UNDER FIRE.
A tall, well-built man entered the room hurriedly and stopped short,
facing Brenda, who met his gaze with gentle self-possession.
'Ah!' he muttered in a thick voice, and his unsteady hand went to his
long fair moustache.
It was a terribly unhealthy face upon which Brenda's eyes rested
inquiringly. The skin was cracked in places, and the cheeks were
almost blue. The eyelids were red and the eyes bloodshot, while
there was a general suggestion of puffiness and discomfort in the
swollen features. The man was distinctly repulsive, and yet, with a
small amount of tolerance, he was a figure to demand pity. Despite
his dissipated air, there was that indefinite sense of refinement
which belongs to birth and breeding, and which never leaves a man who
has once moved among gentlemen. There was even a faint suggestion of
military vanity in his dress and carriage, though his figure was by
no means so smart as it must have been in bygone days.
The room was rather dark, and he glanced round, failing to see Theo
Trist, who was leaning against the wall behind him.
'Ah!' he repeated; 'Brenda. I suppose you are in it, too!'
She made no reply, but stood before him in all her maidenly sweetness
and strength, looking into his face through the twilight with clear
and steady eyes which he hesitated to meet. Into his weak soul a
flood of bitter memories rushed tumultuously--memories of a time when
he could meet those eyes without that sudden feeling of self-hatred
which was gnawing at his heart now. His tone was not harsh nor
violent, but there was an undernote of determination which was not
pleasant to the ear.
'Tell me,' he continued thickly, 'where my wife is to be found.'
Trist noticed that she never took her eyes off Huston's face, never
glanced past the sleek, closely-cropped head towards himself. In
some subtle way her wish was conveyed to him--the wish that he should
remain there and continue, if possible, to be unnoticed by Huston.
This he did, leaning squarely against the wall, his meek eyes riveted
on the girl's face with a calm, expectant attention. From his
presence Brenda gathered that strength and self-reliance which, I
think, God intends women to gather from the companionship of men.
'No, Alfred,' she answered, using his Christian name with a gentle
diplomacy which made him waver for a moment and sway backwards upon
his rigid legs; 'I must not tell you that yet.'
'What right have you to withhold it?'
'She is my sister. I must do the best I can for her.'
He laughed in an unpleasant way.
'By throwing her into the path of the man she has always----'
'Stop!' commanded Brenda.
'Why? Why should I stop? I suppose Trist is in England. That is
why she came home, no doubt.'
'She has never spoken to Theodore Trist since she married you.
Besides, that is not the question. Tell me why you want to find
Alice. What do you propose to do?'
'That is _my_ affair!' he muttered roughly. 'You have no business to
stand between man and wife. If you persist in doing so, it must be
at your own risk, and I tell you plainly that you run a chance of
being roughly handled.'
As he spoke he advanced a pace menacingly. Still she never betrayed
Trist's presence by the merest glance in his direction. He, however,
moved slightly, without making any sound.
Huston looked slowly round the room with bloodshot, horrible eyes.
'Tell me!' he hissed, thrusting forward his face so that she drew
back--not from fear, but to avoid a faint aroma of stale cigar-smoke.
'No!' she answered.
'Deny that Trist loved Alice--if you dare!' he continued, in the same
whistling voice.
Still she never called for Trist's assistance. She was very pale,
and the last words seemed to strike her in the face as a blow.
'I deny nothing!'
'Tell me,' he shouted hoarsely, 'where Alice is!'
'No!'
'Then take _that_, you...'
He struck her with his clenched fist on the shoulder--but she had
seen his intention, and by stepping back avoided the full force of
the blow. She staggered a pace or two and recovered herself.
Without a sound Trist sprang forward, and the same instant saw Huston
fall to the ground. He rolled over and over, a shapeless mass with
limbs distended. As he rolled, Trist kicked him as he never would
have kicked a dog.
'Oh ... h ... h ...!' shrieked the soldier. 'Who is that?'
'It is Trist ... you _brute_!'
But Huston lay motionless, with limp hands and open mouth. He was
insensible.
Leaving him, Trist turned to Brenda, who was already holding him back
with a physical force which even at that moment caused him a vague
surprise.
