CHAPTER VI.

THEODORE TRIST IS AROUSED.

In a quiet street leading out of the Boulevard de la Madeleine, there is a large red-stone house with golden letters, each the size of a man, between the windows of the second and third floors. These letters spell a three-syllabled word, which is known in all the civilized world as the name of the greatest journal in France. For steadiness there is no newspaper in all the new republic to rival it. No false news was ever published within the walls of that red-stone house, nor sent forth to the French-speaking world from its portals. Its correspondence is conducted with that apparent lavishness which is the secret of successful journalism in these days. Good pay to good men is a motto that might well be inscribed in golden letters beneath the window of the second floor. There is upon the first story of this house a large room furnished somewhat in the style adopted by English clubs. That is to say, the chairs, tables, and bookcases are of a heavier type than is usually found in private houses. Unlike most French rooms the floor is entirely covered with a Brussels carpet. There are several small oak tables furnished with blotting-pad, inkstand, and pen-tray. I regret to say that cigarette-ash and cigarette ends are habitually thrown upon the floor, although numerous receptacles are provided on the larger table standing in the centre of the room.

This apartment serves as an anteroom to the offices of the editor and sub-editor, and on some days in the week there may be seen an assembly of all that there is of journalistic and literary talent in France.

One evening in January, Theodore Trist was standing near the huge white-china stove talking with a group of long-haired confrères of the ready pen. They were laughing--not in that airy, careless way which is generally considered by Englishmen as the prerogative of their Gallic cousins--but softly, and without much genuine amusement. There were others in the room, seated at the smaller tables, writing, which would account for the lowered tones of the group round the stove.

Presently a liveried servant came towards them.

'Monsieur Trist,' he ventured, standing at a respectful distance from the brilliant group.

A silence fell over the talkers, while Theo Trist turned and asked by whom he was wanted.

'It is,' replied the servant, 'a _portier_ of the Hôtel Bristol, inquiring if monsieur was in Paris at present.'

'And you said...?'

'I said that I would inquire.'

A young Frenchman, whose poems were charming all readers just then, laughed merrily.

'Jules,' he said, with a sly glance towards the Englishman, 'is discreet.'

'It would never do,' interpolated an older man, with grave approval, 'if Jules were not so. This is the home of discretion. Who knows that this _portier_ is a _portier_ at all? Is it not easy to buy a hat-band with the word "Bristol" embroidered upon it? He may be an emissary from some journal of the Boulevards to collect information--the material for a _canard_--price two sous.'

Trist smiled meekly, and moved away with the servant at his heels.

'_Ce_ Trist,' continued the older writer, when he was out of earshot, 'cannot come and go as we can--we who write but romances and idle paragraphs. It is a political power beneath that broad forehead, behind those woman's eyes. He smells of war. It is the stormy petrel, my friends.'

'I will see him,' Trist had said to the servant as they crossed the room together. 'But do not say who I am.'

Jules bowed in grave reproach at the implied possibility of an indiscretion.

'In the small room, monsieur?'

'Yes; in the small room.'

When the _portier_ of the Hôtel Bristol entered the small room, he found a gentleman seated at a table writing.

'You seek Monsieur Trist?'

'Yes, monsieur.'

'For a public or a private purpose?'

The _portier_ had received his instructions.

'It is private, monsieur, quite private. It is but a small word from a lady in the hotel.'

'An English lady?'

'An English lady, monsieur; a widow, I believe. A Madame Huston, on the second floor.'

Trist held out his hand.

'Give it to me,' he said gently; 'I am Theodore Trist. The answer shall be despatched presently. You need not wait.'

As the messenger left the room, Trist broke open the envelope and unfolded a dainty note. He read it carefully, and then leant back leisurely in his chair. There was a peculiar expression upon his face, half annoyed, half puzzled. And (why should it be withheld?) beneath the sun-burn on his cheeks there was a slight change of colour. Theodore Trist experienced a strange sense of warmth in his countenance, and wondered what it meant. He was ignorant of the fact that his cheek was attempting to blush. From the expression of his eyes, however, this was not a sign of pleasure. He was ashamed of that note, and after the lapse of a few minutes he rose and threw it into the stove, the brass door of which he opened deftly with the toe of his boot.

