BREAKING IT.
Like one in a dream Theodore Trist passed out into the narrow street
somewhat later. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning; the ball
was scarcely over, and yet to this unimaginative man it seemed ages
since he had spoken with William Hicks, listening in a vague way to
the swinging waltz music all the while. When he reached his quiet
rooms, he was almost startled at the sight of his own dress-clothes,
spotless shirt-front, and unobtrusive flower. He had quite forgotten
that these garments of pleasure were beneath his overcoat. His
night's work had not been in keeping with dress-clothes.
'I will think,' he said to himself, 'how it is to be broken to
everybody to-morrow.' And with great serenity he went to bed.
Sleep soon came to him despite the incidents crowded into the last
few hours. It is a habit with some people to lie awake at night and
ponder over their woes. They regard this as a solemn duty, a homage
to be paid to the Goddess of Tears; and they never fail to mention
their melancholy vigil to someone or other more or less connected
with the trouble next morning. It is merely habit, and of no more
value than the custom of mentioning with lowered voice the name of
one who had been dead twenty years, and whose memory can after that
space of time assuredly be awakened without such poignant grief as is
considered its due.
Trist was not one of these. He valued human life at no very great
price, and as (after all has been said and done, believed and
repudiated) Death is the greatest sorrow we have to face, he was
perhaps a little callous. He made no pretence of disguising the fact
that Captain Huston's sudden, and what is usually denominated
'shocking,' demise was little short of a release for all concerned
with his existence; and he did not even fall into the common error of
looking upon all past sins as cleansed away by the very ordinary and
easy method of terminating their career. It is just as well for some
of us, methinks, that the good old Egyptian custom, of inscribing
upon the lid or side of our sarcophagus a full and authentic history
of the life terminating therein, has died out. They had a nasty
habit too, those tactless ancients, of sculpturing a speaking
likeness upon the lid, or erecting a statue near at hand, so that at
the Great Judgment the wandering soul could single out without
trouble its rightful body.
Death, however sudden, could not in those days endow with many
virtues, many charms, and great personal comeliness, as it endows us
now. I sometimes think of those old Egyptian spirits with a gentle
sympathy. How disappointed some of them will be when they stand face
to face with the true likeness of the body in which they played out
their brief innings three thousand years ago! When, too, they read
the uncompromising hieroglyphs, there will be unpleasant awakenings
and perhaps a little scoffing from those who have drawn cleaner
sarcophagi.
So Trist slept peacefully, with a philosophic reflection that Huston
would never have done much good in the world. The present writer
once heard a man, in all sincerity and all faith, console himself
with the thought that if he was not fit to die, the probabilities
were that he never would be fitter. This philosopher was a godless
sailor, and he made the remark in answer to a chaffing observation
advanced by a more fortunate mate that he would certainly be drowned
because he possessed no life-belt. The ship was sinking, the boats
were smashed, and there were other things to do just then than weigh
this philosophy in the scales of reason; but having more leisure at a
later period, I came to think over it, and have come to the
conclusion that there was much within that reflection that is worth
consideration. Let us, however, avoid the quicksands of a
theological controversy.
* * * *
It has not hitherto been mentioned that Mrs. Wylie possessed one or
two vices of a comparatively harmless description. The most
prominent of these was unpunctuality at the breakfast-table. This is
a most comfortable vice, and quite in keeping with the placid and
easy-going nature of the lady. The best woman I have ever known is
invariably late for breakfast; her hair is white now, but long may
she continue arriving after time! There is someone else who is most
lamentably unpunctual any time before ten o'clock antemeridian. She
is not a woman yet, but she has begun well. I may mention that I do
not at all object to pouring out my own coffee.
Brenda, being of a more active nature, was usually down first, and
the fact of having been out to a ball the night before rarely acted
as a deterrent. It thus came about that she was alone at the
breakfast-table when Trist was announced. It was a dainty, womanly
little meal set out on the snowy cloth, and as yet untouched. Brenda
was in the act of opening the newspaper when Trist entered the room.
