CHAPTER VII.

QUICKSANDS.

'Wot's this--runaway couple?' asked a pallid and slipshod waiter of his equally-unwholesome colleague in the dining-room attached to a large City railway-station.

'D'no,' answered the second, with weary indifference; 'we don't offen see _that_ sort down 'ere.'

'There's a sort,' continued the first attendant, pulling down his soup-stained waistcoat, 'o' haristocratic simplicity about them and their wants as pleases my poetic and 'igh-born soul.'

'Indeed,' yawned the other with withering sarcasm.

'Yes, indeed!'

The sarcasm was treated with noble scorn by its victim, who was called away at that moment by a bumping sound within the lift-cupboard.

In the meantime Trist and Alice Huston were turning their attention to dinner.

The novelty of the situation pleased the lady vastly. There was a spice of danger coupled with a sense of real security imparted by the presence of her calm and resourceful companion which she appreciated thoroughly. For Trist there was, however, less enjoyment in the sense of novelty. A war-correspondent is a man to whom few situations are, strictly speaking, novel, and it is, or should be, his chief study to acquire the virtue of adaptability, and never to allow himself to be carried away by the forces of environment.

His sense of chivalry was too strong to allow the merest suggestion of weariness, but in his inmost heart there was a vague uneasiness at the thought that there was still an hour before the train for the east coast left, not the station where they were at present, but one near at hand. He knew that to the fugitive every moment is of immeasurable value, but for the time being he feared no pursuit. His measures had been too carefully taken for that, and all the private detectives in London could not approach this impenetrable strategist in cunning or foresight.

Only an hour had passed since he and Alice Huston had met on the stairs of Suffolk Mansions, and since then the excellent construction of a London cab and the justly-praised smoothness of London roadways had effectually put a stop to any conversation of a connected or confidential nature.

At first Alice had been too frightened to resent this, and subsequently the manner of her companion, which was at once reassuring and repelling, had checked her efforts. Now the pallid waiters were almost within earshot, and Theodore Trist, who concealed a keen power of observation beneath a demeanour at times aggravatingly stolid, was fully aware that they were interested, and consequently inquisitive. The result of this knowledge was a singular lack of the ordinary outward signs of mystery. He spoke in rather louder tones than was his wont, told one or two amusing anecdotes, and laughed at them himself, while Mrs. Huston unconsciously aided him by smiling in a slightly weary way. This last conjugal touch of human nature went far to convince the waiter that the two were after all nothing more interesting than husband and wife.

'Theo, I have so _much_ to tell you,' whispered Mrs. Huston once when the waiter was exchanging civilities with the cook's assistant down a speaking-tube.

'Yes,' replied Trist, interested in his bread; 'wait until we are in the train.'

'Where are we going?'

'I will tell you afterwards; these fellows might hear. Will you have wine? What shall it be, something light--say Niersteiner?'

He softened his apparent brusqueness with a smile, and she blushed promptly, which was an unnecessary proceeding. Trist's sang-froid was phenomenal.

By a simple subterfuge, of which he was almost ashamed, he had obtained tickets to a small east-coast watering-place without leaving any trace whatever, and at seven o'clock they left Liverpool Street Station, in the same compartment, without having allowed the railway officials to perceive that they were acquainted. There were but few first-class passengers in the train, and they were alone in the compartment. The light provided was not a brilliant specimen of its kind; reading or pretending to read was out of the question. There was nothing to do but talk, so Trist gave himself over to the tender mercies of his companion, and for the time vouchsafed his entire attention to the details of a story too common and too miserable to recapitulate here. Probably you, who may turn these pages, know the story; if not, an old traveller takes the liberty of wishing that you never may.

'And,' said Mrs. Huston between half-suppressed sobs, when the tale was told, 'I simply could not stand it any longer, so I came home. I ... I _hoped_, Theo, to find you in England, and when Brenda told me that you were in the East, busy with some horrid war, it was the last straw. I wonder why people want to fight at all. Why can't the world live in peace?'

Trist tugged pensively at the arm-rest, and looked out into the darkness without replying. He did not seem at that moment prepared to answer the extremely pertinent and relevant question propounded. If Mrs. Huston had expected a proper show of masculine emotion, she must have been slightly disappointed; for during no part of her narrative had the incongruous face opposite to her, beneath the ludicrous lamp, displayed aught else than a most careful and intelligent attention. What she required was sympathy, not attention. Her story was not calculated to withstand too close a study. Being in itself emotional, it was eminently dependent upon an emotional reception; it was, in fact, a woman's narrative, fit for relation by a peaceful fireside, in the hush of twilight, on the top (so to speak) of tea and muffins, and to a woman's ear. Retailed to a hard practical man of the world in a noisy train, where the more pathetic vocal inflections were inaudible; after dinner, and while narrator and listener wore thick wraps and gloves, it lost weight most lamentably. She ought to have thought of these trifles, which, however, are no trifles. You, dear madam, know better than to attempt to soften your husband's stony heart when he is protected by gloves, or boots, or top-coat. Ah! these little things make a mighty difference.

Trist was an ardent follower of that school of philosophy which seeks to ignore the emotions. By means of cold suppression he would fain have wiped all passions out of human nature, and, having moved amidst bloodshed and among men engaged in bloodshed, he had learnt that our deepest feelings are, after all, mere matters of habit. From the Eastern lands he knew so well, it is probable that he had brought back some reflection of that strange Oriental apathy of life which is incomprehensible to our more highly-strung Western intellects.