'Theo! Theo!' she cried, 'what are you doing?'
He looked into her face sharply, almost fiercely--and she caught her
breath convulsively at the sight of his eyes. They literally flashed
with a dull blue gleam, which was all the more ghastly in so calm a
face; for though he was ashen-gray in colour, his features were
unaltered by any sign of passion. Even in his wild rage this man was
incongruous.
'Has he hurt you?' he asked in a dull, hollow voice; and, while he
spoke, his fingers skilfully touched her shoulder in a quick,
searching way never learnt in drawing-rooms.
'No--no!' she cried impatiently. 'But you have killed _him_!'
She broke away from him and knelt on the floor, bending over the
prostrate form of the soldier. Her bosom heaved from time to time
with a bravely suppressed sob.
'Don't touch him,' said Trist, in an unconsciously commanding tone.
'He is all right.'
Obediently, she rose and stepped away, while he lifted the limp form,
and placed it in a chair.
Slowly Captain Huston opened his eyes. He heaved a deep sigh, and
sat gazing into the fire with a hopeless and miserable apathy.
Behind him the two stood motionless, watching. Presently he began to
mutter incoherently, and Brenda turned away, sickened, from the
woeful sight.
'I wonder,' she whispered, 'if this sort of thing is to go on.'
Trist's mobile lips were twisted a little as if he were in bodily
pain, while he glanced at her furtively. There was nothing for him
to say--no hope to hold out.
They moved away to the window together without speaking, both
occupied with thoughts which could not well have been pleasant.
Trist's features wore a grave, concentrated expression, totally
unlike the philosophical and contemplative demeanour which he usually
carried in the face of the world. There was food enough for mental
stones to grind, and he was not a man to take the most sanguine view
of affairs. His philosophy was of that rare school which is not
solely confined to making the best of other folks' troubles. His own
checks and difficulties were those treated philosophically; while the
griefs of others--more especially, perhaps, of Alice and
Brenda--caused him an exaggerated anxiety. It has been the
experience of the present writer that women are infinitely better
fitted to stand adversity than men. There is a certain brave little
smile which our less mobile lips can never frame. But Theodore Trist
had lived chiefly among men, and his human speciality was the
fighting animal. He knew a soldier as few of his contemporaries knew
him; but of sweet woman-militant he was somewhat ignorant.
Perhaps he took this trouble too seriously. Of that I cannot give an
opinion, for we all have an individual way of getting over our
fences, and we never learn another. Personally, I must confess to a
penchant for those men who go steadily, with a cool, clear head, and
a firm hand, realizing full well the risk they are about to run--men
who do not put a _blind_ faith in luck, nor look invariably for
Fortune's smiles.
In Trist's place many would have uttered some trite consolatory or
wildly hopeful remark, which would in no wise have deceived a young
person of Brenda's austere discrimination. In this, however, he fell
lamentably short of his duty. After a thoughtful pause he merely
whispered:
'Here we are again, Brenda--in a tight place. There is some fatality
which seems to guide our footsteps on to thorny pathways. There is
nothing to be done but face it.'
'Is it,' she asked simply, 'a case for action, or must we wait upon
events?'
'I would suggest ... action.'
'Yes...' she said, in little more than a whisper, after a pause, 'I
think so too--more especially now ... that you suggest it. Your
natural bias is, as a rule, in the direction of masterly inactivity.'
He smiled slowly.
'Perhaps ... so!'
'Therefore your conviction that action is necessary must be very
strong before you would suggest it.'
'I feel,' he said, with some deliberation, 'that it will be better to
keep them apart in the meantime.'
A strange, uneasy look passed across the girl's face. It happened
that there was only one man on all the broad earth whom she trusted
implicitly--the man at her side--and for a second that one unique
faith wavered. With a sort of mental jerk--as of a person who makes
a quick effort to recover a wavering balance--she restored her
courageous trustfulness.
'Yes,' she murmured, 'I am sure of it.'
'And I suppose ... I suppose we must do it. You and I, Brenda?'
