CHAPTER I.

AT SEA.

One fine day late in the autumn of eighteen hundred and seventy-six, a steamer emerged from the haze that lay over the Atlantic and the northern waters of the Bay of Biscay. Those who were working in the fields behind the lighthouse of the Pointe de Raz saw her approach the land, sight the lighthouse, and then steer outwards again on a course due north through the channel dividing the Ile de Sein from the rocky headland jutting out from this most western point of Europe into the Atlantic.

Those on board the steamer, looking across the blue waters, saw the faint outline of a high broken coast, and all round them a sea divided into races and smooth deep pools large enough to anchor a whole fleet had there been bottom within reach. Islands, islets, and mere rocks; some jutting high up, some nestling low. A dangerous coast, and a splendid fishing-ground.

There were further points of interest on the waters; namely, a whole fleet of sardine-boats from Douarnenez and Audierne, scudding here and there with their bright brown sails, sometimes glowing in the sun, sometimes brooding darkly in the shadow. It was a beautiful picture, because the colours were brilliant; the blue sea gradually merged into bright green, and finished off in the distance with yellow sand or deep-brown cliff. The hills towards Breste, to the north, were faintly outlined in a shadowy haze of blue, while close at hand the long Atlantic sweep came bounding in and broke into dazzling white over the rocks.

On the deck of the steamer the passengers paused in their afternoon promenade, and, leaning their arms on the high rail, contemplated the bright scene with evident satisfaction. The small fishing-boats were of a more British build than most of them had seen for some years. The brown lug-sails were like the sails of an English fishing-boat, and many of these swarthy-faced wanderers had recollections of childhood which came surging into their minds at the sight of a blue sea with a brown sail on it. The high rocky land might well be England, with its neat yellow lighthouse and low-roofed cottages nestling among the scanty foliage and careful cultivation. It was so very different from Madras, so unlike Bombay, so infinitely superior to Hong Kong. The breeze even was different from any that had touched their faces for many a day, and some of them actually felt cold--a sensation almost forgotten.

The captain of this splendid steamer was a gentleman as well as a good sailor, and he endeavoured to make his passengers feel at home while under his care. Therefore he now walked aft and stood beside the chair of a beautiful woman who was always alone, always indifferent, always repelling.

'This is a pretty sight, Mrs. Huston,' he said pleasantly, without looking down at her, but standing beside her chair. He gazed across the water towards the Pointe de Raz, with the good-natured patience of a man who does not intend to be snubbed. Once, during his first voyage as commander, a woman had disappeared from the deck one dark night, and since then the shrewd 'passenger' captain had kept his eye upon pretty women who neither flirted nor quarrelled at sea.

'Yes,' was the indifferent answer; and the sailor's keen gray eyes detected the fact that the fair lashes were never raised.

'It brings the fact before one,' he continued, 'that we are getting near home.'

'Yes,' with pathetic indifference. She did not even make the pretence of looking up, and yet there was no visible interest in the book that lay upon her lap.

The sailor moved a little, and leant his elbows upon the rail, looking round his ship with a critical and all-seeing eye.

'I hope,' he said cheerily, 'that there is no one on board to whom the sight of Eddystone will not give unmitigated pleasure. We shall be there before any of us quite realize that the voyage is drawing to an end.'

Then the beautiful woman made a little effort. The man's kindness of heart was so obvious, his disinterested desire to cheer her voluntary solitude was so gentlemanly in its feeling and so entirely free from any suggestion of inquisitiveness, that she, as a lady, could no longer treat him coldly. All through the voyage this same quiet watchfulness over her comfort (which displayed itself in little passing acts, and never in words) had been exercised by the man, whose most difficult duties were not, perhaps, connected solely with the perils of the sea. She raised her head and smiled somewhat wanly, and there was in the action and in the expression of her eyes a sudden singular resemblance to Brenda Gilholme. But it was a weak copy. There was neither the invincible pluck nor the unusual intellectuality to be discerned.

'I shall be glad,' she said, 'to see England again. Although the voyage has been very pleasant and very ... peaceful. Thanks to you.'

'Not at all,' he answered with breezy cheerfulness; 'I have done remarkably little to make things pleasant. It has been a quiet voyage. We are, I think, a quiet lot this time. Invalids mostly--in body, or mind!'

At these last words the lady looked up suddenly into the captain's pleasant face. In her manner there was a faint suggestion of coquetry--so faint as only to be a very pleasing suggestion. Women who have been flirts in former years have this glance, and they never quite lose it. Personally speaking, I like it. There comes from its influence an innocent and very sociable sensation of familiarity with old and young alike. Someday I shall write a learned disquisition on the art and so-called vice of flirting. Look out for it, reader. Mind and secure an early copy from your stationer. From its thoughtful pages you cannot fail to glean some instructive matter. And ye, oh flirts! buy it up and show it to your friends; for it will be a defence of your maligned species. Flirts are the salt of social existence. A girl who cannot flirt is ... is ... well ... is not the girl for me.

