CHAPTER IV.

A STORM.

The short northern night lay over the peaceful fjord. There was no sound in the air except the soft murmurous voice of the river and the distant prattle of a tiny waterfall.

The _Hermione_, wrapt in utter darkness (for the Admiral would allow no riding-light, having had enough of red-tape routine during his service beneath the white ensign), lay motionless upon the glassy water.

From the open port-holes came light and a sound of music. In the comfortable and home-like saloon Brenda was at the piano; Mrs. Wylie worked placidly, and the two men smoked in restful silence. That sweet fatigue and utter sense of peacefulness which is the reward of a hard, unsparing day had come over them. The Admiral had caught his two fish over again, and his pleasant, garrulous voice was still. He was now inclining to slumber, lying back drowsily in his deep chair.

Trist, a model of cleanliness, and broadcloth over the whitest linen, was in a less easy pose, for he was seated at the cabin-table before a huge volume of travel. His brown hands lay quiescent upon the open pages; his eyes were riveted on the printed lines. Although he was to all appearances immersed in his study, he was the first to hear a difference in the sounds of night outside. He raised his head and looked towards the port-hole, half hidden by a tiny muslin curtain scarcely moving in the draught. Without, in the semi-darkness, there was now a long continuous whisper, like the voice of a summer breeze amidst half-formed leaves. This was the ripple of a new-born breath upon the waters, and within it there was the hum of air rushing through taut rigging. The breeze was a fresh one. Brenda continued playing, unconscious of these signs. Her fingers wandered over the keys dreamily, while her upright form swayed in no slightest degree to the rhythm of her music. It would seem that she could wring from the old piano plaintive harmonies full of sadness and suggestive melancholy without becoming in any way affected by their influence. For a woman she was exceptionally self-contained and undemonstrative.

Trist continued gazing through the open port-hole. It was now quite dark outside--darker than the thin veil of night in such a latitude would account for during July. Presently the reason of it was apparent and audible. There came a rushing sound like the approach of a train in a deep cutting, and the _Hermione_ was enveloped in it.

'Rain!' exclaimed Brenda, swinging round on the music-stool. The Admiral was asleep, and Trist merely nodded his head in acquiescence. Mrs. Wylie ceased working, and listened. In a few moments there was a slight creak of timber, and the small vessel heaved perceptibly beneath their feet. The muslin curtains on either side of the small port-holes fluttered, and the lamp hanging beneath the open skylight flickered repeatedly.

Trist rose and closed the ports. His movements awoke Admiral Wylie, who sat up in his deep chair with a hand on either knee.

'A squall?' he inquired.

'Yes,' returned Trist, without moving away from the port-hole. 'A squall--rain--and thunder, I think.'

Even while he spoke a green light flashed out and lighted up his face for a moment. The thunder soon followed--a long, low growl, dying away into distant echoes.

'It will be rather fine in this narrow fjord,' suggested Trist to no one in particular. 'I think I will go on deck.'

Mrs. Wylie looked towards Brenda before replying.

'I prefer something more solid than an awning between me and a thunderstorm,' she said decisively.

Brenda rose from her seat and looked round for a shawl. It somehow occurred that, wherever Mrs. Wylie happened to be, a warm shawl was invariably to be found somewhere in proximity.

'I think I will go,' said the girl simply. It did not seem to occur to her that there could be any reason why she should not go on deck with Trist, nor did she appear to think it strange that he should fail to suggest it.

He came to her side and dropped the shawl deftly on to her small, square shoulders, and then they passed out of the saloon together. He climbed the narrow companion-way first, and turned to assist her over the brass-plated combing. They were welcomed on deck by a blinding flash, which for a second lighted up every nook and corner of the fjord. The darkness that followed was almost stunning in its utter opaqueness. Brenda hesitated for a moment, and they stood side-by-side during the crackle of the thunder. When the rumble and echo of it had died away, Trist held out his hand.

'Come,' he said, 'I will guide you--I know all the ring-bolts on the deck.'

Then, seeing that her two hands were wrapped in the shawl, he took hold of her wrist through the soft wool and led her aft. When they were half-way across the deck towards the skylight, where there was a seat, there came a tremendous crash. A blinding yellow flame appeared to leap from the summit of the mountain above them--a flame so brilliant, so sudden, and so grand, that it seemed to burn into their eyes, and for a moment paralyzed their brains. It was impossible to indicate the exact spot whence came that wild electric fire, and whither it went no man could tell. Simultaneously the heavy atmosphere burst and vibrated into such a confusion of crackle, and rumble, and distant roar, that even Theo Trist staggered and caught his breath convulsively. The _Hermione_ quivered beneath their feet, and for some moments they could not hear the steady reassuring splash of the cold rain.

