CHAPTER V.

UNDER FIRE.

A tall, well-built man entered the room hurriedly and stopped short, facing Brenda, who met his gaze with gentle self-possession.

'Ah!' he muttered in a thick voice, and his unsteady hand went to his long fair moustache.

It was a terribly unhealthy face upon which Brenda's eyes rested inquiringly. The skin was cracked in places, and the cheeks were almost blue. The eyelids were red and the eyes bloodshot, while there was a general suggestion of puffiness and discomfort in the swollen features. The man was distinctly repulsive, and yet, with a small amount of tolerance, he was a figure to demand pity. Despite his dissipated air, there was that indefinite sense of refinement which belongs to birth and breeding, and which never leaves a man who has once moved among gentlemen. There was even a faint suggestion of military vanity in his dress and carriage, though his figure was by no means so smart as it must have been in bygone days.

The room was rather dark, and he glanced round, failing to see Theo Trist, who was leaning against the wall behind him.

'Ah!' he repeated; 'Brenda. I suppose you are in it, too!'

She made no reply, but stood before him in all her maidenly sweetness and strength, looking into his face through the twilight with clear and steady eyes which he hesitated to meet. Into his weak soul a flood of bitter memories rushed tumultuously--memories of a time when he could meet those eyes without that sudden feeling of self-hatred which was gnawing at his heart now. His tone was not harsh nor violent, but there was an undernote of determination which was not pleasant to the ear.

'Tell me,' he continued thickly, 'where my wife is to be found.'

Trist noticed that she never took her eyes off Huston's face, never glanced past the sleek, closely-cropped head towards himself. In some subtle way her wish was conveyed to him--the wish that he should remain there and continue, if possible, to be unnoticed by Huston. This he did, leaning squarely against the wall, his meek eyes riveted on the girl's face with a calm, expectant attention. From his presence Brenda gathered that strength and self-reliance which, I think, God intends women to gather from the companionship of men.

'No, Alfred,' she answered, using his Christian name with a gentle diplomacy which made him waver for a moment and sway backwards upon his rigid legs; 'I must not tell you that yet.'

'What right have you to withhold it?'

'She is my sister. I must do the best I can for her.'

He laughed in an unpleasant way.

'By throwing her into the path of the man she has always----'

'Stop!' commanded Brenda.

'Why? Why should I stop? I suppose Trist is in England. That is why she came home, no doubt.'

'She has never spoken to Theodore Trist since she married you. Besides, that is not the question. Tell me why you want to find Alice. What do you propose to do?'

'That is _my_ affair!' he muttered roughly. 'You have no business to stand between man and wife. If you persist in doing so, it must be at your own risk, and I tell you plainly that you run a chance of being roughly handled.'

As he spoke he advanced a pace menacingly. Still she never betrayed Trist's presence by the merest glance in his direction. He, however, moved slightly, without making any sound.

Huston looked slowly round the room with bloodshot, horrible eyes.

'Tell me!' he hissed, thrusting forward his face so that she drew back--not from fear, but to avoid a faint aroma of stale cigar-smoke.

'No!' she answered.

'Deny that Trist loved Alice--if you dare!' he continued, in the same whistling voice.

Still she never called for Trist's assistance. She was very pale, and the last words seemed to strike her in the face as a blow.

'I deny nothing!'

'Tell me,' he shouted hoarsely, 'where Alice is!'

'No!'

'Then take _that_, you...'

He struck her with his clenched fist on the shoulder--but she had seen his intention, and by stepping back avoided the full force of the blow. She staggered a pace or two and recovered herself.

Without a sound Trist sprang forward, and the same instant saw Huston fall to the ground. He rolled over and over, a shapeless mass with limbs distended. As he rolled, Trist kicked him as he never would have kicked a dog.

'Oh ... h ... h ...!' shrieked the soldier. 'Who is that?'

'It is Trist ... you _brute_!'

But Huston lay motionless, with limp hands and open mouth. He was insensible.

Leaving him, Trist turned to Brenda, who was already holding him back with a physical force which even at that moment caused him a vague surprise.

