MASKED.
The soirée of the Ancient Artists' Guild was in the full flow of its
success. There had been some excellent music, and the programme
promised more. The brilliancy of the attendance was equal to the
highest hopes of the most ambitious committee. Long hair and strange
dresses vouched for the presence of self-conscious intellect; small
receding foreheads, hopeless mouths, and fair but painted faces,
announced the presence of that shade of aristocracy which prefers to
patronize.
William Hicks was not on the committee of the Ancient Artists, but he
moved about from group to group, dispensed ices, and exchanged
artistic jargon with a greater grace than was at the command of that
entire august body. By some subtle means, peculiarly his own, he
managed to convey to many the erroneous idea that he was in some
indefinite way connected with the obvious success of this soirée; and
several stout ladies went so far as to thank him, later on, for a
pleasant evening, which gratitude he graciously and deprecatingly
disowned in such a way as to make it appear his due. The pleasant
evening had been in most cases spent between a nervous concern as to
the effect produced by personal and filial adornment, and an
ill-disguised contempt for common women who flaunt titles and
diamonds (both uncoveted) in the faces of their superiors, possessing
neither. But we men cannot be expected to understand those things.
Chiefly was William Hicks' devotion laid at Brenda's feet. For her
was reserved his sweetest smile, just tempered with that suggestion
of poetic pathos which he knew well how to sprinkle over his mirth.
To her ear was retailed the very latest witticism, culled from the
brain of some other man, and skilfully reproduced, not as a cutting,
but as a modest seedling. To her side he returned most often, and
over her chair stooped most markedly.
It has been hinted already that Hicks, with all his talents and
mental gifts, was not an observant man. In certain small diplomacies
of social life he was no match for the quiet-faced girl whom he was
pleased to honour this evening with his conspicuous attention.
She was miserably anxious, but she hid it from him; and he talked on,
quite ignorant of the fact that she was in no manner heeding his
words. Her quick, acquired smile was ready enough; when an answer
was required, she was equal to the occasion. Ah! these social
agonies! There is a sort of pride in enduring them with cheerful
stoicism.
'I am glad,' murmured Hicks, with a deprecating smile, 'that my
mother succeeded in dragging you here. It is a sort of intellectual
treat for me. We painters are so incurably shoppy in our talk, that
it is really a relief to have you at my mercy--so to speak. This is
a success, is it not? There are a great many celebrities in the
room.'
'Indeed?'
'Yes; and I always feel a slight difference in the atmosphere when
there is someone present with a name one likes to hear.'
He looked round the room with glistening eye and delicate nostrils
slightly distended, as if sniffing his native atmosphere of Fame.
'One can generally recognise a celebrated man or woman, I think,' he
continued. 'There is an indefinite feeling of power--a strength of
individuality which seems to hover round them like an invisible halo.'
'Ye-es,' murmured Brenda vaguely. A moment later she was conscious
of having looked round the room as if in search of halos, and
wondered uncomfortably whether her companion had seen the movement.
Then a stout lady, with a very dark complexion, suddenly raised an
exquisite voice, and a complete silence acknowledged its power
instantaneously. It was a quaint old song, with words that might
have had no meaning whatever, beyond trite regrets for days that
could never come again, had they been sung with less feeling--less
true human sympathy.
Brenda literally writhed beneath the flood of harmony. She tried not
to listen--tried vainly to look round her and think cynical thoughts
about the hollow shams of society, but some specially deep and tender
note would reach her heart, despite the wall of worldliness that she
had built around it. It would seem that that stout cheery woman
could see through the smiles, through the affected masks, and
penetrate to the heart, which is never quite safe from the sudden
onslaught of youthful memories surviving still, youthful hopes since
crushed, and youthful weaknesses never healed.
Brenda looked round the room with a semi-interested little smile
(such as we see in church sometimes when a preacher has got well hold
of his audience), and suddenly her face grew white, her breath seemed
to catch, and for some seconds there was no motion of her throat or
bosom. Respiration seemed to be arrested. With an effort she
recovered herself, and a great sigh of relief filled her breast.
Among a number of men beneath the curtained doorway she had
recognised an upright sturdy form, beside which the narrower
shoulders and sunken chests of poetic and artistic celebrities seemed
to shrink into insignificance. The way in which this man carried his
head distinguished him at once from those around him. He was of
quite a different stamp from his companions, most of whom depended
upon some peculiarity of dress or hair to distinguish them from the
very ordinary ruck of young men.
Across that vast room Trist's eyes met Brenda's, and although his
calm face changed in no way, betrayed by no slightest tremor that he
had come with the wild hope of meeting her, his lips moved.
'Thank God, I have done it!' he muttered, beneath the whirl of polite
applause that greeted the stout lady's elephantine bow.
