QUICKSANDS.
'Wot's this--runaway couple?' asked a pallid and slipshod waiter of
his equally-unwholesome colleague in the dining-room attached to a
large City railway-station.
'D'no,' answered the second, with weary indifference; 'we don't offen
see _that_ sort down 'ere.'
'There's a sort,' continued the first attendant, pulling down his
soup-stained waistcoat, 'o' haristocratic simplicity about them and
their wants as pleases my poetic and 'igh-born soul.'
'Indeed,' yawned the other with withering sarcasm.
'Yes, indeed!'
The sarcasm was treated with noble scorn by its victim, who was
called away at that moment by a bumping sound within the
lift-cupboard.
In the meantime Trist and Alice Huston were turning their attention
to dinner.
The novelty of the situation pleased the lady vastly. There was a
spice of danger coupled with a sense of real security imparted by the
presence of her calm and resourceful companion which she appreciated
thoroughly. For Trist there was, however, less enjoyment in the
sense of novelty. A war-correspondent is a man to whom few
situations are, strictly speaking, novel, and it is, or should be,
his chief study to acquire the virtue of adaptability, and never to
allow himself to be carried away by the forces of environment.
His sense of chivalry was too strong to allow the merest suggestion
of weariness, but in his inmost heart there was a vague uneasiness at
the thought that there was still an hour before the train for the
east coast left, not the station where they were at present, but one
near at hand. He knew that to the fugitive every moment is of
immeasurable value, but for the time being he feared no pursuit. His
measures had been too carefully taken for that, and all the private
detectives in London could not approach this impenetrable strategist
in cunning or foresight.
Only an hour had passed since he and Alice Huston had met on the
stairs of Suffolk Mansions, and since then the excellent construction
of a London cab and the justly-praised smoothness of London roadways
had effectually put a stop to any conversation of a connected or
confidential nature.
At first Alice had been too frightened to resent this, and
subsequently the manner of her companion, which was at once
reassuring and repelling, had checked her efforts. Now the pallid
waiters were almost within earshot, and Theodore Trist, who concealed
a keen power of observation beneath a demeanour at times
aggravatingly stolid, was fully aware that they were interested, and
consequently inquisitive. The result of this knowledge was a
singular lack of the ordinary outward signs of mystery. He spoke in
rather louder tones than was his wont, told one or two amusing
anecdotes, and laughed at them himself, while Mrs. Huston
unconsciously aided him by smiling in a slightly weary way. This
last conjugal touch of human nature went far to convince the waiter
that the two were after all nothing more interesting than husband and
wife.
'Theo, I have so _much_ to tell you,' whispered Mrs. Huston once when
the waiter was exchanging civilities with the cook's assistant down a
speaking-tube.
'Yes,' replied Trist, interested in his bread; 'wait until we are in
the train.'
'Where are we going?'
'I will tell you afterwards; these fellows might hear. Will you have
wine? What shall it be, something light--say Niersteiner?'
He softened his apparent brusqueness with a smile, and she blushed
promptly, which was an unnecessary proceeding. Trist's sang-froid
was phenomenal.
By a simple subterfuge, of which he was almost ashamed, he had
obtained tickets to a small east-coast watering-place without leaving
any trace whatever, and at seven o'clock they left Liverpool Street
Station, in the same compartment, without having allowed the railway
officials to perceive that they were acquainted. There were but few
first-class passengers in the train, and they were alone in the
compartment. The light provided was not a brilliant specimen of its
kind; reading or pretending to read was out of the question. There
was nothing to do but talk, so Trist gave himself over to the tender
mercies of his companion, and for the time vouchsafed his entire
attention to the details of a story too common and too miserable to
recapitulate here. Probably you, who may turn these pages, know the
story; if not, an old traveller takes the liberty of wishing that you
never may.
