SUSPENSE

BY

HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

AUTHOR OF 'YOUNG MISTLEY,' 'THE PHANTOM FUTURE'
ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I.

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1890

[All rights reserved]

Some there are who laugh and sing
While compassed round by sorrow;
To this ev'ning's gloom they bring
The sunshine of to-morrow.

TO THE
TRUEST GENTLEMAN I HAVE MET,
MY FATHER,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

CHAPTER

I. [ON BOARD THE 'HERMIONE']
II. [THE EXCEPTION]
III. [A PROBLEM]
IV. [A STORM]
V. [THE COMPACT]
VI. [A SHADOW]
VII. [A SPORTSMAN'S DEATH]
VIII. [A JOINT COMMAND]
IX. [A DIVIDED RESPONSIBILITY]
X. [FJAERHOLM]
XI. [A COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION]
XII. [BAD NEWS]
XIII. [OFF!]

SUSPENSE

CHAPTER I.
ON BOARD THE 'HERMIONE.'

'Brenda, what are you thinking about?'

It was hardly a question. The intonation of Mrs. Wylie's voice was by no means interrogative, and she returned placidly to the perusal of her novel without awaiting a reply. The ladies had been reading silently for at least an hour, until the younger of the two allowed her book to lie unheeded on her knee, while the pages fluttered in the breeze.

The remark called forth by this action was accepted literally and as a question.

'I was thinking of Theo Trist,' replied the girl gravely. She did not meet her companion's gaze, but looked wistfully across the fjord towards the bleak dismal cliffs.

Mrs. Wylie closed her novel on one white plump finger and drummed idly upon the back of it with the other hand. In movement and repose alike this lady was essentially comfortable. Her presence suggested contentment and prosperity amidst the most unpropitious environments. The Hermione, her temporary home, a broad, slow-sailing schooner-yacht, was, below decks, conducted on the principles of a luxurious, roomy house. She had a wonderful way with her, this plump and smiling lady, of diffusing into the very atmosphere a sense of readiness to meet all emergencies. The elements, even, seemed to bow to her. Overhead the winds might roar and moan aloud through stay and rigging—all around the waves might leap and throw themselves against the staunch low bulwarks of the yacht—but in the cabin was warm comfort; and with it, dainty womanly ways. Mrs. Wylie proved most effectually that at sea, in fair weather and in foul, a woman can be a woman still.

She now re-opened her book, but instead of reading, sat gazing thoughtfully at the young girl. Presently she laughed musically and turned resolutely to the open page.

'Yes,' she murmured—confessing, as it were, that her thoughts had on former occasions been drawn in the same direction. 'Yes. But, Brenda—I—should not advise you—to—think—of Theo Trist.'

There are in the lives of most of us passing moments which leave a distinct impression upon the mind. Of all the million words we hear there are some trivial remarks which hold fast to the inner sinews of the great machine we call memory—a machine which rests not by night or day, in health or sickness, in prosperity or woe. Often it is a jest, or some weighty saying spoken in jest. There is no apparent reason why some words should be so distinctly remembered while others pass away from recollection; and yet small observations, interesting only in the passing moment, catch as it were in the mental wheel, and, adhering to the spokes, spin round with them, just as a mere muddy piece of paper may cling to the wheel of an emperor's carriage and flutter through the cheering crowd, calling for universal attention.

Brenda Gilholme listened to Mrs. Wylie's laughing caution in a vague way, and there seemed to come into her mind an indefinite recollection. Certain it was that she had never heard the words before, but yet they were forebodingly familiar. The semi-bantering ring of the lady's voice, the soft hum of the breeze through the rigging overhead, the ripple of the awning stretched tautly, and the regular plash of tiny wavelets beneath and all around, formed an entire harmony of sound which was instantaneously graved on her memory, never to leave it from that day forth.

Mrs. Wylie, having married happily herself, was of the firm opinion that marriages are made in heaven. (We of course know better. The manufactory is situated, my brothers, in another quarter where fuel is cheap and steam-power readily obtainable.) She was too kind-hearted and too merciful to the human race to think of interfering in the work. Perhaps she felt that if heaven turned out such poor work, hers could not well be satisfactory. Be that, however, as it may, Mrs. Wylie was no match-maker. She held strange views—alas! too rarely fostered—that if a man be worthy of a woman and love her truly, he should be able to win her for himself; and that if he cannot do this unaided he is better without her. A bold theory most assuredly, and one worthy of consideration.

Of course she knew that Theo Trist and Brenda were great friends. She was well aware that in some future time the friendship might turn to something else. With most young men and maidens the word 'would' could well be substituted for 'might.' But these two were not of that human material which is woven upon a common web. Brenda Gilholme was not one of the crowd—she had the misfortune of an intellect. As existence is managed in these days, a woman with a mind must not expect too much happiness. It is lamentable, but true, that the brain has little to do with earthly joy. In these æsthetic days we talk a great quantity of nonsense about 'soul,' and inner consciousness, and feeling. In fact, we are getting too clever, and our minds are running away from our bodies. Our existence is material, talk as we may about abstract idealisms; and our joys are material. Eating, drinking, working, sleeping—this is human life, and those among us who perform those functions well are undoubtedly the happiest.

A superior intellect, more especially in woman, is not conducive to happiness. Indeed, it is directly opposed to that impossible state. It was this possession that made Brenda Gilholme somewhat different from her fellows.

Theo Trist, again, had his peculiarities, but these must perforce be allowed to transpire hereafter; and besides such individual matters there were several facts known to Mrs. Wylie which raised doubts as to what the end of this friendship might be. Trist was twenty-eight and Brenda was nineteen, while both were in manner and appearance older than their years could warrant. Also was there another matter of some weight. Brenda had a sister, a lovely unscrupulous coquette, two years older than herself.

Alice Gilholme had been pleased to change her name and state in St. George's, Hanover Square, earlier in the year, while the Hermione was yet in dry dock. Three weeks after the wedding, Theo Trist returned from abroad with his bland broad forehead tanned and brown. He expressed no surprise. In fact, he vouchsafed no opinion whatever. Had he met Captain Huston, the happy bridegroom? Oh yes! They had met in South Africa. That was all! He never related details of that part of a difficult campaign which they had passed together. The laconic praise contained in the two words 'good soldier,' such as had been applied to many of his acquaintances, was not forthcoming.

