CHAPTER VI.

TRIST ACTS ON HIS OWN RESPONSIBILITY.

As Mrs. Wylie made her way slowly and peacefully up the broad stairs, she suddenly found herself face to face with the man whom she had last seen in the still Arctic dawn, bearing the body of her dead husband down over the rocks towards her. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but nothing more. The next instant she was holding out her gloved hand to greet him. But even she--practised, gifted woman of the world as she was--could not meet him with a smile. In gravity they had parted, gravely they now met again. He was not quite the same as other men to Mrs. Wylie, for there was the remembrance of an indefinite semi-bantering agreement made months before, while the sunshine of life seemed to be glowing round them both--an agreement that they should not be mere acquaintances, mere friends (although the friendship existing between an elderly woman and a young man is not of the ordinary, practical, every-day type--there is a suggestion of something more in it), and Trist had fulfilled the promise then given.

He had taken her quite unawares, with that noiseless footstep of his which we noticed before, and the colour left her face for a moment.

'_You!_' she exclaimed; 'I did not expect you.'

As he took her hand his all-seeing gaze detected a slight indication of anxiety, and he knew that his presence was not at that moment desired by Mrs. Wylie. Due credit is not always given to us men for the possession of eyes. Our womenfolk are apt to forget that we move just as much as they, and in most cases infinitely more in the world, and among the world's shoals and quicksands. We may not be so quick at reading superficial indications as our mothers, sisters, or wives; but I think many of us (while keeping vanity in bounds) are much more capable of perceiving when our presence is desired or distasteful than is usually supposed. There are some of us, methinks, who, if chivalry failed to withhold our tongues, could tell of very decided preferences shown, and shown unsought; of glances, and even words, advanced to guide us whither the water runs smoothly. And let us hope that if such have been the case, we turn to the rougher channel we love better, without a smile of self-conceit.

Twice within the last hour Theodore Trist had perceived that there was a reason why those who held Alice Huston dearest should desire that he avoided meeting her. What this reason was her own husband had unwittingly told him; confirming brutally what he had read in Brenda's unconsciously expressive face a few moments before. And yet, in face of this undoubted knowledge, he seemed deliberately to court the danger that the two women feared, and sought to avert.

He was not a man to be blinded by a false impression. Nor was he one of those who act impulsively. His mind was of too practical, too steady, and too concentrated a type to be suddenly conquered by a mere prompting of the heart. At this juncture of his life he acted coolly and with foresight. Of Alice Huston he knew enough to feel quite sure of his mastery over her. If she loved him (which supposition had been thrown in his face many times since the evening when he had first been called upon to give assistance to those who stood in Captain Huston's little cabin), he did not appear in the least afraid of his own capability of killing that love.

He turned from Mrs. Wylie and greeted the younger woman, who followed her, with a self-possessed smile; and from his manner even Mrs. Wylie could gather nothing, and she was no mean reader of human faces. She glanced at them as they stood together on the stairs and asked herself a question:

'What part is he playing, that of a scoundrel or a fool?'

She could not conceive a third alternative just then, because she did not know Alice Huston so well as Theo Trist knew her.

Before Mrs. Huston, who was blushing very prettily, had time to speak, Trist imparted his news with a certain rapid bluntness.

'Your husband is upstairs,' he said. 'Brenda will keep him in the drawing-room for a few minutes. I have a bag here with some necessaries for you. Will you come with me, or will you go upstairs to your husband?'

'Will ... I ... go with you?' stammered the beautiful woman in a frightened whisper. 'Where to, Theo?'

Mrs. Wylie leant against the broad balustrade and breathed rapidly. She was really alarmed, but even fear could not conquer her indomitable placidity.

'I will conduct you to a safe hiding-place to-night, and Brenda will join you to-morrow morning,' said Trist in a tone full of concentrated energy, though his eyes never lighted up. 'Be quick and decide, because Brenda is alone upstairs with ... him.'

Mrs. Wylie's eyebrows moved imperceptibly beneath her veil. She thought she saw light.

Mrs. Huston played nervously with a tassel that was hanging from her dainty muff for the space of a moment; then she raised her eyes, not to Trist's face, but to Mrs. Wylie's. Instantly she lowered them again.

'I will go with you!' she said, almost inaudibly, and stood blushing like a schoolgirl between two lovers.