'And,' said Mrs. Huston between half-suppressed sobs, when the tale
was told, 'I simply could not stand it any longer, so I came home. I
... I _hoped_, Theo, to find you in England, and when Brenda told me
that you were in the East, busy with some horrid war, it was the last
straw. I wonder why people want to fight at all. Why can't the
world live in peace?'
Trist tugged pensively at the arm-rest, and looked out into the
darkness without replying. He did not seem at that moment prepared
to answer the extremely pertinent and relevant question propounded.
If Mrs. Huston had expected a proper show of masculine emotion, she
must have been slightly disappointed; for during no part of her
narrative had the incongruous face opposite to her, beneath the
ludicrous lamp, displayed aught else than a most careful and
intelligent attention. What she required was sympathy, not
attention. Her story was not calculated to withstand too close a
study. Being in itself emotional, it was eminently dependent upon an
emotional reception; it was, in fact, a woman's narrative, fit for
relation by a peaceful fireside, in the hush of twilight, on the top
(so to speak) of tea and muffins, and to a woman's ear. Retailed to
a hard practical man of the world in a noisy train, where the more
pathetic vocal inflections were inaudible; after dinner, and while
narrator and listener wore thick wraps and gloves, it lost weight
most lamentably. She ought to have thought of these trifles, which,
however, are no trifles. You, dear madam, know better than to
attempt to soften your husband's stony heart when he is protected by
gloves, or boots, or top-coat. Ah! these little things make a mighty
difference.
Trist was an ardent follower of that school of philosophy which seeks
to ignore the emotions. By means of cold suppression he would fain
have wiped all passions out of human nature, and, having moved amidst
bloodshed and among men engaged in bloodshed, he had learnt that our
deepest feelings are, after all, mere matters of habit. From the
Eastern lands he knew so well, it is probable that he had brought
back some reflection of that strange Oriental apathy of life which is
incomprehensible to our more highly-strung Western intellects.
When Mrs. Huston pushed her dainty veil recklessly up over the front
of her bonnet, and made no pretence of hiding the tears that rendered
her lovely face almost angelic in its pathos, Trist made no further
acknowledgment of emotion than a momentary contraction of the
eyelids. He continued tugging pensively at the leather arm-rest,
while his eyes only strayed at times from the flashing lights of
peaceful village or quiet town to the beautiful form crouching
against the sombre cushions opposite to him.
'Oh why ... did you ever let me marry him?' sobbed Alice miserably.
He glanced at her with a peculiar twist of his lips, downwards, to
one side. Then he shrugged his shoulders very slightly.
'I? ... What had I to do with it, Alice?'
There was something in his voice, a certain dull concentration, which
had the singular effect of checking her sobs almost instantaneously,
although her breast heaved convulsively at short intervals, like the
swell that follows a storm at sea, long after the rage has subsided.
She touched her eyes prettily with a diminutive handkerchief, and
made an effort to recover her serenity, smoothing a wrinkle out of
the front of her dress.
'Well,' she sighed, 'I suppose you had as much influence over me as
anybody. And ... and you never liked him, Theo. I could see that,
and lately the recollection of it has come back to me more vividly.'
'You forget that I was in China at the time of your engagement. My
influence could not have been very effective at such a range--even if
I had taken it upon myself to exert it, which would have been an
unwarrantable liberty.'
'I was so young,' she pleaded, 'and so inexperienced.'
'Twenty-two,' he observed reflectively; 'and you had your choice, I
suppose, of all the best men in London.'
In some vague way Mrs. Huston's eyes conveyed a contradiction to this
statement, although her lips never moved. A man less dense than this
war-correspondent appeared to be would have understood readily enough
what that glance really signified.
'I hope,' he continued imperturbably, 'that this misunderstanding is
only temporary...'
She laughed bitterly, and examined the texture of her lace
handkerchief with a gracefully impatient poise of the head.
'Huston ... loves you.'
'And _you_,' she answered pertly, 'hate him! Why? Tell me why,
Theo.'
'I hate no one in the world,' he answered. 'Not on principle, but
because I have met no one as yet whom I could hate. There has
invariably been some redeeming point.'
