DIPLOMACY.
It happened that there were some warm balmy days towards the end of
March, and on one of these Theodore Trist arrived at Wyvenwich. Mrs.
Wylie and Brenda were on the little platform to meet him, and the
elder lady, in her practical way, noted the lightness of his baggage
and drew her own conclusions.
They walked to Wyl's Hall through the High Street of the little town,
down towards the sea, up a steep path on the cliff, and finally
across the moor. All green things were budding, tender shoots and
bold weeds alike. Overhead the larks were singing in gladsome
chorus. Side by side the three friends walked, and talked of ... the
weather. I mention it because none of the three took much interest
in the matter, as a rule, nor ever talked of it.
'Spring is upon us again,' Mrs. Wylie had said during the first pause.
'Yes,' answered Trist; 'this weather always makes me restless.'
'More so than usual?' inquired Brenda innocently.
Trist looked at her sideways.
'Yes,' he murmured, 'more so than usual. I suppose a new fund of
energy creeps into my somnolent being.'
'Do you really believe,' inquired Mrs. Wylie, with exceeding great
interest, 'that the weather has so much effect upon one as that?'
'I am sure of it. There is no denying the fact that in the
springtime, when all things are beginning to grow, men grow
energetic. If they be working, they work harder; fighting, fight
harder; playing, play harder. The majority of events happen in the
first six months of the year.'
'So the unexpected may be expected before July,' suggested Mrs. Wylie
quietly.
'That may be expected at all times.'
Thus they talked on in vague commonplaces, not entirely devoid of a
second meaning perhaps. Brenda scarcely joined in the conversation.
It was enough for her to listen to these two strangely assorted
friends, who seemed to her analytical mind to be rather different in
each other's company than they were before the rest of the world.
She never quite lost her youthful habit of studying human
minds--picking them to pieces, dissecting them, assigning motives,
seeking reasons--and her belief in the influence of one will over
another (even at a distance) was singularly strong. She was pleased
to consider that Theodore Trist and Mrs. Wylie possessed some hidden
sympathies in common beyond the mere ties of friendship; and it is
probable that she gained some instruction and perhaps a little
benefit in watching their intercourse. Certain it is that each in
turn spoke to the other as he or she spoke to no one else. Each
possessed a power of bringing out certain qualities in the other,
which power was unique. And so Brenda, who was at no time a
talkative woman, listened in silence as they walked home to Wyl's
Hall across the deserted moor.
When they had reached the house the girl went upstairs to remove her
hat and jacket, leaving her two companions together in the library.
This was a good-sized room, with a broad old-fashioned bow-window, of
which even the panes of glass were curved, while all round it there
was a low window-seat softly cushioned. In the broad fireplace some
logs of driftwood burnt slowly and silently, with a steady glow of
heat, as only driftwood burns.
Trist went straight to the window and stood in the centre of it, with
his strong lean hands hanging idly. His eyes were soft and meek and
dreamy as ever, while his limbs seemed full of strength and energy.
The old incongruity was still apparent.
Mrs. Wylie followed him, and seated herself by the window at the end
of the bow, so that the man's profile was visible to her. Thus they
remained for some seconds; then he turned with grave deliberation and
met her steady gaze.
'Well...?' she inquired.
'Well...?' he reiterated.
'How long are you going to stay?'
'Till Monday.'
'This being Friday...'
He signified assent and turned away again.
'Why have you come?' asked Mrs. Wylie abruptly, after a short pause.
This time he avoided meeting her eyes by the simple expedient of
staring out of the window.
'I do not know...' he replied, with some hesitation.
'Yes ... you do!'
He wheeled round upon his heels and looked down at her with an
aggravatingly gentle smile.
'Yes, Theo, you do! Why have you come?'
'May I not be allowed,' he asked lightly, 'a certain desire to see
you and ... Brenda?'
'You may,' she replied; 'but that is not the reason of your coming.'
She settled herself more comfortably on the window-seat, laid aside
her muff, loosened her jacket, and composed herself to a long wait
with a cheery determination eminently characteristic.
'In the spring ...' he began, in a patient voice which seemed to
contain the promise of a long story.
'The young man's fancy...' continued Mrs. Wylie.
'Lightly turns,' he said gravely, taking up the thread, 'to thoughts
of ... war.'
At the last word he lowered his voice suddenly, and turned upon her
as if to see its effect. She merely raised her eyebrows and looked
at him speculatively. At last she gave a little nod of the head,
signifying comprehension.
'Then you have come to say--good-bye?'
Here her voice failed a little. With care she could have prevented
such an occurrence; but perhaps she spoke a trifle
recklessly--perhaps she did not care to conceal the feeling which was
betrayed by that passing break in her mellow sympathetic tones. When
it was too late, she closed her lips with a small snap of
determination, and looked up at him smiling defiantly.
'Not necessarily,' he replied coolly. 'It may mean that; or, at
least, it may mean that I am summoned away at such short notice that
there will be no opportunity of coming again. Personally, I should
prefer it to be so. The pastime of saying good-bye may possess a
certain sentimental value, but it is a weakness which is best
avoided.'
Mrs. Wylie continued to watch the young man's face with speculative
criticism. It is just possible that she suspected him of talking
nonsense, as it were, against time or against himself.
'Is your information of a general description, or have you certain
advice that war is imminent?'
Trist smiled almost apologetically as he replied, with caution:
'I have reason to believe that there will be a big war before the
summer.'
'Turkey and Russia, of course?'
'Yes.'
'And you go with Turkey, I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'The losing side again?' inquired Mrs. Wylie diplomatically.
'Probably; but not without a good fight for it. It will not be such
an easy matter as the Russians imagine.'
