SUSPENSE

BY

HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

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

IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.

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.

CONTENTS OF VOL. III

CHAPTER

I. [THE SPORT OF FATE]
II. [BREAKING IT]
III. [MRS. WYLIE TAKES THE OFFENSIVE]
IV. [AN INTERVIEW]
V. [SOUTHWARD]
VI. [THEODORE TRIST IS AROUSED]
VII. [A LESSON]
VIII. [HICKS' SECRET]
IX. [WYL'S HALL]
X. [DIPLOMACY]
XI. [GOOD-BYE!]
XII. [AT WORK]
XIII. [PLEVNA]
XIV. [THE PUZZLE OF LIFE]
XV. [THE END OF IT ALL]

SUSPENSE

CHAPTER I.
THE SPORT OF FATE.

Theodore Trist did not attempt to blind himself as to the difficulties attending his strange undertaking, but he was prepared to face them courageously.

'If,' he said to himself, 'I can only find him ... sober ... I will manage the rest.'

Without doubt this silent man was ready to speak at last—to tear aside the veil of reserve, behind which he was wont to take refuge. And this to the eyes of Alice Huston's husband. His was a nature capable of immense self-sacrifice, and to this capability had been added an almost exaggerated sense of discipline. That which he thought right he would probably do—not on the spur of the moment, but with deliberate purpose, and without fear of subsequent regret.

As has been mentioned, he was never under the influence of sudden enthusiasm; and, as a rule, his errors arose more from too great conscientiousness in setting both sides of a question equally before his own judgment than from rash partisanship.

Even as he passed down the broad staircase, against a stream of gaily-dressed guests, he was mentally apologizing to Hicks for having harboured a vague feeling of dislike against him. If there had been any distinct motive for this dislike, he would never have withdrawn it, but he recognised that it was without ground. Hicks was not a man after his own heart; he was neither a sportsman nor a soldier—in fact, he was what is euphoniously called a 'muff'; but these charges were merely negative in their bearing. Mrs. Wylie might have told him that he had come into closer familiarity with Hicks at a propitious moment, when the young artist was finding his own level and laying aside unconsciously his small affectations one by one, but of this Trist had no suspicion.

He called a hansom, and drove to the club of which the books showed a subscription as due from Captain Huston. In return for this privilege its doors were still thrown open to the disgraced soldier. Careful inquiries at the door elicited the information that Huston had been there.

'He was took ... he went away with a friend a good half-hour ago, sir,' the porter added, with a curious smile.

The smile did not escape the questioner's glance, and, in consequence of it, Trist went upstairs to the smoking-room. He was not a member of the club, but his name was a power in military circles.

The information he gathered from friends upstairs was not of an encouraging nature. One young blade, with downy lip and weak, dissipated eyes, volunteered the statement that Huston had gone home to his diggings as tight as a drum. This news was apparently of an hilarious drift, because the youthful speaker finished with a roar of throaty laughter. An older man looked up over his evening paper, and nodded a grave acquiescence in reply to Trist's raised eyebrows.

'Does anybody know his address?' inquired the correspondent.

Nobody did.

Upon inquiry at the door, Trist made the discovery that the porter had fortunately been asked to give the direction to the driver of the cab in which Huston had been taken away. The address was one hardly known to the war-correspondent—a small street, leading out of another small street, near the Strand.

In his calm way he suddenly determined to follow Huston. He lighted a cigar at the spirit-lamp affixed to the door-post, and then called a cab.

'I am not,' he reflected with some truth as he descended the steps, 'I am not an imaginative person, nor very highly strung; but .... I feel .... somehow .... as if something were going to happen.'

There was a considerable delay in the Strand, where the traffic was much congested owing to the out-pouring theatres. A fog was hovering round the lamps already, and would soon envelop everything. The first keen frost of the season was at hand, with its usual disastrous effects to London lungs. Amidst the confusion, the roar of traffic, the deafening shouts of drivers, policemen, and runners with latest editions of evening papers, Trist sat forward, with his arms upon the closed door of the hansom, and enjoyed his cigar. All this rush of life and confusion of humanity thrilled him. He almost felt as if he were at work again, making his way to the front through the wild mêlée of a disorganized and retreating army; cavalry and infantry, baggage and artillery, all hopelessly inter-mingled. As he progressed he noted with admiration the cool skill of the policemen, each man alone acting on his own responsibility, and yet connected by the invisible links of discipline.

At length the driver escaped into a narrow street, and, turning sharply to the right, drew up before a tall narrow house, bearing, on a dingy lamp above the door, the legend 'No. 32, Private Hotel.' A hopeless waiter, with shuffling shoes and a shirt-front of uncertain antecedents, answered the summons of a melancholy bell, which seemed to tinkle under strong protest, and as briefly as possible.

'Captain Huston living here?' inquired Trist.

'Yess'r. Er you the doctor?'

The war-correspondent hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped into the narrow hall.

'Yes,' he said.

''E's got it bad this time, sir,' volunteered the waiter, with melancholy effusion.

'What?'

'D. T., sir.'

Trist nodded his head shortly, and laid aside his hat.

'Take me to his room, please,' he said.

The waiter shuffled on in front, and the young fellow followed him up the dingy stairs, walking lightly where the polished knots of pinewood peeped through the clammy oilcloth.

And now, reader mine, on the threshold of the drunkard's room let us understand each other. I am not going to take you across the boundary. The door will, with your permission, remain closed. There are certain things in life which are better left unstudied—certain dirty corners where the dust lies thickly. It is better to let it accumulate. Some of us have seen these things; some foot has been across the threshold; but this is no realistic novel; and in life, as in a story, there are details which (however powerful in themselves) in no way help forward the narrative or beautify the narration. There is assuredly nothing to be gained by dredging human nature. As a man, the present writer is influenced by a strong esprit de corps. It is not his wish to trample upon fallen human nature. We are not what we ought to be, but there is nothing to be gained by flaunting the seamy side before the world. This volume may fall into the hands of some young woman, or some youth to whom man is still something of an ideal. God forbid that any word of mine should dispel illusions which, though they be but hollow, are at least joyous.

Therefore we will let Theodore Trist enter that room alone. His walk in life had not been in the flowery part of the garden, but through the rougher growths, where good is sometimes hidden beneath a hideous exterior, and he knew already how slight a division there is between man and brute. Any battle-field would have taught him that.

The doctor came, and stayed longer than he could conscientiously spare out of his busy life. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning before he went away, leaving Trist alone with Huston, to whom sleep had come at last. Before leaving he promised, however, to send an experienced nurse.

