A SOCIAL CONSPIRACY.
About ten o'clock on the evening of the third day after the meeting
with Captain Huston, William Hicks entered a large and crowded
ball-room with his usual pleasant condescension.
The dance was of a semi-parliamentary character, and although the
society papers were pleased to announce that all the 'best' people
were out of town, there was a crowd of well-dressed men and women
round the door when Hicks made his appearance. There were many
greetings to be exchanged, a few diplomatic dances to be asked for,
and then the artist leisurely stroked his golden moustache as he
looked critically round the room.
His smiling face contracted into gravity for a moment, and it was
only after a pause that he continued his investigations.
'Trist!' he murmured to himself. 'Trist _here_? What is the meaning
of that? Is it war, I wonder? Or is Brenda coming? I will find
out.'
Presently he moved away, and after some time joined a group of
grave-faced elderly men, among whom Theo Trist was standing. There
were politicians among these gentlemen, and several faces were of a
distinctly foreign type, while more than one language could be heard.
Hicks looked a trifle out of his element amidst such surroundings,
and the foreign languages troubled him. No one looked towards him
invitingly--not even Trist, who was talking with a broad-shouldered
little man with a large head, and a peculiar listless manner which
stamped him as an Oriental. Hicks did not even know what language
they were speaking. It was not European in sound or intonation.
Here and there he caught a word or a name.
Once he heard Trist mention the name of a Russian general then
scarcely known. Though the pronunciation was rather different from
that of most Englishmen, Hicks recognised the word 'Skobeleff,' and,
glancing towards the smaller man, he saw upon his long, mournful
features a singular look of uneasiness.
There was something fascinating about the man's face which attracted
the artist's attention, and he stood gazing with a greater fixity
than is usually considered polite. Without looking towards him, the
Oriental was evidently aware of his attention, for he spoke to Trist,
who turned with deliberate curiosity.
'Ah, Hicks!' he said, 'how do you do?'
Then he turned again to his unemotional companion and made a remark,
which was received apathetically.
Hicks had not wished to make his advent so prominent. It now
appeared as if he had sought out Trist for some special purpose, to
make some important communication which could not brook delay.
Trist evidently read his action thus, for he left the group of
statesmen and joined him. Hicks was equal to the occasion.
'You remember,' he said confidentially, as he touched his companion's
sleeve and they walked down the room together--'you remember what I
once told you about the Hustons?'
Trist's meek eyes rested upon the speaker's face with a persistence
which was not encouraging to idle gossip.
'The night I left for Servia?' he inquired.
Hicks nodded his head.
'Yes. I remember.'
The artist paused, and his gloved fingers sought the beauteous
moustache. Trist's calm eyes were not easy to meet. They were so
unconsciously scrutinizing.
'Well, I saw Huston the other day,' he said at length. 'He has not
improved in appearance. In fact, I should say that there is some
truth in the story I repeated to you.'
There was no encouragement forthcoming, but Hicks was not lacking in
assurance. He was a true son of the pavement--that is to say, an
individual radical. His opinion was, in his own mind, worth that of
Theodore Trist.
'There are,' he continued, 'other stories going about at present. Do
you not think ... Trist ...--I mean, had we not better, for Brenda's
sake, settle upon a certain version of the matter and stick to it?
You and I, old fellow, are looked upon by the general world as
something more than ordinary friends of Alice and Brenda. Mrs. Wylie
is not going out just now. They have no one to stick up for them,
except us. If you know more than you care to confess, I am sorry if
I am forcing your hand....'
He paused again, and again his companion preserved that calm
non-committing silence which he knew so well how to assume. He held
a hand which could not have been forced by a player possessing ten
times the power and ten times the cunning of William Hicks.
'But, Trist, I know what the London world is. Something must be
done.'
Trist shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly.
'Silence,' continued Hicks significantly, 'in this case would be a
mistake. I don't mind ... your knowing that it is not from mere
curiosity that I am doing this. Brenda ... I want to save ... her
... from anything unpleasant.'
At this point Trist appeared to relent. It was not until afterwards
that Hicks realized that he had learnt absolutely nothing from him.
'What do you think ought to be done?' he asked gently.
The question remained unanswered for some time, and then it was only
met by another.
'Is Brenda coming to-night?'
'Yes.'
'And Alice?'
'No.'
They walked through the brilliant rooms together, each wondering what
lay behind the eyes of the other, each striving to penetrate the
thoughts of the other, to divine his motives, to reach his heart.
