TO THE FRONT.
A week later Brenda was sitting in the same apartment again. But
this time she was alone. From pure kindness of heart Mrs. Wylie had
managed to allow the girl an afternoon's leisure, and Brenda was
spending this very happily amidst her books and magazines. She was,
in her way, a literary person, this brilliant young scholar; but,
belonging to a universal age, universality was also hers. With the
literary she could show herself well-read; with the purely
pleasure-seeking she could also find sympathy. In these times of
mixed circles, men and women must needs be able to talk upon many
subjects, whether they know aught about them or nothing.
Brenda Gilholme was not, however, a brilliant talker. She could have
written well had she been moved thereto by that restless spirit which
makes some people look upon existence as a blank without pens and
paper. But as yet she was content to read, and her young mind
thirsted for the grasp of other folks' thoughts as a fisherman's
fingers itch for the rod.
During the last week Alice Huston's presence in Mrs. Wylie's
household had not been an unmixed success. There was a slight and
almost imperceptible impatience in the widow's manner, in the
inflection of her pleasant voice, in her very glance when her eyes
rested upon her guest's gracious form. Gradually the story had come
out, and some details were related with unguarded carelessness,
resulting in the conclusion, as far as Mrs. Wylie and Brenda were
concerned, that Captain Huston might also have a story to tell,
differing in tone and purport from that related by his wronged
spouse. Her case against her husband was not very clear, and in her
relation of it there was in some vague way a sense of suppression and
easy adaptation both pointing to the same end. If Brenda felt this
and drew her own conclusions from it, she allowed no sign of such
conclusions to appear, but accepted the situation without comment.
The natural result of this unfeminine behaviour was a wane of
confidence between the sisters. It is easy enough, even for the most
reticent person, to make known to some chosen familiar certain
details hitherto suppressed when once the subject is broached; but to
continue confiding in a bosom friend who accepts all statements
without surprise, horror or sympathy is a different matter.
Brenda's manner of listening was neither forbidding nor indifferent.
It was merely unenthusiastic, and its chief characteristic was a
certain measured attention, as if the details were imprinting
themselves indelibly upon a prepared mental surface, where they might
well remain intact and legible for many years. Mrs. Wylie, glancing
at the two sisters over her book, or her palm-leaf screen, conceived
a strange thought. She imagined that she detected in Brenda's manner
and demeanour a certain subtle resemblance to the manner and
demeanour of one who was far away, and whose influence upon the
girl's life could not well have been very great, namely, Theodore
Trist.
When the war-correspondent was not on active service, he lived in
London, and, as was only natural to one of his calling, moved in such
intervals in a circle of men and women influential in the political
world. He was a reticent speaker, but an excellent listener, and
Mrs. Wylie, as the wife of an active naval politician, had many
opportunities of watching in her placid way this strange young man
among his fellows. Theodore Trist's chief fault was, in her eyes, a
lack of enthusiasm. He waited too patiently on the course of events,
and moved too guardedly when he moved at all. It was a very womanly
view of a man's conduct, and one held, I think, by nineteen out of
twenty mothers who have brought brilliant sons into the world.
These characteristics the widow now began to see developing subtly in
the soul of Brenda Gilholme, and a keen study of the girl during this
trying time only confirmed her suspicions. She began to feel
nervously sure that the companionship of Mrs. Huston was bad for her,
and with this knowledge to urge her she calmly forced her way in
between the two sisters.
