THEODORE TRIST IS AROUSED.
In a quiet street leading out of the Boulevard de la Madeleine, there
is a large red-stone house with golden letters, each the size of a
man, between the windows of the second and third floors. These
letters spell a three-syllabled word, which is known in all the
civilized world as the name of the greatest journal in France. For
steadiness there is no newspaper in all the new republic to rival it.
No false news was ever published within the walls of that red-stone
house, nor sent forth to the French-speaking world from its portals.
Its correspondence is conducted with that apparent lavishness which
is the secret of successful journalism in these days. Good pay to
good men is a motto that might well be inscribed in golden letters
beneath the window of the second floor. There is upon the first
story of this house a large room furnished somewhat in the style
adopted by English clubs. That is to say, the chairs, tables, and
bookcases are of a heavier type than is usually found in private
houses. Unlike most French rooms the floor is entirely covered with
a Brussels carpet. There are several small oak tables furnished with
blotting-pad, inkstand, and pen-tray. I regret to say that
cigarette-ash and cigarette ends are habitually thrown upon the
floor, although numerous receptacles are provided on the larger table
standing in the centre of the room.
This apartment serves as an anteroom to the offices of the editor and
sub-editor, and on some days in the week there may be seen an
assembly of all that there is of journalistic and literary talent in
France.
One evening in January, Theodore Trist was standing near the huge
white-china stove talking with a group of long-haired confrères of
the ready pen. They were laughing--not in that airy, careless way
which is generally considered by Englishmen as the prerogative of
their Gallic cousins--but softly, and without much genuine amusement.
There were others in the room, seated at the smaller tables, writing,
which would account for the lowered tones of the group round the
stove.
Presently a liveried servant came towards them.
'Monsieur Trist,' he ventured, standing at a respectful distance from
the brilliant group.
A silence fell over the talkers, while Theo Trist turned and asked by
whom he was wanted.
'It is,' replied the servant, 'a _portier_ of the Hôtel Bristol,
inquiring if monsieur was in Paris at present.'
'And you said...?'
'I said that I would inquire.'
A young Frenchman, whose poems were charming all readers just then,
laughed merrily.
'Jules,' he said, with a sly glance towards the Englishman, 'is
discreet.'
'It would never do,' interpolated an older man, with grave approval,
'if Jules were not so. This is the home of discretion. Who knows
that this _portier_ is a _portier_ at all? Is it not easy to buy a
hat-band with the word "Bristol" embroidered upon it? He may be an
emissary from some journal of the Boulevards to collect
information--the material for a _canard_--price two sous.'
Trist smiled meekly, and moved away with the servant at his heels.
'_Ce_ Trist,' continued the older writer, when he was out of earshot,
'cannot come and go as we can--we who write but romances and idle
paragraphs. It is a political power beneath that broad forehead,
behind those woman's eyes. He smells of war. It is the stormy
petrel, my friends.'
'I will see him,' Trist had said to the servant as they crossed the
room together. 'But do not say who I am.'
Jules bowed in grave reproach at the implied possibility of an
indiscretion.
'In the small room, monsieur?'
'Yes; in the small room.'
When the _portier_ of the Hôtel Bristol entered the small room, he
found a gentleman seated at a table writing.
'You seek Monsieur Trist?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'For a public or a private purpose?'
The _portier_ had received his instructions.
'It is private, monsieur, quite private. It is but a small word from
a lady in the hotel.'
'An English lady?'
'An English lady, monsieur; a widow, I believe. A Madame Huston, on
the second floor.'
Trist held out his hand.
'Give it to me,' he said gently; 'I am Theodore Trist. The answer
shall be despatched presently. You need not wait.'
As the messenger left the room, Trist broke open the envelope and
unfolded a dainty note. He read it carefully, and then leant back
leisurely in his chair. There was a peculiar expression upon his
face, half annoyed, half puzzled. And (why should it be withheld?)
beneath the sun-burn on his cheeks there was a slight change of
colour. Theodore Trist experienced a strange sense of warmth in his
countenance, and wondered what it meant. He was ignorant of the fact
that his cheek was attempting to blush. From the expression of his
eyes, however, this was not a sign of pleasure. He was ashamed of
that note, and after the lapse of a few minutes he rose and threw it
into the stove, the brass door of which he opened deftly with the toe
of his boot.