There are times in our lives when we have cause to feel ashamed of human passions, and even of human nature. Even if we be optimists, we can scarcely pass through existence without finding that human nature is a sorry business after all. It is only right that we should experience a sense of shame when brought face to face with such passions as jealousy or hatred, but God forbid that we should ever be ashamed of love! There is not too much dignity in our daily lives, and therefore let us hold one factor of it sacred. Let us leave untouched the dignity of love. If there be one seed of shame in the flower, the disease will grow and flourish until the bloom dies away entirely. From the cradle to the grave we have but one pure and holy thing in life. We are never free from it--no spot is beyond its reach--no place is too sacred, and no hovel is too miserable for it to enter there. On the battle-field, and in church, while laughing, while weeping, while singing, while sighing, we think of love. And you, my young brother, my gentle sister, who have such thoughts as these, cherish them and keep them holy; fence them round with noble efforts; keep away the canker-worm of shame. In all truth these thoughts are better than great wealth, more profitable than fame, higher than exceeding great gifts. We, also, who are farther on the road, have known what such thoughts are, and in looking back now over the trodden path we see one sunny spot--one golden field where no great trees, no gaudy flowers grow, but where a holy peace has reigned; where Ambition found no resting-place and Covetousness no root. To have passed through that meadow was sufficient reason for the creation of a life. Its pathway was very pleasant, and the scent of its modest flowers reaches us now. Those who have once loved truly have not lived in vain, even though they pass quite away and leave no trace behind.

Theodore Trist was by nature a remarkably self-contained man, and his life of late years had brought this characteristic to an exceptional pitch. He had acquired the habit of thinking, of writing, of working with a sublime disregard to the chance of his environments. On the battle-field, and amidst the roar of artillery, it had been necessary for him to write details of a successful march through fertile valleys, where the very atmosphere breathed of peace alone. In the gorgeous apartment of an Emperor's palace, seated in his rough, worn clothes, hat on head, booted, spurred, and armed, he had penned such a description of a battle, fought two days before, as will ever stand out unrivalled in the annals of warfare.

And now in the heart of gay Paris, in this neglected little room, he sat down before the glowing stove, while beneath his feet, like the pulse of an ocean steamer, the mighty press throbbed continuously, beating out its news, speaking great things and powerful words to all mankind. But these sounds he heeded not. He was thinking of other things. For half an hour he remained thus absorbed, and the result of those thirty minutes of thought went with him through life. At last he rose and looked at his watch.

'It will never do,' he said to himself, 'to funk it. I must put a stop to this. If she makes it so plain to me, the inference is that Mrs. Wylie and Brenda know something about it, or, at the least, suspect. Whatever comes in the future, I want to save Brenda that.'

At seven o'clock that evening Theodore Trist presented himself at the Hôtel Bristol, and inquired for the private salon occupied by Colonel Martyn. A small boy led the way upstairs without a word, and after a hurried tap, ushered the war-correspondent into a dimly-lighted apartment. A single lamp burnt upon a small table in the centre of the room, casting a faint pink glow all round. Mrs. Huston rose from a low chair near the table, and laid aside a copy of the French newspaper by which Trist's sole services were retained. She was alone, and there was in her graceful movements a scarcely perceptible self-consciousness, from which Trist conceived the passing notion that, although no mention had been made of it in the note received by him, he was not likely to see either Mrs. Martyn or her hen-pecked husband that evening.

The young widow was of course dressed in black, which, moreover, was relieved by no ornament; but although there was crape on the skirt, that unbecoming material was sparingly worn. The dress was opened slightly on the whitest throat imaginable, and the sleeves were loose below the elbow. Trist acknowledged inwardly that this woman had never looked so lovely as she did at that moment, with the glow of the lamp on her white throat and hands, a faint conscious blush upon her cheek, her golden hair gleaming softly.

He advanced to meet her with his impenetrable friendliness. Ah! it is those grave faces which we can never read.

'I was afraid,' said Mrs. Huston, 'that you were not in Paris ... or that even if you were you would not come.'

Trist took a chair which she had indicated with a wave of the hand.

'I have been hanging on,' he said, 'from day to day....'

Mrs. Huston looked at him with an expectant, half-inviting smile--a smile which Brenda loathed.

'For no particular reason,' continued the journalist with deliberate stolidity. 'I have fallen in with an interesting lot of men, and there is nothing to call me away.'

The young widow's expression of countenance altered from one of coquetry to well-simulated but nevertheless fictitious interest.

At this moment a waiter appeared with the information that madame was served.

'Colonel and Mrs. Martyn have unfortunately been called away this evening, so you will have to content yourself with me,' observed Mrs. Huston innocently, as she led the way down to the luxurious _salle-à-manger_.

'That,' answered Trist perfunctorily, 'will be no hardship.'

The tone in which he said this almost made it a question as to whether it would not have been politer to have kept silent.

During dinner they talked easily and pleasantly, as behoved two persons knowing the world and its ways. Occasionally they sparred in a subtle underhand way which no listener could have detected, Mrs. Huston attacking, Trist parrying as usual.

'There are,' said the lady when the waiter finally left them, 'cigarettes upstairs. The Colonel always smokes and has his coffee there. Will you do the same?'

Trist bowed silently as he rose from his seat.