She did not remember until afterwards that, as he shook hands, he
took the journal from her and laid it aside. Perhaps she noted the
action at the time, but he was never in the habit of acting just like
other men, and the peculiarity of this little movement did not strike
her sufficiently to remain upon her memory as a distinct incident.
'Ah!' she said gaily; 'you think it prudent to strike while the iron
is hot -I being the iron. I am not red-hot, but quite warm enough to
be unpleasant, and just too hard to be struck. Please explain why
you never claimed the three dances you asked me to keep?'
Trist smiled in his gravest way--a mere reflection of her bright
gaiety.
'That is what I came to explain,' he said.
He passed her standing at the table, and went towards the fire.
There he drew off his gloves in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.
'Theo,' said Brenda, 'have you had breakfast?'
'Yes, thanks!'
His manner was habitually misleading, and it was quite impossible for
her to see that he had bad news to impart. His strong, purposeful
hands were always steady, which is somewhat exceptional; for the
fingers betray emotion when the eyes are dumb.
'Rather,' she continued lightly, 'than break my faith to you, I
planted myself, so to speak, among the wallflowers, where I was
content to bloom in solitude.'
'Through the whole dance?' he asked meaningly.
'Well ... not quite. When I was satisfied that you were not there, I
danced with someone else.'
He smiled, and said nothing.
Brenda moved one or two things upon the breakfast-table--things which
in no way required moving. For the first time in her life she was
beginning to feel ill at ease with this man. For the first time she
dreaded vaguely to hear him speak, because she was not sure that he
was at ease himself.
At last he began, and there was a strained thrill in his voice as if
it were an effort to open his lips.
'It has been my ... fate ... Brenda, to be with you or near you
during most of the incidents in your life ...' here he paused.
'Yes,' she murmured unsteadily.
'I have,' he continued, 'perhaps, been of some small use to you. I
have been happy enough at times to tell you good news, and ... and
once or twice I have been the messenger of evil.... Now...'
'Now,' interrupted Brenda suddenly, as she came towards him, for a
light had broken upon her--'now you have bad news, Theo? Surely you
are not afraid of telling it to me!'
'I don't exactly know,' he answered slowly, laying his hand upon the
white fingers resting on his sleeve, 'whether it is good news or bad.
Huston is dead!'
She had continued smiling bravely into his eyes until the last words
were spoken, then suddenly she turned her face away. He watched the
colour fade from her cheek, slowly sinking downward until her throat
was like marble. Then she withdrew her hand deliberately from his
touch, as if there had been evil in it. After a moment she turned
again and looked keenly at him with wondering, horror-struck eyes.
'Then,' she murmured monotonously, 'Alice is ... a widow.'
It was a strange thing to say, and she had no definite conception of
the train of thought prompting the remark. He looked at her in a
curious, puzzled way, like a man who is near a truth, but fears to
prove his proximity.
'Does she know?' she asked suddenly, rousing herself to the necessity
of prompt action.
'No. I have not your aunt's address in Cheltenham.'
Brenda looked at the clock upon the mantelpiece, a reliable
mechanism, which kept remarkable time considering its feminine
environments.
'Mrs. Wylie will be here in a moment; we will then consider about the
telegram. In the meantime ... tell me when it happened, and how?'
'It happened at two o'clock this morning ... suddenly.'
Brenda looked up at the last word, although it was spoken quite
gently.
'Suddenly...?'
'Yes. It ... he shot himself with a revolver ... by accident!'
The man's gentle inscrutable eyes fell before Brenda's gaze. He
moved uneasily, and turned away, apparently much interested in the
ornaments upon the mantelpiece.
'Were you present at the time?'
'No. I was downstairs. He was in his bedroom.'
'Tell me,' said the girl mechanically, 'what was he doing with the
revolver?'
Trist turned slowly and faced her. There was no hesitation in his
glance now; his eyes looked straight into hers with a deliberate calm
meaning. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
'Who knows?' he murmured, still watching her face.
