BAD NEWS.
If Theo Trist had hoped to pass through London without meeting anyone
except the editor of the mighty journal, from whose coffer he was
soon to draw the income of a Continental prince, he was disappointed.
It would seem, however, that he was upon this point, as on many,
broadly indifferent. He went to a club, where he was almost certain
of meeting some of his friends--a club of which the members never
leave town because the calendar bids them do so; never quite lay
aside their labour; and appear to sleep when others are awake,
working while others sleep.
He went there because it was conveniently near at hand, and he was
sure of having rapid attention given to his desires. As he entered
the dining-room a young man rose from one of the small square tables
with dramatic surprise.
'Theodore Trist, by all that's sacred!' exclaimed this youth. He was
of medium height with a fair moustache, such as lady novelists
delight to write about. This manly adornment was the prominent thing
about him. But for it, his face was that of a fair and somewhat
weak-minded girl. It curled away from either side of his full red
lips (usually moist), with a most becoming languor. Its golden hue
completed perfectly the harmony of his delicately tinted pink and
white face. A shade lighter than his hair, it was itself of delicate
texture, and the bewitching curl was in need of constant attention on
the part of a long white finger and thumb. The top joint of the
finger bent backwards with a greater suppleness than a manly person
would perhaps admire. There was always an abundance of cuff and deep
turn-down collar, of which the points overlapped the flap of a
wide-cut waistcoat. In the matter of necktie, a soft silken material
of faded hue rivalled the golden moustache in obtruding itself before
the public gaze. Dark-blue eyes devoid of depth, and a slightly
aquiline nose, complete the picture. This man was no ordinary being.
Had he been dressed like an ordinary being--like, let us say, a
tea-broker--men and women would still have looked at him twice.
Kensington lion-hunters would still have kept him in touch, so to
speak, on the chance of his developing from puppyhood into cubhood,
and so on to the maturity of a London lion. But he made the most of
such personal peculiarities as Providence had thought fit to assign
to him. His tailor thought him slightly eccentric. 'Bit orf 'is
chump,' that sartorial artist was wont to observe in his terse,
clipping way; and he charged something extra for padded shoulders;
and continuations, baggy from waist to ankle. Sundry small
singularities of dress purchase a cheap notoriety, and to these the
wise tailor gave his full consent with an eye to advertisement. It
is an easy matter to trim with silk braid a coat of material usually
worn without trimming, and the effect is most satisfactory to a man
desirous of being looked at in public places. Again, the additional
cost of a broad braid down the outer seam of one's
dress-unmentionables is trifling, while the possession of it 'stamps
a man, don't cher know.' Personally I do not know how it stamps a
man, but on good authority I have it. A peculiar cut of collar is
obtainable for the mere trouble of asking and running up a bill. But
chiefest of all is a name. In such a thing there is to-day much more
than in Shakespeare's time, and in this one most aggravating point
the young man who rose to greet Theodore Trist as he entered the club
dining-room failed most ignominiously. His name was William Hicks.
In order to battle successfully against such a heavy handicap, the
young man was forced, like a good general, to spare no expense in his
outfit. This most commonplace association of two good English names
cost their possessor as much per annum as would enable a thrifty
maiden lady (or four German clerks) to live comfortably.
He would have given much to be labelled by such a nomenclature as
'Theodore Trist'--a poetic assimilation of letters quite unnecessary
for the war-correspondent, and even wasted upon him. His work would
have been equally popular if signed William Hicks, whereas the
artist, who was some day going to surprise the old world and make the
spirits of its ancient masters shake in their ethereal shoes, was
dragged down and held back by the drysalting name of Hicks. For
certain reasons, to which even the unmercenary soul of William was
forced to bow, there was no hope of ever changing it for something
more poetic. Certain it was (and perhaps the artist knew it) that
there were many houses to which Theodore Trist had an ever-welcome
entry, while he--William Hicks--was excluded. It could only be the
name that drew this line, and, indeed, it was in many cases nothing
else; for the name of Trist is rare, and in a certain county, far
away from town, very powerful, whereas the milkman who supplies me
with an opaque fluid of more or less nourishing qualities is called
Hicks, and from the number of little Hickses who require everlasting
boots, there is no present fear of the poetic surname becoming
extinct.
