CHAPTER I.

SUSPENSE

BY

HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

AUTHOR OF 'YOUNG MISTLEY,' 'THE PHANTOM FUTURE'

ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

LONDON

RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON

Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen

1890

[_All rights reserved_]

Some there are who laugh and sing

While compassed round by sorrow;

To this ev'ning's gloom they bring

The sunshine of to-morrow.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

CHAPTER

I. AT SEA

II. SISTERS

III. ALICE RETURNS

IV. TO THE FRONT

V. UNDER FIRE

VI. TRIST ACTS

VII. QUICKSANDS

VIII. MASKED

IX. IN CASE OF WAR

X. A PROBLEM

XI. MRS. WYLIE LEADS

XII. THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SEA

XIII. CROSS-PURPOSES

XIV. A SOCIAL CONSPIRACY

SUSPENSE

CHAPTER I.

AT SEA.

One fine day late in the autumn of eighteen hundred and seventy-six,

a steamer emerged from the haze that lay over the Atlantic and the

northern waters of the Bay of Biscay. Those who were working in the

fields behind the lighthouse of the Pointe de Raz saw her approach

the land, sight the lighthouse, and then steer outwards again on a

course due north through the channel dividing the Ile de Sein from

the rocky headland jutting out from this most western point of Europe

into the Atlantic.

Those on board the steamer, looking across the blue waters, saw the

faint outline of a high broken coast, and all round them a sea

divided into races and smooth deep pools large enough to anchor a

whole fleet had there been bottom within reach. Islands, islets, and

mere rocks; some jutting high up, some nestling low. A dangerous

coast, and a splendid fishing-ground.

There were further points of interest on the waters; namely, a whole

fleet of sardine-boats from Douarnenez and Audierne, scudding here

and there with their bright brown sails, sometimes glowing in the

sun, sometimes brooding darkly in the shadow. It was a beautiful

picture, because the colours were brilliant; the blue sea gradually

merged into bright green, and finished off in the distance with

yellow sand or deep-brown cliff. The hills towards Breste, to the

north, were faintly outlined in a shadowy haze of blue, while close

at hand the long Atlantic sweep came bounding in and broke into

dazzling white over the rocks.

On the deck of the steamer the passengers paused in their afternoon

promenade, and, leaning their arms on the high rail, contemplated the

bright scene with evident satisfaction. The small fishing-boats were

of a more British build than most of them had seen for some years.

The brown lug-sails were like the sails of an English fishing-boat,

and many of these swarthy-faced wanderers had recollections of

childhood which came surging into their minds at the sight of a blue

sea with a brown sail on it. The high rocky land might well be

England, with its neat yellow lighthouse and low-roofed cottages

nestling among the scanty foliage and careful cultivation. It was so

very different from Madras, so unlike Bombay, so infinitely superior

to Hong Kong. The breeze even was different from any that had

touched their faces for many a day, and some of them actually felt

cold--a sensation almost forgotten.

The captain of this splendid steamer was a gentleman as well as a

good sailor, and he endeavoured to make his passengers feel at home

while under his care. Therefore he now walked aft and stood beside

the chair of a beautiful woman who was always alone, always

indifferent, always repelling.

'This is a pretty sight, Mrs. Huston,' he said pleasantly, without

looking down at her, but standing beside her chair. He gazed across

the water towards the Pointe de Raz, with the good-natured patience

of a man who does not intend to be snubbed. Once, during his first

voyage as commander, a woman had disappeared from the deck one dark

night, and since then the shrewd 'passenger' captain had kept his eye

upon pretty women who neither flirted nor quarrelled at sea.

'Yes,' was the indifferent answer; and the sailor's keen gray eyes

detected the fact that the fair lashes were never raised.

'It brings the fact before one,' he continued, 'that we are getting

near home.'

'Yes,' with pathetic indifference. She did not even make the

pretence of looking up, and yet there was no visible interest in the

book that lay upon her lap.