The war-correspondent sat in a deep leather-covered arm-chair before the smouldering fire, contemplating his own shoes. A man of many resources, he had found himself in many strange situations during his short thirty years. He had made the best of more than one awkward dilemma by going straight ahead in his patient, steady way. He listened to the stertorous breathing of the sick man, and never thought of his own fatigue. There was no suggestion of complaint in his mind that his evening of pleasure should have had such an unpleasant finish. He did not even look at his own dress-clothes contrasting with the dingy surroundings, and appreciate the dramatic force of it all as Hicks might have done. It was merely an incident in his life, another opportunity to exercise for his own satisfaction that power of adaptability to environment which was in reality his chief aid to success in the peculiar surroundings of his varied life.

The nurse could scarcely be expected for half an hour or so, and there was nothing else to do but keep faithfully the watch that was his in the meantime. It was rather strange that Trist should have saved twice within a month the worthless life of this man who had done his best to throw it away. As has already been stated, this student of Death had his own views upon the worth of human life—a semi-Oriental philosophy which would not bear setting forth here in black and white to sensitive Western minds. There is no doubt that familiarity with death breeds a contempt for life. I cannot explain this, but it is so. Doctors and soldiers have a different view of human life from that held by the rest of mankind; but there is something in us which is stronger than the strongest views—namely, the instinct of preserving life. Theodore Trist knew that the miserable existence to which was attached the name Alfred Huston was in every way valueless. To its possessor it was a source of wretchedness, a constant struggle against the overpowering odds of evil. To others his death would be a mercy. He knew this; he valued his life lightly—and yet he staved off this death twice.

As he sat and thought over these things, the fire-light flickered rosily upon his face; it gleamed in his womanly eyes, glowed upon his broad high forehead. He was quite absorbed in his reflections, and never glanced towards the bed which was within the deep crimson shadow. He judged from the heavy respiration that Huston was asleep; in this, however, he was mistaken. The ex-soldier lay on his back, but his face was turned towards the fire, and his bloodshot eyes were wide open. His lips moved restlessly, but no sound came from them beyond the strong indrawing of the sodden air. His wavering glance wandered from Trist's head to his feet, restless and full of an insatiable hatred. Upon the dirty white coverlet his fingers moved convulsively, as if clutching and losing hold of something by turns.

It was a terrible picture, and one that could not fail to arouse in thoughtful minds a hopeless sense of despair. No one could look on it and say that human life is a success. We may paint the good points as brilliantly as we like, slur over the misery as quickly as we can, but, my brothers and sisters, the fact remains that we, as a race, are an utter failure.

Presently there was a soft knock at the front-door, and Trist rose from his chair. His watch was over; the hospital nurse had arrived, with her soft brave eyes, her quick, fearless fingers. As he left the room, Trist turned and glanced towards the bed. Huston lay there with closed eyes, unnaturally still.

Then the war-correspondent left the room on tiptoe. No sooner had the door closed than the sick man's eyes opened. There was a peculiar shifty light in the expanded pupils, and the man's horrible lips moved continuously. He sat up in bed.

'Ah!' he mumbled thickly; 'I know him. That's the man ... that's the man who's in love with my wife.'

The fire rose and fell with merry crackle—for Trist had drawn the coals together noiselessly before leaving the room—and in the semi-darkness a strange unsteady form moved to and fro.

'I know him,' mumbled the horrible voice, 'and ... I'm going to shoot him.'

There was a slight sound as if a drawer were being searched in a table or piece of furniture which was not quite firm upon its base, and a moment later the door was opened without noise. In the passage a single jet of gas burnt mournfully, and threw a flood of light through the open doorway.

Upon the threshold stood Huston, quaking and swaying from side to side. In his trembling fingers he held a large Colt's revolver of the cavalry pattern. The tips of the conical bullets peeped from the chambers threateningly. His clumsy hands were fumbling with the hammer, which was stiff and deeply sunk within the lock; the light was bad. He raised the pistol closer to his swimming eyes, and the barrel, gleaming blue and brown alternately, wavered in the air.

'D—n the thing!' he muttered hoarsely.

The next instant there was a terrific report through the silent house.

* * * *

A moment later Trist and the nurse were at the head of the stairs; they had raced up side by side. The woman seized a worn sheepskin mat that lay at the door of an empty bedroom, and, drawing her skirts aside, knelt down and raised the mutilated face.

'Don't let it run on the floor,' she gasped, 'it is so horrible!'

They were both old hands and callous enough to be very quick. By the time that the startled household was aroused, the dead man (for the great bullet had passed right through his brain) was laid upon his bed, and Trist had already gone for the doctor.

'No one must go in,' said the nurse, standing upon the threshold and barring the way. 'He is dead. There is nothing to be done. Wait until the doctor comes.'

Presently Trist returned, bringing with him the surgeon and a police-inspector. They all went into the room together and closed the door. Trist turned up the gas and watched the movements of the surgeon, who was already at the bedside.

'Where is the bullet?' asked the inspector.

'In the woodwork of the door,' answered Trist.

The doctor left the bedside and came into the middle of the room, standing upon the hearthrug with his back towards the fire.

'I should be of opinion,' he said, 'that it was an accident.'

The inspector nodded his head, and looked from the nurse to Trist.

'Does anybody,' he asked, 'know who he is, or anything about him?'

'I know who he is and all about him,' answered the war-correspondent.

Note-book in hand, the inspector glanced keenly at the speaker.

'And ... who are ... you?' he asked, writing.

'Theodore Trist.'

'Ah!' murmured the doctor.

The inspector drew himself up and continued writing.

'Do you know, sir, what he was doing with the pistol? Had he any intention of using it upon himself or upon any other?'

Trist looked at his questioner calmly.

'I do not know,' he answered.

CHAPTER II.
BREAKING IT.

Like one in a dream Theodore Trist passed out into the narrow street somewhat later. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning; the ball was scarcely over, and yet to this unimaginative man it seemed ages since he had spoken with William Hicks, listening in a vague way to the swinging waltz music all the while. When he reached his quiet rooms, he was almost startled at the sight of his own dress-clothes, spotless shirt-front, and unobtrusive flower. He had quite forgotten that these garments of pleasure were beneath his overcoat. His night's work had not been in keeping with dress-clothes.

'I will think,' he said to himself, 'how it is to be broken to everybody to-morrow.' And with great serenity he went to bed.

Sleep soon came to him despite the incidents crowded into the last few hours. It is a habit with some people to lie awake at night and ponder over their woes. They regard this as a solemn duty, a homage to be paid to the Goddess of Tears; and they never fail to mention their melancholy vigil to someone or other more or less connected with the trouble next morning. It is merely habit, and of no more value than the custom of mentioning with lowered voice the name of one who had been dead twenty years, and whose memory can after that space of time assuredly be awakened without such poignant grief as is considered its due.