At the other end of the room Hicks noticed with some surprise that
Brenda drew her watch from her belt, and consulted it with particular
attention. She was counting the number of hours since she had last
seen Theodore Trist, with signs of travel still visible on his dress
and person, just starting off on a new journey, without rest or
respite. It was now midnight. She had never thought that he would
return the same night--in fact, she was sure that he had not intended
to do so. And here he was--calm, thoughtful, almost too cool as
usual, without sign of fatigue or suggestion of hurry. His dress was
faultless, his appearance and demeanour politely indifferent.
'I hope,' said Hicks meaningly, 'that you are not growing weary. It
is early yet.'
He looked round the room, with a pleasant nod for an acquaintance
here and there whom he had not seen before.
'Oh no,' said Brenda lightly in reply. 'I just happened to wonder
what the time might be. I hope it was not rude.'
He laughed forgivingly, still looking about him.
'Ah!' he exclaimed in an altered tone. 'Is that not Trist? Dear old
Theo Trist!'
'Yes.'
Brenda had apparently followed the direction indicated by her
companion's gaze, and was now looking towards the new-comer with an
inimitable little smile which completely quashed all attempts to
divine whether she were surprised, or pleased, or politely interested.
Trist was making his way slowly across the room, exchanging greetings
here and there. Brenda, in her keen observant way, conceived a
sudden idea that his manner was not quite natural. Although of a
kindly spirit, Trist was not a genial man with a smile full of
affection for the merest acquaintance; and the girl, in some vague
way, felt that he was shaking hands with men and women who were
profoundly indifferent to him. Indeed, he seemed to go out of his
way to do so.
'When did you get home?' she heard someone ask him; and the reply was
delivered in clear tones, audible at a greater distance than Trist's
voice usually was, as if with intention.
'This afternoon,' he said. 'Only this afternoon. I landed at
Plymouth this morning.'
The next moment he was standing before her with his brown face bowed,
his hand extended.
'You see, Brenda,' he said, 'I have turned up again. A veritable
dove without the leaf in my mouth. I am an emblem of peace.'
Instinctively, and without knowing her motive, she answered in the
same way, conscious that it was his wish.
'I am very glad to see you back,' she said.
Then he turned to Hicks, and shook hands with more warmth than that
ethereal being had expected.
'You see, Hicks,' he said, 'I cannot resist flying at once to pay my
respects at the shrine of Art--only arrived in London this afternoon,
and here I am in full war-paint, with a flower in my coat and my
heart in my eyes. What pictures have I to admire? You may as well
tell me.'
Hicks laughed in his semi-sad way, and mentioned a few pictures of
note, which were carefully remembered by his hearer. Then Trist
turned to Brenda and offered her his arm.
'Will you come,' he said, 'and have some tea or an ice, or something?'
Brenda appeared to hesitate for a moment, then gave in with that
reluctant alacrity which is to be observed when a lady is making a
sacrifice of her own inclination.
As they moved away together through the crowded room there was a
sudden hush, and succeeding it a louder buzz of expectant
conversation. Trist looked over the heads of the people towards the
little flower-bedecked platform at the end of the room.
'Ah!' he said; 'Crozier is going to sing. Shall we wait? It is a
pity to miss Sam Crozier.'
Nevertheless he made no attempt to stop, and they passed through the
doorway into a smaller gallery, which was almost deserted.
'I am in luck to-night; everything I have attempted has been a
success. So we shall probably find the refreshment-room empty.'
She laughed in a nervous way, and her touch upon his arm wavered.
'We must run the risk,' he continued, 'of being talked about; but I
must see you alone for a few minutes. It is strange, Brenda, that we
are always getting into hot water together.'
'Oh!' she said indifferently, 'the risk is not very great. People do
not talk much about me. Alice possesses that unfortunate monopoly in
our family.'
'That is why I must see you.'
'Yes, ... I know.'
They had passed through the smaller room and out of it into a
brilliant corridor, whence a broad flight of stairs led up to the
refreshment-room.
'There is a sofa half-way up the stairs,' said Trist. 'It is a good
position, quite out of earshot, and very visible--therefore harmless;
let us occupy it!'
When they were seated, Brenda leant back with that air of grave
attention which was peculiarly hers, and which, I venture to think,
is rarely met with in women.
'When,' said Trist in a smooth and even tone, 'I got back to town, I
figuratively tore my hair, and said to myself: "Where shall I find
Brenda--where shall I find Brenda to-night?" I took a hansom back to
my rooms, changed, and then drove to Suffolk Mansions. Mrs. Wylie
told me where you were; I gave chase, and ... and I caught you.'
The girl turned her face slightly, and her childlike blue eyes sought
his with a quaint air of scrutiny.
'When,' she said, 'you left Suffolk Mansions this afternoon with
Alice, you had no intention of returning to London to-night.'