Without any great show of cordiality, Trist shook the long, nerveless
hand extended to him. He even went so far as to nod familiarly over
Hicks' shoulder to a servant who, having drawn back a chair,
fulfilled his immediate duty by waiting.
'Where have you come from, old man?' asked the artist. 'You look as
if you had been sleeping in your shirt for a week.'
Like many of his tribe, Hicks had a great notion of being all things
to all men. He prided himself exceedingly upon his powers of
adaptability to environment. With men he was, therefore, slangy;
with women tender and poetic. With the former he could not be manly,
and for this quality he substituted an inordinate use of language
more descriptive than that usually employed by gentlemen in the
presence of ladies. Not possessing the slightest vein of humour, he
assumed with women the poetic mantle, and surrounded himself for the
time being with a halo of melancholy. There are people who, while
endeavouring to be all things, are nothing--while seeking to render
themselves valuable to the many, are of use to none.
'I have not been sleeping much in anything,' replied Trist, 'and just
at the moment a wash is what I require. After that some dinner.'
This served as an answer to Hicks, and an order to the waiter at the
same time; and with a nod Trist passed on to the dressing-rooms.
'Where will Mr. Trist dine?' asked Hicks, turning to the waiter, and
speaking somewhat sharply, as people do who fear the ridicule of
their inferiors.
'At my table, sir!' with a certain air of possession.
'Then just move my plate ... and things ... to the same, will you?'
When the war-correspondent returned to the dining-room, he found
Hicks established at the table where he invariably sat, and the
waiter holding a chair in readiness for him with a face of the most
complete stolidity. Without betraying either pleasure or annoyance,
he took the proffered chair and attacked his soup in a business-like
way, which did not promise conversational leisure.
'In a deuce of a hurry, old man!' suggested the artist.
'Yes. Have to catch a train.'
'Going off to the East, I suppose?' asked Hicks carelessly.
With his shallow blue eyes persistently fixed on Trist's face, he
stroked his moustache daintily.
'Yes.'
'To-night?'
'At eight-twenty,' replied Trist, meeting his gaze with gentle
impatience.
'Ah! Lady Pearer was asking me the other day if you were there, or
on the way to the seat of war.'
'Lady Pearer? Don't know her,' observed Trist, with his mouth full
of bread.
'She seemed to know you.'
The suggestion of a smile flickered across Trist's face, but his
entire attention was absorbed just then by a bony piece of turbot.
He made no answer, and silently shelved the subject in a manner which
was not strictly complimentary to Mr. Hicks' fair and aristocratic
friend.
The artist was one of those exceedingly pleasant persons who can
never quite realize that their presence and conversation might,
without serious inconvenience, be dispensed with. The mere fact of
being seen in friendly intercourse with a person of his social
distinction was, in his own simple heart, worthy of the consideration
of greater men than Theodore Trist. In recounting the fact later, of
his having dined with the celebrated war-correspondent on the eve of
his departure for Bulgaria, he took exceeding great care to omit the
mention of certain details. Moreover, he allowed it to be understood
that the farewell feast was organized by Trist, and that there was
some subtle political meaning in the hurried interview thus obtained.
'Trist,' he said, with a suggestion of melancholy, to Lady Pearer and
other of his friends, 'is a strange fellow. He has a peculiar
repelling manner, which causes people to imagine that he is
indifferent to them. Now, when I dined with him at the "Press" the
other night,' etc., etc.
Trist continued his dinner with that tranquillity of demeanour which
marked his movements upon all occasions, but more especially,
perhaps, when he was displeased or very much on the alert. The
silence which followed the collapse of the Lady Pearer incident did
not appear in the least irksome to him, whatever it may have been to
his companion.
Hicks toyed with the rind of his late cheese, and wondered whether
the novel bow of his voluminous dress-tie was straight.
'By the way,' he said at length, 'have you not been in Norway with
the Wylies?'
The young artist had at one time been a protégé of Mrs. Wylie's, but
her protection had been gradually withdrawn.
