She said nothing, but moved a step or two towards the spot indicated. Then he took her hand within his and led the way. Presently they came out of the thicker wood on to the rocky ground near the river, and soon afterwards came into sight of a still form lying on the turf beneath Trist’s waterproof. There were stones on the corners of the mackintosh to prevent it being blown away, but the wind penetrated between them and the stuff rippled with a slight sound. The upper part of the body only was covered, and there was, in the wet waders and misshapen brogues, a suggestion of simple pride. In bad weather the Admiral had always fished in an old black sou’-wester, and this lay by his side with his creel and rod. The old sportsman had died in harness, with the quick burr-r-r of the reel sounding in his ears and a “taut line” bending his rod; for Trist found the gut broken.
The man who had looked on death so often, who had slept amidst the groans of the dying and the heartrending cries of the sore-wounded, now knelt and simply drew back the covering from the still gray face. Death was so familiar to him that the sight of it brought no shock, and he scarcely realized what he was doing. Mechanically Brenda knelt down on the turf, her dress touching the dead man’s hand. For some moments she remained thus, while the rosy light of dawn crept down the mountain side. Behind her stood Trist, silently watching. Presently he looked round and noted the increase of daylight; then he touched her shoulder.
“Come, Brenda,” he said. “The day is breaking. We must go. I will walk back with you to the boat.”
She rose and shook her head decisively.
“No,” she answered. “You must stay here—beside him. I will go back alone. It is better for me to tell Mrs. Wylie.”
“You are not afraid?” he inquired.
“No. I am not afraid.”
She spoke in her simple, quiet way, which was not without a certain force, despite her gentle voice. It was no boast of courage that she was making, but a plain statement of fact. She was not afraid, because she felt that it was her duty, and no soldier ever possessed a clearer, braver sense of duty than did Brenda Gilholme.
Trist walked by her side a few paces.
“I wish,” he said, “that I could have spared you some of this.”
“Do not think of me,” she replied. “You seem to consider me, Theo, a weak, foolish girl, who should be spared every little pain and trouble.”
“I should like …” he began, and then he stopped abruptly, so much so as to cause an awkward silence. “Well,” he added at length in a different tone, “I will wait here—but you must not come back. Send one of the men—the stronger of the two: Cobbold.”
“I think both the men had better come,” she suggested. They were now standing beneath the small, stunted pines upon a silent carpet of dead sweet-scented needles. As she spoke, she looked up into his face with a quiet scrutiny which was full of suggestive anxiety.
“Why?” he asked, with a faint smile.
“Because you must be completely exhausted. You have been on your feet for nearly twenty-four hours. Besides, you are wet through, and dragged down by the weight of your clothes.”
“I am wet,” he admitted, “but not tired. It is my profession to ignore fatigue. Send Cobbold, Brenda! The other man must stay with you.”
He drew back some branches for her to pass unscratched through the thicket, but did not offer to accompany her any further.
“Will you not let me come?” he asked again as she passed him. “This is a horrible task you have set yourself.”
She stood beside him for a moment beneath his upraised arm, looking straight in front of her. Her shoulder was almost touching his wet coat, which hung loosely. All around them the trees dripped mournfully, while, through the low entanglement, the voice of the mournful river sang its ancient dirge.
“It is only my share of the task,” she answered. “Why should you have it all to do—Theo? Besides … I never expected life to be all sunshine.”
He answered nothing, and she went forward slowly, almost reluctantly, from beneath the branches he was holding up. To them both there seemed something pleasant, some vague suggestion of comfort, in her thought that this was a task they had to perform in common, each doing a worthy share. At a later period there came another task for them to perform, and the mutual trust which was now planted grew into an upright tree. They did not know that the burden of it was to fall chiefly on the weaker shoulders, as they parted, after having tacitly apportioned the work that lay before them.
The girl went her way, revolving in her quick and capable brain all that she was so suddenly called upon to do; while the man, left by the still form that lay upon the turf, was already organizing things in an experienced, practical way. It happened that he was never to carry out his own plans, but he did not suspect this at the time; he had no presentiment that he was to be called away to other work—nobler, braver work—leaving this sorrowful task half done in the hands of her who had volunteered to be his lieutenant.
Before the sun’s rays had crept down the bare mountain side to the sea, the two boats moved away from the rock that seemed to guard the mouth of the river.
In the gig—the first boat to get away—were seated Mrs. Wylie and Brenda, while the sailor Cobbold steered. Trist followed in the longboat, steering himself, while the sailor crouched down forward. Between the two men lay, beneath the thwarts, the genial, kindhearted old sportsman, who would never hear the glad rattle of the reel again, who would no more watch, with keen dancing eyes, the straining line. Never