From a lady's point of view, Alfred Woodruff Charles Huston was the beau-ideal of a soldier. Tall, straight and square shouldered, he carried his small head erect. His clear brown eyes were quick enough, his brown clean-cut face almost perfect in its outline. Indefatigable at Sandown, Hurlingham, Goodwood, Ascot—in the Grand Stand bien entendu—he had a pleasant way of appearing to know something about everyone and everything. But Theo Trist had not met him at any of these places or in fashionable London drawing-rooms later in the day. They had come together in South Africa in the course of a campaign, when both had laid aside the accessories of pleasure and were hard at work, each in his chosen groove. It was somewhat strange that he should never offer to discuss Captain Huston as a military man.

'That fellow Huston,' a general officer had once said in an unguarded moment—'that fellow Huston, Trist, is the biggest duffer in the British Army!'

And Trist's answer, given after careful consideration, was laconically severe: 'Yes, I am afraid so.'

But Alice Gilholme omitted to consult the general officer; and after all, if Captain Huston was no soldier, he was at least a gentleman, with elegant high-bred ways, and an empty high-bred head, containing just enough brain to find out the enjoyment of existence. The happy couple were now in India, where we will leave them.

Whether the marriage of Alice Gilholme had been a severe blow to Theo Trist or no, it were hard to say. Mrs. Wylie even could give no opinion on the subject, and Brenda never mentioned it. There was no perceptible change in the man's strange incongruous face when the news was broken to him without premonition in a crowded room. His life was essentially ruled by chance; good or bad tidings were therefore no new things to him.

The Hermione rose and fell slightly, almost imperceptibly, to the waves, and backwards and forwards across the spotless deck Brenda Gilholme walked pensively. She was motherless, and her father was entirely absorbed in political strife, being an English Home Ruler. This thoughtful girl had grown up in the shade of her sister's beauty, and, like many a fair young flower, had perhaps suffered from the contiguity. She was pleased to consider herself a plain uninteresting girl, which was a mistake. Her face, small and proud, was in profile almost perfect; but her eyes were set too close together, which caused a peculiar disappointment to those meeting her face to face.

Perhaps she was a discontented little person. Her expression certainly warranted such a belief. Undoubtedly she thought too little of herself. In personal charms she compared unfavourably with her sister Alice, and in that small fact lay the secret of it all. Glory of any description unfortunately casts a reflection which is sure to be unpleasant either to the reflector or to the friends of that person. The sister of a celebrated man, his cousins, and also his aunts, are usually disagreeable people; or, if by chance they be coloured with the same brush and possess in a slight degree his talent, they are discontented and unhappy. The second fiddler will be found less companionable than the eager time-server who plays the triangle in the dark corner near the stage-box.

Had Brenda Gilholme been launched upon the troubled waters of society alone, she would probably have made a better place for herself there than her sister Alice ever reached; but unfortunately she started the world as Alice Gilholme's sister. In a thousand ways clumsy and well-meaning men allowed her to define her own situation. With that sweet charity which warms the fair bosoms of our sisters and female cousins, girls took every opportunity of lamenting Alice's backslidings and social sins in the hearing of her sister. There are some who will say that these lamentations were the fruit of jealousy and petty female spite, but this assuredly could not be, because these same guileless maidens were never tired of praising and upholding their dear friend's beauty. Now, would they do that if they were jealous? Oh no!

'Brenda,' Admiral Wylie used to say, with a loving twinkle of his intensely blue eyes, 'Brenda is a brick.' She was true and loyal; a devoted sister, and a staunch friend. Had she loved her sister less, she would have carried a lighter heart through many a gay ball-room. She would have suffered less from—let us call it the mistaken kindness of her sister's friends. She would have thought more of herself and less of Alice. And yet there was in this little maiden a strange touch of pride. She carried her neat little head very high, although she failed to recognise the rare beauty of the brown soft hair nestling there. As she walked up and down the deck she trod firmly, with a certain smooth strength, although she was pleased to ignore the possession of the daintiest little feet ever shod by Pinet. Her small and beautiful person was adorned with a simple severity which was almost defiant. It seemed to throw the glove down before the face of human weakness—to defy opinion. Alice had always been the beauty; to her had been relegated the fine dresses and fascinating hats, and Brenda had played second fiddle. Now that Alice had left her life, the little maiden went on her way with apparent serenity; but beneath the quietly thoughtful exterior, behind the sad, questioning eyes, there was that curse, the bitter sorrow of a superior intellect placed within a woman's brain.

Brenda Gilholme knew too much. Her estimate of human existence at the age of nineteen was truer and deeper than that of her grandmother at the age of ninety. And around us, my brothers, there are many Brendas—many women and young maidens who know us too well. Human nature has been scraped, and probed, and stripped until the gilt and glamour are quite lost. Moreover, the fault is chiefly ours. We have probed and analyzed with our pens most foolishly. Urged on by the spirit of competition, we have searched deeper into man's heart and woman's motive, each trying to get nearer to the core, until at last the subject has become almost repulsive.

The analyst soon discovers that many substances are the mere outcome of a few components variously mingled. Men and women can no more bear analysis with dignity than can the common ruck of every-day food. There are certain component parts capable of nourishing the human frame, but we mix them up into many dishes. He who dissects his meat will have small appetite, and those who study their fellow men and women too closely will learn to despise their own parents.

Women are, in this respect, worse off than men. Their greater insight and quicker divination enable them to judge mercilessly and with unfortunate accuracy. Since they have joined us in the great work of analysis (with but poor results from a literary point of view, but mighty profits to the printer), the seamy side has been held up to inquiring eyes with the veriest shamelessness. Surely we know the worst of human nature now, and most certainly those who are running behind us in the race, those little children and soft-eyed maidens, can read even as they run.

Brenda Gilholme was a living protest against mental cultivation as it is understood to-day. Her exceptionally capable mind was the victim of over-education and a cheap literature. Beneath that soft brown hair was a fund of classical knowledge sufficient for the requirements of an Oxford professor, theology enough for a deacon, geometry mixed up with political economy, geography and algebra, general knowledge, and no arithmetic worth speaking of. All this, forsooth, added to a taste for music, and an innate power of making it very sweetly. And all for what? To be wisely forgotten as soon as possible—let us hope. The best woman and the truest lady I know has never seen an examination paper in her life. At least, I believe she has not. Filial respect withholds my question.

It is rather disappointing to come freshly into a world of men and women and find it sorely wanting. This Brenda had done. The women appeared to her affected and ignorant, because with her they were not quite at ease by reason of her deep education. The men were trivial or narrow. This one knew more geometry than she did, but of classics and theology he knew nothing. Another was well versed in theology, while of political economy he could speak but haltingly, and so on. Each was in his narrow sphere; she knew too much for all, and could apply it to nothing because she was a woman. She had been taught that knowledge was power—that the whole world passed the Cambridge examinations—that women were born to muddle their sweet inconsistent brains over deep questions relative to semi-preserved languages, to weary their young eyes over imperfectly printed algebraical problems, and to learn many things which they are best without.