The mariner looked down into the sad face, and smiled in a comprehensive way which seemed in some inexplicable manner to bring them closer together.

'Then,' said the lady, 'as I am in the enjoyment of rude health and likely to last for some years yet, I may infer that you know all about me.'

The captain looked grave.

'I know,' he answered, 'just little enough to be able to reply that I know nothing when people do me the honour of inquiring; and just sufficient to feel that your affairs are better left undiscussed by us.'

She nodded her head, and sat looking at her own hands in a dull, apathetic way. Woman-like, she acted in direct opposition to his most obvious hint.

'I suppose,' she murmured, 'that gossips have been thrashing the whole question out with their customary zest.'

'Ceylon is a hot-bed of gossips. Everyone is up in his neighbour's affairs, and a fine voyage in a comfortable steamer is not calculated to still busy tongues!'

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently, and looked up at him with a slight pout of her pretty lips.

'Who cares?' she asked with well-simulated levity. He, however, did not choose to appear as if he were deceived, which simple feat was well within his histrionic capabilities; for his life was one long succession of petty diplomatic efforts.

'I think,' he said coolly, 'that you have done perfectly right in keeping yourself quite apart from the rest of them.' He looked round upon the other passengers, seated or lolling about the deck, with a fatherly tolerance. 'And if I may suggest it, you cannot do better than to continue doing so for the next day or two. Avoid more particularly the older women. The jealousy of a young girl is dangerous, but the repelled patronage of an older woman, bristling with the consciousness of her own wearisome irreproachability, is infinitely more to be feared!'

This remark from the lips of a man who undoubtedly knew more than is usually known of the feminine side of humanity appeared to suggest material for thought to the somewhat shallow brain of his hearer. She dropped the lightly reckless style at once, and the thought that this honest and simple-hearted sailor was in love with her slowly died a natural death. There followed, moreover, upon its demise an uncomfortable suggestion that, although he was probably honest, he was not consequently simple-hearted--that he was, in fact, a match for her, and, knowing it, was not at that moment disposed to measure mental blades with her.

'I am glad,' she said humbly, 'that my sister will be at Plymouth to meet me.'

'Did you,' inquired the sailor, 'write from Port Said to Miss Gilholme?'

She raised her head with a questioning air, but did not look up.

'Miss Gilholme,' she repeated--'how do you know her name?'

'Oh,' laughed the captain, 'I am a sort of walking directory. There is a constant procession of men and women passing before me. Many of them turn aside and say a few words. Sometimes we find mutual acquaintances, sometimes only mutual interests. Sometimes they pass by again, and on occasion we become friends.'

'Then you have not met her?'

'No--I have not had that pleasure.'

'It _is_ a pleasure,' said the beautiful woman very earnestly. Had she only known it, her face was infinitely lovelier in grave repose than in most piquante _bouderie_.

'I can quite believe it,' replied the sailor, with a gallantry which even Mrs. Huston could not take as anything more than conventional.

'She is my guardian angel!' murmured she pathetically.

Her companion smiled slightly, in a very unsympathetic way. His opinion of 'guardian angels' was taken from a practical and lamentably unpoetical point of view. Having played the part himself on several occasions with more or less conspicuous success, he inclined to a belief that the glory of guardian angelism is of a negative description. There are certain people in the world who will accept all and any service, and to whom the feeling of indebtedness is without a hint of shame. In time they come to consider such service as has previously and hitherto been rendered them in the light of a precedent. Gradually the debt seems to glide from the shoulders of the debtor to those of the creditor, and having once rendered a service, the renderer has simply placed himself under an obligation to continue doing so.

When Mrs. Huston, therefore, mentioned the fact that her sister was her guardian angel, the pathos of the observation was somewhat lost upon her hearer; who, moreover, was slightly prejudiced against Brenda because such guardian angels as had crossed his path were of a weak and gullible nature. He never made her acquaintance, but the impression thus conceived--though totally erroneous--was never dispelled by such small details of her story as came to his knowledge in later years.

'I hear,' the captain went on to explain, in his cheery impersonal way, 'scraps of family histories here and there, and then am rather surprised to meet members of these families, or persons connected with them.'

Mrs. Huston bravely quelled a desire to talk of her own affairs, and smiled vaguely.

'I have no doubt,' she said with mechanical pleasantness, 'that we have a great many mutual acquaintances--if we only knew how to hit upon the vein.'

'Of course we have--the world, and especially the Indian world, is very small.'

