CHAPTER VIII.

MASKED.

The soirée of the Ancient Artists' Guild was in the full flow of its success. There had been some excellent music, and the programme promised more. The brilliancy of the attendance was equal to the highest hopes of the most ambitious committee. Long hair and strange dresses vouched for the presence of self-conscious intellect; small receding foreheads, hopeless mouths, and fair but painted faces, announced the presence of that shade of aristocracy which prefers to patronize.

William Hicks was not on the committee of the Ancient Artists, but he moved about from group to group, dispensed ices, and exchanged artistic jargon with a greater grace than was at the command of that entire august body. By some subtle means, peculiarly his own, he managed to convey to many the erroneous idea that he was in some indefinite way connected with the obvious success of this soirée; and several stout ladies went so far as to thank him, later on, for a pleasant evening, which gratitude he graciously and deprecatingly disowned in such a way as to make it appear his due. The pleasant evening had been in most cases spent between a nervous concern as to the effect produced by personal and filial adornment, and an ill-disguised contempt for common women who flaunt titles and diamonds (both uncoveted) in the faces of their superiors, possessing neither. But we men cannot be expected to understand those things.

Chiefly was William Hicks' devotion laid at Brenda's feet. For her was reserved his sweetest smile, just tempered with that suggestion of poetic pathos which he knew well how to sprinkle over his mirth. To her ear was retailed the very latest witticism, culled from the brain of some other man, and skilfully reproduced, not as a cutting, but as a modest seedling. To her side he returned most often, and over her chair stooped most markedly.

It has been hinted already that Hicks, with all his talents and mental gifts, was not an observant man. In certain small diplomacies of social life he was no match for the quiet-faced girl whom he was pleased to honour this evening with his conspicuous attention.

She was miserably anxious, but she hid it from him; and he talked on, quite ignorant of the fact that she was in no manner heeding his words. Her quick, acquired smile was ready enough; when an answer was required, she was equal to the occasion. Ah! these social agonies! There is a sort of pride in enduring them with cheerful stoicism.

'I am glad,' murmured Hicks, with a deprecating smile, 'that my mother succeeded in dragging you here. It is a sort of intellectual treat for me. We painters are so incurably shoppy in our talk, that it is really a relief to have you at my mercy--so to speak. This is a success, is it not? There are a great many celebrities in the room.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes; and I always feel a slight difference in the atmosphere when there is someone present with a name one likes to hear.'

He looked round the room with glistening eye and delicate nostrils slightly distended, as if sniffing his native atmosphere of Fame.

'One can generally recognise a celebrated man or woman, I think,' he continued. 'There is an indefinite feeling of power--a strength of individuality which seems to hover round them like an invisible halo.'

'Ye-es,' murmured Brenda vaguely. A moment later she was conscious of having looked round the room as if in search of halos, and wondered uncomfortably whether her companion had seen the movement.

Then a stout lady, with a very dark complexion, suddenly raised an exquisite voice, and a complete silence acknowledged its power instantaneously. It was a quaint old song, with words that might have had no meaning whatever, beyond trite regrets for days that could never come again, had they been sung with less feeling--less true human sympathy.

Brenda literally writhed beneath the flood of harmony. She tried not to listen--tried vainly to look round her and think cynical thoughts about the hollow shams of society, but some specially deep and tender note would reach her heart, despite the wall of worldliness that she had built around it. It would seem that that stout cheery woman could see through the smiles, through the affected masks, and penetrate to the heart, which is never quite safe from the sudden onslaught of youthful memories surviving still, youthful hopes since crushed, and youthful weaknesses never healed.

Brenda looked round the room with a semi-interested little smile (such as we see in church sometimes when a preacher has got well hold of his audience), and suddenly her face grew white, her breath seemed to catch, and for some seconds there was no motion of her throat or bosom. Respiration seemed to be arrested. With an effort she recovered herself, and a great sigh of relief filled her breast.

Among a number of men beneath the curtained doorway she had recognised an upright sturdy form, beside which the narrower shoulders and sunken chests of poetic and artistic celebrities seemed to shrink into insignificance. The way in which this man carried his head distinguished him at once from those around him. He was of quite a different stamp from his companions, most of whom depended upon some peculiarity of dress or hair to distinguish them from the very ordinary ruck of young men.

Across that vast room Trist's eyes met Brenda's, and although his calm face changed in no way, betrayed by no slightest tremor that he had come with the wild hope of meeting her, his lips moved.

'Thank God, I have done it!' he muttered, beneath the whirl of polite applause that greeted the stout lady's elephantine bow.

