MRS. WYLIE LEADS.
As Theodore Trist mounted the broad bare staircase of Suffolk
Mansions, his quick ears detected the sound of Mrs. Wylie's door
being drawn forcibly to behind departing footsteps.
He continued his way without increase of speed. The person whose
descent was audible came slowly to meet him, and in a few moments
they were face to face upon a small stone-paved landing.
Neither departed from the unwritten code by which Englishmen regulate
their actions; they merely stared at each other. Trist was
unchanged, except for a slight heaviness in build--the additional
weight, one might call it, of years and experience; but Huston was
sadly altered since these two had met beneath a Southern sky. Both
were conscious of a sudden recollection of sandy plain and camp
environments, and Huston changed colour slightly, or, to be more
correct, he lost colour, and his eyes wavered. He was painfully
conscious of his disadvantage in this trifling matter of appearance,
and he had reason to remember with dread the ruthless penetration of
the calm soft eyes fixed upon him. Years before he had suspected
that Theodore Trist was cognizant of a trifling fact which had at
times suggested itself to him--namely, that, despite braided coat and
bright sword, despite Queen's commission and Sandhurst, he, Alfred
Woodruff Charles Huston, was no soldier.
Each looked at the other with the hesitation of men who, meeting,
recognise a face, and half await a greeting of some description. In
a moment it was too late, and they passed on--one upstairs, the other
down, with unconscious symbolism--having exchanged nothing more than
that expectant, hesitating stare of mutual recognition and mutual
curiosity.
Each was at heart a gentleman, and under other circumstances, in the
presence of a third person, or with the view of sparing a hostess
anxiety, they would undoubtedly have shaken hands. But here, beneath
the eye of none but their God (who, in His wisdom, has purposely
planted a tiny seed of divergence in our hearts), they saw no cause
for acting that which could, at its best, have been nothing but a
semi-truth.
When Trist greeted Mrs. Wylie a few moments later, he detected her
glance of anxiety; but it was against his strange principles to take
the initiative, so he waited until she might speak.
After a few commonplaces dexterously handled, she suddenly changed
her tone.
'Theo,' she said with that abruptness which invariably follows after
hesitation on the brink of a difficult subject, 'there was a man in
this room ten minutes ago who announced his fixed determination of
shooting you the very next time you crossed his path.'
The war-correspondent shrugged his shoulders, and turning sharply
round, he kicked under the grate a small smoking cinder which had
fallen far out into the fender.
'That man's statements, whether in regard to things past or things
future, should be accepted with caution.'
'Then you met him on the stairs?'
'Yes; I met him on the stairs....'
'And...'
'And he did not shoot,' said Trist with a short laugh as he turned
and faced Mrs. Wylie.
Then he did a somewhat remarkable thing--remarkable, that is, for a
man who never gave way to a display of the slightest emotion,
demonstrating either sorrow or joy, hatred or affection. He took
Mrs. Wylie's two hands within his, and forced her to sit in the deep
basket-work chair near the fire with its back towards the window.
Standing before her with his hands thrust into the pockets of his
short serge jacket, he looked down at her with quizzical affection.
'Some months ago,' he said, 'we made a contract; you are breaking
that contract, unless I am very much mistaken. You have allowed
yourself to be anxious about me--is that not so?'
The widow smiled bravely up into the grave young face.
'I am afraid,' she began, '...yes, I am afraid you are right. But
the anxiety was not wholly on your account.'
Trist turned slowly away. The movement was an excess of caution, for
his face was always impenetrable.
'Ah!' he murmured.
'I am very anxious about Alice and Brenda.'
'Ah!' he murmured again, with additional sympathy.
She did not proceed at once, so he leant back in the chair he had
assumed, and waited with that peculiar patience which seemed to
belong to Eastern lands, and which has been noticed before.
'Theo,' she said at last, 'has it never struck you that your position
with regard to those two girls is--to say the least of it--peculiar?'
'From a social point of view?'
'Yes.'
