CHAPTER IV.

AN INTERVIEW.

In his inner life--his domestic environments--Theodore Trist was not a comfortable man. There are some who, possessing luxurious ways, seem to pass through the trials and petty woes of life with more comfort than others. This is, moreover, accomplished without the expenditure of greater means. Many are wanting in this power of alleviating crude environments, which, however, goes usually with a very small capability of adapting one's self to circumstances.

Trist was essentially an adaptable fellow. He never seemed to notice that the sheet was shorter than the blanket, for instance. Nor did the fact affect his equanimity that he had to drink his tea without milk or sugar. It was not that he failed to perceive these things. His calling and his training alike made it necessary that he should. Nor was it that his mind was above such trifles; nothing was so small, so trivial, as to be beneath his attention. The fact was, that his mental and physical discipline was such that in recording hardship he had come to look upon it as an excuse for so much printed matter, a thing to write about, but of which it was useless to complain. He was an observer, not an autobiographer; he recorded the hardships of others, and spoke little of his own. On the Danube, and later in Plevna, they called him the 'philosopher.'

It has been said that women possess the faculty of stamping upon the rooms in which they dwell the impress of their own individuality. Surely this power is not confined to the weaker sex alone. A man surrounds himself with little individualities as well. He is more individual in his characteristics and in his way of living. Why! no two men fill their pipes alike. Some there are who stuff the tobacco in hastily; others (the luxurious type) linger over the operation lovingly. The one has no sense of anticipatory enjoyment; the other is already enjoying his smoke before the pipe is lighted.

Theodore Trist's room, in Jermyn Street, was very like himself. There was an indefinite feeling of readiness about it, as if at a moment's notice it could be vacated, or turned into a bedroom or a meeting-house. There were no curiosities lying about, no mementoes, no souvenirs of battle-field, no mysterious Eastern jewellery from poetic harems, such as lady-novelists tell us we who wander love to have about us when we loll in divans, and smoke narghilis at home in England. Looking round bedroom or sitting-room, one's first feeling was a conviction that in ten minutes the dweller therein could remove all trace of himself and his belongings. In a word, the rooms were lamentably bare. It is a pity to have to record this, because no man in the fiction of the day, having travelled in foreign lands, is allowed to live afterwards like an English gentleman. It has been the good fortune of the present writer to meet some whose lives have been spent, as it were, in portmanteaus, under tents, and under the open sky; but never, except in ladies' novels, has he met a globe-trotter, a big game-hunter, or a wandering journalist, who, when in England, wears Turkish slippers, an Eastern bernouse-like gown, and no waistcoat. Such individuals are a race apart; and in some respects they resemble a pug-dog, who barks much and bites little. In the matter of travel, their imaginations wander farther afield than their slippered feet.

Trist's readiness to depart at any moment was a literal fact, although he tried to disguise it. He rather prided himself upon the home-like appearance of his tobacco-scented sitting-room; but the habit of being always ready, of knowing exactly where everything was to be found, and putting all things in their right places, was so strong in him that a sailor-like neatness was his only conception of human comfort.

Instead, therefore, of adorning his apartment with flowers and ornaments in anticipation of Mrs. Wylie's visit, he committed the Philistine error of looking round to see that nothing was lying about without visible and obvious excuse. The task of making tidy was not a long one. Before going out to dine at a small and self-abnegating club he had dressed so that he might be ready for the widow's visit. There had also been a long and serious consultation with the landlady about tea at eight-thirty; and this feast had been royally prepared, regardless of expense in the luxurious matter of cream from the dairy round the corner.

There was a gravity almost amounting to solemnity in the war-correspondent's demeanour as he sat awaiting his gracious visitor.

'I am afraid,' he reflected, with characteristic calmness, 'that the good lady is not pleased with me.'

This fear no doubt interfered to some extent with his enjoyment of a French newspaper, which he had just freed from its small coloured wrapper. He did not appear to be deeply interested in the _Echos de Paris_, of which the wit failed to call a smile into his solemn eyes. It is, in fact, a matter of conjecture to me whether he had read anything at all (with understanding) when the rarely-used front-door bell tinkled dimly in the beetle-haunted basement. Trist laid aside the newspaper, and opened the door of his room just as the stairs began to creak under the comfortable step of Mrs. Wylie.

'Well, Theo,' said the good lady cheerily. 'Good-evening!'

Trist shook hands very gravely. He was at the moment deeply immersed in doubts as to whether his visitor should be shown to his bedroom with a view of removing her bonnet before his shaving-glass, or whether she would prefer keeping her out-door apparel with her. As might have been expected, Mrs. Wylie was equal to the occasion, and settled the question at once.

'I will just open my sealskin,' she said, suiting the action to the word. 'It is bitterly cold outside. What a nice fire, but ... what a bare room, Theo! Have you no sense of comfort?'

