CHAPTER II.

BREAKING IT.

Like one in a dream Theodore Trist passed out into the narrow street somewhat later. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning; the ball was scarcely over, and yet to this unimaginative man it seemed ages since he had spoken with William Hicks, listening in a vague way to the swinging waltz music all the while. When he reached his quiet rooms, he was almost startled at the sight of his own dress-clothes, spotless shirt-front, and unobtrusive flower. He had quite forgotten that these garments of pleasure were beneath his overcoat. His night's work had not been in keeping with dress-clothes.

'I will think,' he said to himself, 'how it is to be broken to everybody to-morrow.' And with great serenity he went to bed.

Sleep soon came to him despite the incidents crowded into the last few hours. It is a habit with some people to lie awake at night and ponder over their woes. They regard this as a solemn duty, a homage to be paid to the Goddess of Tears; and they never fail to mention their melancholy vigil to someone or other more or less connected with the trouble next morning. It is merely habit, and of no more value than the custom of mentioning with lowered voice the name of one who had been dead twenty years, and whose memory can after that space of time assuredly be awakened without such poignant grief as is considered its due.

Trist was not one of these. He valued human life at no very great price, and as (after all has been said and done, believed and repudiated) Death is the greatest sorrow we have to face, he was perhaps a little callous. He made no pretence of disguising the fact that Captain Huston's sudden, and what is usually denominated 'shocking,' demise was little short of a release for all concerned with his existence; and he did not even fall into the common error of looking upon all past sins as cleansed away by the very ordinary and easy method of terminating their career. It is just as well for some of us, methinks, that the good old Egyptian custom, of inscribing upon the lid or side of our sarcophagus a full and authentic history of the life terminating therein, has died out. They had a nasty habit too, those tactless ancients, of sculpturing a speaking likeness upon the lid, or erecting a statue near at hand, so that at the Great Judgment the wandering soul could single out without trouble its rightful body.

Death, however sudden, could not in those days endow with many virtues, many charms, and great personal comeliness, as it endows us now. I sometimes think of those old Egyptian spirits with a gentle sympathy. How disappointed some of them will be when they stand face to face with the true likeness of the body in which they played out their brief innings three thousand years ago! When, too, they read the uncompromising hieroglyphs, there will be unpleasant awakenings and perhaps a little scoffing from those who have drawn cleaner sarcophagi.

So Trist slept peacefully, with a philosophic reflection that Huston would never have done much good in the world. The present writer once heard a man, in all sincerity and all faith, console himself with the thought that if he was not fit to die, the probabilities were that he never would be fitter. This philosopher was a godless sailor, and he made the remark in answer to a chaffing observation advanced by a more fortunate mate that he would certainly be drowned because he possessed no life-belt. The ship was sinking, the boats were smashed, and there were other things to do just then than weigh this philosophy in the scales of reason; but having more leisure at a later period, I came to think over it, and have come to the conclusion that there was much within that reflection that is worth consideration. Let us, however, avoid the quicksands of a theological controversy.

* * * *

It has not hitherto been mentioned that Mrs. Wylie possessed one or two vices of a comparatively harmless description. The most prominent of these was unpunctuality at the breakfast-table. This is a most comfortable vice, and quite in keeping with the placid and easy-going nature of the lady. The best woman I have ever known is invariably late for breakfast; her hair is white now, but long may she continue arriving after time! There is someone else who is most lamentably unpunctual any time before ten o'clock antemeridian. She is not a woman yet, but she has begun well. I may mention that I do not at all object to pouring out my own coffee.

Brenda, being of a more active nature, was usually down first, and the fact of having been out to a ball the night before rarely acted as a deterrent. It thus came about that she was alone at the breakfast-table when Trist was announced. It was a dainty, womanly little meal set out on the snowy cloth, and as yet untouched. Brenda was in the act of opening the newspaper when Trist entered the room. She did not remember until afterwards that, as he shook hands, he took the journal from her and laid it aside. Perhaps she noted the action at the time, but he was never in the habit of acting just like other men, and the peculiarity of this little movement did not strike her sufficiently to remain upon her memory as a distinct incident.