'I really think,' said Hicks at length, 'that it rests with you. You
must say what is to be done, what story is to be told, what farce is
to be acted. It seems to me that you know more about it than I do.
Somehow I have lately dropped out of Mrs. Wylie's confidence, and ...
and Brenda has not spoken to me about her sister.'
'But,' said Trist, 'I know nothing of what you refer to as the common
gossip of ... of all these.'
He indicated the assembled multitude with a gesture which was
scarcely complimentary. Hicks looked uncomfortable, and bit his red
lip nervously.
'Don't be hard on us,' he pleaded with an unnatural laugh. 'I am one
of them.'
'Tell me,' said Trist with a sudden gravity of manner, '... tell me
what they are saying.'
'Well ... it is hardly fair to ask me.'
'Why?'
'Because you will not thank me for having told you. We ... we don't,
as a rule, give the benefit of the doubt, you know.'
The elder man turned and looked at his companion with a slow smile.
'My dear Hicks,' he said, 'it is many years since I gave up caring
what the world might say, or expecting the benefit of the doubt.'
'For yourself?'
'Yes; for myself. What do you mean?'
'I mean that they are not giving Alice the benefit of the doubt
either.'
They happened just then to be near two chairs placed invitingly
within an alcove by a soft-hearted hostess who had not yet forgotten
her flirting-days.
'Let us sit down,' said Trist, indicating these chairs.
'Now,' he continued in a calm voice when they were seated, 'tell me
what the world is saying about Alice.'
Hicks was not devoid of a certain moral courage, and for once in his
life he was actuated by a motive which was not entirely selfish.
'They say,' he answered boldly, 'that she ran away from her husband
to join you.'
To some natures there is a vague enjoyment in imparting bad news, and
the dramatic points in this conversation were by no means lost to
William Hicks, who was a born actor. His listener, however, received
the news without the slightest indication of surprise or annoyance.
He merely nodded his head and murmured:
'Yes; what else?'
'Oh ... nothing much--nothing, at least, that I have heard, except
that Huston was supposed to have followed her home and caught her
just in time. He is also said to have announced his intention of
shooting you at the first convenient opportunity.'
Hicks ceased speaking, and waited for some exclamation of disgust,
some heated denial or indignant proof of the utter falseness of the
accusations made against Alice Huston. None of these was
forthcoming. Theo Trist merely indicated his comprehension of the
cruel words, and sat thinking. Beneath that calm exterior the man's
brain was very busy, and as he raised his head with a slight pensive
frown Hicks recognised for the first time the resemblance to the
great Corsican which was currently attributed to the
war-correspondent.
'Suppose,' said Trist at length, 'suppose that I were to walk
arm-in-arm into this room with Huston. Would that do?'
'Can you manage it?' inquired the artist incredulously.
'I think so; if I can only find him. Suppose Huston were to dance
with Brenda, and we were all to give it out that Alice is staying
with her father in Cheltenham or somewhere.'
Hicks' first inclination was towards laughter. The proposal was made
so simply and so readily that the whole affair appeared for a moment
merely ludicrous.
'Yes,' he said vaguely; 'that will do; that will do very well. But
... is Huston invited?'
'I will manage that.'
There was a peaceful sense of capability about this man before which
all obstacles seemed to crumble away. Hicks felt slightly
dissatisfied. His own part was too small in this social comedy. The
conduct of Brenda's affairs was slipping from his grasp, and yet he
could do nothing but submit. Trist had unconsciously taken command,
and when command is unconscious it is also arbitrary.
'I will go now and bring Huston,' he added presently, and without
further words left his seat.
Hicks caressed the golden moustache, and watched him as he moved
easily through the gay, heedless throng--a sturdy, strong young
figure, full of manhood, full of purpose, the absurdly meek eyes
shunning rather than seeking the many glances of recognition that met
him on his way.
He went up to his hostess, and with her came apparently straight to
the point, for Hicks saw the lady listen attentively and then
acquiesce with a ready smile.
Nearly half an hour elapsed before Brenda arrived. She was one of a
large party, and her programme had been in other hands before Hicks
became possessed of it. He glanced keenly down the column of
hieroglyphics. The initials were all genuine, but three dances had
been kept by a little cross carefully inserted. Hicks obtained two
waltzes, and returned the card with his usual self-satisfied smile.