'Bare!' replied Trist, looking round in amazement; 'I never noticed it.'

'Naturally you would not. As long as it looks like a barrack-room, and the furniture suggests the luxuries of camp-life, you are happy, I suppose?'

Trist laughed in a fill-up-the-gap style, and busied himself with a tea-pot, once the property of his landlady's grandmother, and correspondingly ugly. This versatile man's ways were not new to Mrs. Wylie; but she smiled to herself, in the way people smile when they are busy collecting materials for a good story, as she watched him pour out the tea and manœuvre the kettle. It did not seem to enter his head that four men out of five would have asked the lady's assistance in such a case. Perhaps (for women note such things) she also remembered afterwards that he had no need to inquire after her taste respecting cream and sugar, but acted boldly, yet unobtrusively, upon knowledge previously acquired.

'And now,' she said in a determined way when the cups were filled, 'light your pipe.'

'I do not think,' answered he with mock hesitation, 'that such a proceeding would be strictly approved of by the laws of etiquette.'

'It is etiquette, my friend, to do exactly what a lady may wish. I would rather you smoked, because I want to talk to you seriously--a pastime I rarely indulge in--and I think tobacco would assist a contemplative attention on your part. I almost wish I could smoke myself. It would facilitate matters.'

In ratio to the increase of the lady's gravity her companion's spirits seemed to rise.

'After that,' he replied gaily, 'I am dumb, and ... light my strongest pipe.'

This threat he carried out to the letter. While Mrs. Wylie sipped her excellent tea and appeared to be searching in her mind for a suitable manner of beginning that which she had to say, he continued to puff softly, preserving a characteristic silence, and vouchsafing that contemplative attention which she had desired.

'Theo,' said Mrs. Wylie at length with an intonation upon the single word which, by some subtle means, caused him to lay aside all attempts at hilarity.

'Yes?' he replied, removing the pipe from his lips and looking across the table at her with meek inquiry.

Most people would have thought from his tone and manner that he was ready and willing to accede at once to any proposition, to follow any course of action, to obey without complaint or hesitation; but, as hinted on a previous page, Mrs. Wylie knew the ways of this man.

She did not meet his glance, but continued to gaze in a practically-abstracted way into the fender, while with one hand she smoothed a corner of her sealskin jacket.

'You will admit,' she continued at length with apparent irrelevance, 'that every action, or every course of action, is liable to several constructions.'

His reply was ready at once--a fact worth noticing in a man whose exterior habits would have led most observers to a belief that his mental method was slow.

'Yes; but the various constructions could not well be taken into account in anticipation. The attempt would be a death-blow to all action.'

The astute lady knew that she was understood, so she moved on in the same drift.

'I admit that,' she said; 'but ... in a course of procedure, the construction put upon the first actions should be allowed to carry some weight in subsequent proceedings. If ... I mean ... it is deleterious to others, the course might well be amended.'

Trist acknowledged the ability of this argument without enthusiasm.

'Nevertheless,' he said after a pause, 'people _have_ mapped out for themselves a course of action, _have_ held to it despite adverse criticism, and have in the end been triumphant.'

Mrs. Wylie now looked up rather keenly.

'Then,' she said significantly, 'yours _is_ a course of action, and not mere idle drifting with the tide.'

Trist shrugged his shoulders, and met her glance with calm, impenetrable eyes. He was in a corner, because silence was naught but confession.

'Am I,' he inquired imperturbably, 'the sort of man to drift?'

'No,' said Mrs. Wylie; 'you are not. But, Theo, are you sure that you are doing right? I don't want to interfere in the slightest degree with your action so long as it concerns only yourself. You are quite capable of looking after your own affairs, I know, quite sure of yourself, utterly reliant upon your own strength of purpose; but I want you to remember that women cannot be so self-dependent as men. However strong they may be, however capable, however brilliant, they _must_ give in a little to the usages and customs of society, they must consider the praise or blame of their neighbours. Such praise or blame is part of their life, an important factor in their happiness or sorrow, and all the woman's rights in the world will make no difference.'

Trist had left his seat during this speech. He went to the fireplace and removed the kettle, which was boiling with mistaken ardour, to a cooler spot. He stood erect upon the hearthrug, and looked down into the pleasant woman's face upturned towards him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and there was on his face an encouraging smile. Seeing it, the widow continued:

'I came to-night, Theo, because I wanted to come to some understanding with you, even at the risk of being considered meddlesome and unnecessarily anxious.'

'That risk is small, Mrs. Wylie.'

'Thank you. Now I am going to be frank with you--not with the view of forcing a reciprocal frankness upon you, but because it is the best method of saying difficult things. You disapprove of obtrusive frankness, I know.'

Trist laughed, and did not deny this accusation. Mrs. Wylie's cup was empty, and he made a step forward and took it from her hand with grave courtesy.

'Will you have some more tea?' he inquired incidentally.