Mrs. Wylie raised her head, sniffing danger like an old hen when she hears the swoop of long wings above the chicken-yard. Her eyes turned from Alice Huston's face, with a slow impatience almost amounting to contempt, and rested upon Theodore Trist's meek orbs, raised to meet hers meaningly. Then somehow her honest tongue found itself tied, and she said nothing at all. The flood of angry words subsided suddenly from her lips, and she waited for the further commands of this soft-spoken, soft-stepping, soft-glancing man, with unquestioning obedience.

He moved slightly, looked down at the bag in his hand, and then glanced comprehensively from the top of Mrs. Huston's smart bonnet to the sole of her small shoe. He could not quite lay aside the old campaigner, and the beautiful woman was moved by a strange suspicion that this young man was not admiring her person, but considering whether her attire were fit for a long journey on a November evening.

'Come, then!' he said.

Still Mrs. Huston hesitated.

Suddenly she appeared to make up her mind, for she went up two steps and kissed Mrs. Wylie with hysterical warmth. This demonstration seemed to recall Trist to a due sense of social formula. He returned, and shook hands gravely with the widow.

'Go to Brenda!' he whispered, and the matron bowed her head.

Again she raised her eyebrows, and there was a flicker of light in her eyes like that which gleams momentarily when a person is on the brink of a great discovery.

The next minute she was running upstairs, while the footsteps of the two fugitives died away in the roar of traffic.

'Theo,' she said to herself, while awaiting an answer to her summons at her own door, 'must be of a very confiding nature. He expects such utter and such _blind_ faith at the hands of others.'

The maid who opened the door was all eagerness to impart to her mistress certain vague details and incomprehensible sounds which had reached her curious ears. She had a thrilling tale of how Captain Huston, 'lookin' that funny about the eyes,' had rung loudly and pushed roughly through the open door; how there had been loud words in the drawing-room, and then a noise like 'movin' a pianer'; how a silence had followed, and, finally, how Mr. Trist (and not Captain Huston, as might have been expected) had left just a minute ago. But the evening milkman was destined, after all, to receive the first and unabridged account of these events. Mrs. Wylie merely said, 'That will do, Mary,' in her unruffled way, and passed on.

She entered the drawing-room, and found Brenda standing near the window, with one hand clasping the folds of the curtain.

Captain Huston was sitting on a low chair beside the fire, weeping gently. His bibulous sobs were the only sound that broke an unpleasant silence. Brenda was engaged in adding to her experiences of men and their ways a further illustration tending towards contempt. Her eyes were dull with pain, but she carried her small head with the usual demure serenity which was naught else but the outcome of a sweet, maidenly pride, as she advanced towards Mrs. Wylie.

'He is quite gentle and tractable now!' she whispered.

Mrs. Wylie took her hand within her fingers, clasping it with a soft protecting strength.

'Is he ... tipsy?'

'No!' answered Brenda, with a peculiar catch in her breath; 'he is only stupefied.'

'Stupefied ... how?'

'I ... I will tell you afterwards.'

The quick-witted matron had already discovered that some of her furniture was slightly displaced, so she did not press her question.

At this moment Captain Huston rose to his feet, and took up a position on the hearthrug.

'I do not know,' he said, with concentrated calmness, 'whether the law has anything to say against people who harbour runaway wives; but, at all events, society will have an opinion on the subject.'

He ignored the fact that he had in no way greeted Mrs. Wylie, addressing his remarks to both ladies impartially. By both alike his attack was received in silence.

'I will find her,' he continued. 'You need have no false hopes on that score. All the Theodore Trists in the world (which is saying much--for scoundrels are common enough) will not be able to hide her for long!'

Mrs. Wylie still held Brenda's hand within her own. At the mention of Trist's name there was an involuntary contraction of the white fingers, and the widow suddenly determined to act.

'Captain Huston,' she said gravely, 'when you are calmer, if you wish to talk of this matter again, Brenda and I will be at your service. At present I am convinced that it is better for your wife to keep away from you--though I shall be the first to welcome a reconciliation.'

He shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly to the door. It was Brenda who rang the bell. Captain Huston passed out of the room without another word.

It would almost seem that the ingenuous Mary anticipated the call, for she was waiting in the passage to show Captain Huston out. She returned almost at once to the drawing-room, with a view (cloaked beneath a prepared question respecting tea) of satisfying her curiosity regarding the sound which had suggested the moving of a 'pianer.' But there was no sign of disorder; everything was in its place, and Brenda was standing idly near the mantelpiece.

