CHAPTER XI.

A COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION.

By three o'clock in the morning Theo Trist was on deck again. The sun was already high up in the heavens; the morning air was fresh and invigorating.

Captain Barrow now did a strange thing. He took all sail off the _Hermione_ and allowed her to drift on the rising tide towards Gudvangen. There was noticeable about the movements of the men a singular desire to avoid any noise whatsoever. Trist and the Captain moved about among them, here and there, helping noiselessly. The Captain gave his orders in a lowered voice. The carpenter was at his post forward by the cathead, but he awaited the order to let go the anchor in vain. All this was the result of instructions imparted by Trist to Captain Barrow.

'Put me ashore,' he had said, 'before you let go the anchor. The ladies must not be awakened on any account. Let the men make as little noise as they can in lowering the boat and taking in sail.'

To a yacht's crew such instructions were easy of comprehension. These are of different construction to the hardy mariners who man our passenger steamers. The latter gentry can not deign to _lay_ a coil of rope or the brass nozzle of a hose-pipe on the deck, at five a.m. All such things are cast violently and dragged backwards and forwards over the heads of the sleeping passengers in a frank, sailor-like way. Again, such members of the crew as possess a taste for mechanical engineering are at perfect liberty to take the cover off the donkey-engine and indulge in a few experimental and spasmodic revolutions during the smaller hours of the morning. These sounds impart a hearty and nautical feeling to the sleepers below decks, and serve to remind them that they are nationally of a seafaring turn. Being of a commercial spirit, I shall some day start a line of passenger steamers, carrying crews who do not wear sea-boots in tropical and dry latitudes, who can stoop to lay things down on deck, and do not work violently from five to six o'clock in the morning, so that the rest of the day may be spent in graceful leisure.

Captain Barrow had directed his mental researches more towards the vagaries of fickle ocean and wayward weather than to the question of human motives. Through a long and somewhat monotonous life the old mariner had not hitherto found the necessity of studying his fellow-men very closely. Able-bodied seamen are a class of beings who vary little in mental accomplishment or bias. Their bodies must be able; their minds are of secondary importance. Nevertheless, it occurred to him that Theo Trist was singularly anxious to get ashore without disturbing the ladies.

The boat was lowered noiselessly, and into it were thrown the young fellow's portmanteau, creel and rods. Then Trist shook hands with the crew, the steward, and finally with Captain Barrow himself. This ceremony being performed with due solemnity, he threw his leg over the rail and prepared to jump into the boat, which was already manned. At this moment Brenda appeared on deck. She was still dressed in black, which sombre attire suited her dainty style of face and form to perfection. _Du reste_, she looked as bright and fresh as Aurora.

Captain Barrow glanced beneath his shaggy eyebrows at Trist, and saw on his face--nothing: absolutely nothing. The man was simply impenetrable.

Brenda came towards them with a smile. She leant over the rail, for Trist was now in the boat, and held out her small hand steadily.

'Good-bye, Theo.'

'Good-bye ... Brenda.'

And with his own hands he shoved off.

So the _Hermione_ never dropped anchor at Gudvangen. Before the boat reached the pier there was a man waiting for her. In Norway, persons connected in any way with the hire of horses or carriols do not appear to sleep at all. Even in this peaceful land the spirit of competition disturbs men's rest.

Brenda, standing on the deck of the _Hermione_, saw Trist shake hands with the boat's crew and climb on to the wooden pier. Then he turned, and evidently directed the men to return to the yacht. The wind was fair, so Captain Barrow set sail as soon as the boat came alongside; and before the sails were fairly filled, Brenda saw Trist mount his carriol and drive away at a smart trot into the narrow, darksome gorge of the Nerodal. To her ears came the sound of his horse's feet upon the hard road, and she turned away with dull anguish in her eyes.

On the evening of the third day Theo Trist was seated in a train that glided smoothly into King's Cross Station. It was five o'clock, and in three hours the war-correspondent intended to leave London again. As time goes and new things grow up around us, our constitutions become more adaptable. The human frame endures to-day fatigues and hardships of a description undreamt of three hundred years ago. I believe that it would have been hard to find in the reign of Queen Bess a man ready to undertake an unbroken journey by carriol, steamer, train, steamer, train, and train again from a Norwegian station to the pretty little town of Belgrade on the Danube. To Theo Trist this undertaking was of no great matter, and there are plenty of men around who would smile at the hardship.