Trist was not one of these. He valued human life at no very great price, and as (after all has been said and done, believed and repudiated) Death is the greatest sorrow we have to face, he was perhaps a little callous. He made no pretence of disguising the fact that Captain Huston's sudden, and what is usually denominated 'shocking,' demise was little short of a release for all concerned with his existence; and he did not even fall into the common error of looking upon all past sins as cleansed away by the very ordinary and easy method of terminating their career. It is just as well for some of us, methinks, that the good old Egyptian custom, of inscribing upon the lid or side of our sarcophagus a full and authentic history of the life terminating therein, has died out. They had a nasty habit too, those tactless ancients, of sculpturing a speaking likeness upon the lid, or erecting a statue near at hand, so that at the Great Judgment the wandering soul could single out without trouble its rightful body.

Death, however sudden, could not in those days endow with many virtues, many charms, and great personal comeliness, as it endows us now. I sometimes think of those old Egyptian spirits with a gentle sympathy. How disappointed some of them will be when they stand face to face with the true likeness of the body in which they played out their brief innings three thousand years ago! When, too, they read the uncompromising hieroglyphs, there will be unpleasant awakenings and perhaps a little scoffing from those who have drawn cleaner sarcophagi.

So Trist slept peacefully, with a philosophic reflection that Huston would never have done much good in the world. The present writer once heard a man, in all sincerity and all faith, console himself with the thought that if he was not fit to die, the probabilities were that he never would be fitter. This philosopher was a godless sailor, and he made the remark in answer to a chaffing observation advanced by a more fortunate mate that he would certainly be drowned because he possessed no life-belt. The ship was sinking, the boats were smashed, and there were other things to do just then than weigh this philosophy in the scales of reason; but having more leisure at a later period, I came to think over it, and have come to the conclusion that there was much within that reflection that is worth consideration. Let us, however, avoid the quicksands of a theological controversy.

* * * *

It has not hitherto been mentioned that Mrs. Wylie possessed one or two vices of a comparatively harmless description. The most prominent of these was unpunctuality at the breakfast-table. This is a most comfortable vice, and quite in keeping with the placid and easy-going nature of the lady. The best woman I have ever known is invariably late for breakfast; her hair is white now, but long may she continue arriving after time! There is someone else who is most lamentably unpunctual any time before ten o'clock antemeridian. She is not a woman yet, but she has begun well. I may mention that I do not at all object to pouring out my own coffee.

Brenda, being of a more active nature, was usually down first, and the fact of having been out to a ball the night before rarely acted as a deterrent. It thus came about that she was alone at the breakfast-table when Trist was announced. It was a dainty, womanly little meal set out on the snowy cloth, and as yet untouched. Brenda was in the act of opening the newspaper when Trist entered the room. She did not remember until afterwards that, as he shook hands, he took the journal from her and laid it aside. Perhaps she noted the action at the time, but he was never in the habit of acting just like other men, and the peculiarity of this little movement did not strike her sufficiently to remain upon her memory as a distinct incident.

'Ah!' she said gaily; 'you think it prudent to strike while the iron is hot -I being the iron. I am not red-hot, but quite warm enough to be unpleasant, and just too hard to be struck. Please explain why you never claimed the three dances you asked me to keep?'

Trist smiled in his gravest way—a mere reflection of her bright gaiety.

'That is what I came to explain,' he said.

He passed her standing at the table, and went towards the fire. There he drew off his gloves in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.

'Theo,' said Brenda, 'have you had breakfast?'

'Yes, thanks!'

His manner was habitually misleading, and it was quite impossible for her to see that he had bad news to impart. His strong, purposeful hands were always steady, which is somewhat exceptional; for the fingers betray emotion when the eyes are dumb.

'Rather,' she continued lightly, 'than break my faith to you, I planted myself, so to speak, among the wallflowers, where I was content to bloom in solitude.'

'Through the whole dance?' he asked meaningly.

'Well ... not quite. When I was satisfied that you were not there, I danced with someone else.'

He smiled, and said nothing.

Brenda moved one or two things upon the breakfast-table—things which in no way required moving. For the first time in her life she was beginning to feel ill at ease with this man. For the first time she dreaded vaguely to hear him speak, because she was not sure that he was at ease himself.

At last he began, and there was a strained thrill in his voice as if it were an effort to open his lips.

'It has been my ... fate ... Brenda, to be with you or near you during most of the incidents in your life ...' here he paused.

'Yes,' she murmured unsteadily.

'I have,' he continued, 'perhaps, been of some small use to you. I have been happy enough at times to tell you good news, and ... and once or twice I have been the messenger of evil.... Now...'

'Now,' interrupted Brenda suddenly, as she came towards him, for a light had broken upon her—'now you have bad news, Theo? Surely you are not afraid of telling it to me!'

'I don't exactly know,' he answered slowly, laying his hand upon the white fingers resting on his sleeve, 'whether it is good news or bad. Huston is dead!'

She had continued smiling bravely into his eyes until the last words were spoken, then suddenly she turned her face away. He watched the colour fade from her cheek, slowly sinking downward until her throat was like marble. Then she withdrew her hand deliberately from his touch, as if there had been evil in it. After a moment she turned again and looked keenly at him with wondering, horror-struck eyes.

'Then,' she murmured monotonously, 'Alice is ... a widow.'

It was a strange thing to say, and she had no definite conception of the train of thought prompting the remark. He looked at her in a curious, puzzled way, like a man who is near a truth, but fears to prove his proximity.

'Does she know?' she asked suddenly, rousing herself to the necessity of prompt action.

'No. I have not your aunt's address in Cheltenham.'

Brenda looked at the clock upon the mantelpiece, a reliable mechanism, which kept remarkable time considering its feminine environments.

'Mrs. Wylie will be here in a moment; we will then consider about the telegram. In the meantime ... tell me when it happened, and how?'

'It happened at two o'clock this morning ... suddenly.'

Brenda looked up at the last word, although it was spoken quite gently.

'Suddenly...?'

'Yes. It ... he shot himself with a revolver ... by accident!'

The man's gentle inscrutable eyes fell before Brenda's gaze. He moved uneasily, and turned away, apparently much interested in the ornaments upon the mantelpiece.

'Were you present at the time?'

'No. I was downstairs. He was in his bedroom.'

'Tell me,' said the girl mechanically, 'what was he doing with the revolver?'

Trist turned slowly and faced her. There was no hesitation in his glance now; his eyes looked straight into hers with a deliberate calm meaning. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

'Who knows?' he murmured, still watching her face.

There flitted across his features the mere ghost of a deprecating smile, which was answered somewhat wanly by her. Women, I have observed, never laugh at danger as men do. They are indifferent to it, or they dread it undisguisedly, but they do not at any time despise it.