'We will take tea at once, Mary,' said Mrs. Wylie, unloosening her bonnet-strings.

Mary was forced to retire, meditating as she went over the inscrutability and coldness of the ordinary British lady.

'Ah!' sighed Mrs. Wylie, when the door was closed. 'Now tell me, Brenda! What has happened? Did these two men meet here? I am quite in the dark, and have a sort of dazed feeling, as if I had been reading Carlyle at the French plays, and had got them mixed up.'

'Theo came first,' answered Brenda, 'to warn us that Captain Huston had come home in the same steamer as himself, without, however, recognising him. While we were talking, the other came in. He did not see Theo, who was behind the door...'

'I suppose he was tipsy?'

'No; he was quite sober. He looked horrible. His eyes were bloodshot--his lips unsteady...'

Mrs. Wylie stopped the description with a sharp, painful nod of her head. To our shame be it, my brothers, she knew the rest!

'Was he quite clear and coherent?'

'Yes!'

'But ... just now...' argued Mrs. Wylie, vainly endeavouring to make Brenda resume the narrative--'just now he was quite stupid?'

'Yes.'

'What happened, Brenda?'

At this moment Mary brought in the tea and set it briskly down on a small table. Brenda stepped forward, and began pouring out.

'What happened, Brenda?' repeated Mrs. Wylie, when the door was closed.

Then she approached, took the teapot from her hand, and by gentle force turned the motherless girl's face towards herself.

'My darling,' she whispered, drawing the slim form to her breast, 'why should you hide your tears from _me_?'

I have endeavoured to make it clear that this girl was not an emotional being. There were no hysterical sobs--merely a few silent tears, and the narrative was continued.

'He came in, and asked me to tell him where Alice was. I refused, and then...'

'Then...?'

'He tried to hit me.'

'Tried ... Brenda?'

'Well ... he just reached me.'

'And ... Theo?' asked Mrs. Wylie. 'What did Theo do?'

There was a short pause, during which both ladies attended to their cups with an unnatural interest.

'I have never seen him like that before,' murmured the girl at length. 'I did not know that men were ever like that. It was ... rather terrible ... almost suggestive of some wild animal. He knocked him down and ... and kicked him round the room like a dog!'

'My poor darling,' whispered Mrs. Wylie. 'I ought never to have left you here alone. We might have guessed that that man Huston would be home soon. Did he hurt you, Brenda?'

'No; he frightened me a little, that was all.'

'I am very glad you had Theo!' Mrs. Wylie purposely turned away as she said these words.

Brenda sipped her tea, and made no reply.

It had been twilight when Mrs. Wylie returned home, and now it was almost dark. The two ladies sat in the warm firelight, with their feet upon the fender. Tea laid aside, they continued sitting there while the flames leapt and fell again, glowing on their thoughtful faces, gleaming on the simple jewellery at their throats. From the restless streets came a dull, continuous roar as of the sea. I hear it now as I write, and would fain lay aside the pen and wonder over it; for it rises and falls, swells and dies again, with a long, slow, mournful rhythm full of life, and yet joyless; soporific, and yet alive with movement. There is no sound on earth like it except the hopeless song of breaking waves. Both alike steal upon the senses with an indefinable suggestion of duration, almost amounting to a glimmer of what is called eternity. Both alike reach the heart with a subtle, undeniable lovableness. Londoners and sailors cannot resist its music, for both return to it in their age, whithersoever they may have wandered.

Mrs. Wylie it was who moved at last, rising with characteristic determination, as if the pastime of thought were a vice not wisely encouraged. She stood before Brenda in her widow's weeds, looking down through the dim light with a faint smile.

'Come,' she said; 'we must get ready for dinner. Remember that Mrs. Hicks is going to call for you at eight o'clock to take you to that Ancient Artists' Guild soirée. I should put on a white dress if I were you, and violets. The gifted William Hicks, whom we met in the Park this afternoon, asked what flowers he should bring, and I suggested violets.'

Brenda laughed suddenly, but her hilarity finished in a peculiar, abrupt way.

'Telle est la vie!' she murmured, as she rose obediently. 'What a labour this enjoyment sometimes is!'