'The fair Brenda was with them, n'est-ce pas?'
Trist broke his bread with grave deliberation and looked stolid.
After a momentary pause he raised his eyes to his companion's face.
'Eh?' he murmured softly.
'Miss Gilholme,' explained the other, with an involuntary change of
manner.
'Yes, she was there.'
'I thought,' reflected Hicks aloud, as he stroked his moustache
contentedly, 'that I remembered her telling me that she was going to
Norway. How is she?'
'Very well, thank you.'
'Is she any stouter?' with affectionate interest.
'I don't know,' replied Trist suavely.
'Because,' continued the other in his best
'private-view-of-the-Academy' style, 'that is the only fault I have
to find with her. Her figure is perfect, except that she is a trifle
too slight--if you understand.'
'Indeed,' very gently.
'From an artistic point of view, of course,' explained Hicks with a
graceful wave of his hand, full of modest deprecation. For some
unknown reason a sudden sense of discomfort had come over him.
'Ah, I am not an artist ... thank goodness!'
Hicks glanced uneasily across the table at his companion. There was
something in the calm tone of his voice that was not quite natural, a
peculiar thrill as if of some suppressed emotion which might have
been laughter, but was more probably anger. William Hicks was not
endowed with that species of brute courage which enables its
possessor to enter boldly into controversy, wordy or otherwise. He
was eminently a lover of peace, and for its gentle sake was ever
ready to suppress pride, honour, or any other inconvenient passion
likely to prove inimical to its preservation.
He had mixed with men and women of all shades and tastes. They were
mostly affected, hypocritical, insincere, and utterly wearisome; but
there is one virtue which we cannot help acquiring from contact with
our fellow-beings, however silly, however shallow and profitless,
their influence may be. This virtue is tact, and William Hicks
possessed a sufficiency of it to smooth his own path through life.
If he failed to use it for the benefit of others, neglected to render
the footsteps of others less stony and less difficult, he was,
perhaps, no worse in such respect than the majority of us.
He now began to perceive that he had taken the wrong road towards
gaining the esteem (or perhaps the toleration) of this plain-spoken,
honest student of war.
Trist was not to be impressed by the social position of this
dilettante dabbler in the fine arts. Soul, pure unvarnished soul,
had no effect upon his mental epidermis. Poetry in curious
dress-clothes, behind a singular cambric tie, failed to touch his
inmost being. Then a brilliant inspiration came to this ambitious
youth who attempted to be all things to all men. For once he would
be natural. On this one occasion sincerity should grace his actions
and his wondrous thoughts.
'I say, Trist,' he remarked almost earnestly, 'I met Martin of the
Royal Engineers the other day, and he told me that it is common
mess-room gossip in Ceylon that Alice Huston is having a miserable
life of it out there.'
Trist had almost finished his dinner. He looked up gravely, and
there was in his eyes a worried expression, which, however, the
artist (who, like most self-satisfied people, was not observant)
failed to see.
'I am sorry to hear that,' quietly, almost indifferently.
'Yes,' continued the other in the perfunctorily sympathetic tone
which we all assume while revelling in the recital of evil tidings.
'They say that Huston drinks, that he is madly jealous and coldly
indifferent by turns. He always was a brute. I remember when he was
young he was a gourmand, and professed to be a great judge of claret.
Now a boy who thinks of his interior when he ought to be hardening
his muscles will, in all human probability, turn out a drinker.'
While Hicks was giving the benefit of his opinion, Trist had risen
from the table, and now stood with his two hands upon the back of his
chair looking down thoughtfully at his companion. The artist was
peeling an early pear with great delicacy of fingering. Before the
war-correspondent had time to say anything, he continued:
'I suppose,' he said somewhat pathetically, 'that you and I are more
interested in the Gilholmes than most people. To a certain extent
they rely upon us as old friends. That is why I tell you this. I
never repeat gossip, you know.'
The last addition was made in a deprecating way, as if to apologize
for a celebrity which placed certain personal peculiarities within
public reach. Trist had not heard that reticence was one of his
companion's characteristics, and he treated the remark with silent
contempt. He did not even smile in response to the sympathetic
glance of the soulless blue eyes.