When at length Brenda turned away she pressed her lips together as if to moisten them, and there was a convulsive movement in her throat. They understood each other thoroughly.

'There will, of course,' said Trist presently, 'be an inquest. It is, however, quite clear that, being left for a moment alone, he rose from his bed in a fit of temporary insanity, and having possessed himself of a revolver (possibly for suicidal purposes), he shot himself by accident.'

Brenda had crossed the room to the window, where she stood with her back towards her companion.

'Yes!' she murmured absently.

She was swaying a little from side to side, and her face was raised in an unnatural way. Trist stood upon the hearthrug, with his elbow resting on the mantelpiece. He was watching her attentively.

'I have,' he said somewhat hastily, as if it were an afterthought, 'some influence with the newspapers.'

Of this she took absolutely no notice. It would appear that she had not heard his voice. Then Trist moved restlessly. After a moment's hesitation he lifted his arm from the mantelpiece with the apparent intention of going towards her. He even made two or three steps in that direction—steps that were inaudible, for his tread was singularly light. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Wylie came into the room.

'Theo!' said the lady, with rather less surprise than might have been expected.

In a moment she had perceived that there was something wrong. The very atmosphere of the room was tense. These two strong young people had either been quarrelling or making love. Of that Mrs. Wylie was certain. Her entrance had perhaps been malapropos; but she could not go back now. Moreover, she was the sort of woman who never errs in retreating. Her method of fighting the world was from a strong position calmly held, or by a steady sure advance.

'Good-morning, Theo!' she said, with that deliberate cheeriness which is the deepest diplomacy. 'This is an early visit. Have you come to discover the laziness of the land?'

'No,' answered Theo simply.

Then he turned and looked towards Brenda in a way which plainly said that she was expected to come forward into the breach he had effected.

Brenda came. Her face was not so grave as Trist's, but her lips were colourless.

'Theo has come,' she said, 'with bad news. We must telegraph to Alice at once. Alfred Huston had ... an accident last night.'

'What?' inquired Mrs. Wylie, turning to Trist.

'He is dead—he shot himself by accident,' replied the war-correspondent.

Mrs. Wylie stood for some moments in her comfortable, placid way, rubbing one smooth hand over the other. She did not appear to be looking anywhere in particular, but in reality no movement of Brenda's, however slight, escaped her notice.

'And now,' she said, after a weary little sigh, 'I suppose she will discover how much she loved him all along...'

Trist made a little movement, but the widow turned her calm gaze towards him, and spoke on, with a certain emphasis:

'Alice has in reality always loved Alfred Huston. This little misunderstanding would never have arisen had there not been love on both sides. I have known it all along. You can trust an old woman on such matters. This is a very, very sad ending to it all.'

'Yes,' assented Theo meekly; 'it is very sad.'

Brenda had turned away. She was standing at the window in her favourite attitude there—with her arms outstretched, her fingers resting on the broad window-sill among the ornamental fern-baskets and flower-pots.

Mrs. Wylie walked to the fireplace.

'Let me think,' she said, half to herself, 'what must be done.'

She knew that Trist was watching her, waiting for his instructions in his emotionless, almost indifferent, way. (If it were not for a certain moral laziness in the male temperament, women would be able to do very little with men.) Then the widow met his gaze. She made a scarcely-perceptible movement towards the door with her eyelids. With a slight nod he signified his comprehension of the signal.

'I must,' he said, 'go back now to ... to Huston's rooms. Will you communicate with Alice?'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Wylie simply.

Without further explanation he went towards the door, glancing at Brenda as he passed. Mrs. Wylie followed him.

'We are better without you just now,' she whispered in the passage. 'Write me full particulars, and wait to hear from me before you come back.'

CHAPTER III.
MRS. WYLIE TAKES THE OFFENSIVE.

When Mrs. Wylie returned to the breakfast-room, she found that Brenda was preparing to write. A blank telegram-form lay on the blotting-pad in readiness.

'We must telegraph to Alice,' she said briskly, as she dipped a quill pen into the ink. 'What shall I say?'

Mrs. Wylie noticed the quill pen, and remembered that the girl never used anything but steel.

'Do not be in a hurry,' she urged rather coolly. 'Let us think what is best to be done. Let us have some breakfast.'

'I don't think I want any breakfast.'

'I am sure I do not, but I am going to eat some. Breakfast means nerve, Brenda, and we shall want all our nerve for the next few days.'

Reluctantly the girl took her place at the table. Her companion was relentless; moreover, she was aggravatingly placid, even to speculation.

'There are some lives,' she said, 'which seem to be allowed as a warning and lesson to the rest of us. No doubt it is very instructive to the onlookers; but I am sometimes a little sorry for the examples themselves.'

Brenda looked up, and presently resumed her pretence of eating.

'I am afraid,' she said, 'that his was not a very happy life. If he had the opportunity of living it over again ... I doubt ... whether he would accept it, I mean.'

'Oh,' returned the elder lady with remarkable conviction, 'none of us would do that!'

Brenda showed no disposition to stray off into generalities.

'Did you,' she asked quietly, 'really mean what you said just now about Alice? Is it your honest opinion that she loved Alfred Huston through it all?'

Mrs. Wylie sipped her tea meditatively.

'There are,' she answered after a pause, '... there are, I am afraid, some women who go through their lives without ever achieving the power of loving truly and wholly. It sometimes seems to me that Alice is one of them. They enjoy as others do, and they endure; but love is neither enjoyment nor endurance. It is a speciality, and the women who possess it (though they be called coquettes, flirts, wantons) are the salt of the earth. Alice came as near loving Alfred Huston as she will ever be to loving anyone beyond herself.'

'You think so?' in a curious monotone.

'Yes; I do.'

'I ... don't,' said Brenda.

'Ah! then you follow the majority, which, by the way, is composed of mere casual observers?'

'I do not know that I follow the majority; but I am of opinion that Alice has never loved Alfred Huston, because there was someone else.'

'That is following the majority,' observed Mrs. Wylie complacently.

'And,' continued the girl in a hard voice, 'that other person is Theo Trist.'

'Majority,' murmured the widow sweetly.

'Even,' continued Brenda after a little pause, 'if things are as you say, it is horribly sad, and there is no alleviation. It is very hard that Alice should only realize now that she loved him. The rest of her life will be ... what will it be?'

'I believe,' answered the older woman, with that practical philosophy which seems to be a growth of years only, 'that Alice loved him as much as lay in her nature. I am afraid, my dear, that your sister is incapable of a great and lasting passion, such as is usually considered desirable, although it invariably wrecks a life or two.'