But with it all Brenda Gilholme was a woman. Instead of puzzling her daring brains over questions which have never yet been approached with safety, she would have done better had she knelt down and thanked God for that same womanliness. And being a woman, she weakly thought that all men are not alike. She fondly imagined that an exception had been especially created and placed within her own sphere.

Presently she stopped walking, and stood beside the low rail, grasping an awning-stanchion with one hand. The wistful, discontented look left her eyes, which were clear and blue, with long dark lashes, and in its place came an interested, keen expression.

'I think,' she said aloud, 'I see him coming. There is a small sail away down the fjord.'

Mrs. Wylie looked up vaguely.

'Yes,' she answered absently; 'I dare say you are right!'

CHAPTER II.
THE EXCEPTION.

The Hermione lay at the head of that small branch of the sea called the Heimdalfjord. This long and narrow inlet is an insignificant branch of a greater fjord where steamers ply their irregular traffic; where British tourists gaze up with weary eyes at the towering rocks and bleak cliffs; and where, during the long silent twilight winter, the winds howl and roar round the bare crags. On either side of the Heimdalfjord the gray hopeless cliffs rose a sheer two thousand feet, while the blue deep water lapped their base with scarce a ripple. The fjord lay between the mighty barriers with a solemn sense of profundity in the stillness of its bosom. One could almost picture to one's self the continuation of the steep incline into a great dark valley beneath the superficial ripple, where mighty marine growths reared their brown branches up towards the dim light, never swaying to the ocean swell—where strange northern fishes and slow crawling things lived on unknown, unclassified.

Amid such surroundings, upon the face of so large a nature, the Hermione looked incongruous. Her clean long spars, her white awning, the yellow gleam of her copper beneath the clear water, all suggested another world where comfort and small refinement live. Here all is of a rougher, larger stamp. Here man and his petty tastes are as nothing. The bleak and dismal mountains were not created for his habitation, for nothing grows there, and human ingenuity, human enterprise, can do naught with such stony chaos.

On the entire Heimdalfjord there are but two boats—mere pinewood craft heavily tarred. One is owned by Hans Olsen, who lives far away at the point where the Sognfjord begins, and the other belongs to Christian Nielsen, who farms the two acres of poor soil at the head of the Heimdalfjord. No steamer has ever churned the still waters; few yachts have ventured up to the head of the inlet, where there is no attraction to the sightseer. But Nielsen looked every year for the white sails of the Hermione, and with native conscientiousness refrained from netting the river that ran past his brown log-hut.

The river brought him in more money than his farm, and even at this out-of-the-world corner of the Heimdalfjord money and the lust of it are the chief movers of men's hearts. Five hundred crowns a year was a sum worth thinking about, worth depriving one's self of a little salmon for, which, after all, was plentiful enough when once the Hermione had cast anchor.

Four miles down the fjord there was another break in the great wall of mountains, and a second river danced gaily down its narrow barren valley to the sea. From this river-mouth a small boat was now making its way under sail up the fjord. A tiny speck of white was all the girl could distinguish from the deck of the yacht, and she stood silently watching its approach until the form of the sailor sitting low in the bow of the small brown craft was discernible.

The sun had set some time before, so that the water was in shadow, deep and blue; but up on the hills and away to the south upon the distant snow-clad mountains a warm pink glow lay hazily. Deep purple vales of shade broke the line of cliffs abutting the water here and there. Where the hills closed together, five miles away (so that the fjord appeared to be a lake), there was a rich background of blue transparency through which the broken crags loomed vaguely. It was nearly nine o'clock, and this clear twilight was all the darkness that would come to the Heimdal that July night.

The breeze held its own bravely against the soporific influence of Arctic sunset, and with full taut sail the dinghy splashed and gurgled through the waters. The steersman was invisible by reason of the reefless sail, but his handiwork was apparent and very good. A wonderfully straight course had he steered from the mouth of the river, such a course as a purposeful man will steer when he is without companion beyond his own thoughts.

'He's driving her along!' muttered the steward, as he stood for a moment at the galley-door.

'The driving is like unto the driving of Jehu,' answered old Captain Barrow, who was smoking his evening pipe upon his own small piece of deck between the galley and the after-companion.

Captain Barrow rarely missed an opportunity of throwing at the head of the steward, who (like most good cooks) was a godless person, a Biblical quotation more or less correct.

Before the silence had again been broken the dinghy came rushing on. Down went the tiller, and with shivering canvas the little boat swung round alongside.

Beside the after-rail Brenda stood motionless; her eyes were resting on the dreary, lifeless scene which was nothing but a still blending of hazy blues now that the small white sail no longer gave life to it. She did not even turn when the sound of wet splashy footsteps upon the deck came to her ears. The newcomer had kicked off his brogues amidships, and was coming aft in wet waders and soaking outer socks, out of respect for the Hermione's deck.

There was a vague suggestion of respectful familiarity in his movements. One could tell instinctively that he had known these ladies for many years. Nor did he apologize for the informality of his pedal attire.

This man was clad du reste disgracefully. His old tweed coat was baggy and most lamentably worn. One sleeve was very wet, while the other was muddy. The gray waders were discoloured, and he had apparently been kneeling in green slime. And yet withal Theo Trist was undoubtedly a gentleman—unmistakably, undeniably so. The manner in which he set his shoeless feet upon the deck betrayed it. His very silence confirmed it.

He came beneath the awning, and raised from his close-cropped head a most lamentable hat of gray cloth, with a vague brim and no independent shape. All round it were gaudy salmon-flies and a coil of gleaming gut.

As he stood there beneath the awning in the gray twilight with his head bared, the strange incongruity of his person was very noticeable. A sturdy, lightly-built body spoke of great activity. It was the frame of a soldier. But the face was of a different type. In itself it was inconsistent, because the upper part of it had no sympathy with the lower. A forehead which receded slightly in a kindly curve to strong curled hair could only be described as bland, while beneath straight thick brows there smiled a pair of gray eyes as meek as human eyes were ever made. It was in these same meek eyes that all the world misread this man. In brow and eyes he was a soft-hearted philanthropist, such as are easily misled and gulled with exaggerated tales of woe. A man to take up some impossible scheme to alleviate the sorrows of a class or kind, to busy himself unprofitably in a crusade against class privileges and uphold the so-called rights of a victimized working population. But from the eyes downwards this was all lost, and there were other signs instead. The nose was straight and somewhat small, while the lips, though clean-shaven, were entirely devoid of any suggestion of coarseness, such as one may read upon the mouths of most men past the age of twenty-five, unless a moustache charitably hide such failing. The mouth was almost too severe in its clean curve; in repose it was Napoleonic, in gaiety it lost all hardness. The chin, again, was square and slightly prominent. To judge from nose and lips and chin, this new-comer had been intended for a soldier, but the meek eyes disturbed this theory.

