CHAPTER XI.

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.'