'Very few people understand Alice.'

'And fewer still are ready to make her the slightest allowance. She began life with an initial mistake—namely, that a beautiful girl can marry any man she may choose. This error is very wide-spread; but, my dear, I have never watched the career of a beautiful girl without discovering, sooner or later, that in reality her choice is remarkably small. After weeding out impossibilities, setting aside improbabilities, and getting rid of ball-room hacks, there are seldom more than two men left. If a girl, in the confidence of her own loveliness as vouched for by elderly bachelors and doting relatives, is pleased to consider that she can have any man she likes, let her try. The best men, the ideal husbands, are not to be fished for. They come of their own accord, or they stay away altogether.'

'I suppose,' said Brenda reflectively, 'that she was spoilt by the circumstances attending her early life? Her popularity, I mean. But then people will say that a good nature is, or should be, beyond the reach of circumstances.'

'We cannot help,' replied the woman of the world, 'what people say. In the meantime we must just make the best of things as they stand. Alice is in an awkward position, and it is clearly our duty to get her out of it as creditably as we can.'

'Of course. I am ready to do all I can.'

Mrs. Wylie rose from the table with her characteristic cheeriness. For some moments she appeared to be thinking, then she spoke:

'The best way out of it is for me to go down to Cheltenham and bring her back. There is a train about eleven o'clock; Alice herself went by it. We can be back by to-night—about dinner-time, I should think, or a little later.'

To this suggestion Brenda acceded willingly enough. She was rather dazed by this sudden change in her sister's affairs, and her usually clear intellect seemed almost benumbed. Her manner was similar to that of a woman labouring under intense anxiety, or a suspense more terrible than the most abject fear.

Before leaving Mrs. Wylie telegraphed to Trist, the message being kept from Brenda's knowledge. She addressed it to his rooms in Jermyn Street, and without hesitation wrote the following words:

'I am going to Cheltenham. Keep away from Brenda. Expect me in Jermyn Street eight o'clock to-night.'

'I think,' she reflected, as her plump white hand pressed the blotting-paper, 'that the time has really come when I must do something. These young people are verging on a terrible muddle ... unless ... unless Theo has some set plan of his own all along. I sometimes think he has. There must be a motive somewhere.'

As the good lady was descending the stairs at half-past ten on her way to Paddington Station, a commissionaire came toiling up. He carried a letter in his hand, and Mrs. Wylie, perceiving it, stopped him. It was a full account of the accident, written at a club near at hand by Theodore Trist.

By three o'clock that afternoon Alice Huston learnt her husband's end. She received the news with a strange apathy. There were times in this woman's life when the permanence of sorrow was shut out from her mind. She was like a child in the way in which she took the punishment God thought fit to administer. It seemed part of her mental laziness. She had not even the energy to resist, however useless such a course may be.

There was no time to be lost, and Mrs. Wylie insisted upon an immediate departure for town. The excuses put forward by Alice were trivial, or would have been considered trivial in another woman. They caught the train, however, and reached London at half-past seven. A long, weary drive in a rattling cab (such a vehicle as could not be found in any other city) brought them to Suffolk Mansions.

Brenda was at the door to meet them. She kissed her sister silently, and then followed the two ladies into the drawing-room. There was a cheery fire burning briskly in the grate; a single lamp with a pink shade had a wonderful effect in adding comfort to the appearance of the room.

Alice lifted her veil and looked round as if expecting to find someone there. Mrs. Wylie, near the fire, and Brenda, who was closing the door, were both watching her.

'I think,' she said wearily, 'that Theo might have been here.'

Mrs. Wylie was hungry; perhaps she was also slightly irritated.

'Why?' she asked mercilessly.

Mrs. Huston unbuttoned her gloves speculatively, and, after a short pause, replied:

'Oh ... I don't know! I thought he would come, that was all.'

Mrs. Wylie made no pretence of concealing a somewhat impatient shrug of the shoulders.

'You are in your old room,' she said in a voice devoid of sympathy. 'If you take off your bonnet we will have dinner at once. It will warm us up.'

Brenda conducted her sister to the bedroom assigned to her. They had not spoken yet, but the girl's attitude was distinctly sympathetic in its bearing. Women have a silent way of telling us that their hearts are coming, as it were, towards us. I wonder, my brothers, what some of us would do without that voiceless sympathy—without the gentle glance that penetrates and consoles at one time—without the touch of certain fingers which, though light, is full of sweet heartfelt pleading to be allowed a share of the burden.

Brenda unpinned her sister's veil, and, hovering round, volunteered here and there a quick and deft assistance.

'I wonder,' said the beautiful woman at length, with that touch of helplessness in her tone which would have been better reserved for male ears, 'why I feel like a whipped child. I do not see that I am to blame because Alfred chose to be careless. Of course it was an accident.'

Brenda did not answer at once. Indeed, they were leaving the room when she said in a reassuring tone:

'Undoubtedly it was an accident.'

There was no mistaking the tone. Whatever Mrs. Huston's faults may have been, she never sought undue credit; she never pretended to feel that which had no place in her heart. Her sins were those of omission rather than of commission. Despite Mrs. Wylie's assurance to the contrary, Brenda knew then, and never afterwards doubted, that her sister's love for her husband, if it had ever existed, was dead at the time of his sudden and untimely end.

As things go in these days, we can hardly blame this beautiful woman for having loved, and ceasing to love. It is only in novels of to-day and in records of ancient times that we meet with an enduring love. The fact is, we see too many of our fellow-creatures to be constant to a few. We drift together, and we drift apart again. We vow a little, perhaps, and protest that nothing shall divide; but presently the streams diverge. There is some little obstruction in the bed or pathway; the waters part, and never flow together again. We merrymakers dance here and we dance there; we run down into the country by an evening train; dine, dance, make love, and come to town at an early hour. The next night it is just as likely as not that we go off in some other direction with our dress-clothes in a bag and our hearts conspicuously on our sleeves 'for one night only.'

It was all very well for those inconsistent old knights (strange combinations of poetry and brutality) to be faithful to the young person remaining at home for industrial purposes; it was very easy for the young person in question to think of none other than the youth who wore her colours 'twixt armour and heart. These people never saw other youths and other maidens. If I went to the Holy Land, I am confident that I should think only of a certain small person left behind; and, moreover, it is within the bounds of probability that if she had no tennis parties, bachelors' balls, bazaars, and race-meetings, she would pine away her youth in thoughts of me, not to mention executing quite a quantity of unsightly needlework.

These reflections must, however, remain strictly between us. It would not do for the general public to get ear of them. Let us rather pound away at the good old doctrine of true love, following in the footsteps of romancers since the days of Solomon. Your hand, my brother! It is best to blind one's self at times.