His face was brown, of a complexion which by reason of its unchangeableness never betrayed thought, emotion, or physical pain. That his life had been chiefly spent in the open air was discernible from his bearing and appearance, yet his manner (more especially with ladies) was that of a polished courtier. Judging from outward things, one could not help feeling that Theodore Trist was an exceptional man in some way or other, in sport or work, in deed or thought. His broad pensive brow would seem to indicate a literary or poetic tendency, while the meek eyes spoke of a great love for Nature and her unfathomable ways. The man might easily have been a naturalist or a vague day-dreamer, dabbling in the writer's art. Certain it was that he could only be a specialist of some description. No universality could exist behind those gentle eyes. Certain also, it would seem, that he trod in the paths of peace where'er he went. His gentle movements, his calm soft speech, were almost womanlike. But then these indications ran full tilt against the soldierly frame and the still hard lips. The most discerning physiognomist would not have dared to say that those gentle eyes had looked upon more bloodshed, than any warrior of the day; that the brown ears had been torn by more human shrieks of utter agony than any army-surgeon has ever listened to. This man of peace was the finest, ablest, truest chronicler of a battle that ever scribbled notes amidst the battle smoke. Few of us find the exact groove for which we were created, and Trist was no more fortunate than the rest. Many a good soldier has spent his life in the counting-house, while there are numbers wearing a red coat to-day whose place is in the pulpit. Theodore Trist was a born soldier, if ever man was born with military genius in his soul. Had his natural turn of intellect been in any other direction, he could, in later life, have followed it, but the British army is constructed upon a system which forces a child to grasp the sword (metaphorically, if not in deed) before his fingers have learnt the shape of hilt, or pen, or brush. Consequently, our forces are officered by a fine stalwart body of gentlemen, who are, some of them, parsons—some artists, some farmers, some sailors, some soldiers—and a good many mere idlers. This is no cheap sarcasm, nor is it the ready complaint of the British universalist, who writes on the least provocation to the newspapers, upon subjects of which his knowledge is culled from other newspapers. I am not finding fault, nor would I suggest off-hand a complete scheme for reorganizing what I have always been taught to consider the finest military force in the world. It is merely an observation, made with the view of rendering obvious the reason why Theodore Trist was not a soldier. He found out his groove too late in life, voilà tout. Moreover, he found that it was like the queue at the pit-door of a French theatre. One cannot enter in the middle, and it is of little use taking the last place if the door be open, and others crowding on in front.

Far from this humble pen be it to libel the gentlemen who have professed themselves ready to lay down their lives for the rights of their country. They are good soldiers, brave men, and what is tersely called upon the Continent hardy companions; but sometimes I have found inside a red-coat a parson, an artist, a farmer or a sailor. Whatever dreams may have flitted through the boy's head, the man Theo Trist never spoke of his unfortunate mistake. It would be better termed a mishap, because he made no choice of the Church, but was urged into it by a zealous and short-sighted mother. He did not, however, reach ordination. Before that final step was taken his mother died, and all Europe stood hushed in the presence of a mighty war impending. The war-clouds rolled up and gathered force. Men spoke in lowered voices of the future; women trembled and concealed the newspapers from their children. A dread thirst for blood seemed to parch the throats of soldiers, and statesmen hesitated upon the brink of a terrible responsibility. Commerce was hindered, and sailors went to sea with uneasy hearts. Then arose in the soul of Theo Trist—the Oxford undergraduate—a strange, burning unrest. As a dog raises his head with quick glance and parted fangs at the approach of game, so leapt this man's heart in his breast. But no one knew of this: his benevolent brow and gentle eyes misled them all.

When at last the quick defiance was hurled from one nation to another, Theodore Trist disappeared. The sound of battle drew him away from peaceful England to that fair country by the Rhine where blood has been sucked into the fertile earth to grow again into deadly hatred. The din and roar and fury of battle was this mild-eyed man's element. The sulphureous smoke of cannon was the breath of life to him. His walk was upon the sodden, slippery field of blood. And yet through it all there went the strange incongruity of his being. In the wild joy of fighting (which carries men out from themselves and transforms them into new strange beings), Trist never lost his gentle demeanour. The plucky Frenchmen, with whom he spent that terrible winter, laughed at him, but one and all ended their merriment with upraised finger and grave, assuring eyes.

'Mais,' they said compensatingly, 'd'un courage...' and the sentence finished up with a shrug and outspread hands, indicating that the courage of 'ce drôle Trist' was practically without bounds.

And yet he did not actually fight with sword and rifle. The pen was his arm and weapon. In two languages he wrote through all that campaign the brave record of a losing fight. While endeavouring to give a somewhat unchivalrous enemy his due, he made no denial of partisanship. The ease and fluency with which he expressed himself in French excluded all hope of that, and Trist frankly arrayed himself on the side of the losing nation. Finally, he occupied with perfect serenity the anomalous position of a non-combatant who ran a soldier's risk—a neutral totally unprotected, and unrecognised as such—an English war-correspondent who, of his own free will, refused to lay himself under the obligations entailed by protection.

Thus this half-fledged parson feathered his wings. Destined to preach peace, he suddenly turned and taught war. In two countries simultaneously he made a brilliant name, proving that if he could not fight, because the possession of a fighting soul had become known to him too late in life, he could at least watch others battling as no man of his age could watch.

When at length Paris had fallen, an emaciated, pale-faced Englishman turned his back upon the demoralized capital and sought his native land. His groove in life had been found. Theodore Trist was a born chronicler of battle-fields, a subtle strategist, a lost general—in three words, an ideal war-correspondent. His great knowledge of his subject, his instinctive divination of men's motives, and his exceptional good-breeding, saved him from the many pitfalls that usually lie concealed in the path of all who follow an army-corps without occupying a post therein. He was never in the way, never indiscreet, never inquisitive, and, above all, never self-opinionated. He watched war as a lover of war, not as a self-constituted representative of a hypercritical nation. The spirit of competition did not with him override the sense of patriotism, simply because such a spirit in no wise affected him. He went his own way, and struck out a line of his own, never seeking to be before his compeers with news or guesses. Consequently his position was unique—midway between a war-correspondent and a warlike historian, for his writings on the battle-field were nothing less than history.