'Ah!' she said gaily; 'you think it prudent to strike while the iron is hot -I being the iron. I am not red-hot, but quite warm enough to be unpleasant, and just too hard to be struck. Please explain why you never claimed the three dances you asked me to keep?'

Trist smiled in his gravest way--a mere reflection of her bright gaiety.

'That is what I came to explain,' he said.

He passed her standing at the table, and went towards the fire. There he drew off his gloves in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.

'Theo,' said Brenda, 'have you had breakfast?'

'Yes, thanks!'

His manner was habitually misleading, and it was quite impossible for her to see that he had bad news to impart. His strong, purposeful hands were always steady, which is somewhat exceptional; for the fingers betray emotion when the eyes are dumb.

'Rather,' she continued lightly, 'than break my faith to you, I planted myself, so to speak, among the wallflowers, where I was content to bloom in solitude.'

'Through the whole dance?' he asked meaningly.

'Well ... not quite. When I was satisfied that you were not there, I danced with someone else.'

He smiled, and said nothing.

Brenda moved one or two things upon the breakfast-table--things which in no way required moving. For the first time in her life she was beginning to feel ill at ease with this man. For the first time she dreaded vaguely to hear him speak, because she was not sure that he was at ease himself.

At last he began, and there was a strained thrill in his voice as if it were an effort to open his lips.

'It has been my ... fate ... Brenda, to be with you or near you during most of the incidents in your life ...' here he paused.

'Yes,' she murmured unsteadily.

'I have,' he continued, 'perhaps, been of some small use to you. I have been happy enough at times to tell you good news, and ... and once or twice I have been the messenger of evil.... Now...'

'Now,' interrupted Brenda suddenly, as she came towards him, for a light had broken upon her--'now you have bad news, Theo? Surely you are not afraid of telling it to me!'

'I don't exactly know,' he answered slowly, laying his hand upon the white fingers resting on his sleeve, 'whether it is good news or bad. Huston is dead!'

She had continued smiling bravely into his eyes until the last words were spoken, then suddenly she turned her face away. He watched the colour fade from her cheek, slowly sinking downward until her throat was like marble. Then she withdrew her hand deliberately from his touch, as if there had been evil in it. After a moment she turned again and looked keenly at him with wondering, horror-struck eyes.

'Then,' she murmured monotonously, 'Alice is ... a widow.'

It was a strange thing to say, and she had no definite conception of the train of thought prompting the remark. He looked at her in a curious, puzzled way, like a man who is near a truth, but fears to prove his proximity.

'Does she know?' she asked suddenly, rousing herself to the necessity of prompt action.

'No. I have not your aunt's address in Cheltenham.'

Brenda looked at the clock upon the mantelpiece, a reliable mechanism, which kept remarkable time considering its feminine environments.

'Mrs. Wylie will be here in a moment; we will then consider about the telegram. In the meantime ... tell me when it happened, and how?'

'It happened at two o'clock this morning ... suddenly.'

Brenda looked up at the last word, although it was spoken quite gently.

'Suddenly...?'

'Yes. It ... he shot himself with a revolver ... by accident!'

The man's gentle inscrutable eyes fell before Brenda's gaze. He moved uneasily, and turned away, apparently much interested in the ornaments upon the mantelpiece.

'Were you present at the time?'

'No. I was downstairs. He was in his bedroom.'

'Tell me,' said the girl mechanically, 'what was he doing with the revolver?'

Trist turned slowly and faced her. There was no hesitation in his glance now; his eyes looked straight into hers with a deliberate calm meaning. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

'Who knows?' he murmured, still watching her face.