'Theo! Theo!' she cried, 'what are you doing?'

He looked into her face sharply, almost fiercely--and she caught her breath convulsively at the sight of his eyes. They literally flashed with a dull blue gleam, which was all the more ghastly in so calm a face; for though he was ashen-gray in colour, his features were unaltered by any sign of passion. Even in his wild rage this man was incongruous.

'Has he hurt you?' he asked in a dull, hollow voice; and, while he spoke, his fingers skilfully touched her shoulder in a quick, searching way never learnt in drawing-rooms.

'No--no!' she cried impatiently. 'But you have killed _him_!'

She broke away from him and knelt on the floor, bending over the prostrate form of the soldier. Her bosom heaved from time to time with a bravely suppressed sob.

'Don't touch him,' said Trist, in an unconsciously commanding tone. 'He is all right.'

Obediently, she rose and stepped away, while he lifted the limp form, and placed it in a chair.

Slowly Captain Huston opened his eyes. He heaved a deep sigh, and sat gazing into the fire with a hopeless and miserable apathy. Behind him the two stood motionless, watching. Presently he began to mutter incoherently, and Brenda turned away, sickened, from the woeful sight.

'I wonder,' she whispered, 'if this sort of thing is to go on.'

Trist's mobile lips were twisted a little as if he were in bodily pain, while he glanced at her furtively. There was nothing for him to say--no hope to hold out.

They moved away to the window together without speaking, both occupied with thoughts which could not well have been pleasant. Trist's features wore a grave, concentrated expression, totally unlike the philosophical and contemplative demeanour which he usually carried in the face of the world. There was food enough for mental stones to grind, and he was not a man to take the most sanguine view of affairs. His philosophy was of that rare school which is not solely confined to making the best of other folks' troubles. His own checks and difficulties were those treated philosophically; while the griefs of others--more especially, perhaps, of Alice and Brenda--caused him an exaggerated anxiety. It has been the experience of the present writer that women are infinitely better fitted to stand adversity than men. There is a certain brave little smile which our less mobile lips can never frame. But Theodore Trist had lived chiefly among men, and his human speciality was the fighting animal. He knew a soldier as few of his contemporaries knew him; but of sweet woman-militant he was somewhat ignorant.

Perhaps he took this trouble too seriously. Of that I cannot give an opinion, for we all have an individual way of getting over our fences, and we never learn another. Personally, I must confess to a penchant for those men who go steadily, with a cool, clear head, and a firm hand, realizing full well the risk they are about to run--men who do not put a _blind_ faith in luck, nor look invariably for Fortune's smiles.

In Trist's place many would have uttered some trite consolatory or wildly hopeful remark, which would in no wise have deceived a young person of Brenda's austere discrimination. In this, however, he fell lamentably short of his duty. After a thoughtful pause he merely whispered:

'Here we are again, Brenda--in a tight place. There is some fatality which seems to guide our footsteps on to thorny pathways. There is nothing to be done but face it.'

'Is it,' she asked simply, 'a case for action, or must we wait upon events?'

'I would suggest ... action.'

'Yes...' she said, in little more than a whisper, after a pause, 'I think so too--more especially now ... that you suggest it. Your natural bias is, as a rule, in the direction of masterly inactivity.'

He smiled slowly.

'Perhaps ... so!'

'Therefore your conviction that action is necessary must be very strong before you would suggest it.'

'I feel,' he said, with some deliberation, 'that it will be better to keep them apart in the meantime.'

A strange, uneasy look passed across the girl's face. It happened that there was only one man on all the broad earth whom she trusted implicitly--the man at her side--and for a second that one unique faith wavered. With a sort of mental jerk--as of a person who makes a quick effort to recover a wavering balance--she restored her courageous trustfulness.

'Yes,' she murmured, 'I am sure of it.'

'And I suppose ... I suppose we must do it. You and I, Brenda?'