If Brenda lacked enthusiasm (which failure is characteristic of this
calculating and practical generation), she atoned for the want by a
wondrous steadfastness. By word, and deed, and silence, she
demonstrated continuously her intention to stand by her sister and do
for her all that lay in her power. In this spirit of dumb devotion
Mrs. Wylie was pleased to see a suggestion of Theo Trist's soldierly
obedience to the call of duty in which there was no question of
personal inclination. She may have been right. Women see deeper
into these subtle human influences than men. There are many small
powers at work in every-day life, guiding our social barque,
withholding us or urging us on, dictating, commanding, approving, or
disapproving; and the motive of these is woman's will. The eye that
guides is a woman's heart; the brake that checks is a woman's
instinct. Mrs. Wylie was probably, therefore, quite right in her
supposition; for it is such men as Theo Trist who leave the impress
of their individuality upon those who come in contact with them--men
who speak little and listen well, who think deeply and never speak of
their thoughts. It is not your talkative man with a theory for every
emergency, with a most wonderful and universal knowledge, who rules
the world. The influence of these is comparatively small. Their
experience is too vast to be personal, and thus loses weight. Their
theories are too indefinite, too sweeping, and too general for
practical application to human affairs, which are things not to be
generally treated at all. We are a sheepish generation. Our
thoughts are held in common; we theorize in crowds and hold
principles in a multitude, but God's grand individuality is not dead
yet. It lives somewhere in our hearts, and at strange odd moments we
still act unaccountably, according to the dictates of that enfeebled
organ.
There is a subtle difference between the male and female intellects
respecting anxiety. Most women can conceal it better than their
brothers and husbands when the necessity for concealment arises, but
they suffer no less on that account. In fact, the weight of it is
greater and more wearing, because in solitude they brood over it more
than men. They have not the same power of laying it aside and taking
up a book or occupation with the deliberate intention of courting
absorption, as possessed by us.
Brenda was apparently immersed in the pages of an intellectual
monthly review, but at times her sweet innocent eyes wandered from
the lines and rested meditatively on the glowing fire. The girl was
restless. She moved each time she turned a page, glancing sometimes
at the small clock on the mantelpiece, sometimes towards the window,
whence an ever-waning light fell gloomily upon her.
There was in her soul a vague sense of discomfort, which was as near
an approach to imaginative anxiety as her strong nature could
compass; and to this she was gradually giving way. Her interest in
the magazine upon her lap had never been else than perfunctory, and
now she could not take in the meaning of the carefully rounded and
somewhat affected phrases.
Alice Huston had been a week in Mrs. Wylie's chambers, and there was
no positive reason now to suppose that her husband was not in London.
But the beautiful woman possessed little sense of responsibility, and
none of consideration for others. She simply refused to leave town
until the following Monday, because, she argued, the sound of wheels,
the gay whirl of life, was so intensely refreshing to her. Mrs.
Wylie would scarcely interfere, because she was not quite certain
that Captain Huston was unfit to take care of his wife. She could
not decide whether it was better to keep them apart or to allow Alice
to run into the danger of being followed and claimed by her husband.
The widow had very successfully followed a placid principle of
non-interference all through her life, and now she applied it to the
calamitous affairs of Captain and Mrs. Huston. She recognised very
clearly that the man had made as evil a bargain as the woman. In
both there was good material, capable of being wrought into good
results by advantageous circumstances. The circumstance of their
coming together and contracting a life-long alliance was
disadvantageous to the last degree, _voilà tout_. It was a matter
for themselves to settle. There are some people who, in a crisis,
form themselves into a reserve--not necessarily out of range, but
beyond the din and confusion of the melée: of these was Mrs. Wylie.
If necessity demanded it, she was capable of leading an assault or
withstanding an attack, but as a clear-headed, watchful commander of
reserves she was incomparable.
Brenda knew this. She had an analytical way of studying such persons
as influenced her daily life, and in most cases she arrived at a very
accurate result. That Mrs. Wylie was watching events, but would not
influence them, she was well aware, and, moreover, she now felt that
someone was needed who would calmly step to the front and act with a
bold acceptance of responsibility. That she herself was the person
to take this position seemed undeniable. There could be no one else.
No other could be expected to assume the task.
But there was another, and Brenda would not confess, even
indefinitely in her own thoughts, that she knew it.