There flitted across his features the mere ghost of a deprecating smile, which was answered somewhat wanly by her. Women, I have observed, never laugh at danger as men do. They are indifferent to it, or they dread it undisguisedly, but they do not at any time despise it.

When at length Brenda turned away she pressed her lips together as if to moisten them, and there was a convulsive movement in her throat. They understood each other thoroughly.

'There will, of course,' said Trist presently, 'be an inquest. It is, however, quite clear that, being left for a moment alone, he rose from his bed in a fit of temporary insanity, and having possessed himself of a revolver (possibly for suicidal purposes), he shot himself by accident.'

Brenda had crossed the room to the window, where she stood with her back towards her companion.

'Yes!' she murmured absently.

She was swaying a little from side to side, and her face was raised in an unnatural way. Trist stood upon the hearthrug, with his elbow resting on the mantelpiece. He was watching her attentively.

'I have,' he said somewhat hastily, as if it were an afterthought, 'some influence with the newspapers.'

Of this she took absolutely no notice. It would appear that she had not heard his voice. Then Trist moved restlessly. After a moment's hesitation he lifted his arm from the mantelpiece with the apparent intention of going towards her. He even made two or three steps in that direction--steps that were inaudible, for his tread was singularly light. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Wylie came into the room.

'Theo!' said the lady, with rather less surprise than might have been expected.

In a moment she had perceived that there was something wrong. The very atmosphere of the room was tense. These two strong young people had either been quarrelling or making love. Of that Mrs. Wylie was certain. Her entrance had perhaps been malapropos; but she could not go back now. Moreover, she was the sort of woman who never errs in retreating. Her method of fighting the world was from a strong position calmly held, or by a steady sure advance.

'Good-morning, Theo!' she said, with that deliberate cheeriness which is the deepest diplomacy. 'This is an early visit. Have you come to discover the laziness of the land?'

'No,' answered Theo simply.

Then he turned and looked towards Brenda in a way which plainly said that she was expected to come forward into the breach he had effected.

Brenda came. Her face was not so grave as Trist's, but her lips were colourless.

'Theo has come,' she said, 'with bad news. We must telegraph to Alice at once. Alfred Huston had ... an accident last night.'

'What?' inquired Mrs. Wylie, turning to Trist.

'He is dead--he shot himself by accident,' replied the war-correspondent.

Mrs. Wylie stood for some moments in her comfortable, placid way, rubbing one smooth hand over the other. She did not appear to be looking anywhere in particular, but in reality no movement of Brenda's, however slight, escaped her notice.

'And now,' she said, after a weary little sigh, 'I suppose she will discover how much she loved him all along...'

Trist made a little movement, but the widow turned her calm gaze towards him, and spoke on, with a certain emphasis:

'Alice has in reality always loved Alfred Huston. This little misunderstanding would never have arisen had there not been love on both sides. I have known it all along. You can trust an old woman on such matters. This is a very, very sad ending to it all.'

'Yes,' assented Theo meekly; 'it is very sad.'

Brenda had turned away. She was standing at the window in her favourite attitude there--with her arms outstretched, her fingers resting on the broad window-sill among the ornamental fern-baskets and flower-pots.

Mrs. Wylie walked to the fireplace.

'Let me think,' she said, half to herself, 'what must be done.'

She knew that Trist was watching her, waiting for his instructions in his emotionless, almost indifferent, way. (If it were not for a certain moral laziness in the male temperament, women would be able to do very little with men.) Then the widow met his gaze. She made a scarcely-perceptible movement towards the door with her eyelids. With a slight nod he signified his comprehension of the signal.

'I must,' he said, 'go back now to ... to Huston's rooms. Will you communicate with Alice?'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Wylie simply.

Without further explanation he went towards the door, glancing at Brenda as he passed. Mrs. Wylie followed him.

'We are better without you just now,' she whispered in the passage. 'Write me full particulars, and wait to hear from me before you come back.'