of
what is waiting for us in the years to
come.  Could we raise that veil, life
would be hell.  Could we see the end
of all our aims, our ambitions, our hopes,
and our 'long, long thoughts,' there
would be few of us courageous enough
to go on with this strange experiment
called human existence.  Could we see
the end, no faith, no dogma, no
<i>fanaticism</i> even, would have power to prevent
us questioning the existence of the
Almighty, because we could never
reconcile the beginning to that end.  The
question would rise before us continuously:
'If such was to be the end, why
was the beginning made?'  And turn
this question as you will, explain it as
you may, it is ever a question.  The
only safeguard is suppression.  The
question is not asked because life is so
slow that the beginning is almost
forgotten in the climax; and while we live
through the earlier chapters, the last
volume is inexorably closed.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap14"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIV.
<br><br>
A SOCIAL CONSPIRACY.
</h3>

<p>
About ten o'clock on the evening of the
third day after the meeting with Captain
Huston, William Hicks entered a large
and crowded ball-room with his usual
pleasant condescension.
</p>

<p>
The dance was of a semi-parliamentary
character, and although the society
papers were pleased to announce that all
the 'best' people were out of town,
there was a crowd of well-dressed men
and women round the door when Hicks
made his appearance.  There were
many greetings to be exchanged, a few
diplomatic dances to be asked for, and
then the artist leisurely stroked his
golden moustache as he looked critically
round the room.
</p>

<p>
His smiling face contracted into
gravity for a moment, and it was only
after a pause that he continued his
investigations.
</p>

<p>
'Trist!' he murmured to himself.
'Trist <i>here</i>?  What is the meaning of
that?  Is it war, I wonder?  Or is
Brenda coming?  I will find out.'
</p>

<p>
Presently he moved away, and after
some time joined a group of grave-faced
elderly men, among whom Theo Trist
was standing.  There were politicians
among these gentlemen, and several
faces were of a distinctly foreign type,
while more than one language could be
heard.  Hicks looked a trifle out of his
element amidst such surroundings, and
the foreign languages troubled him.
No one looked towards him invitingly&mdash;not
even Trist, who was talking with a
broad-shouldered little man with a large
head, and a peculiar listless manner
which stamped him as an Oriental.
Hicks did not even know what language
they were speaking.  It was not
European in sound or intonation.  Here
and there he caught a word or a name.
</p>

<p>
Once he heard Trist mention the
name of a Russian general then scarcely
known.  Though the pronunciation was
rather different from that of most
Englishmen, Hicks recognised the word
'Skobeleff,' and, glancing towards the
smaller man, he saw upon his long,
mournful features a singular look of uneasiness.
</p>

<p>
There was something fascinating
about the man's face which attracted the
artist's attention, and he stood gazing
with a greater fixity than is usually
considered polite.  Without looking
towards him, the Oriental was evidently
aware of his attention, for he spoke to
Trist, who turned with deliberate curiosity.
</p>

<p>
'Ah, Hicks!' he said, 'how do you do?'
</p>

<p>
Then he turned again to his unemotional
companion and made a remark,
which was received apathetically.
</p>

<p>
Hicks had not wished to make his
advent so prominent.  It now appeared
as if he had sought out Trist for some
special purpose, to make some important
communication which could not brook
delay.
</p>

<p>
Trist evidently read his action thus,
for he left the group of statesmen and
joined him.  Hicks was equal to the
occasion.
</p>

<p>
'You remember,' he said confidentially,
as he touched his companion's sleeve and
they walked down the room together&mdash;'you
remember what I once told you
about the Hustons?'
</p>

<p>
Trist's meek eyes rested upon the
speaker's face with a persistence which
was not encouraging to idle gossip.
</p>

<p>
'The night I left for Servia?' he inquired.
</p>

<p>
Hicks nodded his head.
</p>

<p>
'Yes.  I remember.'
</p>

<p>
The artist paused, and his gloved
fingers sought the beauteous moustache.
Trist's calm eyes were not easy to meet.
They were so unconsciously scrutinizing.
</p>

<p>
'Well, I saw Huston the other day,'
he said at length.  'He has not improved
in appearance.  In fact, I should say that
there is some truth in the story I repeated
to you.'
</p>