At length she laid her book down, and sat gazing softly into the
fire. When the bell rang at the end of the long passage beside the
kitchen-door, she never moved. When the maid opened the drawing-room
door, with the mumbled announcement of a name to whose possessor no
door of Mrs. Wylie's was ever shut, Brenda failed to hear the name,
and half turned her head without much welcome in her eyes.
She was preparing to rise politely from her seat when a dark form
passed between the window and herself. There, upon the hearthrug,
within touch of her black skirt, stood Theo Trist! Theo--quiet,
unemotional, strong as ever; Theo--with a brown face, and his bland,
high forehead divided into two portions of white and of mahogany,
where the fez had rested, keeping off the burning sun, but casting no
shadow; Theo--to the fore, as usual, in his calm, reliable
individuality, just at the moment when he was required.
Brenda gave a little gasp, and the eyes that met his were, for a
second, contracted with some quick emotion, which he thought was fear.
'Theo!' she exclaimed, '_Theo!_' Then she stopped short, checking
herself suddenly, and as she rose he saw the frightened look in her
eyes again.
They shook hands, and for a brief moment neither seemed able to frame
a syllable. Brenda's lips were dry, and her throat was parched--all
in a second.
He looked round the room as if seeking someone, or the indication of
a presence, such as a work-basket, a well-known book, or some similar
token. Brenda concluded that he was wondering where Mrs. Wylie might
be, and suddenly she found power to speak in a steady, even voice.
'Mrs. Wylie is out!' she said. 'I expect her in by tea-time.'
He nodded his head--indicated the chair which she had just left--and,
when she was seated, knelt down on the hearthrug, holding his two
hands to the fire.
'Where is Alice?' he asked, in a peculiar monotone.
'She is out with Mrs. Wylie---- Then ... you know?'
'Yes, Brenda, I know!' he answered gravely.
The girl sat forward in her low chair, with her two arms resting upon
her knees, her slim, white hands interlocked. For a time she was off
her guard, forgetting the outward composure taught in the school of
which she was so apt a pupil. She actually allowed herself to
breathe hurriedly, to lean forward, and drink in with her eager eyes
the man's every feature and every movement. He was not looking
towards her, but of her fixed gaze he was well aware. The sound of
her quick respiration was close to his ear; her soft, warm breath
reached his cheek. With all his iron composure, despite his cruel
hold over himself, he wavered for a moment, and the hands held out to
the glow of the fire shook perceptibly. But his meek eyes never lost
their settled expression of speculative contemplation. Whatever
other men might do, whatever women might suffer, Theodore Trist was
sufficient for himself. The flame leapt up, and fell again with a
little bubbling sound, glowing ruddily upon the two faces. He
remained quite motionless, quite cold. It was the face of the great
Napoleon again--inscrutable, deep beyond the depth of human
soundings, cruel and yet sweet--but the high forehead seemed to
suggest an infinite possibility of something else; some lack of
energy, or some great negation, which cancelled at one blow the
resemblance that lay in lip and chin and profile.
Presently Brenda leant back in the chair. There was a screen on the
table near her--Mrs. Wylie's palm-leaf--and she extended her hand to
take it, holding it subsequently between her face and the fire, so
that if Trist had turned his head he could not have seen anything but
her slim, graceful form, her white hand and wrist, and the screen
glowing rosily. He did not turn, however, when he spoke.
'I will tell you,' he said, 'how I came to know.'
Before continuing, he rubbed his hands slowly together. Then he rose
from his knees and remained standing near the fire close to her, but
without looking in her direction. He seemed to be choosing his words.
'I came home,' he said at length, 'from Gibraltar in an Indian
steamer, a small boat with half a dozen passengers. There was no
doctor on board. One evening I was asked to go forward and look at a
second-class passenger who was suffering from ... from delirium
tremens.'
He stopped in an apologetic way, as if begging her indulgence for the
use of those two words in her presence.
'Yes...' she murmured encouragingly.
'It was Huston.'