When Trist recovered himself he found Brenda clinging to him. She had abandoned the shawl, and her bare arms were upon his sleeve.

The first sound that she heard was a laugh. Her first sensation was one of warmth, as her companion drew the soft wrap round her shoulders. The thunder was silent for a moment, but a low murmur seemed to run through the mountains. Again Trist laughed in a reassuring way, as men laugh when they are still standing after the first volley of an enemy, when the memory of the grim serrated flash of a thousand rifles is fresh upon their minds.

She made no attempt to help him with the shawl, which fluttered and flapped audibly in the breeze, but stood with idle, hanging arms awaiting and dreading a repetition of the wild anger of heaven, while he held the warm shawl round her throat.

'It is rather grander than we bargained for,' he said at length, and the sound of his voice awoke her.

She drew the wrap closer round her, and made a little movement as if to continue their way aft.

'I have never seen or heard anything like that!' she said at length, half apologetically, when they were seated.

Before he could answer, another peal of thunder broke over the mountains; and, immediately after, a brilliant flash of lightning darted down the bare face of the cliff opposite to them. The sharp, detonating thunder was simultaneous, and all nature seemed to quiver and vibrate. This time Brenda showed no sign of fear, but sat motionless, with her arms folded beneath the shawl. Strange to say, the air was intensely cold, while at short intervals a warmer breath came roaring down the valley. With the colder puffs there fell a torrent of rain, which seethed on the water and beat with a dull, continuous rattle on the soaked awning. Where they were seated, however, no splash or spray could reach them.

And now the storm began to move away down the fjord. In an incredibly short space of time the heavy black clouds rolled aside, and the stars began to twinkle. There was in the air a subtle scent of refreshed verdure, and the atmosphere was less variable. It was a wonderful sight, to watch the clouds creep along the summits of the mountains of which the bare, unlovely outline was every now and then revealed against distant wide-spread lightning. At intervals there arose low, subsidiary grumbles, as if the elements were partly appeased, though still dangerous to trifle with. The _Hermione_ seemed ridiculously small and helpless amidst these great works of creation. Her sturdy spars, standing up boldly in the semi-darkness, were of no height whatever against such towering cliffs.

At length Brenda spoke. She was by no means ashamed of her momentary terror during the first wild assault of the storm. Her feeling was nearer akin to surprise than fear, and the act of clinging to her companion in such a moment did not present itself to her in a very heinous light. It was a natural womanly instinct: she was half blinded by the lightning, almost suffocated by the heavy electricity of the atmosphere. Besides, they were such old friends. In bygone years they had been as brother and sister, exchanging a fraternal kiss at meeting or parting; but that was long, long ago.

'Courage,' observed Brenda thoughtfully, 'would be a difficult thing to define.'

She turned and looked into his face with grave, questioning eyes. For a few moments he was silent, as if endeavouring to follow out her train of thought.

'You cannot reduce _that_ to a science,' he said at length conclusively.

'I think most things in life can be reduced to a science.'

'I know you do--but you are mistaken. You would reduce life itself to a science, and make it quite unworth the living. Courage can no more be spoken of generally than other strictly human qualities, because no two minds are quite alike. I suppose you think that personal bravery is a mere matter of habit.'

'Not entirely.'

'Scarcely at all, Brenda. A brave man is a brave man on shore, at sea, and in a balloon. A fox-hunter may be nervous in a boat. If so, I say he is at heart a coward, despite his fox-hunting. When a sailor is uncomfortable in a dogcart he is not naturally a brave man, though at sea he borrow a false confidence from familiarity with what landsmen take to be danger.'

'What suggested the idea to me,' said the girl after a pause, 'was that flash of lightning just now--when we first came on deck. I was not really frightened. I know that one never sees the flash by which one is struck....'

'Scientific courage,' interrupted Trist gently.

'But I was startled. You never stirred excepting a mere physical motion caused by the brilliancy of the flash. Where was the difference then?'

'I think that was habit. It is easy enough to acquire the self-control necessary to prevent one's self being startled by anything whatsoever. It is after the shock of surprise that courage is required. I have watched men of different constitutions in moments of danger, and have found that the mere act of jumping back or bobbing the head is a physical effect caused by surprise as much as fear. I have seen a man who was distinctly startled act, and act wisely, as well as rapidly, sooner than one who betrayed no sign of being moved.'