<p>
There was no encouragement forthcoming,
but Hicks was not lacking in
assurance.  He was a true son of the
pavement&mdash;that is to say, an individual
radical.  His opinion was, in his own
mind, worth that of Theodore Trist.
</p>

<p>
'There are,' he continued, 'other
stories going about at present.  Do you
not think ... Trist ...&mdash;I mean,
had we not better, for Brenda's sake,
settle upon a certain version of the
matter and stick to it?  You and I,
old fellow, are looked upon by the
general world as something more than
ordinary friends of Alice and Brenda.
Mrs. Wylie is not going out just now.
They have no one to stick up for them,
except us.  If you know more than you
care to confess, I am sorry if I am forcing
your hand....'
</p>

<p>
He paused again, and again his companion
preserved that calm non-committing
silence which he knew so well how
to assume.  He held a hand which
could not have been forced by a player
possessing ten times the power and ten
times the cunning of William Hicks.
</p>

<p>
'But, Trist, I know what the London
world is.  Something must be done.'
</p>

<p>
Trist shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly.
</p>

<p>
'Silence,' continued Hicks significantly,
'in this case would be a
mistake.  I don't mind ... your knowing
that it is not from mere curiosity that I
am doing this.  Brenda ... I want to
save ... her ... from anything unpleasant.'
</p>

<p>
At this point Trist appeared to relent.
It was not until afterwards that Hicks
realized that he had learnt absolutely
nothing from him.
</p>

<p>
'What do you think ought to be
done?' he asked gently.
</p>

<p>
The question remained unanswered for
some time, and then it was only met by
another.
</p>

<p>
'Is Brenda coming to-night?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes.'
</p>

<p>
'And Alice?'
</p>

<p>
'No.'
</p>

<p>
They walked through the brilliant
rooms together, each wondering what
lay behind the eyes of the other, each
striving to penetrate the thoughts of the
other, to divine his motives, to reach his
heart.
</p>

<p>
'I really think,' said Hicks at length,
'that it rests with you.  You must say
what is to be done, what story is to be
told, what farce is to be acted.  It seems
to me that you know more about it than
I do.  Somehow I have lately dropped
out of Mrs. Wylie's confidence, and
... and Brenda has not spoken to me about
her sister.'
</p>

<p>
'But,' said Trist, 'I know nothing of
what you refer to as the common gossip
of ... of all these.'
</p>

<p>
He indicated the assembled multitude
with a gesture which was scarcely
complimentary.  Hicks looked uncomfortable,
and bit his red lip nervously.
</p>

<p>
'Don't be hard on us,' he pleaded
with an unnatural laugh.  'I am one
of them.'
</p>

<p>
'Tell me,' said Trist with a sudden
gravity of manner, '... tell me what
they are saying.'
</p>

<p>
'Well ... it is hardly fair to ask me.'
</p>

<p>
'Why?'
</p>

<p>
'Because you will not thank me for
having told you.  We ... we don't, as
a rule, give the benefit of the doubt, you
know.'
</p>

<p>
The elder man turned and looked at
his companion with a slow smile.
</p>

<p>
'My dear Hicks,' he said, 'it is many
years since I gave up caring what the
world might say, or expecting the benefit
of the doubt.'
</p>

<p>
'For yourself?'
</p>

<p>
'Yes; for myself.  What do you mean?'
</p>

<p>
'I mean that they are not giving Alice
the benefit of the doubt either.'
</p>

<p>
They happened just then to be near
two chairs placed invitingly within an
alcove by a soft-hearted hostess who had
not yet forgotten her flirting-days.
</p>

<p>
'Let us sit down,' said Trist, indicating
these chairs.
</p>

<p>
'Now,' he continued in a calm voice
when they were seated, 'tell me what
the world is saying about Alice.'
</p>

<p>
Hicks was not devoid of a certain
moral courage, and for once in his life
he was actuated by a motive which was
not entirely selfish.
</p>

<p>
'They say,' he answered boldly, 'that
she ran away from her husband to join
you.'
</p>