As he spoke he turned slightly, and glanced down at her. She had
entirely regained her gentle composure now, and the colour had
returned to her face. Her attention was given to his words with a
certain suppressed anxiety, but no surprise whatever.
'Did,' she asked at length--'did he recognise you?'
'No.'
'And he never knew, and does not know now, that you were on board?'
It would seem that he divined her thoughts, detecting the hidden
importance of her question.
'No,' he answered meaningly, as he turned and looked down at
her--'no; but he has not forgotten my existence.'
She raised her eyes quickly, but their glance stopped short suddenly
at the elevation of his lips. It was only by an effort that she
avoided meeting his gaze.
'I do not know,' she said with a short laugh, in an explanatory way,
'much about ... about it. Is it like ordinary delirium, where people
talk in a broken manner without realizing what they are saying?'
'Yes; it is rather like that.'
She examined the texture of the screen with some attention.
'Do you mind telling me, Theo,' she asked at length evenly, 'whether
he mentioned your name?'
Trist reflected for a moment. He moved restlessly from one foot to
the other, then spoke in a voice which betrayed no emotion beyond
regret and a hesitating sympathy.
'He said that Alice had run away to join her old lover--meaning me.'
'Are you sure he meant ... you?'
'He mentioned my name; there could be no doubt about it.'
Brenda rose suddenly from her seat and crossed the room towards the
window. There she stood with her back towards him, a graceful, dark
silhouette against the dying light, looking into the street.
He moved slightly, but did not attempt to follow her.
'It is rather strange,' she said at length, 'that the first name she
mentioned on landing at Plymouth should be yours.'
A look of blank surprise flashed across his face, and then he
reflected gravely for some moments.
'I am sorry to hear it,' he said slowly, 'because it would seem that
my name has been bandied between them, and if that is the case my
hands are tied. I cannot help Alice as I should have liked to do.'
'I told Alice some time ago that it would be much better for us to
manage this ... this miserable affair without your help.'
'You are equal to it,' he said deliberately.
She laughed with a faint gleam of her habitual brightness.
'Thank you. That is a very pretty sentiment, but it is hardly the
question.'
'My help,' he continued, 'need not be obvious to every casual
observer. But I am not going to leave you to fight this out alone,
Brenda. I was forced to leave you once, and I am not going to do it
again. What does Mrs. Wylie say to it all?'
'Nothing as yet. She is waiting on events.'
'Ah, then, she is in reserve as usual. When the time comes, we may
rely upon her help. But until then...'
'Theo,' interrupted Brenda in an agonized voice, 'the time _has_
come!'
She started back from the window, her face as white as her snowy
throat, her eyes contracted with horror.
'He is there!' she whispered hoarsely, pointing towards the
window--'in the street. Coming into the house!'
Her little hands clutched his sleeve with a womanly abandonment of
restraint, and he stood quite still in his self-reliant manhood.
Then he found with surprise that his right arm was round her
shoulders protecting her.
'Come,' he said with singular calmness--'come into another room.
I--see him here.'
As he spoke he gently urged her towards the door, but she resisted,
and for a moment there was an actual physical struggle.
'No,' she said, 'I will see him. It is better. Alice may come in at
any moment, and before then I must know how matters stand between
them.'
Trist hesitated, and at that moment the bell rang. They stood side
by side looking at the closed door, listening painfully.
'Perhaps,' whispered Trist, 'the maid will say that Mrs. Wylie is
out.'
They could hear the light footstep of the servant, then the click of
the latch.
A murmur of words followed, ending in the raised tone of a male voice
and a short sharp exclamation of fear from the maid.
Instinctively Trist sprang towards the door.
There was a sound of heavy footsteps in the passage. Trist's fingers
were on the handle. He glanced towards Brenda appealingly.
'Leave it!' she exclaimed. 'Let him come in.'
Before the words were out of her lips the door was thrown open,
concealing Theodore Trist.