There are times in our lives when we have cause to feel ashamed of
human passions, and even of human nature. Even if we be optimists,
we can scarcely pass through existence without finding that human
nature is a sorry business after all. It is only right that we
should experience a sense of shame when brought face to face with
such passions as jealousy or hatred, but God forbid that we should
ever be ashamed of love! There is not too much dignity in our daily
lives, and therefore let us hold one factor of it sacred. Let us
leave untouched the dignity of love. If there be one seed of shame
in the flower, the disease will grow and flourish until the bloom
dies away entirely. From the cradle to the grave we have but one
pure and holy thing in life. We are never free from it--no spot is
beyond its reach--no place is too sacred, and no hovel is too
miserable for it to enter there. On the battle-field, and in church,
while laughing, while weeping, while singing, while sighing, we think
of love. And you, my young brother, my gentle sister, who have such
thoughts as these, cherish them and keep them holy; fence them round
with noble efforts; keep away the canker-worm of shame. In all truth
these thoughts are better than great wealth, more profitable than
fame, higher than exceeding great gifts. We, also, who are farther
on the road, have known what such thoughts are, and in looking back
now over the trodden path we see one sunny spot--one golden field
where no great trees, no gaudy flowers grow, but where a holy peace
has reigned; where Ambition found no resting-place and Covetousness
no root. To have passed through that meadow was sufficient reason
for the creation of a life. Its pathway was very pleasant, and the
scent of its modest flowers reaches us now. Those who have once
loved truly have not lived in vain, even though they pass quite away
and leave no trace behind.
Theodore Trist was by nature a remarkably self-contained man, and his
life of late years had brought this characteristic to an exceptional
pitch. He had acquired the habit of thinking, of writing, of working
with a sublime disregard to the chance of his environments. On the
battle-field, and amidst the roar of artillery, it had been necessary
for him to write details of a successful march through fertile
valleys, where the very atmosphere breathed of peace alone. In the
gorgeous apartment of an Emperor's palace, seated in his rough, worn
clothes, hat on head, booted, spurred, and armed, he had penned such
a description of a battle, fought two days before, as will ever stand
out unrivalled in the annals of warfare.
And now in the heart of gay Paris, in this neglected little room, he
sat down before the glowing stove, while beneath his feet, like the
pulse of an ocean steamer, the mighty press throbbed continuously,
beating out its news, speaking great things and powerful words to all
mankind. But these sounds he heeded not. He was thinking of other
things. For half an hour he remained thus absorbed, and the result
of those thirty minutes of thought went with him through life. At
last he rose and looked at his watch.
'It will never do,' he said to himself, 'to funk it. I must put a
stop to this. If she makes it so plain to me, the inference is that
Mrs. Wylie and Brenda know something about it, or, at the least,
suspect. Whatever comes in the future, I want to save Brenda that.'
At seven o'clock that evening Theodore Trist presented himself at the
Hôtel Bristol, and inquired for the private salon occupied by Colonel
Martyn. A small boy led the way upstairs without a word, and after a
hurried tap, ushered the war-correspondent into a dimly-lighted
apartment. A single lamp burnt upon a small table in the centre of
the room, casting a faint pink glow all round. Mrs. Huston rose from
a low chair near the table, and laid aside a copy of the French
newspaper by which Trist's sole services were retained. She was
alone, and there was in her graceful movements a scarcely perceptible
self-consciousness, from which Trist conceived the passing notion
that, although no mention had been made of it in the note received by
him, he was not likely to see either Mrs. Martyn or her hen-pecked
husband that evening.
The young widow was of course dressed in black, which, moreover, was
relieved by no ornament; but although there was crape on the skirt,
that unbecoming material was sparingly worn. The dress was opened
slightly on the whitest throat imaginable, and the sleeves were loose
below the elbow. Trist acknowledged inwardly that this woman had
never looked so lovely as she did at that moment, with the glow of
the lamp on her white throat and hands, a faint conscious blush upon
her cheek, her golden hair gleaming softly.
He advanced to meet her with his impenetrable friendliness. Ah! it
is those grave faces which we can never read.
'I was afraid,' said Mrs. Huston, 'that you were not in Paris ... or
that even if you were you would not come.'
Trist took a chair which she had indicated with a wave of the hand.
'I have been hanging on,' he said, 'from day to day....'
Mrs. Huston looked at him with an expectant, half-inviting smile--a
smile which Brenda loathed.
'For no particular reason,' continued the journalist with deliberate
stolidity. 'I have fallen in with an interesting lot of men, and
there is nothing to call me away.'
The young widow's expression of countenance altered from one of
coquetry to well-simulated but nevertheless fictitious interest.
At this moment a waiter appeared with the information that madame was
served.
'Colonel and Mrs. Martyn have unfortunately been called away this
evening, so you will have to content yourself with me,' observed Mrs.
Huston innocently, as she led the way down to the luxurious
_salle-à-manger_.
'That,' answered Trist perfunctorily, 'will be no hardship.'
The tone in which he said this almost made it a question as to
whether it would not have been politer to have kept silent.
During dinner they talked easily and pleasantly, as behoved two
persons knowing the world and its ways. Occasionally they sparred in
a subtle underhand way which no listener could have detected, Mrs.
Huston attacking, Trist parrying as usual.
'There are,' said the lady when the waiter finally left them,
'cigarettes upstairs. The Colonel always smokes and has his coffee
there. Will you do the same?'
Trist bowed silently as he rose from his seat.