So Trist returned to England and found himself famous. Upon every bookstall in the kingdom he found a small red volume of his letters collected from the columns of the journal he had represented during the great unfinished war.

In the course of a few days he called upon his various friends—Mrs. Wylie among the first, Alice and Brenda Gilholme, at the residence of their aunt, Mrs. Gilholme, shortly afterwards. It was about this time that Brenda conceived the idea that Theo Trist loved her sister. He was only one among many, but he was different from the rest, and the young girl, for the first time, blamed her sister seriously. She kept these things in her heart, however, and said nothing, because there was nothing tangible; nothing to authorize her speaking to Alice. If Trist had fallen a victim to the fascinations of the light-hearted coquette, he certainly concealed his feelings most jealously.

Brenda fully recognised that the fact of his being less light-hearted, less cheerful than of old, might easily be accounted for by the horrors through which he had passed during the late months; but there was something else. There was another change which had come over him since his return.

While she was still watching and wondering, Theo Trist suddenly vanished, and soon afterwards there broke out a small war in the Far East. Like a vulture he had scented blood, and was on the spot by the time that the news of hostilities had reached England. He never wrote private letters, but his work in the new field of battle was closely watched by the small circle of friends at home. As usual, his letters attracted attention, and people talked vaguely of this wonderful war-correspondent—vaguely because he was personally unknown. His individuality was nothing to the warlike host of men who follow events quietly at home with a half-defined thrill of envy in their hearts—for every Englishman has a secret love of war, a well-concealed longing to be fighting something or someone.

When he returned, Alice Gilholme was married, and Brenda had to tell him of it. No surprise, no signs of discomfiture were visible in the man's incongruous face, where strength and weakness were strangely mixed. He inquired keenly and practically about settlements, expressed a gentle hope that Alice would be happy, and changed the subject.

CHAPTER III.
A PROBLEM.

Trist approached Mrs. Wylie with slow and almost timid steps, yet there was nothing apologetic in his demeanour, for he was perfectly self-possessed, and even reposeful, with that quiet assurance which only comes with innate good-breeding.

In his two hands he carried a fine stout salmon with a sharp snout. Its dark lips curled upwards with an evil twist, and even in death its eyes were full of fight.

The lady dropped her book upon her lap, and looked up with a smile. In her eyes there was a kindly and yet scrutinizing look which was almost motherly in its discernment. This young man was evidently more to her than the rest of his kind. She knew his impassive face so well that she could read where others saw an unwritten page.

'Ah,' she said, with some interest (for she was a sportsman's wife), 'that is a good fish, Theo!'

'Yes,' he acquiesced in a soft and rather monotonous voice, harmonizing with his eyes. 'He is a fine fellow. We had a desperate fight!'

As if to prove the severity of the struggle, he looked down at his knees, which were muddy, and then held out his right hand, which was streaked with blood.

'Ah, how nasty!' exclaimed Mrs. Wylie pleasantly. 'Is it yours or his?'

'Mine, I think. Yes, it must be mine.'

Brenda had approached slowly, and was standing close to him. She stooped a little to examine the fish, which he held towards her with his left hand, and even deigned to poke it critically on the shoulder with her straight white finger.

'Are you hurt?' she inquired casually, without looking up.

A slow gleam of humour lighted up Trist's soft and melancholy eyes as he looked down at her.

'He cannot answer for himself,' he said suggestively. 'But I think I can volunteer the information that he is not hurt now. He died the death of a plucky fish, and did not flinch.'

'I meant you.'

'I? Oh no, I am not hurt, thank you. Only very dirty, very sanguinary, and quite happy.'

At this moment the steward, a dapper and noiseless man with no appearance of a sailor, came up and took the fish from Trist's hands. Mrs. Wylie returned to her book, and the two young people stood silently in front of her. Presently they moved away as if with one accord, farther aft, beside the wheel. Here Brenda seated herself sideways with one arm round the white awning-stanchion.

She looked up, and, as he happened to be gazing gently down at her, their eyes met. There was no instant withdrawal, no change of expression. These two were evidently very old friends, because a young man and a maiden rarely look into each other's eyes for any appreciable space of time without some slight change of expression supervening.

Theo Trist smiled at length, and looked away for a moment. Then he glanced down at her face again.

'Well?' he said interrogatively. 'You are going to make one of those deep remarks which would take away the breath of some people.'

She smiled, but did not turn away in maidenly reserve. Indeed, she continued to watch his face, wonderingly and absently.

'What a peculiar man you are, Theo!'

He bowed politely, and slipping the ends of his fingers into either trouser-pocket, he stood defiantly before her, with his unshod feet set well apart.

'And you, Brenda ... I have never met anyone in any way like you.'

But she had no intention—this independent little person—of being led away thus from the original question.

'Sometimes I almost dislike you ... and at other moments I admire your character very much.'

She was quite grave, and looked up at him anxiously, as if the character of some third person very near and dear to them both were under discussion.

'When do you dislike me?' he asked in his monotonous, gentle way.

To this she made no answer for some moments, but sat looking thoughtfully across the deep-bosomed water, which was now almost glassy, for the breeze had dropped with the setting sun. She was frowning slightly, and leant her chin upon her hand, which action gave additional thoughtfulness to her well-read face. She might have been solving some great problem. Indeed, she was attempting to find an explanation to the greatest problem we have to solve. This foolish little maiden, with all her great and mistaken learning, her small experience and deep, searching mind, was trying to explain human nature. Not in its entirety, but one small insignificant example taken from the whole. She was trying to reduce this man to an orderly classification of motives, desires, and actions; and he stood defying her to do so. She wanted to understand Theo Trist. In faith, she did not ask for much! An educated and refined gentleman, an experienced and time-hardened man. A philosopher without a creed. A soldier without a sword. A soft heart that sought bloodshed. Brenda had undertaken a very large task. She might have begun upon the simplest, most open-hearted sailor-man in the forecastle, and yet I am sure that she would have failed. With Theo Trist she could do nothing. Does any one of us understand his brother, his sister, his mother or his wife? Scarcely, I think. This only I know, that I have never yet quite understood any human being. There are some—indeed, there are many—whom I have been pleased to consider as an open book before my discerning gaze, but Time has changed all that. He has proved that I knew remarkably little about the printed matter in that open book.

Trist repeated his question:

'When do you dislike me, Brenda?'

Her reply was somewhat indirect.