The sailor moved a little, and leant his elbows upon the rail,

looking round his ship with a critical and all-seeing eye.

'I hope,' he said cheerily, 'that there is no one on board to whom

the sight of Eddystone will not give unmitigated pleasure. We shall

be there before any of us quite realize that the voyage is drawing to

an end.'

Then the beautiful woman made a little effort. The man's kindness of

heart was so obvious, his disinterested desire to cheer her voluntary

solitude was so gentlemanly in its feeling and so entirely free from

any suggestion of inquisitiveness, that she, as a lady, could no

longer treat him coldly. All through the voyage this same quiet

watchfulness over her comfort (which displayed itself in little

passing acts, and never in words) had been exercised by the man,

whose most difficult duties were not, perhaps, connected solely with

the perils of the sea. She raised her head and smiled somewhat

wanly, and there was in the action and in the expression of her eyes

a sudden singular resemblance to Brenda Gilholme. But it was a weak

copy. There was neither the invincible pluck nor the unusual

intellectuality to be discerned.

'I shall be glad,' she said, 'to see England again. Although the

voyage has been very pleasant and very ... peaceful. Thanks to you.'

'Not at all,' he answered with breezy cheerfulness; 'I have done

remarkably little to make things pleasant. It has been a quiet

voyage. We are, I think, a quiet lot this time. Invalids mostly--in

body, or mind!'

At these last words the lady looked up suddenly into the captain's

pleasant face. In her manner there was a faint suggestion of

coquetry--so faint as only to be a very pleasing suggestion. Women

who have been flirts in former years have this glance, and they never

quite lose it. Personally speaking, I like it. There comes from its

influence an innocent and very sociable sensation of familiarity with

old and young alike. Someday I shall write a learned disquisition on

the art and so-called vice of flirting. Look out for it, reader.

Mind and secure an early copy from your stationer. From its

thoughtful pages you cannot fail to glean some instructive matter.

And ye, oh flirts! buy it up and show it to your friends; for it will

be a defence of your maligned species. Flirts are the salt of social

existence. A girl who cannot flirt is ... is ... well ... is not the

girl for me.

The mariner looked down into the sad face, and smiled in a

comprehensive way which seemed in some inexplicable manner to bring

them closer together.

'Then,' said the lady, 'as I am in the enjoyment of rude health and

likely to last for some years yet, I may infer that you know all

about me.'

The captain looked grave.

'I know,' he answered, 'just little enough to be able to reply that I

know nothing when people do me the honour of inquiring; and just

sufficient to feel that your affairs are better left undiscussed by

us.'

She nodded her head, and sat looking at her own hands in a dull,

apathetic way. Woman-like, she acted in direct opposition to his

most obvious hint.

'I suppose,' she murmured, 'that gossips have been thrashing the

whole question out with their customary zest.'

'Ceylon is a hot-bed of gossips. Everyone is up in his neighbour's

affairs, and a fine voyage in a comfortable steamer is not calculated

to still busy tongues!'

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, and looked up at him with a

slight pout of her pretty lips.

'Who cares?' she asked with well-simulated levity. He, however, did

not choose to appear as if he were deceived, which simple feat was

well within his histrionic capabilities; for his life was one long

succession of petty diplomatic efforts.

'I think,' he said coolly, 'that you have done perfectly right in

keeping yourself quite apart from the rest of them.' He looked round

upon the other passengers, seated or lolling about the deck, with a

fatherly tolerance. 'And if I may suggest it, you cannot do better

than to continue doing so for the next day or two. Avoid more

particularly the older women. The jealousy of a young girl is

dangerous, but the repelled patronage of an older woman, bristling

with the consciousness of her own wearisome irreproachability, is

infinitely more to be feared!'

This remark from the lips of a man who undoubtedly knew more than is

usually known of the feminine side of humanity appeared to suggest

material for thought to the somewhat shallow brain of his hearer.