At the other end of the room Hicks noticed with some surprise that Brenda drew her watch from her belt, and consulted it with particular attention. She was counting the number of hours since she had last seen Theodore Trist, with signs of travel still visible on his dress and person, just starting off on a new journey, without rest or respite. It was now midnight. She had never thought that he would return the same night--in fact, she was sure that he had not intended to do so. And here he was--calm, thoughtful, almost too cool as usual, without sign of fatigue or suggestion of hurry. His dress was faultless, his appearance and demeanour politely indifferent.

'I hope,' said Hicks meaningly, 'that you are not growing weary. It is early yet.'

He looked round the room, with a pleasant nod for an acquaintance here and there whom he had not seen before.

'Oh no,' said Brenda lightly in reply. 'I just happened to wonder what the time might be. I hope it was not rude.'

He laughed forgivingly, still looking about him.

'Ah!' he exclaimed in an altered tone. 'Is that not Trist? Dear old Theo Trist!'

'Yes.'

Brenda had apparently followed the direction indicated by her companion's gaze, and was now looking towards the new-comer with an inimitable little smile which completely quashed all attempts to divine whether she were surprised, or pleased, or politely interested.

Trist was making his way slowly across the room, exchanging greetings here and there. Brenda, in her keen observant way, conceived a sudden idea that his manner was not quite natural. Although of a kindly spirit, Trist was not a genial man with a smile full of affection for the merest acquaintance; and the girl, in some vague way, felt that he was shaking hands with men and women who were profoundly indifferent to him. Indeed, he seemed to go out of his way to do so.

'When did you get home?' she heard someone ask him; and the reply was delivered in clear tones, audible at a greater distance than Trist's voice usually was, as if with intention.

'This afternoon,' he said. 'Only this afternoon. I landed at Plymouth this morning.'

The next moment he was standing before her with his brown face bowed, his hand extended.

'You see, Brenda,' he said, 'I have turned up again. A veritable dove without the leaf in my mouth. I am an emblem of peace.'

Instinctively, and without knowing her motive, she answered in the same way, conscious that it was his wish.

'I am very glad to see you back,' she said.

Then he turned to Hicks, and shook hands with more warmth than that ethereal being had expected.

'You see, Hicks,' he said, 'I cannot resist flying at once to pay my respects at the shrine of Art--only arrived in London this afternoon, and here I am in full war-paint, with a flower in my coat and my heart in my eyes. What pictures have I to admire? You may as well tell me.'

Hicks laughed in his semi-sad way, and mentioned a few pictures of note, which were carefully remembered by his hearer. Then Trist turned to Brenda and offered her his arm.

'Will you come,' he said, 'and have some tea or an ice, or something?'

Brenda appeared to hesitate for a moment, then gave in with that reluctant alacrity which is to be observed when a lady is making a sacrifice of her own inclination.

As they moved away together through the crowded room there was a sudden hush, and succeeding it a louder buzz of expectant conversation. Trist looked over the heads of the people towards the little flower-bedecked platform at the end of the room.

'Ah!' he said; 'Crozier is going to sing. Shall we wait? It is a pity to miss Sam Crozier.'

Nevertheless he made no attempt to stop, and they passed through the doorway into a smaller gallery, which was almost deserted.

'I am in luck to-night; everything I have attempted has been a success. So we shall probably find the refreshment-room empty.'

She laughed in a nervous way, and her touch upon his arm wavered.

'We must run the risk,' he continued, 'of being talked about; but I must see you alone for a few minutes. It is strange, Brenda, that we are always getting into hot water together.'

'Oh!' she said indifferently, 'the risk is not very great. People do not talk much about me. Alice possesses that unfortunate monopoly in our family.'

'That is why I must see you.'

'Yes, ... I know.'

They had passed through the smaller room and out of it into a brilliant corridor, whence a broad flight of stairs led up to the refreshment-room.

'There is a sofa half-way up the stairs,' said Trist. 'It is a good position, quite out of earshot, and very visible--therefore harmless; let us occupy it!'

When they were seated, Brenda leant back with that air of grave attention which was peculiarly hers, and which, I venture to think, is rarely met with in women.

'When,' said Trist in a smooth and even tone, 'I got back to town, I figuratively tore my hair, and said to myself: "Where shall I find Brenda--where shall I find Brenda to-night?" I took a hansom back to my rooms, changed, and then drove to Suffolk Mansions. Mrs. Wylie told me where you were; I gave chase, and ... and I caught you.'

The girl turned her face slightly, and her childlike blue eyes sought his with a quaint air of scrutiny.

'When,' she said, 'you left Suffolk Mansions this afternoon with Alice, you had no intention of returning to London to-night.'