There flitted across his features the mere ghost of a deprecating
smile, which was answered somewhat wanly by her. Women, I have
observed, never laugh at danger as men do. They are indifferent to
it, or they dread it undisguisedly, but they do not at any time
despise it.
When at length Brenda turned away she pressed her lips together as if
to moisten them, and there was a convulsive movement in her throat.
They understood each other thoroughly.
'There will, of course,' said Trist presently, 'be an inquest. It
is, however, quite clear that, being left for a moment alone, he rose
from his bed in a fit of temporary insanity, and having possessed
himself of a revolver (possibly for suicidal purposes), he shot
himself by accident.'
Brenda had crossed the room to the window, where she stood with her
back towards her companion.
'Yes!' she murmured absently.
She was swaying a little from side to side, and her face was raised
in an unnatural way. Trist stood upon the hearthrug, with his elbow
resting on the mantelpiece. He was watching her attentively.
'I have,' he said somewhat hastily, as if it were an afterthought,
'some influence with the newspapers.'
Of this she took absolutely no notice. It would appear that she had
not heard his voice. Then Trist moved restlessly. After a moment's
hesitation he lifted his arm from the mantelpiece with the apparent
intention of going towards her. He even made two or three steps in
that direction--steps that were inaudible, for his tread was
singularly light. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Wylie came into the
room.
'Theo!' said the lady, with rather less surprise than might have been
expected.
In a moment she had perceived that there was something wrong. The
very atmosphere of the room was tense. These two strong young people
had either been quarrelling or making love. Of that Mrs. Wylie was
certain. Her entrance had perhaps been malapropos; but she could not
go back now. Moreover, she was the sort of woman who never errs in
retreating. Her method of fighting the world was from a strong
position calmly held, or by a steady sure advance.
'Good-morning, Theo!' she said, with that deliberate cheeriness which
is the deepest diplomacy. 'This is an early visit. Have you come to
discover the laziness of the land?'
'No,' answered Theo simply.
Then he turned and looked towards Brenda in a way which plainly said
that she was expected to come forward into the breach he had effected.
Brenda came. Her face was not so grave as Trist's, but her lips were
colourless.
'Theo has come,' she said, 'with bad news. We must telegraph to
Alice at once. Alfred Huston had ... an accident last night.'
'What?' inquired Mrs. Wylie, turning to Trist.
'He is dead--he shot himself by accident,' replied the
war-correspondent.
Mrs. Wylie stood for some moments in her comfortable, placid way,
rubbing one smooth hand over the other. She did not appear to be
looking anywhere in particular, but in reality no movement of
Brenda's, however slight, escaped her notice.
'And now,' she said, after a weary little sigh, 'I suppose she will
discover how much she loved him all along...'
Trist made a little movement, but the widow turned her calm gaze
towards him, and spoke on, with a certain emphasis:
'Alice has in reality always loved Alfred Huston. This little
misunderstanding would never have arisen had there not been love on
both sides. I have known it all along. You can trust an old woman
on such matters. This is a very, very sad ending to it all.'
'Yes,' assented Theo meekly; 'it is very sad.'
Brenda had turned away. She was standing at the window in her
favourite attitude there--with her arms outstretched, her fingers
resting on the broad window-sill among the ornamental fern-baskets
and flower-pots.
Mrs. Wylie walked to the fireplace.
'Let me think,' she said, half to herself, 'what must be done.'
She knew that Trist was watching her, waiting for his instructions in
his emotionless, almost indifferent, way. (If it were not for a
certain moral laziness in the male temperament, women would be able
to do very little with men.) Then the widow met his gaze. She made
a scarcely-perceptible movement towards the door with her eyelids.
With a slight nod he signified his comprehension of the signal.
'I must,' he said, 'go back now to ... to Huston's rooms. Will you
communicate with Alice?'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Wylie simply.
Without further explanation he went towards the door, glancing at
Brenda as he passed. Mrs. Wylie followed him.
'We are better without you just now,' she whispered in the passage.
'Write me full particulars, and wait to hear from me before you come
back.'