A JOINT COMMAND.
So the joint command of the _Hermione_ lapsed into new hands--the
man's command above decks, and the woman's rule below.
In both regions the new director stepped into the vacant place
quietly, unostentatiously and confidently. Old Captain Barrow was as
the potter's clay in Trist's gentle yet firm hands. The young
fellow's strange subtle influence soon made itself felt upon the men.
The Admiral had ruled by genial heartiness, coupled with the force of
past experience implied by his title; the young journalist (who did
not pretend to be a sailor) enforced obedience by the magnetic
attraction of his implacable will.
Mrs. Wylie uttered no complaint, sued for no sympathy--she was simply
stunned--and, in her imperious little way, Brenda took over all the
smaller household duties, assumed all minor responsibilities, and
gave the widow no rest.
She forced her to take an interest in smaller things, and allowed no
time for thought. She herself literally put her to bed by the light
of the morning sun, and calmly announced her intention of sharing the
state-room. The Admiral was carried below, and laid on Trist's bed,
and the latter moved, next day, into the room vacated by Brenda.
For him there was no rest that night. He did not even change the
clothes in which he had been swimming a few hours before, while
bringing ashore the dead man. By seven o'clock in the morning the
_Hermione_ was ready for sea--awning furled, stanchions stowed away,
and the great sails shaken out.
About this time Brenda came on deck. She looked round for a moment
in utter surprise at the changed appearance of the ship; then she
walked aft, to where Trist was standing near the rail talking in a
low voice to Nielsen, who, hurriedly summoned, had come on board to
pilot the yacht down the Heimdalfjord.
The Englishman's back was turned towards her, and he did not hear her
light tread upon the deck, but his companion raised his rough sable
hat respectfully, and Trist turned round at once. Brenda saw that he
noticed her black dress, and involuntarily glanced down at his own
shabby tweed suit, which was discoloured and wrinkled.
'Have you had any rest?' were his first words.
'Yes; thank you. I slept for at least two hours.' She smiled a
little as she looked at him, and his glance rested on her
faultlessly-dressed head, her dainty form, and proud little face.
'And Mrs. Wylie?' he inquired softly.
'She is sleeping now.'
He nodded his head, and they both turned, standing side by side,
looking forward to where the men were at work with the anchor.
Nielsen had left them, and was talking to Captain Barrow on the
forecastle.
'Captain Barrow,' he explained, in a tone which in some way implied a
joint-control, 'has got all ready for sea. The tide begins to run
down at half-past seven, when we will get in the anchor and go.'
She nodded her head wisely and gravely, like a field-officer
receiving a brother-commander's report--receiving it, moreover, with
satisfaction.
'You have been very prompt,' she murmured frankly, as she looked
round and mentally noted the work that had been done.
He turned his head hastily, as if about to begin some lengthy
explanation or to assign a reason for his promptitude, but seemed to
change his mind, for he stood looking at her vaguely for a moment,
and then turned his eyes away.
At this moment the steward came towards them with his gliding,
noiseless steps. He was carrying two mugs of coffee--not the thin
cups used in the cabin, but rough stout mugs intended for deck use.
Moreover, he brought them in the lid of the biscuit-box, with some
biscuits lying round them, as he brought early coffee every morning
to whosoever might be keeping the last watch.
He stood silently in front of Brenda, and made no attempt to
apologize for the seaman-like roughness of the repast, while she took
her mug and biscuit.
Even when the steward had left them, Trist made no remark respecting
this tacit treatment of Brenda as an officer of the ship; and she it
was who broke the silence, speaking slowly and suggestively, as if
waiting for him to approve or propose an amendment. It was absurdly
like the report of a junior departmental commander to his senior.
'Oh, Theo,' she said, 'I have moved most of my things into the large
stateroom, as I think it will be better for me to sleep with Mrs.
Wylie. You can go into my cabin as soon as you like now--the steward
and I have put it all right for you.'