'And what is my husband's redeeming point?'
'His love for you,' answered Trist promptly, and with such calm
assurance that his companion evacuated her false position at once,
and returned to her original line of argument.
'I only had Brenda,' she murmured sorrowfully; 'and she is like you.
She listens and listens and listens, but never gives any real advice.'
'If she had, would you have taken it?' suggested Trist.
The graceful shoulders moved interrogatively and indifferently.
'I suppose not.'
During the silence that followed, Trist looked at his watch, openly
and without disguise. The journey, which was a short one, was almost
half accomplished, and the train was now running at a breakneck pace
through the level Suffolk meadows. Hardly a light was visible over
all the silent land. There were no tunnels and no bridges,
consequently the sounds of travel were reduced to a minimum. It is
the petty local trains that make the most noise; the great purposeful
expresses run almost in silence. In this, my brothers, I think we
resemble trains in some degree. There are those among us who make
little way upon Life's iron track with a great noise; and those who
travel far are silent.
'I don't believe you care a fig what becomes of me!' said Mrs. Huston
at length in a reckless way.
He looked at her with a slow grave smile, but made no other answer.
'Do you?' she asked coquettishly.
He was quite grave now, and her breathing became slightly accelerated.
'Yes!' quite simply.
Presently Trist roused himself, as if from unpleasant reflections,
and began talking about the future.
'I should like to know,' he said, 'exactly what you think of doing,
because I have not much time. At any moment Russia may declare war
against Turkey, and I shall have to go at once.'
'If Russia declares war, I shall kill myself, I think.'
He laughed, and changed his position, drawing in his feet, and
leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.
'No,' he said with genial energy, 'I would not do that, if I were
you. If I may be allowed to make a suggestion, it seems to me that
you will do well to come to a distinct understanding with Huston,
either through the mediation of Mrs. Wylie or by letter. You cannot
go on long like this.'
'What sort of understanding?' she inquired, with that nonchalant
impatience of detail which seems to be the special prerogative of
beautiful women.
'Ask him to give you three months to think over matters; at the
expiration of that time you can have an interview with him, and come
to some definite agreement respecting the future.'
She sighed, and leant back wearily, looking at him in a curious,
snake-like way beneath her lowered lids.
'Three months will make no difference.'
'Nevertheless ... try it.'
'I want,' she said in a dull voice, '... a divorce!'
For a moment a veil seemed to have been lifted from his eyes; all
meekness vanished, and the glance was keen, far-sighted, almost cruel.
'You cannot get that, Alice. It is impossible!'
She turned her face quite away from him and looked out of the window,
jerking the arm-rest nervously. Her breath clouded the glass. She
murmured something inaudible.
'Eh?' he inquired.
'I could make it possible,' she said jerkily, and her voice died away
in a sickening little laugh.
For some moments there was a horrible silence, and then Theo Trist
spoke in a strange, thick voice, quite unlike his own.
'Alice,' he said, 'do you ever think of Brenda? Do you ever think of
_anyone_ but yourself?'
The words came as a cold and chilling surprise to Mrs. Huston, and
she began slowly to realize that she had met with something which was
entirely new to her. She had come in contact with a man upon whom
the effect of her beauty was of no account. Her powers of
fascination seemed suddenly to have left her, and across her mind
there flashed a gleam of that unpleasant light by the aid of which we
are at times enabled to see ourselves as others see us. It was only
natural and womanlike that she should resent the shedding of this
light, and visit her resentment, not upon the disclosure made by it,
but on the illuminator of the unpleasant scene.
'Oh,' she muttered angrily, 'you are all against me! No one cares
for me; no one makes allowances.'
Trist smiled in a slow, strong way which was infinitely pathetic.
'No,' he said, 'no one makes allowances; you must never expect that.'
Then Mrs. Huston's tears began to flow again, and the self-contained
man opposite to her sat with white bloodless lips and contracted eyes
staring into the blackness of the night.