'I have often wondered,' murmured Brenda reflectively, 'how certain people would act at a crisis. I have often longed to see you, for instance, on a battle-field.'

'I cannot return the compliment. Much as I enjoy your society, I would much rather not see you on a battlefield.'

The girl laughed at his gravity, and then continued, in her thoughtful, analytical way:

'I cannot picture you at work--at all! What are you like?'

He shrugged his shoulders and presently answered, in a slow, indifferent way, such as most men acquire at sea, where time is of comparatively small value:

'Just like other men. Much the same as in a drawing-room. Men do not change so much as you imagine. Not so much perhaps as women. There is a lamentable monotony about us: we behave at a funeral as at a wedding.'

'Women don't do that. They overdo the smiling, and exaggerate the weeping, while between times they take note of each other's bonnets, and mentally measure the depth of crape trimmings.'

'There is more good in the world, Brenda, than you are aware of.'

'And,' said the girl, 'more courage. Excuse my returning to the subject; but it is one which is full of interest, and I think you must know something about it.'

He turned and looked at her, and in the twilight his meek eyes were as soft as any woman's--softer than Brenda's, which were habitually wistful and much too grave.

'I do,' he said simply.

'And...?' she murmured interrogatively.

'And I think there can be no doubt that there is more courage in the world now than there has ever been. We are the bravest generation that has ever lived--though our bravery is of a different type. All brutal attributes are expunged, and it is purely mental. There is no excitement in it, and therefore it is pure, independent courage. The Crusades were marvellous campaigns: we never try to realize now what it must have been for those men--most of whom had never even set foot on the deck of a ship--to go to sea in small ill-found vessels on a mere wild-goose chase, to a country of which they knew absolutely nothing. But the Crusades have been outdone; greater knowledge has told us of greater dangers, and yet men are ready to face them.'

'Without the incentive of religion.'

'Yes.'

'Then, Theo, you consider that religion has nothing to do with personal bravery?'

'Absolutely nothing.'

'That is a bold theory. Do you mean to say that a man will not fight the better for possessing a strong faith in a future life which will in every way be better than this--that his present existence will be of less value owing to the possession of that faith, and that, therefore, he will be readier to risk losing his life.'

'It is not a theory,' urged the man in his strange gentle way, which was crudely out of keeping with his words. 'It is an experience. Fanaticism undoubtedly generates courage; religion does not. On a battle-field, and on a sinking ship, I have found that a future existence, and all the unending questions that it arouses, occupy a very small place in men's minds.'

'Then of what are they thinking? What emotion do they show?'

'They are thinking of trifles, which we all do, all through life; and they generally either laugh or swear!'

'Then I give up attempting to understand human nature!'

'I gave that up years ago, Brenda.'

She did not answer him, but sat gazing across the dark waters with an unsatisfied expression upon her sweet, intellectual face. Even as that gray, hopeless sheet of water, life lay before her--a surface, and nothing else; a knowledge that there was something beneath that surface, a hot, fierce thirst to drink deeper of the cup of knowledge; to know more and find a reason for many things which to our minds are quite unreasonable: and no means of satisfying what is, after all, a natural and legitimate craving.

'It is no use,' continued Trist in a lighter tone, 'attempting to understand anything, because sooner or later you will find yourself confronted by a great wall which no knowledge can surmount.'

'We either know too much or too little,' said the girl discontentedly.

'Too much,' he affirmed without any hesitation. 'Fortunately, we have learnt to acquire a mental courage with our knowledge, or else we never would be able to face life at all.'

After this there was a pause of some duration. It would be impossible to hazard a guess at what thoughts were passing through the man's brain as he sat there blandly indifferent, placid and utterly inscrutable. His meek eyes wore no far-off, absent look. He seemed merely to be noting the shadows upon the water.

With her it was different. Plainly, she was thinking of him, for her eyes were fixed upon his face, endeavouring to decipher something there. At last, as with a sudden effort, she spoke, and in the inconsistency, the utter irrelevancy of her speech, there was the history of a woman's world.

'Either,' she said in a dull voice, 'you are on the verge of atheism, or you love Alice. Only one of those ... calamities could account for the utter hopelessness of your creed.'

At this moment Mrs. Wylie appeared on deck, and playfully chided them for staying away so long.

With the utmost unconsciousness of an unanswered question, Trist rose and crossed the deck to meet her.