It was a wonderful thing how these two knew Alice Huston. Her faults
were never mentioned between them. The infinite charity with which
each looked upon these faults was a mutual possession, unhinted at,
half concealed. Brenda knew quite well what was written between the
lines of his outspoken supposition, and replied to his unasked
question with simple diplomacy.
'Yes--_we_ must do it.'
Trist moved a little. He turned sideways, and glanced out of the
window. His attitude was that of a man whose hands were in his
pockets, but he was more than half a soldier--a creature morally and
literally without pockets--and his hands hung at his sides.
'It is a ... a pretty strong combination.'
She smiled, and changed colour so slightly that he no doubt failed to
see it.
'Yes,' she answered cheerfully. 'It succeeded once before. But Mrs.
Wylie is not quite herself yet, Theo! That is why I don't want her
to have any trouble in this matter. We have no right to seek her
aid.'
The last words might easily have passed unheeded, but Brenda felt,
even as she spoke them, that they contained another meaning;
moreover, she recognised by his sudden silence that Trist was
wondering whether this second suggestion had been intended. Uneasily
she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking down at her gravely,
and for some seconds their glances met.
If an excuse to seek Mrs. Wylie's assistance was hard to find, much
more so was it open to question respecting Trist's spontaneous help.
Why should he offer it? By what right could she accept it? And
while they looked into each other's eyes, these two wondered over
those small questions. There was a reason--the best reason of
all--namely, that the offer was as spontaneous and natural as the
acceptance of it. But why--why this spontaneity? Perhaps they both
knew. Perhaps she suspected, and suspected wrongly. Perhaps neither
knew definitely.
At last she turned her head, and naturally her glance was directed
downwards into Piccadilly.
'There they are,' she whispered hurriedly, 'looking into the
jeweller's shop opposite. What are we to do, Theo?'
He almost forestalled her question, so rapid was his answer. There
was no hesitation, no shirking of responsibility. She had simply
asked him, and simply he replied.
'Go,' he said, 'and throw some things into a bag. I will stay here
and watch him. When the bag is ready, leave it in the passage and
come back here. I will take it, go down, and take her straight away.'
'Where?'
'I don't know,' he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.
There was a momentary hesitation on the girl's part. She perceived a
terrible flaw in Trist's plan, and he divined her thoughts.
'It will be all right,' he whispered. 'No one knows that I am in
England. I will telegraph to-night, and you can join her to-morrow.
You ... can trust me, Brenda.'
There was a faint smile of confidence on her face as she turned away
and hurried from the room.
Although her light footsteps were almost inaudible, the slight
_frôlement_ of her dress seemed to rouse the stupefied man on the low
chair near the fire. Perhaps there was in the rhythm of her
movements some subtle resemblance to the movements of his wife. He
raised his head and appeared to listen in an apathetic way, but
presently his chin dropped heavily again upon his breast, and the
dull eyes lost all light of intelligence.
Trist turned away and looked out of the window. The two ladies were
still lingering near the jeweller's shop. Alice Huston appeared to
be pointing out to her companion some specially attractive ornament,
and Mrs. Wylie was obeying with a patient smile.
The war-correspondent smiled in a peculiar way, which might well have
expressed some bitterness, had he been the sort of man to speak or
think bitterly of anyone. The whole picture was so absurdly
characteristic, even to the small details--such as Mrs. Wylie's
good-natured patience, scarce concealing her utter lack of interest
in the jewellery, and Alice Huston's eyes glittering with reflex of
the cold gleam of diamonds; for there is a light that comes into the
eyes of some women at the mere mention of precious stones.
While he was watching them the ladies turned and crossed the street,
coming towards him. He stepped back from the window in case one of
them should raise her eyes, and at the same moment Brenda entered the
room.
She glanced towards Huston, who was rousing himself from the torpor
which had followed his maltreatment at Trist's hands, and which was
doubtless partly due to the drink-sodden condition of his mind and
body.
'All I want,' whispered the war-correspondent, following her glance,
'is three minutes' start from that man.'
'You had better go!' she answered anxiously below her breath.
'Yes; they are on the stairs ... but ... tell me, Brenda, promise me
on your honour, that he did not hurt you.'
'I promise you,' she said, with a faint smile.
Then he left her.