There was no mistaking the deliberation of her assertion. She was
defying him--daring him to deny.
He met her glance for a moment--no longer.
'That,' he confessed airily, after a pause, 'is so!'
'And,' continued the girl with more confidence, 'since that time your
views respecting Alice have become modified or changed in some way,
perhaps?'
He moved with some uneasiness, and appeared particularly wishful to
avoid encountering her frank gaze. He clasped his two hands around
his raised knee, and stared at the carpet with a non-committing
silence which was almost Oriental in its density.
'Brenda,' he whispered at length, 'I have had an awful scare!'
She drew in a deep breath with a little shivering sound, and
moistened her lips--first the lower, and then the upper. There was a
momentary gleam of short, pearly teeth, and the red Cupid's-bow of
her mouth reassumed its usual contour of demure self-reliance.
There was a long pause, during which the faint echo of distant
applause came to their ears.
'I wonder,' said the girl at length, 'how many men would have taken
as much trouble as you have taken to-night for the sake of such a
trifling affair as a woman's good name?'
A dull red colour slowly mounted over her white throat to her face--a
painful blush of intense shame, which she was too proud to attempt to
hide. The deliberation with which she spoke the words, and then held
up her burning face that he might see, had he wished, was very
characteristic.
Trist himself changed colour, and his firm lips opened as if he were
about to reply hastily. He checked himself, however, and they sat
through several painful moments without motion.
During that time their two souls merged, as it were, into a complete
understanding--so entire, so perfect and faithful, that no spoken
words could ever have brought its semblance into existence. He knew
that his painful task was now finished, that Brenda now understood
his reason for coming back to London at once. Moreover, he was aware
that she had divined the cause of his sudden geniality on first
arriving at the soirée, and there was no need to tell her that all
London could now find out, if it pleased, that the war-correspondent,
Theodore Trist, had arrived home from the East that afternoon, and
was seen by many in the evening at a public place of entertainment.
But Brenda was not content with divination of motives. It was her
evil habit to proceed to analysis, and in this pastime she made a
mistake. Trist's motive in running away, as it were, from the
dangerous proximity of a desperate and beautiful woman was clear; and
although a large majority of men would, under the circumstances, have
had the generosity to do the same, she was pleased to consider this
act a most wondrous thing--her reason for doing so being that she was
convinced that Trist loved her sister with all the cruel and taciturn
strength of his nature. This was an utter mistake, and Theo Trist
was unaware of its existence.
Ah! these little mistakes! We spend a small portion of our lives in
making them, and the rest in trying to repair.
'Give me,' said Brenda, 'her address, and I will go to her to-morrow.'
'She is at the Castle Hotel, Burgh Ferry, Suffolk. There is a train
from Liverpool Street Station leaving at ten o'clock to-morrow for
Burgh Station, which is four miles from Burgh Ferry.'
'I have heard of the place,' said Brenda composedly. 'Have you been
there and back this evening?'
'Yes. I just had time to install Alice comfortably in the hotel,
which is really nothing more than an inn, and is the largest house in
the village. I have a list for you--here it is--of things that Alice
would like you to take to her to-morrow.'
Brenda took the paper and glanced at it rapidly.
'It is a long one,' she said with a short, hard laugh. 'Is she quite
resigned to burying herself alive for a short time?'
'Ye--es.... I put things rather strongly. She has consented to
communicate with her husband through Mrs. Wylie, with the view of
coming to some sort of agreement.'
The girl drew a sharp breath of relief.
'There ... were ... a good many tears,' added Trist rather unevenly.
'I would suggest a good supply of books,' he said a moment later in a
practical way. 'It is a dreadfully dull little place (which makes it
safer), and too much thinking is hardly desirable at the present
time.'
'It is questionable whether much thinking is profitable at any time.'
Trist looked at her in a curious, doubtful way, and then he rose from
his seat.
'I will take you home now,' he said, 'if you are ready. It is nearly
one o'clock.'
She rose a little wearily, and, lifting her gloved hand, skirmished
deftly over her hair in order to make sure that it had not become
deranged. He noted the curve of her white arm, and the quick play of
her fingers, while he stood erect and motionless, waiting. No
passing light of emotion was visible in his eyes, which possessed a
strange, unreflective power of observation. That round white arm was
looked upon as a beautiful thing, and nothing more. And she was a
trifle weary. Her face betrayed no sign of mental or natural anxiety.
Then she took his arm, and they passed down the splendid stairs
together. Co-heirs to a truly human inheritance of sorrow, they bore
their burden without complaint or murmur, with a self-reliance
behoving children of an acute civilization. For civilization will in
time kill all human sympathy.
'I will go home with you,' said Trist, 'because some precautions are
necessary in order to escape observation on your journey to-morrow,
and I have several suggestions to make.'