When they reached the salon she went to a side-table, and returned
presently with a box of cigarettes. This she opened and held out to
him with both hands. There was in her movements a marvellous
combination of girlish grace and womanly 'finish,' and her attitude
as she stood before him with her white arms outstretched, her head
thrown back, and her glowing eyes seeking his, was perfect in its
artistic conception.
'Please smoke,' she said in a low voice.
He did not respond at once, and, seeing his hesitation, she continued
rather hurriedly:
'Surely you need not stand on ceremony with _me_, Theo? We ... we
have been friends all our lives.'
He smiled in a slow, grave way as he took a cigarette.
'Yes,' he answered, 'we know each other pretty well.'
While he struck a match and lighted his cigarette she turned away and
took a low chair, swinging the rustling skirt of her dress aside with
inimitable grace. It happened that there was a seat close to it,
while no other was within convenient reach. Trist remained standing
before the fireplace, where some logs burned fragrantly.
'It is a pity,' she said, looking up at him in a curious,
half-embarrassed way, 'that we are not cousins. I almost ... wish we
were. The world would have nothing to say about our friendship then.'
Trist looked at the burnt end of his cigarette with careful criticism.
'Has the world anything to say ... about it now?'
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders, and arranged the brooch at her
breast before replying in a low tone.
'_I_ don't care if it has.'
'What does it say?' asked the journalist, with imperturbable cruelty.
By way of reply she raised her eyes to his. A faint cloud of
tobacco-smoke floated upwards, passed overhead, and left his strange
incongruous face exposed to the full light of the shaded lamp. The
beautiful eyes searched his features, and I maintain that few men
could have looked down at that lovely woman, could have met those
pleading eyes, could have ventured within the reach of that subtle
feminine influence, unmoved. If Trist was uneasy no outward sign
betrayed him; no quiver of the eyelids; no motion of the lips.
During some moments there was a tense silence, while these two looked
into each other's eyes, probed each other's souls. The veil which
hangs round that treasure we all possess--the treasure of an
unassailable, illegible, secret individuality--seemed to fall away.
Without words they understood each other. Indeed, no words could
have explained as that mutual searching glance had done.
Alice Huston knew then that she had met a man--the first in all
probability--who was totally impervious to the baleful influence of
the charms she had wielded so long, without defining or seeking to
define them. She only knew that a turn of her head, a glance of her
eyes, a touch of her hand, had been sufficient to work her will upon
men. Without theorizing upon sexual influence she had used it
unscrupulously, as most women do, and hitherto it had never failed.
She was aware that she could lead men who were beyond the reach of
the strongest purpose possessed by their own sex without any exercise
of her will at all. Her strength lay in physical, not in moral
influence. If her beauty failed she had nothing to support her.
And now she sat with interlocked and writhing fingers, gazing upwards
at this man, awaiting his will. Her agonized eyes quailed beneath
his gentle glance. It is a picture I recommend to the notice of such
plain and unwomanly females as love to talk of woman's rights and
woman's superior nature, which awaits but the opportunity of
asserting itself. Ah, my sisters!--you, the womanly women!--believe
me, your greatest earthly happiness lies in love as it is understood
now and has been understood since the Lion lay down with the Lamb in
that old Garden which we catch glimpses of still over a fence when
the love-light is in our eyes.
Trist broke the silence at last, and his voice was hollow, with a
singular 'far-off' sound, like the voice of a man speaking in great
pain, with an effort.
'If the world has made a mistake, Alice,' he said slowly and
impressively, 'I hope to God you have not!'
She made no answer. The power of speech seemed to have left her
beautiful lips, which were livid and dry. She rubbed her hands
together, palm to palm, in a horribly mechanical manner, which was
almost inhuman in its dumb despair. Before her eyes a veil--dull,
neutral-tinted, impenetrable--seemed to rise, and her vision failed.
The tendons of her lovely throat were tense, like wires, beneath the
milky skin.
At length her senses returned, her bosom rose and fell rhythmically,
and she looked round the room in a dazed, stupid way like one who has
fallen from a height.
She saw it all as in a dream. The conventional furniture of mahogany
and deep red velvet, the variegated tablecloth, the hideous gilt
clock upon the mantelpiece. Then she looked into the square, open
fireplace, where some logs of wood smouldered warmly. Upon one of
these, unaffected by the heat, lay the half-burnt cigarette which
Theo Trist had thrown away before speaking.
Seeing it, she looked round the room again with drawn and hopeless
eyes. Trist was not there. He had left her. There was a simple
straightforwardness of action about this man which at times verged
upon brutality.
Slowly Alice Huston rose from her chair. For some moments she stood
motionless, and then she went to the fireplace, where she remained
staring at her own reflection in the mirror, which was only partially
hidden by the glass-shade covering the hideous clock.
'And,' she muttered brokenly, as she turned away with clenched fists,
'I used to think that we were not punished upon earth. I wonder how
long ... how long ... I shall be able to stand this!'