'At times,' she said, without looking towards him, 'you attempt wilfully to misrepresent yourself, and I cannot quite see why you should wish to do so. You said just now that you were very sanguinary and quite happy. You meant to convey a deeper meaning, I know, because you glanced involuntarily towards me to see if I had caught it. Now, why should you pretend to be a hard-hearted, cruel and cold-blooded man? That is what I do not understand.'

She shook her small head despairingly, and looked up at him with a very shadowy smile. There was no question implied in the tone of her voice. She showed clearly that she expected no answer. It was merely her recital of a difficulty encountered in the study of a problem. This problem was the character of the man standing before her, the only man of her own age, and among her friends, to whose intellect her own was content to bow. To him she talked of many strange undiscussed matters, and together they had waded very deeply into questions which were opened centuries ago, and are now no nearer their solution. It was not that Theo Trist was a supernaturally grave man, but Brenda felt instinctively that he would never laugh at her. He was a good and careful listener; moreover, she had never yet propounded a question, in her vague, half-wistful way, about which he did not know something; upon which he could not put forward, in his gentle and suggestive way, an opinion which was either the result of his own thoughts or of those of other men.

'Everything is a matter of habit,' said the mild-eyed sportsman vaguely.

He knew that she was not thinking about salmon-fishing and its cruelty at all, but of the strange incongruity of his profession. He was well aware that Brenda Gilholme, in her brave little heart, disapproved of his calling. Of war and its horrors she rarely spoke, for she felt that his existence was necessarily bound to such things. It was a gift vouchsafed with a reckless disregard for incongruity which could only be providential—this gift of a warlike pen. He stood alone, far above his compeers, the one man who could write, in French and English alike, of war; and while respecting his undoubted intellect, she would fain have brought all the force of her will to bear upon him and urge him from the exercise of it on the field of battle. She was influenced by the strong horror of a refined and gentle woman for all things akin to violence and bloodshed, and she could not believe that in his heart of hearts the soft-eyed, quiet man loved the sight of blood and the smoky grime of battle.

'Yes,' she answered. 'Endurance may be a matter of habit, but why seek that which requires endurance?'

He attempted to keep the question within the bounds of a sporting matter.

'Every living thing in creation is by the laws of creation expected to prey upon some other living thing. By a merciful provision we men cannot quite look at the question from the salmon's point of view. It is a fight—an unfair fight, I admit—but still there is no wanton cruelty in killing salmon.'

He ceased abruptly, and held up his arm, looking at it critically. There was a deep scratch across the wrist from which the blood had trickled in several rivulets and congealed upon the back of his slim brown hand. Looking up, he saw that she was gazing at the wounded limb, and with a slight apologetic smile he put it behind his back so as to conceal it from her eyes.

'The actual sight of blood,' he continued, 'whether it be cold from the salmon or warm from one's own veins, is a mere technical unpleasantness which soon loses its horror ... for men.'

'I was not thinking of salmon-fishing.'

'Nor I,' he replied with cool audacity.

There was another long pause, during which neither moved. It was noteworthy that Trist, who had been on his legs in rough water, and over rocky country, since early morning, showed no sign of fatigue. If he had so desired, it would have been easy enough for him to bring forward one of the low chairs standing near the skylight, but he appeared to prefer standing.

'But in losing that sense of horror,' asked Brenda presently, 'do not men become brutalized?'

He shrugged his shoulders perceptibly.

'Do you think so?' he inquired significantly.

The question was cleverly thrown back upon her, but Brenda intended to get her answer. She looked up with a passing smile, and made him a little pout with her pretty lips.

'You are no criterion. You are different altogether. I was speaking generally.'

'Speaking generally, I should still be of opinion that men are not affected in any harmful way by seeing ... unpleasant sights.'

'From a sportsman's point of view only?'

'No.'

'From a war-correspondent's point of view?' she persisted.

'Yes.'

'And if anybody on earth should know,' she murmured half to herself, 'I think you should.'

He turned away a little, and then looked down in an absently interested manner at the wet impression of his own waders on the white deck.

'Yes,' he acquiesced with a little checked sigh; 'if anybody on earth should know, I am the man.'

'I wonder why you do it, Theo?'

'Who knows? I suppose it is because I cannot help it. I am a vulture, Brenda! The smell of ... of battle draws irresistibly.'

'It is a fault in your character,' she said judicially.

This he denied by a shake of his head.

'It is a fault in human nature.'

She said nothing, but expressed her desire to differ by an incredulous look. Her knowledge of mankind was very limited, after all, or she would never have doubted the truth of his assertion. She did not know then (how should she so soon?) that men are naturally cruel, that women are naturally crueller. In her innocence she imagined that the majority of us are brave but gentle, strong but forbearing, kind, chivalrous, unselfish. While speaking in generalities she was making the common foolish mistake we make every day. She fondly imagined that her thoughts were general, whereas they were lamentably individual. Human nature—the broad classification so glibly falling from her lips—was nothing more important, nothing wider in its compass, than the two words Theo Trist.

'You will admit,' he argued, 'that war is a necessary evil.'

'Yes.'

'Then, so am I. After my name I ought by rights to put the two letters N.E.—Theo Trist, necessary evil.'

'But,' she said with unconscious flattery, 'you make it something more than a necessary evil. You turn it into a glorious thing. You teach that fighting is the noblest calling a man can take up. You make men into soldiers against their will, and ... and you make women long to be men that they might be soldiers.'

A strange look came into the gentle eyes that watched her then—a look that was almost pain; but it vanished again instantly, and the bland face was cold and impassive at once. She was so desperately in earnest that there was a little thrilling catch in her voice. She seemed to be half ashamed of her own sincerity, and did not raise her eyes.

'I am afraid,' he said, after a short pause, 'that I consider soldiering the finest life a man can lead.'

'And yet,' she answered with unerring memory, 'you once wrote that a man is never quite the same again when he has once been under fire.'

Trist moved restlessly. Whenever she made mention of his work, that dull restlessness seemed to come over him. The knowledge that his writing had remained engraved upon her memory seemed to work some subtle change in the man. It would only have been natural for him to feel some pride in this fact whenever she betrayed it; but this was not pride: it was nearer akin to pain or regret.

'Yes,' he admitted; 'but I did not insinuate that the change was one for the worse. In many cases the effect is distinctly beneficial; in a few it is brutalizing. In all it is saddening. A man who has seen much war is hardly an acquisition in a drawing-room.'

He moved away a few paces, and leaning out beneath the awning, looked towards the head of the fjord, where the river came bowling down the valley past Nielsen's house.

'There is the Admiral,' he said, 'coming off in Nielsen's boat. I wonder what sport he has had.'