'Where will you be?' asked the persistent lady. 'At Constantinople
or...'
'At the front!' said Trist.
The widow turned aside and looked out of the window. Across the
moor, on the edge of the cliff, a coastguardsman was pacing backwards
and forwards with a measured tread acquired at sea, and from the
window they watched him in a mechanical, semi-interested way.
'Do you know,' said Mrs. Wylie at length, in a half-shamefaced way,
'I believe I am beginning to lose my nerve. Is it a foretaste of
approaching old age? I really believe I am going to be anxious about
you.'
Her semi-bantering tone justified Trist's easy laugh. He took it for
granted that Mrs. Wylie was not speaking seriously.
'You must not allow yourself,' he expostulated, 'to get into bad
habits of that sort.'
'Still,' argued the widow in the same tone, 'I do not see why you
should be free from the restraining and salutary feeling that there
is someone waiting for you at home.'
It was hard to tell whether Mrs. Wylie meant more than the mere words
conveyed or no. Trist seemed to hesitate before replying.
'I am never free from that--but it is not necessary; my foolhardy
days are over.'
'And this is to be the last time?' said Mrs. Wylie, consoling herself.
'Yes. The last time!'
There was a strange, hard ring in the young wanderer's tone as he
echoed the foreboding words and turned gravely away. The sound
seemed to strike some sympathetic chord in the good lady's heart, for
she, too, looked almost mournful.
'I would give a good deal to have you safe back again,' murmured Mrs.
Wylie in an undertone. The remark was hardly addressed to him, and
he allowed it to pass unnoticed. Presently, however, he turned and
looked into her face with some anxiety depicted on his calm features.
Then he took a step or two nearer to her.
'This will never do,' he said gravely, standing in front of her with
his strong hands clenched.
She gave rather a lame little laugh, and looked up with a deprecating
glance.
'Theo, I am afraid I am not so plucky as I used to be. My nerve is
gone. I think I left it ... at Fjaerholm.'
He made no reply, but merely stood by her in his silent manliness,
and from his presence she somehow gathered comfort, as women do--from
your presence and mine sometimes. Although we be of coarser fibre,
failing to grasp the hidden pathos of everyday life--the little
trials, the petty sorrows; failing often to divine the motives that
grow out of a finer, truer, nobler nature than ours, and always
failing to appreciate the unselfishness of woman's love--despite all
these, our presence is at times a comfort because of the greater
strength that does or should lie within us.
No reference had hitherto been made between Mrs. Wylie and Trist to
the events attending the last voyage of the _Hermione_. A year had
not yet elapsed, and the Admiral's name was still avoided. Trist was
of a singularly sympathetic nature, although he evinced some contempt
for death itself, which was a mere matter of familiarity; and it was
his creed that things and names which cause a pang of sorrow are best
left in oblivion. Mrs. Wylie was outwardly little changed, but he
knew that the wound was by no means healed, and he had, therefore,
allowed all recollection of the _Hermione's_ sorrowful voyage to die
from his memory. No doubt the great healer Time would do for Mrs.
Wylie what he has done for us all since the days of Adam--but it was
too soon yet. In the annals of sorrow a year is no long period. It
has often struck me that we have to lament over one singular trait in
the mechanism of the human mind. It is a pity that the effect of joy
is so short-lived, while sorrow holds its own so long. There are so
many varieties of sorrow that by the time we have tasted most of them
and have become accustomed to the flavour, life itself is at an end,
and lo! we have had no time to enjoy its pleasures by reason of the
years spent in wrestling with woe.
Theo Trist held his peace sympathetically and yet without
encouragement. Mrs. Wylie no doubt understood his motive, for they
possessed in common that desire of concealing the seamy side which
Brenda had characterized as cowardly. In her strong young courage
(self-assertive as all young virtues are) she seemed to take a pride
in facing untoward things--indeed, she sought them; while these two,
in their greater experience, slurred them over as a clever painter
slurs over certain accessories in his picture, in order that the
brighter objects may stand more firmly on the face of the canvas.
'Nevertheless,' he said more cheerily, returning to the original
question, 'you are the pluckiest woman I have ever met! You must not
give way to this habit of anxiety, for it is nothing but a habit--a
sort of moral cowardice. It serves no purpose. An over-anxious man
misses his opportunities by moving too soon; an over-anxious woman
has no peace in life, because she can do nothing but watch.'
Mrs. Wylie laughed pleasantly.
'No!' she exclaimed, with determination. 'It is all right, Theo; I
will not give way to it. My anxiety is only anticipatory; when the
moment comes I am generally up to the mark.'
With a brave smile she nodded to him and moved towards the door,
carrying her gloves and muff. He followed in order to open the door,
for he had some strange, old-fashioned notions of politeness which
promise to become fossilized before the end of the century.
'Will it be a long war?' she asked, before passing out of the room.
He answered without deliberation, as if he had already pondered over
the question at leisure with a decisive result.
'I think so. It will go on all through the summer and autumn. As
things get worse, Turkey will probably pull herself together. It is
a way she has. It may even continue actively right on into the
winter. The Turks will be on the defensive, which suits them
exactly. Put a Turk into a trench with a packet of cigarettes, a
little food, a rifle, and a sackful of cartridges, and it will take a
considerable number of Russians to get him out.'
'I hope it will not extend into the winter,' said Mrs. Wylie, as she
left the room.
'So do I.'
He closed the door and walked slowly back towards the bow-window.
There he stood staring out with eyes that saw but understood not, for
many minutes.
'I am not _quite_ sure,' he muttered at last, 'that I have done a
wise thing in coming to Wyl's Hall!'