When they reached the salon she went to a side-table, and returned presently with a box of cigarettes. This she opened and held out to him with both hands. There was in her movements a marvellous combination of girlish grace and womanly 'finish,' and her attitude as she stood before him with her white arms outstretched, her head thrown back, and her glowing eyes seeking his, was perfect in its artistic conception.

'Please smoke,' she said in a low voice.

He did not respond at once, and, seeing his hesitation, she continued rather hurriedly:

'Surely you need not stand on ceremony with _me_, Theo? We ... we have been friends all our lives.'

He smiled in a slow, grave way as he took a cigarette.

'Yes,' he answered, 'we know each other pretty well.'

While he struck a match and lighted his cigarette she turned away and took a low chair, swinging the rustling skirt of her dress aside with inimitable grace. It happened that there was a seat close to it, while no other was within convenient reach. Trist remained standing before the fireplace, where some logs burned fragrantly.

'It is a pity,' she said, looking up at him in a curious, half-embarrassed way, 'that we are not cousins. I almost ... wish we were. The world would have nothing to say about our friendship then.'

Trist looked at the burnt end of his cigarette with careful criticism.

'Has the world anything to say ... about it now?'

She shrugged her beautiful shoulders, and arranged the brooch at her breast before replying in a low tone.

'_I_ don't care if it has.'

'What does it say?' asked the journalist, with imperturbable cruelty.

By way of reply she raised her eyes to his. A faint cloud of tobacco-smoke floated upwards, passed overhead, and left his strange incongruous face exposed to the full light of the shaded lamp. The beautiful eyes searched his features, and I maintain that few men could have looked down at that lovely woman, could have met those pleading eyes, could have ventured within the reach of that subtle feminine influence, unmoved. If Trist was uneasy no outward sign betrayed him; no quiver of the eyelids; no motion of the lips. During some moments there was a tense silence, while these two looked into each other's eyes, probed each other's souls. The veil which hangs round that treasure we all possess--the treasure of an unassailable, illegible, secret individuality--seemed to fall away. Without words they understood each other. Indeed, no words could have explained as that mutual searching glance had done.

Alice Huston knew then that she had met a man--the first in all probability--who was totally impervious to the baleful influence of the charms she had wielded so long, without defining or seeking to define them. She only knew that a turn of her head, a glance of her eyes, a touch of her hand, had been sufficient to work her will upon men. Without theorizing upon sexual influence she had used it unscrupulously, as most women do, and hitherto it had never failed. She was aware that she could lead men who were beyond the reach of the strongest purpose possessed by their own sex without any exercise of her will at all. Her strength lay in physical, not in moral influence. If her beauty failed she had nothing to support her.

And now she sat with interlocked and writhing fingers, gazing upwards at this man, awaiting his will. Her agonized eyes quailed beneath his gentle glance. It is a picture I recommend to the notice of such plain and unwomanly females as love to talk of woman's rights and woman's superior nature, which awaits but the opportunity of asserting itself. Ah, my sisters!--you, the womanly women!--believe me, your greatest earthly happiness lies in love as it is understood now and has been understood since the Lion lay down with the Lamb in that old Garden which we catch glimpses of still over a fence when the love-light is in our eyes.

Trist broke the silence at last, and his voice was hollow, with a singular 'far-off' sound, like the voice of a man speaking in great pain, with an effort.

'If the world has made a mistake, Alice,' he said slowly and impressively, 'I hope to God you have not!'

She made no answer. The power of speech seemed to have left her beautiful lips, which were livid and dry. She rubbed her hands together, palm to palm, in a horribly mechanical manner, which was almost inhuman in its dumb despair. Before her eyes a veil--dull, neutral-tinted, impenetrable--seemed to rise, and her vision failed. The tendons of her lovely throat were tense, like wires, beneath the milky skin.

At length her senses returned, her bosom rose and fell rhythmically, and she looked round the room in a dazed, stupid way like one who has fallen from a height.

She saw it all as in a dream. The conventional furniture of mahogany and deep red velvet, the variegated tablecloth, the hideous gilt clock upon the mantelpiece. Then she looked into the square, open fireplace, where some logs of wood smouldered warmly. Upon one of these, unaffected by the heat, lay the half-burnt cigarette which Theo Trist had thrown away before speaking.

Seeing it, she looked round the room again with drawn and hopeless eyes. Trist was not there. He had left her. There was a simple straightforwardness of action about this man which at times verged upon brutality.

Slowly Alice Huston rose from her chair. For some moments she stood motionless, and then she went to the fireplace, where she remained staring at her own reflection in the mirror, which was only partially hidden by the glass-shade covering the hideous clock.

'And,' she muttered brokenly, as she turned away with clenched fists, 'I used to think that we were not punished upon earth. I wonder how long ... how long ... I shall be able to stand this!'