'If,' he said in a louder tone, on his defence, as it were, 'I were
constantly at home, society might have something to say about it.
But, as it happens, I am never long in London, and consequently fail
to occupy that prominent position in the public esteem or dislike to
which my talents undoubtedly entitle me.'
'Fortunately, gossip has not been rife about it.'
'_Partly_ by good fortune, and partly by good management,' corrected
Trist. 'With a little care, society is easily managed.'
'A tiger is easily managed, but its humours cannot be foretold.'
This statement was allowed to pass unchallenged, and before the
silence was again broken, a servant announced that luncheon was
ready. Mrs. Wylie led the way, and Trist followed. They were both
rather absorbed during the dainty repast, and conversation was less
interesting than the parlour-maid could have wished.
Had Trist been less honest, he could have thrown off this sense of
guilt which weighed upon him. Like most reserved men, he was perhaps
credited with a more versatile intellect than he really possessed.
In his special line he was unrivalled, but that line was essentially
manly, and the _finesse_ it required was of a masculine order. That
is to say, it was more straightforward, more honest, and less
courageous, than the natural and instinctive _finesse_ of a woman.
This vague struggle with an over-susceptible conscience handicapped
Trist seriously during the _tête-à-tête_ meal, and rendered his
conversation very dull. He was quite conscious of this, and the
effort he made to remedy the defect was hardly successful. Men of
his type--that is, men of a self-contained, self-reasoning
nature--are too ready to consider themselves of that heavy material
which forms the solid background of social intercourse. Their very
virtues, such as steadfastness, coolness, complete self-reliance, are
calculated to prevent their shining in conversation, or in the
lighter social amenities. A little conversational impulse is
required, a gay lightness of touch, and an easy divergence from
opinions previously hazarded, in order to please the average
listener; but these were sadly wanting in Theodore Trist.
He was merely a strong, thoughtful man, who could think and reason
quickly enough when such speed was necessary, but as a rule he
preferred a slower and surer method. He was ready enough to proffer
an opinion when such was really in demand, and once spoken, this
would change in no way. It was the result of thought, and he forbore
to uphold a conviction by argument. Argument and thought have little
in common. One is froth drifting before the wind, the other a deep
stream running always. Trist held fixed opinions about most things,
but it was part of his self-reliant and self-sufficing nature to take
no pleasure whatever in convincing others that the opinion was
valuable. If men chose to think otherwise, he tacitly recognised
their right to do so, and left them in peace. Although he held
certain doctrines upon the better or worse ways of getting through
the span of a human life creditably, he was singularly averse to
airing them in any manner.
Now, Mrs. Wylie, in her keen womanliness, knew very well how to deal
with this man. She was quite aware that there was, behind his silent
'laisser-aller,' a clearly-defined plan of campaign, a cut-and-dried
theory or doctrine upon which his most trifling action was based.
There was an object aimed at, and perhaps gained, in his every word.
If Theodore Trist was a born strategist (of which I am firmly
convinced), and carried his principles of warfare into the bitter
strife of every-day existence, he had in Mrs. Wylie an ally or a foe,
as the case might be, whose manœuvres were worthy of his regard.
She possessed a woman's intuitive judgment, brightened, as it were,
and rendered keener, by the friction of a busy lifetime; and added to
this, she was in the habit of acting more spontaneously, and perhaps
with a greater recklessness, than came within Trist's mental compass.
These were her more womanly qualities, but her character had been
influenced through many years by the manly, upright nature of her
husband, and it was from him that she had acquired her rare doctrine
of non-interference. In woman's weaker nature there is a lamentable
failing to which can be attributed a large portion of the sorrows to
which the sex is liable. This is an utter inability to refrain from
adding a spoke to every wheel that may roll by. Interference--silly,
unjustifiable interference--in the affairs of others is woman's vice.
She can no more keep her fingers out of other people's savoury pies
than a cat can keep away from the succulent products of Yarmouth. It
has been said by cynical people that a woman cannot keep a secret,
but that is a mistake. If it be her own, she can keep it remarkably
well; but if it be the property of someone else, she appears to
consider it as a loan which must not be allowed to accrue interest.