Brenda was a daughter of the nineteenth century, and as such conceived it possible that love can bloom and flourish in the human heart only to die utterly after all. Some of us there are, perhaps, who, having once loved, carry a small wound with us until the end of the chapter; but the majority have no time to look back too steadily. Most assuredly Alice Huston was not one of the former. I believe honestly that she loved her husband; but I am also convinced that before his death she had ceased to do so—that the growth had died down utterly within her heart, leaving no trace, diffusing no odour, as it were, of better things.

The younger sister realized all this, but her blind affection for the woman whose existence had been so closely allied to her own made excuses and propounded explanatory theories as only a woman's love can. There was in her mind an indefinite feeling of antagonism against the events of the last few months, but in her own heart she blamed Alfred Huston. She would not give way to the ever-growing conviction that her sister was not quite free from the taint of faultiness in thought or action.

CHAPTER IV.
AN INTERVIEW.

In his inner life—his domestic environments—Theodore Trist was not a comfortable man. There are some who, possessing luxurious ways, seem to pass through the trials and petty woes of life with more comfort than others. This is, moreover, accomplished without the expenditure of greater means. Many are wanting in this power of alleviating crude environments, which, however, goes usually with a very small capability of adapting one's self to circumstances.

Trist was essentially an adaptable fellow. He never seemed to notice that the sheet was shorter than the blanket, for instance. Nor did the fact affect his equanimity that he had to drink his tea without milk or sugar. It was not that he failed to perceive these things. His calling and his training alike made it necessary that he should. Nor was it that his mind was above such trifles; nothing was so small, so trivial, as to be beneath his attention. The fact was, that his mental and physical discipline was such that in recording hardship he had come to look upon it as an excuse for so much printed matter, a thing to write about, but of which it was useless to complain. He was an observer, not an autobiographer; he recorded the hardships of others, and spoke little of his own. On the Danube, and later in Plevna, they called him the 'philosopher.'

It has been said that women possess the faculty of stamping upon the rooms in which they dwell the impress of their own individuality. Surely this power is not confined to the weaker sex alone. A man surrounds himself with little individualities as well. He is more individual in his characteristics and in his way of living. Why! no two men fill their pipes alike. Some there are who stuff the tobacco in hastily; others (the luxurious type) linger over the operation lovingly. The one has no sense of anticipatory enjoyment; the other is already enjoying his smoke before the pipe is lighted.

Theodore Trist's room, in Jermyn Street, was very like himself. There was an indefinite feeling of readiness about it, as if at a moment's notice it could be vacated, or turned into a bedroom or a meeting-house. There were no curiosities lying about, no mementoes, no souvenirs of battle-field, no mysterious Eastern jewellery from poetic harems, such as lady-novelists tell us we who wander love to have about us when we loll in divans, and smoke narghilis at home in England. Looking round bedroom or sitting-room, one's first feeling was a conviction that in ten minutes the dweller therein could remove all trace of himself and his belongings. In a word, the rooms were lamentably bare. It is a pity to have to record this, because no man in the fiction of the day, having travelled in foreign lands, is allowed to live afterwards like an English gentleman. It has been the good fortune of the present writer to meet some whose lives have been spent, as it were, in portmanteaus, under tents, and under the open sky; but never, except in ladies' novels, has he met a globe-trotter, a big game-hunter, or a wandering journalist, who, when in England, wears Turkish slippers, an Eastern bernouse-like gown, and no waistcoat. Such individuals are a race apart; and in some respects they resemble a pug-dog, who barks much and bites little. In the matter of travel, their imaginations wander farther afield than their slippered feet.

Trist's readiness to depart at any moment was a literal fact, although he tried to disguise it. He rather prided himself upon the home-like appearance of his tobacco-scented sitting-room; but the habit of being always ready, of knowing exactly where everything was to be found, and putting all things in their right places, was so strong in him that a sailor-like neatness was his only conception of human comfort.

Instead, therefore, of adorning his apartment with flowers and ornaments in anticipation of Mrs. Wylie's visit, he committed the Philistine error of looking round to see that nothing was lying about without visible and obvious excuse. The task of making tidy was not a long one. Before going out to dine at a small and self-abnegating club he had dressed so that he might be ready for the widow's visit. There had also been a long and serious consultation with the landlady about tea at eight-thirty; and this feast had been royally prepared, regardless of expense in the luxurious matter of cream from the dairy round the corner.

There was a gravity almost amounting to solemnity in the war-correspondent's demeanour as he sat awaiting his gracious visitor.

'I am afraid,' he reflected, with characteristic calmness, 'that the good lady is not pleased with me.'

This fear no doubt interfered to some extent with his enjoyment of a French newspaper, which he had just freed from its small coloured wrapper. He did not appear to be deeply interested in the Echos de Paris, of which the wit failed to call a smile into his solemn eyes. It is, in fact, a matter of conjecture to me whether he had read anything at all (with understanding) when the rarely-used front-door bell tinkled dimly in the beetle-haunted basement. Trist laid aside the newspaper, and opened the door of his room just as the stairs began to creak under the comfortable step of Mrs. Wylie.

'Well, Theo,' said the good lady cheerily. 'Good-evening!'

Trist shook hands very gravely. He was at the moment deeply immersed in doubts as to whether his visitor should be shown to his bedroom with a view of removing her bonnet before his shaving-glass, or whether she would prefer keeping her out-door apparel with her. As might have been expected, Mrs. Wylie was equal to the occasion, and settled the question at once.

'I will just open my sealskin,' she said, suiting the action to the word. 'It is bitterly cold outside. What a nice fire, but ... what a bare room, Theo! Have you no sense of comfort?'

'Bare!' replied Trist, looking round in amazement; 'I never noticed it.'

'Naturally you would not. As long as it looks like a barrack-room, and the furniture suggests the luxuries of camp-life, you are happy, I suppose?'

Trist laughed in a fill-up-the-gap style, and busied himself with a tea-pot, once the property of his landlady's grandmother, and correspondingly ugly. This versatile man's ways were not new to Mrs. Wylie; but she smiled to herself, in the way people smile when they are busy collecting materials for a good story, as she watched him pour out the tea and manœuvre the kettle. It did not seem to enter his head that four men out of five would have asked the lady's assistance in such a case. Perhaps (for women note such things) she also remembered afterwards that he had no need to inquire after her taste respecting cream and sugar, but acted boldly, yet unobtrusively, upon knowledge previously acquired.

'And now,' she said in a determined way when the cups were filled, 'light your pipe.'

'I do not think,' answered he with mock hesitation, 'that such a proceeding would be strictly approved of by the laws of etiquette.'