He knew that Brenda expected Trist, although she was not looking
round as if in search of anybody. But he was fully convinced that
there was some mystery on foot. One dance, he had observed, which
was marked with a cross, was a square. Trist and Brenda had met by
appointment--not as young men meet maidens every night in the year at
dances for purposes of flirtation, or the more serious pastime of
love-making, but to discuss some point of mutual interest.
As a rival Hicks had no fear of Theodore Trist, who, he argued, was a
very fine fellow in his way, but quite without social
accomplishments. He was a good dancer--that point he generously
admitted--but beyond that he had nothing to recommend him in the eyes
of a clever and experienced girl like Brenda, who had had the
advantages of association with some of the most talented men of her
day, and intimacy with himself, William Hicks. There was only that
trivial matter of athletic and muscular superiority, which really
carried no great weight with a refined womanly intellect. In a
ball-room Theodore Trist, with his brown, grave face, his absorbed
eyes, and his sturdy form, was distinctly out of place. He had not
even a white waistcoat, wore three studs in the front of his shirt,
and sometimes even forgot to sport a flower in his coat. His very
virtues (of an old fashion), such as steadfastness, truth, and
honesty, prevented him from shining in society. Fortunately,
however, for his own happiness he was without vanity, and therefore
unconscious of his own shortcomings. It is just within the scope of
possibility that he was moved by no ambition to shine in society.
While the first bars of the waltz were in progress, Hicks found
Brenda. He had little difficulty in doing so, because he had been
watching her. Moreover, she was dressed in black, which was a rare
attire in that room. In choosing this sombre garb she had made no
mistake; the style suited exactly her slim, strong young form, and in
contrast her neck and arms were dazzling in their whiteness.
They began dancing at once, and Hicks was conscious that there was no
couple in the room so perfectly harmonious in movement, so skilled,
so intensely refined.
'Trist,' he said presently in a confidential way, 'has been here.'
'Indeed!' was the guarded reply, made with pleasant indifference.
'Yes ... Brenda, he and I had a little talk, and, in consequence, he
will be absent for some time, but he is coming back.'
'What,' she inquired calmly, 'did you talk about?'
All this time they were dancing, smoothly and with the indefatigable
rhythm of skilled feet.
'It has come to my knowledge,' he replied, 'that gossip has connected
the names of Alice and Trist, and there are foolish stories going
about concerning Huston, who is said to be searching for Trist with
the intention of shooting him. Trist has gone to bring Huston here;
they will come into the room arm-in-arm. We arranged it, and I think
no further contradiction is required.'
Had she winced he would have been aware of it, because his arm was
round her yielding waist, and her hand was within his. She turned
her head slightly as if to assist him in steering successfully
through a narrow place; and he, glancing down, saw that her face was
as white as marble, but her step never faltered. She drew a deep
unsteady breath, and spoke in a grateful voice.
'It is very good of you ... both,' she said simply.
They continued dancing for some time before the silence was again
broken.
'Some day, Brenda,' whispered Hicks, while preserving with immaculate
skill an indifferent face before the world, 'I will tell you why I
was forced to interfere even at the risk of displeasing you. Some
other time, not now.'
A peculiar contraction seemed to pass over her face, and it was only
with an effort that she smiled while acknowledging a passing bow from
a girl-acquaintance.
Soon afterwards she began talking cheerily on a safer subject; and
despite all his experience, all his cleverness, William Hicks could
not bring the conversation round again to the topic she had shelved.
Her spirits seemed to rise as the evening progressed. There was a
task before her, the dimensions of which were soon apparent. Almost
everyone in the room had heard something of Alice, and the only
contradiction possible, until Trist and Huston arrived, lay in the
brave carriage of a cheerful face before them all.
There was a clock upon the mantelpiece of a small room where
refreshments were set forth, and the merits of this secluded retreat
were retailed by her to more than one of her partners. The pointers
of the dainty timepiece seemed to crawl--once or twice she listened
for the beat of the pendulum. Midnight came, and one o'clock. Still
there was no sign of Theodore Trist. At two o'clock her chaperon
suggested going home, and Brenda was compelled to apologize
laughingly to several grumbling young men, who attempted to cut off
her retreat at the door.
The spacious hall was full of departing guests; through the open door
came the hoarse confusing shouts of policemen and footmen. Brenda
pressed her hands together beneath her opera-cloak and shivered.
Theodore Trist never returned, and his absence passed unnoticed by
all except William Hicks, who waited till the end.
END OF VOL. II.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.