'I wonder who they are?' murmured Mrs. Huston, raising her eyes to her companion's face.

'Mention a few of your friends,' he suggested, looking down into her eyes somewhat keenly.

'No--you begin!'

He changed his position somewhat, and stood upright, free from the rail, but his glance never left her face.

'Theodore Trist!'

Instantly she averted her eyes. For a moment she was quite off her guard, and her fingers strayed in a nervous, aimless way among the pages of her open book. To her pale cheeks the warm colour mounted as if a glowing ruby reflection had suddenly been cast upon the delicate skin.

She expressed no surprise by word or gesture, and there was a pause of considerable duration before at length she spoke.

'Where is he now?' she asked in a low voice.

The captain stroked his grizzled moustache reflectively. He acted his part well, despite her sudden and lamentable failure.

'Let me think ... He is in Constantinople to the best of my knowledge. He is engaged in watching Eastern affairs. It seems that Turkey and Russia cannot keep their hands off each other's throats much longer. At present there is an armistice, but Trist has been through the late war between Servia and Turkey.'

'Do you know him well?' she asked at length, after a second pause.

'Yes. He is a friend of mine.'

'A great friend?'

'I think I may say so.'

'He is also a friend of ours--of my sister and myself,' said Mrs. Huston calmly.

She had quite recovered her equanimity by now, and the pink colour had left her cheeks.

'I have known him,' said the captain conversationally, 'for many years now. Soon after he made his name he went out to the East with me, and we struck up a friendship. He is not a man who makes many friends, I imagine.'

'No,' murmured Mrs. Huston, in a voice which implied that the subject was not distasteful to her, but she preferred her companion to talk while she listened.

'But,' continued the sailor, 'those who claim him as a friend have an unusual privilege. He is what we vaguely call at sea a "good" man--a man upon whom it is safe to place reliance in any emergency, under all circumstances.'

'Yes,' said the lady softly.

'He has been doing wonderful work out in the East since the beginning of the insurrection. We have a set of men out there such as no nation in the world could produce except England--fellows who go about with their lives literally in their hands, for they're virtually unprotected--men who are soldiers, statesmen, critics, writers and explorers all in one. They run a soldier's risk without the recompense of a soldier's grave. A statesman's craft must be theirs, while they are forced to keep two diplomatic requirements ever before their eyes. England _must_ have news; the army authorities (whose word is law) _must_ be conciliated. Travelling by day and night alike, never resting for many consecutive hours, never laying aside the responsibility that is on their shoulders, they are expected to write amidst the din of battle, on a gun-carriage perhaps, often in the saddle, and usually at night when the wearied army is asleep; they are expected, moreover, to write well, so that men sitting by their firesides in London, with books of reference at hand, may criticise and seek in vain for slip or error. They are expected to criticise the stratagem of the greatest military heads around them without the knowledge possessed by the officers who dictate their coming and their going, throwing them a piece of stale news here and there as they would throw a bone to a dog. All this, and more, is done by our war-correspondents; and amidst these wonderful fellows Theodore Trist stands quite alone, immeasurably superior to them all.'

The vehement sailor was interrupted by the sound of the first dinner-bell, and a general stir on deck. At sea, meal-times are hailed with a more visible joy than is considered decorous on land, and no time is lost in answering the glad summons.

Mrs. Huston rose languidly from her seat and moved forward towards the spacious saloon staircase.

'Yes,' she answered thoughtfully; 'Theo must be very clever. It is difficult to realize that one's friends are celebrated, is it not?'

The captain walked by her side, suiting his crisp, firm step to her languid gait, which was, nevertheless, very graceful in its rhythmic ease. Her voice was clear, gentle, and somewhat indifferent. On her face there was no other expression than the customary suggestion of pathetic apathy.

'I suppose,' she continued in a conventional manner, 'that he will not be home for some time.'

'No. There will be a big war before this question is settled, and Trist will be in the thick of it.'

With a slight inclination of the head she passed away from him and disappeared down the saloon stairs. The captain turned away and mounted the little brass ladder leading to the bridge with sailor-like deliberation.

'And, young woman,' he muttered to himself, 'you had better go down to your cabin and thank your God on your bended knees that Theodore Trist is not in England, nor likely to cross your path for many months to come.'

He looked round him with his habitual cheery keenness, and said a few words to the second officer who was on duty. Could he have seen Theodore Trist standing at that moment on the deck of a quick despatch-boat, racing through the Bosphorus and bound for England, he would not, perhaps, have laughed so heartily at a very mild joke made by his subordinate a few moments later.

'And yet,' he reflected as he made his way below in answer to the second dinner-bell--'and yet she does not seem to me to be the sort of woman for Trist--not good enough! Perhaps the gossips are wrong after all, and he does not care for her!'