I have tried the effect of imparting to a woman whom it affected but
slightly, and to a man whose life would be altered in some degree by
it, a piece of news under the bond of secrecy--a bond which expired
at a given date. The man held his peace and went on his way through
life unaffected, untroubled by the knowledge he possessed. I studied
him at moments when a glance or a word might have betrayed to
observant eyes the fact that he was in possession of certain
information. He looked at me calmly, and with no dangerous glance of
intelligence, subsequently talking in a manly, honest way which was
in no degree a connivance at criminal suppression. The date given
had not yet arrived, but the knowledge was fresh in his mind, and he
treated the matter in an honourable, business-like way. I knew that
my secret was buried in that man's brain as in a sepulchre.
The woman was uneasy. I could see that the secret oppressed her.
She chafed at the thought that the date mentioned was still a long
way ahead. She longed to talk of the matter to me, with a view, no
doubt, of craving permission to tell one person, who would certainly
not repeat it. By glance or significant silence she courted
betrayal; and at one time she even urged me to impart the news to a
mutual friend, in order, I take it, to form a channel or an outlet
for her cooped-up volume of thought. Finally, I discovered that she
had forestalled the date, by writing to friends at a distance, who
actually received the letters before the day, but were unable to
reissue the news in time to incriminate her.
It would appear that the same characteristic defect applies to the
retention of a secret as to the restraint from interference. Perhaps
it is a weakness, not a vice. Mrs. Wylie never sought confidences,
as women, by nature unable to retain secrets, are prone to do. Her
doctrine of non-interference went so far as to embrace the small
matter of passing details. She placed entire reliance in Theodore
Trist, and although his behaviour puzzled her, she refrained from
asking an explanation of even the smallest act. She was content that
his leading motive could only be good, and therefore felt no great
thirst to know the meaning of his minor actions.
The cynical-minded may opine that I am describing an impossible
woman. The fault is due to this halting pen. I once drew a woman
who herself recognised the portrait--a critic said that the character
was impossible and unnatural.
Mrs. Wylie was very natural and very womanly, after all. She had
almost forced Theo Trist to invite himself to lunch, and her anxiety
respecting Alice and Brenda had been made clear to him at once. She
would not interfere; but she could not surely have been expected to
refrain from suggesting to him that the world and the world's
opinion, if of no value to him, could not be ignored by two
motherless women.
She placed before him her views upon the matter, and then she
proceeded to shelve the subject; but Trist failed to help her in
this, contrary to her expectation. He was distinctly dull during
luncheon, and made no attempt to disguise his preoccupation. Mrs.
Wylie nibbled a biscuit while he was removing the outer rind of his
cheese with absurd care, and waited patiently for him to say that
which was undoubtedly on his lips.
The maid had left the room; there was no fear of interruption. Trist
continued to amuse himself for some moments with a minute morsel of
Gorgonzola; then he looked up, unconsciously trying the temper of his
knife upon the plate while he spoke.
'I had,' he said, 'an interview with my chief this morning.'
'Ah! Sir Edward, you mean?'
'Yes,' slowly, 'Sir Edward.'
Mrs. Wylie saw that she was expected to ask a question in order to
keep the ball rolling.
'What about?' she inquired pleasantly.
'I informed him that I proposed burying the hatchet.'
'You are not going to give up active service!' exclaimed Mrs. Wylie
in astonishment.
'I promised to go to one more campaign--the Russo-Turkish--which will
come on in the spring, and after that I shall follow the paths of
peace.'
Mrs. Wylie rolled up her table-napkin, and inserted it meditatively
into an ancient silver ring several sizes too large for it.
'I used to think,' she murmured, 'that you would never follow the
ways of peace.' Then she looked across the table into his face with
that indescribable contraction of the eyes which sometimes came even
when her lips were smiling.
'I am not quite sure of you now, Theo,' she added gently, as she rose
and led the way towards the door.