Whatever speed may be attained by our fastest express the human brain can outvie. During the first hour or so our thoughts lag behind, we are still living the life that is left there, thinking of the people who dwell there, feeling the emotions experienced there. But presently our thoughts come racing along and overtake the material body. An interest is taken in passing stations; the scenery acquires beauty, and for a time mind and body travel together. After another space our thoughts start away again, in front this time, and the coming alteration in daily routine becomes a reality. We anticipate the change that is approaching, and thus the shock of it is broken. Anyone who has made a long and rapid journey will understand me, and those who have left behind them something dear, some bright period of their existence, will, with me, bless this wise provision.

To Theo Trist nothing seemed more natural than to find himself amidst an excited crowd of porters on the platform. To be hustled on all sides by human forms, to have to push his way through an over-crowded humanity, brought to his mind no thought of contrast. Three days before he had lived in a world almost devoid of life. Here he forced his way through life in a world too small for it.

All around him greetings were being exchanged--hands pressed hands, and lips touched lips. In and out, the porters forced their hurried passage. Cabmen shouted, and porters called. Everyone was smiling at or abusing someone else. Only Trist was alone. No one sought his face amidst the new ones on the platform--no one smiled at him. Here, as at the edge of the Norwegian river, he was alone, in a studied, cultivated solitude. In three hours he would leave Charing Cross, still alone, still unheeded. Amidst this noise and confusion he sought his light baggage, and his was the first cab to leave the station.

Through the dusty streets he drove, looking calmly on the well-known sights, listening vaguely to the well-known sounds and cries. His life had been a kaleidoscope, and in all places, all situations, and all circumstances, he unconsciously made a place for himself.

In late July London is supposed to be empty, but as Trist drove through the narrow thoroughfares down towards Oxford Street, the pavement was crowded. Oxford Street was gay, dusty, noisy. Seven Dials, in those days, innocent of model-lodging houses, reeked of fever. Through all these the war-correspondent drove indifferently; but when the cab rattled down Wellington Street he sat forward. In the Strand he was at home, recognised of many, recognising some. The cab drew up before a large stone house, labelled by a single diminutive brass-plate on the door--and waited. A minute later Trist entered a small room at the back of the building. A gray-haired man of square build with an enormous head rose to greet him.

'At last!' said this man. 'If you remember, Trist, I did not want you to go so far away while this Eastern Question was unsettled.'

'I remember perfectly,' said Trist almost inaudibly, as he laid aside his hat and looked up towards a clock suspended on the wall, with the air of a man knowing his surroundings well.

'And still you went--you ruffian!' said the other, courteously indicating a chair and reseating himself.

Trist smiled sweetly and said nothing.

'I suppose,' continued the large-headed man jovially, 'that there was a distinct and irresistible attraction.'

'There was!' said Trist, with impenetrable gravity.

'And how did you leave that jolly old boy, the Admiral?'

'Dead!'

'Ah! Dead?'

The editor leant forward and pressed a small white button at the side of his desk. Simultaneously the door opened, and a man in livery stood silently waiting.

'Send Mr. Deacon!'

'Yessir.'

'Dead, is he?' continued the editor, in a different tone. 'I am sorry to hear that. It must have been sudden. Just give me a few details.'

While speaking he had taken a pencil and paper. Trist told him in a few words what had taken place in the Heimdalfjord, and as he spoke the editor wrote. A minute later Mr. Deacon, a small man, who looked incapable of taking the initiative in anything whatsoever, appeared.

'Sudden death of Admiral Wylie,' said the editor in a monotone, as he held out the paper towards Mr. Deacon, without looking, however, in his direction. 'Short paragraph--look up details of career.'

'Nothing sensational and nothing very personal,' put in Trist with gentle severity.

'No,' added his companion, 'nothing of that sort. Admiral Wylie was a personal friend of my own.'

Mr. Deacon vanished, and closed the door behind him with scrupulous noiselessness.

'When can you go?' asked the editor.