When Mrs. Huston pushed her dainty veil recklessly up over the front of her bonnet, and made no pretence of hiding the tears that rendered her lovely face almost angelic in its pathos, Trist made no further acknowledgment of emotion than a momentary contraction of the eyelids. He continued tugging pensively at the leather arm-rest, while his eyes only strayed at times from the flashing lights of peaceful village or quiet town to the beautiful form crouching against the sombre cushions opposite to him.

'Oh why ... did you ever let me marry him?' sobbed Alice miserably.

He glanced at her with a peculiar twist of his lips, downwards, to one side. Then he shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

'I? ... What had I to do with it, Alice?'

There was something in his voice, a certain dull concentration, which had the singular effect of checking her sobs almost instantaneously, although her breast heaved convulsively at short intervals, like the swell that follows a storm at sea, long after the rage has subsided.

She touched her eyes prettily with a diminutive handkerchief, and made an effort to recover her serenity, smoothing a wrinkle out of the front of her dress.

'Well,' she sighed, 'I suppose you had as much influence over me as anybody. And ... and you never liked him, Theo. I could see that, and lately the recollection of it has come back to me more vividly.'

'You forget that I was in China at the time of your engagement. My influence could not have been very effective at such a range--even if I had taken it upon myself to exert it, which would have been an unwarrantable liberty.'

'I was so young,' she pleaded, 'and so inexperienced.'

'Twenty-two,' he observed reflectively; 'and you had your choice, I suppose, of all the best men in London.'

In some vague way Mrs. Huston's eyes conveyed a contradiction to this statement, although her lips never moved. A man less dense than this war-correspondent appeared to be would have understood readily enough what that glance really signified.

'I hope,' he continued imperturbably, 'that this misunderstanding is only temporary...'

She laughed bitterly, and examined the texture of her lace handkerchief with a gracefully impatient poise of the head.

'Huston ... loves you.'

'And _you_,' she answered pertly, 'hate him! Why? Tell me why, Theo.'

'I hate no one in the world,' he answered. 'Not on principle, but because I have met no one as yet whom I could hate. There has invariably been some redeeming point.'

'And what is my husband's redeeming point?'

'His love for you,' answered Trist promptly, and with such calm assurance that his companion evacuated her false position at once, and returned to her original line of argument.

'I only had Brenda,' she murmured sorrowfully; 'and she is like you. She listens and listens and listens, but never gives any real advice.'

'If she had, would you have taken it?' suggested Trist.

The graceful shoulders moved interrogatively and indifferently.

'I suppose not.'

During the silence that followed, Trist looked at his watch, openly and without disguise. The journey, which was a short one, was almost half accomplished, and the train was now running at a breakneck pace through the level Suffolk meadows. Hardly a light was visible over all the silent land. There were no tunnels and no bridges, consequently the sounds of travel were reduced to a minimum. It is the petty local trains that make the most noise; the great purposeful expresses run almost in silence. In this, my brothers, I think we resemble trains in some degree. There are those among us who make little way upon Life's iron track with a great noise; and those who travel far are silent.

'I don't believe you care a fig what becomes of me!' said Mrs. Huston at length in a reckless way.

He looked at her with a slow grave smile, but made no other answer.

'Do you?' she asked coquettishly.

He was quite grave now, and her breathing became slightly accelerated.

'Yes!' quite simply.

Presently Trist roused himself, as if from unpleasant reflections, and began talking about the future.

'I should like to know,' he said, 'exactly what you think of doing, because I have not much time. At any moment Russia may declare war against Turkey, and I shall have to go at once.'

'If Russia declares war, I shall kill myself, I think.'

He laughed, and changed his position, drawing in his feet, and leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.

'No,' he said with genial energy, 'I would not do that, if I were you. If I may be allowed to make a suggestion, it seems to me that you will do well to come to a distinct understanding with Huston, either through the mediation of Mrs. Wylie or by letter. You cannot go on long like this.'

'What sort of understanding?' she inquired, with that nonchalant impatience of detail which seems to be the special prerogative of beautiful women.

'Ask him to give you three months to think over matters; at the expiration of that time you can have an interview with him, and come to some definite agreement respecting the future.'

She sighed, and leant back wearily, looking at him in a curious, snake-like way beneath her lowered lids.

'Three months will make no difference.'

'Nevertheless ... try it.'

'I want,' she said in a dull voice, '... a divorce!'

For a moment a veil seemed to have been lifted from his eyes; all meekness vanished, and the glance was keen, far-sighted, almost cruel.

'You cannot get that, Alice. It is impossible!'

She turned her face quite away from him and looked out of the window, jerking the arm-rest nervously. Her breath clouded the glass. She murmured something inaudible.

'Eh?' he inquired.

'I could make it possible,' she said jerkily, and her voice died away in a sickening little laugh.

For some moments there was a horrible silence, and then Theo Trist spoke in a strange, thick voice, quite unlike his own.

'Alice,' he said, 'do you ever think of Brenda? Do you ever think of _anyone_ but yourself?'

The words came as a cold and chilling surprise to Mrs. Huston, and she began slowly to realize that she had met with something which was entirely new to her. She had come in contact with a man upon whom the effect of her beauty was of no account. Her powers of fascination seemed suddenly to have left her, and across her mind there flashed a gleam of that unpleasant light by the aid of which we are at times enabled to see ourselves as others see us. It was only natural and womanlike that she should resent the shedding of this light, and visit her resentment, not upon the disclosure made by it, but on the illuminator of the unpleasant scene.

'Oh,' she muttered angrily, 'you are all against me! No one cares for me; no one makes allowances.'

Trist smiled in a slow, strong way which was infinitely pathetic.

'No,' he said, 'no one makes allowances; you must never expect that.'

Then Mrs. Huston's tears began to flow again, and the self-contained man opposite to her sat with white bloodless lips and contracted eyes staring into the blackness of the night.