She dropped the lightly reckless style at once, and the thought that

this honest and simple-hearted sailor was in love with her slowly

died a natural death. There followed, moreover, upon its demise an

uncomfortable suggestion that, although he was probably honest, he

was not consequently simple-hearted--that he was, in fact, a match

for her, and, knowing it, was not at that moment disposed to measure

mental blades with her.

'I am glad,' she said humbly, 'that my sister will be at Plymouth to

meet me.'

'Did you,' inquired the sailor, 'write from Port Said to Miss

Gilholme?'

She raised her head with a questioning air, but did not look up.

'Miss Gilholme,' she repeated--'how do you know her name?'

'Oh,' laughed the captain, 'I am a sort of walking directory. There

is a constant procession of men and women passing before me. Many of

them turn aside and say a few words. Sometimes we find mutual

acquaintances, sometimes only mutual interests. Sometimes they pass

by again, and on occasion we become friends.'

'Then you have not met her?'

'No--I have not had that pleasure.'

'It _is_ a pleasure,' said the beautiful woman very earnestly. Had

she only known it, her face was infinitely lovelier in grave repose

than in most piquante _bouderie_.

'I can quite believe it,' replied the sailor, with a gallantry which

even Mrs. Huston could not take as anything more than conventional.

'She is my guardian angel!' murmured she pathetically.

Her companion smiled slightly, in a very unsympathetic way. His

opinion of 'guardian angels' was taken from a practical and

lamentably unpoetical point of view. Having played the part himself

on several occasions with more or less conspicuous success, he

inclined to a belief that the glory of guardian angelism is of a

negative description. There are certain people in the world who will

accept all and any service, and to whom the feeling of indebtedness

is without a hint of shame. In time they come to consider such

service as has previously and hitherto been rendered them in the

light of a precedent. Gradually the debt seems to glide from the

shoulders of the debtor to those of the creditor, and having once

rendered a service, the renderer has simply placed himself under an

obligation to continue doing so.

When Mrs. Huston, therefore, mentioned the fact that her sister was

her guardian angel, the pathos of the observation was somewhat lost

upon her hearer; who, moreover, was slightly prejudiced against

Brenda because such guardian angels as had crossed his path were of a

weak and gullible nature. He never made her acquaintance, but the

impression thus conceived--though totally erroneous--was never

dispelled by such small details of her story as came to his knowledge

in later years.

'I hear,' the captain went on to explain, in his cheery impersonal

way, 'scraps of family histories here and there, and then am rather

surprised to meet members of these families, or persons connected

with them.'

Mrs. Huston bravely quelled a desire to talk of her own affairs, and

smiled vaguely.

'I have no doubt,' she said with mechanical pleasantness, 'that we

have a great many mutual acquaintances--if we only knew how to hit

upon the vein.'

'Of course we have--the world, and especially the Indian world, is

very small.'

'I wonder who they are?' murmured Mrs. Huston, raising her eyes to

her companion's face.

'Mention a few of your friends,' he suggested, looking down into her

eyes somewhat keenly.

'No--you begin!'

He changed his position somewhat, and stood upright, free from the

rail, but his glance never left her face.

'Theodore Trist!'

Instantly she averted her eyes. For a moment she was quite off her

guard, and her fingers strayed in a nervous, aimless way among the

pages of her open book. To her pale cheeks the warm colour mounted

as if a glowing ruby reflection had suddenly been cast upon the

delicate skin.

She expressed no surprise by word or gesture, and there was a pause

of considerable duration before at length she spoke.

'Where is he now?' she asked in a low voice.

The captain stroked his grizzled moustache reflectively. He acted

his part well, despite her sudden and lamentable failure.

'Let me think ... He is in Constantinople to the best of my

knowledge. He is engaged in watching Eastern affairs. It seems that

Turkey and Russia cannot keep their hands off each other's throats

much longer. At present there is an armistice, but Trist has been

through the late war between Servia and Turkey.'