'Eight-twenty from Charing Cross,' was the reply, given in Trist's most soothing way. He leant back in his deep chair, and passed his hand round his clean-shaven chin in a thoughtful, almost indolent, manner. Then he waited for his companion to continue the conversation.

'It was rather a risky thing waiting for you; but I heard from Lloyd's this morning that your boat arrived at Hull in time for you to be here by five-thirty. If that boat had been late, my boy, I should have sent another man.'

Again Trist smiled.

'I very nearly did not come at all.'

This remark appeared to have rather a peculiar effect upon the editor. He received it with unsympathetic gravity, and, resting his heavy arms upon his desk, he leant forward. While playing with a pencil in an easy, thoughtful way, he fixed his eyes upon Trist's face with a kindly scrutiny. Gray eyes they were, of a shade merging on green, with at times a suggestion of brown. Such eyes have a singular power of expressing kindness of heart, in which they differ greatly from the gray of a blue shade, such as Trist's, which have gentleness but no loving-kindness. It is usual to hold in abhorrence all shades of green in respect to human orbs, but this is mere prejudice. There is no such thing--despite Thackeray--as a green eye; and the noblest character, the truest gentleman and kindest-hearted being who has crossed the present writer's path possesses eyes of a gray shade slightly tinged with green. Again, there is another person I know. She ... well--she is herself; and her eyes are of a deep gray, which assume at times a distinctly green hue.

Before speaking the editor shook his massive head incredulously.

'My impression of you, Trist, is that you are a man who never "very nearly" does _anything_. While actually reading my telegram you made up your mind whether you were going or not, and after that no power on earth would have altered your decision. Of course, it sometimes pays (especially with ladies) to appear vacillating, and desirous of placing the deciding vote in someone else's hands. No doubt you practise this amiable fraud at times. I am sorry, but I don't believe that you "very nearly" did not come, seeing that you are here.'

Trist laughed without denying this insinuation.

'And now,' he said, 'that I am here, perhaps it would be wiser to get to business, and leave my personal failings for discussion behind my back when I am gone.'

'Yes,' answered the other briskly, 'let us get to business. You must leave in two hours. Now about terms. Are they to be the same as for the Franco-Prussian?'

'No!' answered Trist.

'Ah!'

'Your terms were generous for the Franco-Prussian War,' replied the correspondent, 'but now they would be miserly.'

The editor raised his august eyebrows and waited in quizzical silence. He appeared to be amused.

'I was a young man then, and a beginner. You did me a great kindness, and I am not going to repay it by such a mean ruse as working below the market price. I am worth more now, and I expect more. It is only natural that my health will give in some day, or my reputation may die, in either of which cases I shall have little to live upon. During this war and the disturbances of some description which will undoubtedly follow, I mean to make money.'

The great man laughed aloud.

'Capital!' he exclaimed--'capital! What a head for business! My dear Trist, you are worth four times as much money as we gave you in '70, and I am authorized to offer you that sum.'

'I think that is _too_ much.'

'Not at all. It is merely a business-like speculation. You risk your life, and we pay you. Your life goes up in market-value; we pay you more. Do you accept?'

'Yes.'

'That is right. I have the agreement ready in my desk for you to sign. Personally speaking, I think they might have offered you more, but you have the publishers clamouring for a book, and I suppose you will represent _Le Pays_ as well as ourselves.'

'Yes; I telegraphed to them from Hull. But I am quite content; in fact, it is more than I expected. I will make a good thing out of it.'

'We shall,' observed the editor, with a keen smile, 'be having you on the turf when you come back, or launching into ... matrimony.'

'Both amusements,' suggested Trist coolly, 'being so eminently calculated to forward the career of a special war-correspondent.'

The editor was busy collecting various papers that lay in apparent disorder on his desk--telegrams, foreign and English; 'flimsies' from the news agencies and Lloyd's; printed matter and manuscript.

'No, Trist,' he said, without looking up; 'we cannot have you marrying yet. The warlike public cannot do without you, my boy.'

'It is wonderful,' murmured Trist ambiguously, 'what we can do without when we try. I am not, however, going to do without something to eat. I will go along to the club and dine now. You will be here when I come back?'

'I shall be here until two in the morning,' returned the journalist.