<p>
To some natures there is a vague
enjoyment in imparting bad news, and the
dramatic points in this conversation were
by no means lost to William Hicks, who
was a born actor.  His listener,
however, received the news without the
slightest indication of surprise or
annoyance.  He merely nodded his head and
murmured:
</p>

<p>
'Yes; what else?'
</p>

<p>
'Oh ... nothing much&mdash;nothing,
at least, that I have heard, except that
Huston was supposed to have followed
her home and caught her just in time.
He is also said to have announced his
intention of shooting you at the first
convenient opportunity.'
</p>

<p>
Hicks ceased speaking, and waited for
some exclamation of disgust, some heated
denial or indignant proof of the utter
falseness of the accusations made against
Alice Huston.  None of these was
forthcoming.  Theo Trist merely indicated
his comprehension of the cruel words,
and sat thinking.  Beneath that calm
exterior the man's brain was very busy,
and as he raised his head with a slight
pensive frown Hicks recognised for the
first time the resemblance to the great
Corsican which was currently attributed
to the war-correspondent.
</p>

<p>
'Suppose,' said Trist at length,
'suppose that I were to walk arm-in-arm
into this room with Huston.  Would
that do?'
</p>

<p>
'Can you manage it?' inquired the
artist incredulously.
</p>

<p>
'I think so; if I can only find him.
Suppose Huston were to dance with
Brenda, and we were all to give it out
that Alice is staying with her father in
Cheltenham or somewhere.'
</p>

<p>
Hicks' first inclination was towards
laughter.  The proposal was made so
simply and so readily that the whole
affair appeared for a moment merely
ludicrous.
</p>

<p>
'Yes,' he said vaguely; 'that will do;
that will do very well.  But ... is
Huston invited?'
</p>

<p>
'I will manage that.'
</p>

<p>
There was a peaceful sense of capability
about this man before which all
obstacles seemed to crumble away.
Hicks felt slightly dissatisfied.  His own
part was too small in this social comedy.
The conduct of Brenda's affairs was
slipping from his grasp, and yet he could
do nothing but submit.  Trist had
unconsciously taken command, and when
command is unconscious it is also arbitrary.
</p>

<p>
'I will go now and bring Huston,' he
added presently, and without further
words left his seat.
</p>

<p>
Hicks caressed the golden moustache,
and watched him as he moved easily
through the gay, heedless throng&mdash;a
sturdy, strong young figure, full of
manhood, full of purpose, the absurdly meek
eyes shunning rather than seeking the
many glances of recognition that met
him on his way.
</p>

<p>
He went up to his hostess, and with
her came apparently straight to the point,
for Hicks saw the lady listen attentively
and then acquiesce with a ready smile.
</p>

<p>
Nearly half an hour elapsed before
Brenda arrived.  She was one of a large
party, and her programme had been in
other hands before Hicks became
possessed of it.  He glanced keenly down
the column of hieroglyphics.  The
initials were all genuine, but three
dances had been kept by a little cross
carefully inserted.  Hicks obtained two
waltzes, and returned the card with his
usual self-satisfied smile.  He knew that
Brenda expected Trist, although she was
not looking round as if in search of
anybody.  But he was fully convinced that
there was some mystery on foot.  One
dance, he had observed, which was
marked with a cross, was a square.
Trist and Brenda had met by
appointment&mdash;not as young men meet maidens
every night in the year at dances for
purposes of flirtation, or the more serious
pastime of love-making, but to discuss
some point of mutual interest.
</p>

<p>
As a rival Hicks had no fear of Theodore
Trist, who, he argued, was a very
fine fellow in his way, but quite without
social accomplishments.  He was a good
dancer&mdash;that point he generously
admitted&mdash;but beyond that he had nothing
to recommend him in the eyes of a
clever and experienced girl like Brenda,
who had had the advantages of association
with some of the most talented men
of her day, and intimacy with himself,
William Hicks.  There was only that
trivial matter of athletic and muscular
superiority, which really carried no great
weight with a refined womanly intellect.
In a ball-room Theodore Trist, with his
brown, grave face, his absorbed eyes, and
his sturdy form, was distinctly out of
place.  He had not even a white waistcoat,
wore three studs in the front of his
shirt, and sometimes even forgot to sport
a flower in his coat.  His very virtues
(of an old fashion), such as steadfastness,
truth, and honesty, prevented him from
shining in society.  Fortunately,
however, for his own happiness he was
without vanity, and therefore unconscious
of his own shortcomings.  It is just
within the scope of possibility that he
was moved by no ambition to shine in
society.
</p>