'It is etiquette, my friend, to do exactly what a lady may wish. I would rather you smoked, because I want to talk to you seriously—a pastime I rarely indulge in—and I think tobacco would assist a contemplative attention on your part. I almost wish I could smoke myself. It would facilitate matters.'

In ratio to the increase of the lady's gravity her companion's spirits seemed to rise.

'After that,' he replied gaily, 'I am dumb, and ... light my strongest pipe.'

This threat he carried out to the letter. While Mrs. Wylie sipped her excellent tea and appeared to be searching in her mind for a suitable manner of beginning that which she had to say, he continued to puff softly, preserving a characteristic silence, and vouchsafing that contemplative attention which she had desired.

'Theo,' said Mrs. Wylie at length with an intonation upon the single word which, by some subtle means, caused him to lay aside all attempts at hilarity.

'Yes?' he replied, removing the pipe from his lips and looking across the table at her with meek inquiry.

Most people would have thought from his tone and manner that he was ready and willing to accede at once to any proposition, to follow any course of action, to obey without complaint or hesitation; but, as hinted on a previous page, Mrs. Wylie knew the ways of this man.

She did not meet his glance, but continued to gaze in a practically-abstracted way into the fender, while with one hand she smoothed a corner of her sealskin jacket.

'You will admit,' she continued at length with apparent irrelevance, 'that every action, or every course of action, is liable to several constructions.'

His reply was ready at once—a fact worth noticing in a man whose exterior habits would have led most observers to a belief that his mental method was slow.

'Yes; but the various constructions could not well be taken into account in anticipation. The attempt would be a death-blow to all action.'

The astute lady knew that she was understood, so she moved on in the same drift.

'I admit that,' she said; 'but ... in a course of procedure, the construction put upon the first actions should be allowed to carry some weight in subsequent proceedings. If ... I mean ... it is deleterious to others, the course might well be amended.'

Trist acknowledged the ability of this argument without enthusiasm.

'Nevertheless,' he said after a pause, 'people have mapped out for themselves a course of action, have held to it despite adverse criticism, and have in the end been triumphant.'

Mrs. Wylie now looked up rather keenly.

'Then,' she said significantly, 'yours is a course of action, and not mere idle drifting with the tide.'

Trist shrugged his shoulders, and met her glance with calm, impenetrable eyes. He was in a corner, because silence was naught but confession.

'Am I,' he inquired imperturbably, 'the sort of man to drift?'

'No,' said Mrs. Wylie; 'you are not. But, Theo, are you sure that you are doing right? I don't want to interfere in the slightest degree with your action so long as it concerns only yourself. You are quite capable of looking after your own affairs, I know, quite sure of yourself, utterly reliant upon your own strength of purpose; but I want you to remember that women cannot be so self-dependent as men. However strong they may be, however capable, however brilliant, they must give in a little to the usages and customs of society, they must consider the praise or blame of their neighbours. Such praise or blame is part of their life, an important factor in their happiness or sorrow, and all the woman's rights in the world will make no difference.'

Trist had left his seat during this speech. He went to the fireplace and removed the kettle, which was boiling with mistaken ardour, to a cooler spot. He stood erect upon the hearthrug, and looked down into the pleasant woman's face upturned towards him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and there was on his face an encouraging smile. Seeing it, the widow continued:

'I came to-night, Theo, because I wanted to come to some understanding with you, even at the risk of being considered meddlesome and unnecessarily anxious.'

'That risk is small, Mrs. Wylie.'

'Thank you. Now I am going to be frank with you—not with the view of forcing a reciprocal frankness upon you, but because it is the best method of saying difficult things. You disapprove of obtrusive frankness, I know.'

Trist laughed, and did not deny this accusation. Mrs. Wylie's cup was empty, and he made a step forward and took it from her hand with grave courtesy.

'Will you have some more tea?' he inquired incidentally.

'Thanks; I will.'

There was a short silence, during which the young fellow deftly manipulated the teapot.

'The girls,' said the lady reflectively, as she stirred her second cup, 'are, in a certain manner, cast upon my hands. I am morally responsible for their good name. Owing to an unfortunate chain of circumstances, they occupy at the present moment rather a prominent position in idle conversation. They cannot be too careful—you understand...?'

She stopped short because Trist's movements, which were rather restless, told her plainly enough that he had already got a long way in advance of her thoughts.

'You wish,' he said, 'to forbid me the house just now.'

Mrs. Wylie was not improving the texture of the lace handkerchief she continued to twist round her finger. For some seconds she made no answer. She almost hoped that by waiting she would effect a slight breach in the impenetrable wall of reserve with which this man seemed to find pleasure in surrounding himself. In this, however, she was disappointed. His power of unembarrassed silence was unique in a Western-born man.

'Had it been anyone else,' she said at length, 'I should have been obliged to do so. With you it is quite another matter. You are different from other men, Theo. I know that, but the general public does not, and consequently judges you by the same standard as it judges others.'

'They are quite right in doing that. I have a great respect for the general public.'

The widow looked rather sceptical respecting the latter statement, but did not raise the question.

'It is not,' she continued gravely, 'from that point of view that I look at it. Indeed, I should be inclined in any case to leave it to you, because I think that you are gifted with a great strength of purpose. No consideration of public censure, public blame, or public commentary would force me to speak to you upon a subject which I honestly believe to be better left undiscussed. I believe that every man, Theo, every woman, every youth, and every girl, knows his or her own business best. I believe we are all capable of managing our own affairs better than the kindest of our neighbours could manage them for us. In this you agree with me—is it not so?'

'I thought,' replied Theo, without meeting her glance, 'that that theory was mine. I must have learnt it unconsciously from you.'

'It has always been my conviction that you are a man singularly capable of managing your own affairs, and in my own sex I have fancied that I know a counterpart...'

'Yes?...' interrogated Trist in a semi-tone, divining that he was expected to do so.

'Brenda!' said Mrs. Wylie simply.

She had crossed her hands on her lap, and as her lips framed the girl's name, she raised her head slowly and fixed her pleasant, keen glance on him. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, leaning lightly against the corner of the mantelpiece. The single gas-jet of the old-fashioned chandelier cast a most uncompromising light upon his face; his eyes were raised, and he seemed to be contemplating the invention of a new burner.

Without detracting anything from the scrutiny to which she was subjecting him, she continued speaking.

'Now...' she said with some energy, 'Brenda is miserable.'

For some seconds his face was perfectly motionless. His eyelids did not even move. It was a triumph of inscrutability. Then he moved his lips, pursing them up in a manner expressive of thoughtfulness and doubt combined.

'Why?'

'That,' replied Mrs. Wylie, turning away, 'is exactly what I want to know.'