'Thank you!' he said, sipping his coffee.
'Will you not go and change now? It cannot be good to keep on those
clothes.'
'Not yet,' he answered, with a smile. 'They are quite dry now, and
the sun is shining, so I am warm. Besides, there are one or two
things I want to ask your opinion about, and we may not have the
chance later on.'
He moved a little, and she, falling into his step, walked by his
side. Thus they paced backwards and forwards slowly in the early
morning splendour--she neat, trim, and lightsome; he weary, worn,
untidy, but strong and restful--until they had consulted mutually
upon certain points requiring immediate decision. When they had
finished their coffee and biscuit, each swung the empty mug idly, one
finger curled through the handle, with unconscious youthfulness of
gesture.
'The nearest village,' he began in his meek way, 'is Fjaerholm; we
shall be there by this time to-morrow with a fair breeze. There is a
church there and a churchyard, although the village itself is a tiny
place, almost surrounded by glaciers, and rarely visited. It will
hardly do, perhaps, to approach the question yet, but if we can find
out before we leave the Heimdalfjord what Mrs. Wylie's opinion is, it
will simplify matters. Whether, I mean, we are to make for
Fjaerholm, with the view of burying him there, or to go down the
Sognfjord, catch a steamer to Bergen, and so home.'
There was a short pause when he had finished speaking. Brenda
appeared to be lost in a reverie. At length she spoke.
'Which course do you recommend, Theo?' she asked.
'My opinion can be of little value. It is a matter of personal
feeling which only Mrs. Wylie can decide.'
'Yes. But she may be in that frame of mind where a decided
opinion--your opinion--might be a comfort to her.'
As she made this suggestion she turned her head and looked up to see
whether he had fully grasped her meaning, and he nodded his head
slightly, admitting that her argument might very well be of value.
'I am afraid, Brenda,' he said apologetically, 'that I am rather hard
and practical in these matters. My opinion is that Fjaerholm
churchyard is as good as any other. It would be a horrible journey
home for her and ... for you.'
'I think Fjaerholm would be best.'
'I am sure of it. Of course, Mrs. Wylie may have decided feelings on
the subject, and if so we must give in, and leave the _Hermione_;
though I think she will be better here among her own surroundings
than on board a crowded passenger steamer--an object of curiosity and
ostentatious sympathy.'
'I do not think,' said the girl, after a short pause, 'that she will
be influenced by any mistaken sentiment.'
'Nor I. And of course it is mere sentiment. We English have a way
of leaving our dead all over the world, and no doubt there are more
of us in the sea than of any other nation.'
She looked at him in a vague, wistful way. At times she failed to
understand him. There were certain humours which came over him at
odd times--hard practical humours of which the heartlessness seemed
assumed and unnatural--and of these she could not detect the motive.
'I will try,' she said, 'to find out Mrs. Wylie's feelings on the
subject.'
'Yes, Brenda, do!' he murmured, in a way which seemed to imply that
the matter was safe in her hands.
They continued to walk up and down in silence--each wrapt in
individual thought. There was a little frown on the girl's face, an
almost imperceptible contraction of the eyelids, forming a slight
perpendicular wrinkle which might deepen and grow permanent with
sorrow or years. The clear, heavenly-blue eyes were wide open and
somewhat restless, and in the whole face there was that intangible,
indescribable presence which we call intellect, because we dare not
call it soul.
Suddenly Trist stopped and looked down at her so persistently that
she was forced to raise her eyes.
'Don't!' he said ambiguously, with his slow, deprecating smile.
She laughed in a short curious tone, and changed colour.
'Don't what?'
'_Don't_ think about me,' he said with sudden earnestness.
For a moment an expression of pain rested in her eyes, and she opened
her lips as if about to speak; but he bade her keep silence with an
admonishing shake of the head, and she stood with slightly parted
lips looking up into his unreadable face.