'Do you know him well?' she asked at length, after a second pause.

'Yes. He is a friend of mine.'

'A great friend?'

'I think I may say so.'

'He is also a friend of ours--of my sister and myself,' said Mrs.

Huston calmly.

She had quite recovered her equanimity by now, and the pink colour

had left her cheeks.

'I have known him,' said the captain conversationally, 'for many

years now. Soon after he made his name he went out to the East with

me, and we struck up a friendship. He is not a man who makes many

friends, I imagine.'

'No,' murmured Mrs. Huston, in a voice which implied that the subject

was not distasteful to her, but she preferred her companion to talk

while she listened.

'But,' continued the sailor, 'those who claim him as a friend have an

unusual privilege. He is what we vaguely call at sea a "good" man--a

man upon whom it is safe to place reliance in any emergency, under

all circumstances.'

'Yes,' said the lady softly.

'He has been doing wonderful work out in the East since the beginning

of the insurrection. We have a set of men out there such as no

nation in the world could produce except England--fellows who go

about with their lives literally in their hands, for they're

virtually unprotected--men who are soldiers, statesmen, critics,

writers and explorers all in one. They run a soldier's risk without

the recompense of a soldier's grave. A statesman's craft must be

theirs, while they are forced to keep two diplomatic requirements

ever before their eyes. England _must_ have news; the army

authorities (whose word is law) _must_ be conciliated. Travelling by

day and night alike, never resting for many consecutive hours, never

laying aside the responsibility that is on their shoulders, they are

expected to write amidst the din of battle, on a gun-carriage

perhaps, often in the saddle, and usually at night when the wearied

army is asleep; they are expected, moreover, to write well, so that

men sitting by their firesides in London, with books of reference at

hand, may criticise and seek in vain for slip or error. They are

expected to criticise the stratagem of the greatest military heads

around them without the knowledge possessed by the officers who

dictate their coming and their going, throwing them a piece of stale

news here and there as they would throw a bone to a dog. All this,

and more, is done by our war-correspondents; and amidst these

wonderful fellows Theodore Trist stands quite alone, immeasurably

superior to them all.'

The vehement sailor was interrupted by the sound of the first

dinner-bell, and a general stir on deck. At sea, meal-times are

hailed with a more visible joy than is considered decorous on land,

and no time is lost in answering the glad summons.

Mrs. Huston rose languidly from her seat and moved forward towards

the spacious saloon staircase.

'Yes,' she answered thoughtfully; 'Theo must be very clever. It is

difficult to realize that one's friends are celebrated, is it not?'

The captain walked by her side, suiting his crisp, firm step to her

languid gait, which was, nevertheless, very graceful in its rhythmic

ease. Her voice was clear, gentle, and somewhat indifferent. On her

face there was no other expression than the customary suggestion of

pathetic apathy.

'I suppose,' she continued in a conventional manner, 'that he will

not be home for some time.'

'No. There will be a big war before this question is settled, and

Trist will be in the thick of it.'

With a slight inclination of the head she passed away from him and

disappeared down the saloon stairs. The captain turned away and

mounted the little brass ladder leading to the bridge with

sailor-like deliberation.

'And, young woman,' he muttered to himself, 'you had better go down

to your cabin and thank your God on your bended knees that Theodore

Trist is not in England, nor likely to cross your path for many

months to come.'

He looked round him with his habitual cheery keenness, and said a few

words to the second officer who was on duty. Could he have seen

Theodore Trist standing at that moment on the deck of a quick

despatch-boat, racing through the Bosphorus and bound for England, he

would not, perhaps, have laughed so heartily at a very mild joke made

by his subordinate a few moments later.

'And yet,' he reflected as he made his way below in answer to the

second dinner-bell--'and yet she does not seem to me to be the sort

of woman for Trist--not good enough! Perhaps the gossips are wrong

after all, and he does not care for her!'