Brenda also left her seat upon the rail and looked across the water. In doing so she came nearer to her companion, and her dress touched his wounded hand.

'Are you sure,' she said, as if reminded of his mishap, 'that you are not hurt? Shall I sponge your hand? I am not afraid of ... of it.'

He laughed in a pleasant and heartless way.

'Oh no, thanks! I will wash it in the ordinary way. It is only a scratch; I ought to have washed it before presenting myself to you.'

She looked at him speculatively, and made a little hopeless movement with her shoulders.

'You are sometimes most aggravatingly independent.'

'Yes,' he answered, in a hard, practical way. 'Independence is a necessity. If I have the gift of it, I cannot cultivate it too assiduously. Without independence I should be nowhere.'

'And yet it can be carried to undue excess. A man should sometimes pretend, I think, to be a trifle dependent upon others, and especially upon women. It is the least he can do for them, possessing, as he does, the advantage in existence. One could almost tell from your little ways and habits of thought, Theo, that your mother died long ago.'

'You mean that we should ask our women-folk to do little things for us which we know quite well we could do better ourselves.'

'Yes.'

'And thus,' he suggested, 'satisfy their personal vanity.'

Brenda did not answer him at once. The question required consideration.

'Yes,' she replied at length, 'and thus satisfy their personal vanity. There is no object to be gained by concealing the fact that our happiness in life is merely a question of satisfied vanity, from the very beginning to the very end.'

'From a new pair of woollen boots to a long funeral procession of empty carriages?' added Trist, with meek interrogation.

'Women do not as a rule go to their graves before a number of bored coachmen and empty broughams.'

'Most of them would like to.'

'Yes; I am afraid you are right. But we seem to take it for granted that men allow us a monopoly of vanity.'

'Oh no!' Trist hastened to correct; 'you only possess the monopoly of one description. Yours is a thirsty vanity which knows no slaking; ours is satisfied. Of the two, yours, mademoiselle, is less objectionable. I suppose independence or self-dependence is my pet vanity.'

'Yes, Theo, it is.'

'And yours?'

'I am all vanity.'

Trist laughed derisively—a laugh, however, which was inaudible across the deck.

She turned and walked slowly forward to meet the Admiral, whose boat was dropping alongside.

'Don't laugh,' she said, almost angrily; 'it is true.'

'Then,' he said gravely, 'I will endeavour to satisfy you by asking you to sew on the very next button that comes off.'

For a moment she lost her gravity, and was a simple, sweetly coquettish girl.

'And I will refuse flatly,' she observed saucily.

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.

CHAPTER V.
THE COMPACT.

'It has blown over,' said Trist softly, as the little lady came towards him.

'Yes,' replied Mrs. Wylie with obvious abstraction. She was not thinking of the weather at all. In Trist's monotonous voice there had been an almost imperceptible catch. Slight though it had been, the acute little matron detected it, and she looked keenly through the semi-darkness into her companion's face. His meek eyes met hers, softly, suavely, aggravatingly innocent as usual.

'And,' she added as an after-thought, 'how beautifully fresh it is now!'

She took a seat beside Brenda, glancing at her face as she did so. The girl welcomed her with a little smile, but said nothing. The silence was characteristic. Most young maidens would have considered it necessary to make an inane remark about the weather, just to show, as it were, that that subject had been under discussion before the arrival of this third person.

There was something very pleasant and home-like in the very movements of Mrs. Wylie's arms and hands, as she settled herself and drew her shawl closer round her. Trist seated himself on the rail near at hand, and relighted his pipe. Thus they remained for some time in silence.

'What a strange couple they are!' the matron was reflecting, as she looked slowly from one unconscious face to the other.

'There were one or two terrible flashes of lightning,' she said aloud in a conversational way; 'I was quite nervous, but the Admiral slept placidly through it all.'

Trist moved slightly, and shook the ash from his pipe over the side.

'Brenda was terrified,' he said resignedly.

'I was startled,' admitted the girl, 'that was all. And the result was a very learned discourse on courage, its source and value, by Theo.'

'I always thought,' said he to Mrs. Wylie, in a mildly disappointed tone, 'that she was plucky.'

Mrs. Wylie laughed, and then with sudden gravity nodded her head significantly.

'So she is—very plucky.'

'I think,' suggested Brenda, 'that it would be better taste, and more natural, perhaps, to discuss me behind my back.'

Trist laughed.

'I never discuss anyone,' he said. 'That is a lady's privilege and monopoly. Men are usually fully occupied in talking about themselves, and have no time to devote to the study of their surroundings.'

'I generally find that men say either too much or too little about themselves,' observed Mrs. Wylie. 'There is no medium between the super-egotistical and the hyper-reserved. Among my young men, and I have a great number, there are some who tell me everything, and others who tell me nothing. The former appear to think that the universe revolves round them, that they are superlatively interesting, and that their relations are the same in ratio to the closeness of their connection with the axis of the social world—that is, to themselves. Consequently I hear all sorts of confidences, and many totally pointless stories.'

'Which,' suggested Trist, 'never go any further.'

'Which never go any further, because their specific gravity is of such trifling importance that they make absolutely no impression upon the tenderest of sympathetic hearts.'

Brenda, who had been listening in a semi-interested way, now made a remark. She was not a brilliant conversationalist, this thoughtful little person, and rarely contributed anything striking or witty to a general intercourse. Her ideas needed the security of a tête-à-tête to coax them forth.

'I think,' she said to Mrs. Wylie, 'that you must be gifted with a wonderful amount of patience, or you would never bother with your young men. The obligation and the pleasure must be all on their side.'

'It is,' put in Trist cynically, 'a sort of mother's agency. We ought to issue a circular for the benefit of provincial parents: "Young men's morals looked after; confidences received and kindly forgotten. Youths without dull female relatives preferred. Address, Mrs. Wylie, Suffolk Mansions, London, and Wyl's Hall, Wyvenwich."'

Mrs. Wylie laughed comfortably.

'I must confess,' she said, 'that the female relatives are a drawback. There are a good many stories to be listened to about hopelessly dull sisters and incapable mothers; but my young men are not so bad on the whole, and I know I do a little good occasionally. Of course there are some who require snubbing at times, and some who are not interesting; but the silent ones are my favourites, and there is only one type of talkative I really object to—a young Scotchman with hard lashless eyes, a square bony jaw, a very small nose, no complexion, and an accent.'

'I know the type,' said Trist; 'he has a theory for everything, including life. Is a hard business man, a keen arguer, and never makes a good soldier.'