'Don't!' he murmured again, and moved forward decisively. They
continued to walk in silence for some moments.
'How did you know that I was thinking of you?' she asked quietly, at
length.
'I can always tell. There is a peculiar stony silence which comes
over you at times, and I always feel its presence. Very often you
remain without speaking for some time, but that is a different
silence, and then without looking towards you I feel suddenly that
the other has come--that the other has come ... Brenda, and that you
are thinking about me!'
'You ought to be highly gratified!' she observed with a lamentable
attempt at playfulness.
'And,' he continued in his gently deliberate way, 'when I look at you
the same expression is always there. You are always striving to say
something which is difficult. Don't say it, Brenda! If it is a
question, don't ask it.'
'Why not?'
'Because those things are better left unsaid--those questions are
better left unasked. The answer cannot be satisfactory.'
'Then you advocate going through life without ever understanding our
fellow-creatures, without ever attempting to enter into each other's
joys and sorrows, without pitying, sympathizing, or admiring?'
'No, I do not go so far as that. But I have no patience with people
who are constantly fishing for sympathy, constantly confiding
imaginary woes to others who have their own affairs to worry them.
You should never seek trouble, Brenda. It comes only too naturally
of its own free will,' he said in a quick anxious way, endeavouring
to keep the conversation in a safe and general channel.
'It seems to me,' she answered after a long pause, 'that stoicism is
your aim and creed. To endure, and simply to endure, is your
estimate of life. He who endures best, who carries the brightest
face before the world, utters the fewest complaints, and deceives
most successfully his fellow-creatures, has lived the best life. You
never try to see a meaning in it all--you never seek an ulterior
motive which is only and solely for our good.'
'My dear Brenda,' said Trist with animation, 'am I a cripple? Am I
blind or dumb, or halt--that I have aught to endure?'
'You have something,' was the grave rejoinder. 'There is something,
but I do not know what it is, and I would sooner see you openly
miserable--cynical, heartless, _anything_ but what you are.'
He laughed aloud, and she shrugged her shoulders with a little smile.
'You should really devote your energies to novel-writing,' he said
gaily. 'You see romance where none exists. For you, indigestion is
nothing else than a broken heart. An unfortunate gravity of
demeanour (like mine) means a cankering sorrow, and every smile is
hollow.'
No answering smile came over her face, and she seemed suddenly to
remember that Mrs. Wylie might be awake and requiring her presence.
She moved away a little, and stood watching the men at work forward
at the windlass. Then she turned and looked past him across the sea.
'I cannot help feeling,' she said, 'that in some way you must owe me
a grudge. Of course I had nothing to do with it in reality; but she
was my sister, and despite your denial, despite your forbearance and
wonderful charity, you must, in your inmost heart, blame Alice.'
He turned his meek eyes towards her face with a patient smile.
'My dear Brenda,' he said remonstratingly, 'what firm convictions you
have! Once before--long ago--you hinted at this ... matter, and in
reply I insinuated that Alice was nothing to me. Her influence has
no weight on my actions; it in no way affects my coming or my going.
Please don't think of me and my affairs.'
She moved away slowly, reluctantly, without replying, gliding across
the deck with noiseless tread, and so the strange interview
terminated with a curious questioning silence on both sides. There
was something that she did not dare to ask, something he dreaded, for
his eyes were dull with a great suspense as he stood watching her go
away from him.
Then he pushed back from his forehead the black sou'-wester he still
wore, despite the brilliant sunshine, and somewhat wearily wiped his
brow.
There was about this man a strange uncanny quiet. His calm eyes were
not devoid of intellect, as most calm eyes are; his mouth and chin
were not those of a sensuous, self-indulgent person. In a word, his
repose was unnatural. There was in his being a vague suggestion of
endurance, as Brenda had discovered. Had he been a parson, one would
have said, with that careless, casual judgment of our fellows which
is so often terribly correct, that he was conscious of an utter
unfitness for priesthood. Had he been a soldier, one would have
assigned to him a nervous hatred towards bloodshed and the means of
shedding blood. But he had chosen his own profession, and in it had
made a decided mark. It was one of those peculiar callings for which
peculiar men are specially created by Providence--men endowed with
incongruous talents, and contradictory habits of thought and action.