Trist did not appear to be in a position to supply the required information. The conversation was becoming decidedly strained, and Mrs. Wylie, while feeling her sang-froid gradually warming, as it were, noticed that there was plenty of staying-power in her companion still. He did not at that moment look like a man about to be betrayed into a hasty exposition of his inward thoughts or feelings. On motives of prudence she therefore relieved the strain.

'Brenda,' she said, 'has been terribly worried by Alice, I know. It seems to me that if you kept out of their way for some little time it would be conducive to a more peaceful frame of mind all round—do you see?'

'Yes; I was thinking of going over to Paris. If there is a war in the spring, I shall have work to do for one or two French papers, and it is best to have these things arranged in advance.'

Mrs. Wylie winced. It seemed as if he had dragged in the unpleasant little monosyllable with the purpose of reminding her of his profession. By some feminine course of logic she had reasoned herself into a belief that Theo Trist would go to no more campaigns, and now she grew pale at the thought that he was still a war-correspondent—she, who prided herself upon her freedom from that gnawing sorrow called anxiety. The readiness with which he acceded to her half hint that his absence would be an advantage was completely marred by the mention of a possible war, and she relented at once, seeking some other expedient than banishment.

'Would you go if there were another war?' she asked.

'Yes,' he replied coolly.

She made no comment, and the subject was dropped. She had made this visit with the full intention of coming to a definite knowledge of facts with Trist. Her chief desire had been to find out whether there was any understanding between Alice Huston and himself such as the world assigned; but in this she had failed. Theo would tell her nothing more than he chose, and she recognised in him a match in the matter of social diplomacy. His motives were a puzzle to her; she could not even come to a reasonable conclusion concerning his feelings. It was possible that he loved Alice Huston, but it was also possible that he loved Brenda. Again, she had no definite reason for supposing that he loved either of them, because his manner to both was that of a friend. However, the clear object of her visit had been attained—namely, that Trist should absent himself for some time, and with this she was content, looking to further enlightenment in the future.

CHAPTER V.
SOUTHWARD.

Theodore Trist had not over-estimated his powers in informing Brenda that he had some influence with the newspapers. The story of Captain Huston's sudden death never became public property; indeed, there was no mention made of the inquest. The result of an accident was all detail vouchsafed to the public. There was, by the way, some virtuous indignation expressed in the columns of a halfpenny weekly publication possessing a small circulation in the neighbourhood of the West India Dock Road. This just wrath was excited by the evident suppression of detail, and the scant courtesy with which their representative had been received by a gentleman—himself a journalist—who was closely connected with the disgraceful death of this British officer. In cheap type, upon a poor quality of paper, and in vile English, this self-constituted representative of the thirsting British public demanded further details. He expressed himself surprised that an enlightened nation should stand idly by while the aristocracy of the overburthened land deliberately plotted to screen its own debauched proceedings from public censure. The enlightened nation either failed to spend a halfpenny foolishly (thus neglecting its own interests), or it preferred to continue standing by. Moreover, the debauched aristocracy showed no signs of quailing beneath the lash of a relentless press. It is just possible, however, that they had neither seen the newspaper in question nor heard of its existence.

The demand for further details must have failed to reach the delinquents concerned. At all events, there was no reply, the error was never repaired, and the Times failed to take up the cudgels and fight for their common rights side by side with its powerful contemporary.

So Alfred Woodruff Charles Huston was laid, not with his own, but with the forefathers of someone else in Willesden Cemetery. Poor fellow! he came from a military stock, brave men and true, who had fought and drunk and finally deposited their bones in many parts of the globe. I am not by habit a sentimental person—moonlight over water, for instance, or the whisper of the pine-trees, has a certain quieting effect upon me, though it does not make me drivel; but I see the great silent pathos of our huge graveyards. If I never pitied Alfred Huston when he was alive, I pity him now in his narrow bed—one of many—an insignificant volume in God's book-shelf. Thus the Almighty is pleased to shelve us in rows. Sometimes He classifies us, and we are labelled with a title somewhat similar to that on the stones near at hand; but nowadays we stray away from the original corner of the library, and when the end comes we find ourselves among strangers. In some country churchyard it is sad enough to see a cluster of mouldering stones all bearing the same name, but infinitely more pathetic is it to wander through the serried ranks of the dead at Brookwood, Willesden, or Brompton. It is like a 'sundry' shelf, where all odd volumes are hastily thrust and soon forgotten; for poetry is side by side with commerce, fame elbows obscurity, youth lies by age. We scan the names, and find no connection. Truly these are among strangers—they sleep not with their fathers. And the shelves fill up, showing nought but titles. The books are closed, the tale is told, and so it moulders until the leaves shall flutter again beneath the searching finger of the Almighty. Sooner be buried in the common ditch beneath a weight of red-coated humanity than amidst these unknown thousands—sooner, a thousand times sooner, lie in patient solitude on untrodden rocks beneath the wave!

Alfred Huston's name is doubtless to be found in Willesden Cemetery to-day, though I do not know of anyone who will care to seek it. His wife caused it to be recorded in imperishable letters of lead, as if, mes frères, it had not as well been writ in water. It stands, moreover, in the State archives amidst a long record of heroes who drew their pay with remarkable regularity, and did little else. It was very good of her to go to the expense of those leaden letters, considering what an enormous number of mourning garments she was absolutely compelled to buy. The thought even is worthy of praise, because her mind was fully occupied with questions of crape and caps. Let us, therefore, give full credit to this widow who, in order to do more honour to her husband's memory, sent some of her dresses back four times to the milliners because the bodice would not fit.

One December morning three ladies dressed in black (two, indeed, wore widows' weeds) left Charing Cross Station for Paris. Mrs. Wylie, in her wisdom, had decreed a short banishment.

'Let us,' she said cheerily, the day after Captain Huston's semi-surreptitious funeral—'let us get away from all this fog and cold and misery. I want sunshine. Let us go south—Nice, Biarritz, Arcachon! Which shall it be?'

'We might,' suggested Alice Huston, 'stay a few days in Paris on the way.'

Brenda was reading, and before taking note of these remarks she finished a page, which she turned slowly, as one turns the page of a thoughtful book requiring slow perusal. She looked up at the clock upon the mantelpiece, and then her pensive gaze wandered towards Mrs. Wylie's face.

'Not the Riviera,' she said persuasively. 'It is like beef-tea when one is in rude health.'

'I must say,' observed Mrs. Wylie, after a pause, 'that I prefer the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.'

'Let us stay a little time in Paris first,' said Alice eagerly, 'and go on to Arcachon, or somewhere for Christmas. We might hear in Paris of nice people going South.'

The expression of the elder widow's face was not quite so sympathetic as might have been expected upon sentimental grounds.