<p>
While the first bars of the waltz were
in progress, Hicks found Brenda.  He
had little difficulty in doing so, because
he had been watching her.  Moreover,
she was dressed in black, which was a
rare attire in that room.  In choosing
this sombre garb she had made no mistake;
the style suited exactly her slim,
strong young form, and in contrast her
neck and arms were dazzling in their
whiteness.
</p>

<p>
They began dancing at once, and
Hicks was conscious that there was no
couple in the room so perfectly harmonious
in movement, so skilled, so intensely
refined.
</p>

<p>
'Trist,' he said presently in a
confidential way, 'has been here.'
</p>

<p>
'Indeed!' was the guarded reply,
made with pleasant indifference.
</p>

<p>
'Yes ... Brenda, he and I had a
little talk, and, in consequence, he will
be absent for some time, but he is coming
back.'
</p>

<p>
'What,' she inquired calmly, 'did you
talk about?'
</p>

<p>
All this time they were dancing,
smoothly and with the indefatigable
rhythm of skilled feet.
</p>

<p>
'It has come to my knowledge,' he
replied, 'that gossip has connected the
names of Alice and Trist, and there are
foolish stories going about concerning
Huston, who is said to be searching for
Trist with the intention of shooting him.
Trist has gone to bring Huston here;
they will come into the room arm-in-arm.
We arranged it, and I think no
further contradiction is required.'
</p>

<p>
Had she winced he would have been
aware of it, because his arm was round
her yielding waist, and her hand was
within his.  She turned her head slightly
as if to assist him in steering successfully
through a narrow place; and he, glancing
down, saw that her face was as white as
marble, but her step never faltered.  She
drew a deep unsteady breath, and spoke
in a grateful voice.
</p>

<p>
'It is very good of you ... both,'
she said simply.
</p>

<p>
They continued dancing for some time
before the silence was again broken.
</p>

<p>
'Some day, Brenda,' whispered Hicks,
while preserving with immaculate skill
an indifferent face before the world, 'I
will tell you why I was forced to interfere
even at the risk of displeasing you.
Some other time, not now.'
</p>

<p>
A peculiar contraction seemed to pass
over her face, and it was only with an
effort that she smiled while acknowledging
a passing bow from a girl-acquaintance.
</p>

<p>
Soon afterwards she began talking
cheerily on a safer subject; and despite all
his experience, all his cleverness, William
Hicks could not bring the conversation
round again to the topic she had shelved.
</p>

<p>
Her spirits seemed to rise as the
evening progressed.  There was a task before
her, the dimensions of which were soon
apparent.  Almost everyone in the room
had heard something of Alice, and the
only contradiction possible, until Trist
and Huston arrived, lay in the brave
carriage of a cheerful face before them
all.
</p>

<p>
There was a clock upon the mantelpiece
of a small room where refreshments
were set forth, and the merits of
this secluded retreat were retailed by her
to more than one of her partners.  The
pointers of the dainty timepiece seemed
to crawl&mdash;once or twice she listened for
the beat of the pendulum.  Midnight
came, and one o'clock.  Still there was
no sign of Theodore Trist.  At two
o'clock her chaperon suggested going
home, and Brenda was compelled to
apologize laughingly to several grumbling
young men, who attempted to cut off her
retreat at the door.
</p>

<p>
The spacious hall was full of departing
guests; through the open door came
the hoarse confusing shouts of policemen
and footmen.  Brenda pressed her
hands together beneath her opera-cloak
and shivered.
</p>

<p>
Theodore Trist never returned, and
his absence passed unnoticed by all
except William Hicks, who waited till
the end.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
END OF VOL.  II.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t4">
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
</p>

<p><br><br><br><br></p>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74461 ***</div>
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