It was a wonderful thing how these two knew Alice Huston. Her faults were never mentioned between them. The infinite charity with which each looked upon these faults was a mutual possession, unhinted at, half concealed. Brenda knew quite well what was written between the lines of his outspoken supposition, and replied to his unasked question with simple diplomacy.

'Yes--_we_ must do it.'

Trist moved a little. He turned sideways, and glanced out of the window. His attitude was that of a man whose hands were in his pockets, but he was more than half a soldier--a creature morally and literally without pockets--and his hands hung at his sides.

'It is a ... a pretty strong combination.'

She smiled, and changed colour so slightly that he no doubt failed to see it.

'Yes,' she answered cheerfully. 'It succeeded once before. But Mrs. Wylie is not quite herself yet, Theo! That is why I don't want her to have any trouble in this matter. We have no right to seek her aid.'

The last words might easily have passed unheeded, but Brenda felt, even as she spoke them, that they contained another meaning; moreover, she recognised by his sudden silence that Trist was wondering whether this second suggestion had been intended. Uneasily she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking down at her gravely, and for some seconds their glances met.

If an excuse to seek Mrs. Wylie's assistance was hard to find, much more so was it open to question respecting Trist's spontaneous help. Why should he offer it? By what right could she accept it? And while they looked into each other's eyes, these two wondered over those small questions. There was a reason--the best reason of all--namely, that the offer was as spontaneous and natural as the acceptance of it. But why--why this spontaneity? Perhaps they both knew. Perhaps she suspected, and suspected wrongly. Perhaps neither knew definitely.

At last she turned her head, and naturally her glance was directed downwards into Piccadilly.

'There they are,' she whispered hurriedly, 'looking into the jeweller's shop opposite. What are we to do, Theo?'

He almost forestalled her question, so rapid was his answer. There was no hesitation, no shirking of responsibility. She had simply asked him, and simply he replied.

'Go,' he said, 'and throw some things into a bag. I will stay here and watch him. When the bag is ready, leave it in the passage and come back here. I will take it, go down, and take her straight away.'

'Where?'

'I don't know,' he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.

There was a momentary hesitation on the girl's part. She perceived a terrible flaw in Trist's plan, and he divined her thoughts.

'It will be all right,' he whispered. 'No one knows that I am in England. I will telegraph to-night, and you can join her to-morrow. You ... can trust me, Brenda.'

There was a faint smile of confidence on her face as she turned away and hurried from the room.

Although her light footsteps were almost inaudible, the slight _frôlement_ of her dress seemed to rouse the stupefied man on the low chair near the fire. Perhaps there was in the rhythm of her movements some subtle resemblance to the movements of his wife. He raised his head and appeared to listen in an apathetic way, but presently his chin dropped heavily again upon his breast, and the dull eyes lost all light of intelligence.

Trist turned away and looked out of the window. The two ladies were still lingering near the jeweller's shop. Alice Huston appeared to be pointing out to her companion some specially attractive ornament, and Mrs. Wylie was obeying with a patient smile.

The war-correspondent smiled in a peculiar way, which might well have expressed some bitterness, had he been the sort of man to speak or think bitterly of anyone. The whole picture was so absurdly characteristic, even to the small details--such as Mrs. Wylie's good-natured patience, scarce concealing her utter lack of interest in the jewellery, and Alice Huston's eyes glittering with reflex of the cold gleam of diamonds; for there is a light that comes into the eyes of some women at the mere mention of precious stones.

While he was watching them the ladies turned and crossed the street, coming towards him. He stepped back from the window in case one of them should raise her eyes, and at the same moment Brenda entered the room.

She glanced towards Huston, who was rousing himself from the torpor which had followed his maltreatment at Trist's hands, and which was doubtless partly due to the drink-sodden condition of his mind and body.

'All I want,' whispered the war-correspondent, following her glance, 'is three minutes' start from that man.'

'You had better go!' she answered anxiously below her breath.

'Yes; they are on the stairs ... but ... tell me, Brenda, promise me on your honour, that he did not hurt you.'

'I promise you,' she said, with a faint smile.

Then he left her.