'Altogether a most pleasing and fascinating young man,' interrupted Brenda, with a low laugh. 'You are both terribly cynical, I believe, beneath a gentle suavity. It only comes to the surface when you get together and lay aside the social mask. I never met this ideal Scotchman at your house, Mrs. Wylie.'

'No, my dear,' was the decisive reply, 'and I do not think you ever will.'

'You prefer young men who take but do not grab,' suggested Trist.

'Mine,' replied the lady, with tolerant complacency, 'are not brilliant youths. Some of them may get in front of the crowd, but they will do so in a quiet and gentlemanly way, without elbowing or pushing too obviously, and without using other men's shoulders as levers to help themselves forward.'

She looked straight into the young fellow's face with her pleasantly keen smile, for he was the first and the foremost of her young men, and she was justly proud of him. He had passed beyond the dense mediocrity of the crowd, and stood alone in a place which he had won unaided. He was one of those who said too little—one of the silent ones whom she loved above the others who told her everything. In her cheery, careless way, with all her assumed worldliness, she did a vast deal of good amongst these unattached young men who were in the habit of dropping in during their spare evenings at the cosy little drawing-room on the second-floor of Suffolk Mansions.

There was usually some connecting-link, some vague and distant introduction between the young men and the cheerful, worldly, childless lady who chose to make all waifs and stragglers welcome. These were generally provincial men living in chambers and working out their apprenticeships under the different styles of their different professions. Articled clerks, medical students, art students, somethings in the City, and a journalist or so. She never invited them to come, and so they came when they wanted to, often to find her out, for she was a gay little soul, and then they came again. There was always a box of cigarettes on the mantelpiece, and the broad polished table was invariably littered with the latest magazines, books, and periodicals. Mrs. Wylie was always broad awake, and the Admiral usually fell asleep as soon as the conversation waxed personal.

In the matter of confidences Mrs. Wylie possessed real genius. She forgot things so conveniently, and never smiled when given to understand that some youthful heart was broken for the third time in one season. She never preached and rarely advised, but merely listened sympathetically. There were men who came to her and never mentioned themselves, sought no advice, made no confidences, and these she made most welcome, for she loved to study them, and wonder indefinitely over their projects, their ambitions, and their motives. Above all, she loved to watch Theo Trist. This young man was a mine of human interest to her, and with Brenda Gilholme she sought to discover its inmost depths. I believe there is a delicate instrument which betrays the presence of precious metals in the earth when brought into proximity with its surface. Mrs. Wylie had perhaps heard of such an instrument, but whether that be so or no, she deliberately used Brenda to detect the good that lay in Theo Trist. You will say that this was matchmaking pure and simple; but such it certainly could not be, for Mrs. Wylie knew full well that Brenda Gilholme and Theo Trist were people who knew their own minds, who would never be forced into anything by a third person. And treating the great question generally, she was of the comforting opinion that each individual is best left to manage his or her own affairs unaided. The matchmaker—the third person, in fact—has remarkably little to do with most marriages, though many of us are pleased to remember after the event that we had something to do with its earlier career.

If it was not match-making, Mrs. Wylie's conduct was, to say the least of it, unscrupulous; but then, my brothers, who amongst us knows a perfectly scrupulous woman? Not I, par Dieu. Charming, intelligent, fascinating, superior (ahem!), but scrupulous—no. I have not yet met her. Be it the shape of a hat or the heart of a lover, she will get it, taking it as a German clerk will take your business from you, by the means that are surest of success, without stopping to consider the silly question of an overstrained point of honour.

Trist was not, strictly speaking, merely one of Mrs. Wylie's young men. His mother was her first cousin, and she it was who had gone down to Windsor to bring home a little round-faced Eton boy to the house of sickness when Mrs. Trist's earthly pilgrimage was thought to be at an end. Since that day she had never quite lost sight of the boy, and years later she chaperoned Alice and Brenda Gilholme through an Oxford Commemoration at the undergraduate's request.

It was at her house, and through her instrumentality, that the friendship between these motherless young people was chiefly kept up. The respective fathers knew nothing of each other, and cared likewise. One was a Parliamentary monomaniac; the other a worn-out Indian Civil-servant, tottering on his last legs at Cheltenham. There had never been an interchange of pretty sentiments; such things were not in Mrs. Wylie's line of country at all. She had not wept silent tears over Brenda's bowed head, and promised to fill the place of that vague and shadowy mother whom the girl had never known. Tears of any description were unfamiliar to the comfortable, brave little lady. Some of us profess, and some there are who act without professing: of these latter was Mrs. Wylie. It is so easy to talk of filling that vacant place, and so utterly impossible to cast the faintest shadow upon the walls of the empty chamber.

With Trist it had been the same. Unquestioned he had come and gone, only to come again. Mrs. Wylie never sought to entice confidences by a kindly show of interest, and what he chose to tell (which was little enough) she listened to with small comment. If she had in any slight degree influenced his strangely-blended character, her influence had been all and entirely beneficial.

Such, briefly, was the social relationship existing between these three persons brought together upon the deck of the Hermione beneath the magic of an Arctic night. Amidst such vast and grandiose scenery the trim yacht looked petty and insignificant; but these three persons had no appearance of being out of place. They were of that adaptable material which appears to yield to its environments and takes the shape of the receptacle in which it finds itself. Yet is it, like certain boneless marine animals, independent of its surroundings, having a perfect shape of its own, into which it invariably returns when left alone.

A brilliantly capable woman, an intellectual girl, and a gifted man could not well be in their social element in a deserted fjord, amidst gloomy mountains which weigh down men's minds and keep back all mental growth; but there was no sign of discomfort, no suspicion of boredom. This world was theirs, and with it they were content.

The stillness that had come over them was broken at length by the voice of Admiral Wylie, raised in the cabin below and heard through the open skylight.

'Brenda—little woman! Brenda—ahoy! Come and play to me!' cried the pleasantly raucous tones.

The girl rose from her seat at once, and passed down the little stairway with a light responsive laugh, leaving the other occupants of the deck in silence.

Presently the sound of her playing reached them. It was characteristic of herself: so perfectly trained, so technically faultless, and yet as innately and pathetically sweet, was it.

Trist moved restlessly at the sound of it, and Mrs. Wylie, watching him, saw the blue puffs of smoke follow each other with unnatural rapidity from his lips. She leant back, and drew her shawl cosily around her.

At length Trist spoke, busying himself with his pipe and giving it his full attention.

'Brenda,' he remarked conversationally, 'has been lecturing me upon the evils attending an excessive spirit of independence.'

'I have no doubt that her remarks were worthy of your consideration.'

'They were. Brenda's remarks generally are worthy of consideration.'