'If,' he observed, 'they rely upon us, they will expect us to hold
our tongues. The truest friendship is shown in talking of anything
but one's friends. I must go now. Good-night!'
The artist rose and held out his delicate hand. Within Trist's brown
and sunburnt fingers the shapely limb looked small and frail and very
useless. The very manner in which Hicks stood was in strong contrast
to the sturdy deportment of his companion. If Brenda Gilholme should
at any future day be forced to rely upon one of these strikingly
dissimilar men, the choice would surely be no hard task; for one was
all latent energy, quiet, reserved, and manly force, while the other
was a mere creature of drawing-room and boudoir, a lady's knight, a
dandy, an effeminate egoist.
And the stronger man, Theo Trist, went out from the brilliant chamber
down the broad and silent stairs, out of the huge door, wrapt in his
own thoughts as in a cloak which shielded him from men's eyes, for he
saw no one, heard no sound, and was sensible of no definite feeling.
This great stone building was as a home to him--the only home he had
ever known. The faces of the servants were pleasantly familiar; the
stillness of the vast rooms, the very softness of the rich carpet
beneath his feet, were distinct pleasures, and imparted a pleasant
feeling of homeliness. And from this he passed out in the bright
August evening alone and absorbed. To the war he gave no thought,
neither meditated over the ripening fruits of his pen. There was
before his meek and pensive eyes a vision which would not be cast
aside. He saw a yacht rolling gently on the still waters of a
northern fjord. The sails were hastily clewed up or lowered, hanging
idle in the soft breeze. Away behind, clear and hard in the morning
light, were brown hills rising sheer from the water--bleak rocks of
unlovely contour. But the soul of the whole picture looked from the
eyes of a slight young girl, clad in sober black, standing
bareheaded, so that the sun gleamed on her soft brown hair, beside
the stern rail, smiling bravely.
He had left Brenda alone in the midst of sorrow, and now he knew that
she was on her way home to England to meet more of it. There is
nothing so sad in human life as the bitter realization of human
helplessness. Alice Huston was miserable, and Trist knew that he
could do nothing. He was fully aware that misery with her meant
misery to others. She was too impulsive--too selfish, perhaps--to
keep her sorrows to herself, and Brenda would sooner or later be
dragged into the trouble. He smiled to himself at the remembrance of
William Hicks' words. The idea of Brenda Gilholme--the gifted, the
capable, the learned--seeking the aid of this _exalté_ artist was
ludicrous, and yet Trist did not smile over it for long. He wished
that there had been another man--such a man as himself, he
unconsciously decided--near Brenda at this time.
Accustomed as he was to act alone, he perhaps assigned to the spirit
of independence a greater importance in the average nature of men and
women than such spirit really occupies. Independence or
self-dependence is a quality which, being possessed, brings with it a
certain blindness. A man such as Theodore Trist, whose every action
and thought receives its motive from a calm, straightforward
independence, cannot quite realize that there are people to whom the
necessity of thinking and acting on their own responsibility is
little short of agony. He was sensible in a vague manner that Brenda
Gilholme was an exceptional girl in many ways, but he never through
all his life quite understood that she was one in a thousand. His
life and work brought him into contact with men, and men
exceptionally ignorant of women and their ways. In his dreamy,
chivalrous way, he gave women credit for a much greater
self-dependence and self-sufficiency than they possess--bless them
all! In leaving Brenda to bring home Mrs. Wylie, and in a sense to
take command of the _Hermione_, he acted somewhat in the spirit of a
soldier who, leaving his subordinate behind while he goes forth to
other work, feels that his late duties are made over to hands and
brain in all probability as competent as his own, but merely wanting
in opportunity. And he started on his flying journey across Europe
without the knowledge that Brenda was quietly assuming
responsibilities from which many older women would have shrunk aghast.
Now that this news of further trouble coming to meet her, as it were,
from the East, touched him in passing, he never for one moment
doubted Brenda's capability to meet it, and act in the quickest and
wisest manner. But there was a vague apprehension, nevertheless, and
he thought with discomfort of the girl's utter loneliness.