'Thanks; I will.'

There was a short silence, during which the young fellow deftly manipulated the teapot.

'The girls,' said the lady reflectively, as she stirred her second cup, 'are, in a certain manner, cast upon my hands. I am morally responsible for their good name. Owing to an unfortunate chain of circumstances, they occupy at the present moment rather a prominent position in idle conversation. They cannot be too careful--you understand...?'

She stopped short because Trist's movements, which were rather restless, told her plainly enough that he had already got a long way in advance of her thoughts.

'You wish,' he said, 'to forbid me the house just now.'

Mrs. Wylie was not improving the texture of the lace handkerchief she continued to twist round her finger. For some seconds she made no answer. She almost hoped that by waiting she would effect a slight breach in the impenetrable wall of reserve with which this man seemed to find pleasure in surrounding himself. In this, however, she was disappointed. His power of unembarrassed silence was unique in a Western-born man.

'Had it been anyone else,' she said at length, 'I should have been obliged to do so. With you it is quite another matter. You are different from other men, Theo. _I_ know that, but the general public does not, and consequently judges you by the same standard as it judges others.'

'They are quite right in doing that. I have a great respect for the general public.'

The widow looked rather sceptical respecting the latter statement, but did not raise the question.

'It is not,' she continued gravely, 'from that point of view that I look at it. Indeed, I should be inclined in any case to leave it to you, because I think that you are gifted with a great strength of purpose. No consideration of public censure, public blame, or public commentary would force me to speak to you upon a subject which I honestly believe to be better left undiscussed. I believe that every man, Theo, every woman, every youth, and every girl, knows his or her own business best. I believe we are all capable of managing our own affairs better than the kindest of our neighbours could manage them for us. In this you agree with me--is it not so?'

'I thought,' replied Theo, without meeting her glance, 'that that theory was mine. I must have learnt it unconsciously from you.'

'It has always been my conviction that you are a man singularly capable of managing your own affairs, and in my own sex I have fancied that I know a counterpart...'

'Yes?...' interrogated Trist in a semi-tone, divining that he was expected to do so.

'Brenda!' said Mrs. Wylie simply.

She had crossed her hands on her lap, and as her lips framed the girl's name, she raised her head slowly and fixed her pleasant, keen glance on him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, leaning lightly against the corner of the mantelpiece. The single gas-jet of the old-fashioned chandelier cast a most uncompromising light upon his face; his eyes were raised, and he seemed to be contemplating the invention of a new burner.

Without detracting anything from the scrutiny to which she was subjecting him, she continued speaking.

'Now...' she said with some energy, 'Brenda is miserable.'

For some seconds his face was perfectly motionless. His eyelids did not even move. It was a triumph of inscrutability. Then he moved his lips, pursing them up in a manner expressive of thoughtfulness and doubt combined.

'Why?'

'That,' replied Mrs. Wylie, turning away, 'is exactly what I want to know.'

Trist did not appear to be in a position to supply the required information. The conversation was becoming decidedly strained, and Mrs. Wylie, while feeling her sang-froid gradually warming, as it were, noticed that there was plenty of staying-power in her companion still. He did not at that moment look like a man about to be betrayed into a hasty exposition of his inward thoughts or feelings. On motives of prudence she therefore relieved the strain.

'Brenda,' she said, 'has been terribly worried by Alice, I know. It seems to me that if you kept out of their way for some little time it would be conducive to a more peaceful frame of mind all round--do you see?'

'Yes; I was thinking of going over to Paris. If there is a war in the spring, I shall have work to do for one or two French papers, and it is best to have these things arranged in advance.'

Mrs. Wylie winced. It seemed as if he had dragged in the unpleasant little monosyllable with the purpose of reminding her of his profession. By some feminine course of logic she had reasoned herself into a belief that Theo Trist would go to no more campaigns, and now she grew pale at the thought that he was still a war-correspondent--she, who prided herself upon her freedom from that gnawing sorrow called anxiety. The readiness with which he acceded to her half hint that his absence would be an advantage was completely marred by the mention of a possible war, and she relented at once, seeking some other expedient than banishment.

'Would you go if there were another war?' she asked.

'Yes,' he replied coolly.

She made no comment, and the subject was dropped. She had made this visit with the full intention of coming to a definite knowledge of facts with Trist. Her chief desire had been to find out whether there was any understanding between Alice Huston and himself such as the world assigned; but in this she had failed. Theo would tell her nothing more than he chose, and she recognised in him a match in the matter of social diplomacy. His motives were a puzzle to her; she could not even come to a reasonable conclusion concerning his feelings. It was possible that he loved Alice Huston, but it was also possible that he loved Brenda. Again, she had no definite reason for supposing that he loved either of them, because his manner to both was that of a friend. However, the clear object of her visit had been attained--namely, that Trist should absent himself for some time, and with this she was content, looking to further enlightenment in the future.