Into such callings men are never forced: they force their own way, or
they drift into some other means of making a livelihood, and,
possessing no peculiar gifts, make no peculiar impression upon the
moral and mental sands of their time.
Theodore Trist was undoubtedly created for a special purpose, and so
distinct was the destination, that he had, without the aid of
circumstance or environment, drifted into the peculiar line of life
for which his talents were intended. He was a war-correspondent, and
nothing else (unless it were a soldier, in which profession one most
important gift would have been lost--that of writing critically and
brilliantly). In a few years he had climbed the unsteady ladder of
fame, and was now firmly planted on its uppermost rungs. He
possessed health, strength, and energy--there was war brooding in the
East--he was not blind, nor dumb, nor halt, so what could man wish
for more? Yet Brenda Gilholme told him to his face, in her
thoughtful, convincing way, that there was something in his life that
called for a stoical endurance, and he, failing to laugh scornfully,
denied the accusation with visible discomfort.
After she had left the deck, he continued to pace slowly fore and aft
by himself. Presently the tide turned, and the anchor came clanking
up from its rocky lodging. The huge mainsail spread its broad white
bosom to the breeze, and the _Hermione_ began to rise and fall almost
imperceptibly. The breeze was light, but the vast expanse of sail
caught every passing breath, and steerage-way was soon acquired.
Silently, graciously as she had arrived, the yacht left the little
forgotten corner of this Northern world, rippling through the
foamless waters with stately deliberation. Trist took no part in the
well-drilled hurry that attended the departure. He was no sailor:
his command was not the loud-voiced autocracy of the master mariner.
It was subtle, indefinite, immeasurable.
On the bosom of the receding tide the _Hermione_ left those still
waters. Soon she passed the mouth of the river where Admiral Wylie
had met his sportsman's fate. So close was she to the high land,
that the flow of the river swung her round a little. All who were on
deck instinctively ceased their occupations, and stood with idle
hands gazing thoughtfully up the deserted gorge. They could hear the
breeze whispering among the still pines, murmuring through the fairy
silver birches; and behind, in a perspective of sound, the echoing
laughter of the river in its rocky bed.
Theo Trist stood alone, apparently emotionless, but when the mouth of
the gorge had been shut out of view by the brown slope of a huge
hill, Captain Barrow came and stood beside him.
'And now, Mr. Trist,' said the old sailor, 'you'll need some rest.
There's a time for all things--a time for tears and a time for
laughter, a time for work and a time for sleep.'
Trist looked at the old man in a vague, semi-stupid way.
'And you would suggest that this is a time for sleep, Captain Barrow?'
'Yes--I would that.'
Then he took the young man's arm, and gently forced him to leave the
deck.
Trist found the saloon deserted. He passed into his new state-room,
and there he mechanically proceeded to make some sort of a toilet. A
suit of blue serge was the darkest he possessed, and this he donned,
toning it down with a black necktie. He shaved and bathed in a dull,
dignified way, as a condemned criminal might do upon the morning of
his execution--after a sleepless night.
Then he returned to the saloon. The steward was setting the
breakfast-table in the forward part of the cabin near the mainmast,
where the dining-room was tacitly understood to be. Further aft were
low chairs, a sofa, a piano, and other furniture, constituting a
drawing-room.
Trist sank into a low chair, and watched the man's quick, noiseless
movements with perfunctory interest. The steward glanced towards
him, and his movements became, if possible, more supernaturally
silent than before. Then suddenly his long sallow face relaxed into
a satisfied smile, and, for his own edification, he nodded his head
in a pleased, told-you-so sort of manner.
Trist was asleep.