There was no mistaking the deliberation of her assertion. She was defying him--daring him to deny.

He met her glance for a moment--no longer.

'That,' he confessed airily, after a pause, 'is so!'

'And,' continued the girl with more confidence, 'since that time your views respecting Alice have become modified or changed in some way, perhaps?'

He moved with some uneasiness, and appeared particularly wishful to avoid encountering her frank gaze. He clasped his two hands around his raised knee, and stared at the carpet with a non-committing silence which was almost Oriental in its density.

'Brenda,' he whispered at length, 'I have had an awful scare!'

She drew in a deep breath with a little shivering sound, and moistened her lips--first the lower, and then the upper. There was a momentary gleam of short, pearly teeth, and the red Cupid's-bow of her mouth reassumed its usual contour of demure self-reliance.

There was a long pause, during which the faint echo of distant applause came to their ears.

'I wonder,' said the girl at length, 'how many men would have taken as much trouble as you have taken to-night for the sake of such a trifling affair as a woman's good name?'

A dull red colour slowly mounted over her white throat to her face--a painful blush of intense shame, which she was too proud to attempt to hide. The deliberation with which she spoke the words, and then held up her burning face that he might see, had he wished, was very characteristic.

Trist himself changed colour, and his firm lips opened as if he were about to reply hastily. He checked himself, however, and they sat through several painful moments without motion.

During that time their two souls merged, as it were, into a complete understanding--so entire, so perfect and faithful, that no spoken words could ever have brought its semblance into existence. He knew that his painful task was now finished, that Brenda now understood his reason for coming back to London at once. Moreover, he was aware that she had divined the cause of his sudden geniality on first arriving at the soirée, and there was no need to tell her that all London could now find out, if it pleased, that the war-correspondent, Theodore Trist, had arrived home from the East that afternoon, and was seen by many in the evening at a public place of entertainment.

But Brenda was not content with divination of motives. It was her evil habit to proceed to analysis, and in this pastime she made a mistake. Trist's motive in running away, as it were, from the dangerous proximity of a desperate and beautiful woman was clear; and although a large majority of men would, under the circumstances, have had the generosity to do the same, she was pleased to consider this act a most wondrous thing--her reason for doing so being that she was convinced that Trist loved her sister with all the cruel and taciturn strength of his nature. This was an utter mistake, and Theo Trist was unaware of its existence.

Ah! these little mistakes! We spend a small portion of our lives in making them, and the rest in trying to repair.

'Give me,' said Brenda, 'her address, and I will go to her to-morrow.'

'She is at the Castle Hotel, Burgh Ferry, Suffolk. There is a train from Liverpool Street Station leaving at ten o'clock to-morrow for Burgh Station, which is four miles from Burgh Ferry.'

'I have heard of the place,' said Brenda composedly. 'Have you been there and back this evening?'

'Yes. I just had time to install Alice comfortably in the hotel, which is really nothing more than an inn, and is the largest house in the village. I have a list for you--here it is--of things that Alice would like you to take to her to-morrow.'

Brenda took the paper and glanced at it rapidly.

'It is a long one,' she said with a short, hard laugh. 'Is she quite resigned to burying herself alive for a short time?'

'Ye--es.... I put things rather strongly. She has consented to communicate with her husband through Mrs. Wylie, with the view of coming to some sort of agreement.'

The girl drew a sharp breath of relief.

'There ... were ... a good many tears,' added Trist rather unevenly. 'I would suggest a good supply of books,' he said a moment later in a practical way. 'It is a dreadfully dull little place (which makes it safer), and too much thinking is hardly desirable at the present time.'

'It is questionable whether much thinking is profitable at any time.'

Trist looked at her in a curious, doubtful way, and then he rose from his seat.

'I will take you home now,' he said, 'if you are ready. It is nearly one o'clock.'

She rose a little wearily, and, lifting her gloved hand, skirmished deftly over her hair in order to make sure that it had not become deranged. He noted the curve of her white arm, and the quick play of her fingers, while he stood erect and motionless, waiting. No passing light of emotion was visible in his eyes, which possessed a strange, unreflective power of observation. That round white arm was looked upon as a beautiful thing, and nothing more. And she was a trifle weary. Her face betrayed no sign of mental or natural anxiety.

Then she took his arm, and they passed down the splendid stairs together. Co-heirs to a truly human inheritance of sorrow, they bore their burden without complaint or murmur, with a self-reliance behoving children of an acute civilization. For civilization will in time kill all human sympathy.

'I will go home with you,' said Trist, 'because some precautions are necessary in order to escape observation on your journey to-morrow, and I have several suggestions to make.'