Trist reached the handle before her, and held the door open with that
unostentatious politeness of his which made him different from the
general run of society young men. As she passed, he smiled
reassuringly, and said in his monotonous way:
'I am quite sure of myself.'
'Not _too_ sure?' she inquired over her shoulder.
'No.'
In the drawing-room he succumbed to his hostess's Bohemian
persuasions, and lighted a cigarette. He seemed to have forgotten
his own affairs.
'About Alice,' he began--'que faire?'
For some reason Mrs. Wylie avoided meeting his glance.
'I told Alfred Huston,' she replied, after a pause, 'that I would
communicate with Alice, and that I had hopes of their living happily
together yet.'
Her tone was eminently practical and business-like. Trist answered
in the same way.
'I told Alice,' he said cheerily, 'that I would ask you to
communicate with Huston, with the view of coming to some definite
arrangement. Hide-and-seek is a slow game after a time.'
'What sort of arrangement?'
'Well ... I suggested that he should agree to leave her unmolested
for a certain time, during which she could think over it.'
Mrs. Wylie's smile was a trifle wan and uncertain.
'In fact, you made the best of it?'
'Yes. What else could I do?'
The widow looked at him keenly. It was hard to believe in
disinterestedness like this; and it is a very human failing to doubt
disinterestedness of any description.
'I told Alfred Huston,' she said disconnectedly, 'that I trusted you
to do your honest best for all concerned in this matter.'
'Which statement Huston politely declined to confirm, I should
imagine.'
Mrs. Wylie shrugged her shoulders. Denial was evidently out of the
question.
'Then my name was brought in?' asked Trist in a peculiar way.
'Yes.'
'By whom?'
'By me. It would have been worse than useless, Theo, to have
attempted ignorance of your influence over the girls.'
For a second time Trist avoided meeting his companion's glance.
'I told Sir Edward,' he said, after a considerable space of time,
'that I must be allowed to remain in England for some time to come;
it seems to me that I should have done better had I asked to be sent
away on active service without delay.'
'I should hardly go so far as to say that, Theo,' remarked Mrs. Wylie
placidly; 'but I think you must be very careful. I only want to call
your attention to the light in which your help is likely to appear in
the eyes of the world.'
'You have no...'--he hesitated before saying the word 'man,' but his
listener gave a little quick nod as if to help him--'man to help you,
except me; and it seems better that there should be someone whom you
can play, as it were, against Huston's stronger cards--someone of
whom he is afraid.'
'Yes,' replied the lady with an affectionate smile; 'I quite
understand your meaning; and I think you are right, although Alfred
Huston is not an alarming person: he is very weak.'
'When he is sober,' suggested Trist significantly.
The sailor's widow was too brave a woman to be frightened by this
insinuation, of which she took absolutely no notice.
'And,' she continued, 'I am convinced that this reconciliation is
more likely to be brought about if it is left entirely in my hands.
Your influence, however subtle, will be detected by Alfred Huston,
and the result will be disastrous. Unless ... unless...'
She stopped in a vague way, and moved restlessly.
'Unless what?'
'Unless you go to Alfred Huston and convince him by some means that
there is no love between you and Alice.'
The laughter with which he greeted this suggestion was a masterpiece
of easy nonchalance--deep, melodious, and natural; but somehow Mrs.
Wylie failed to join in it.
'No,' he said; 'that would not do. If Alice and I went together, and
took all sorts of solemn affidavits, I doubt whether Huston would be
any more satisfied than he is at present. The only method
practicable is for me to hold myself in reserve, while you manage
this affair.'
He had risen during this speech, and now held out his hand.
'I have an appointment at the Army and Navy,' he said, 'and must ask
you to excuse me if I run away.'
Mrs. Wylie was left in her own drawing-room nonplussed. She gazed at
the door which had just closed behind her incomprehensible guest with
mild astonishment.
'That,' she reflected, 'is the first time that I have seen Theo have
recourse to retreat.'