Brenda turned slowly and looked into Theo Trist’s face, on which there was even now no sign of fatigue. He had raised his eyes to hers on hearing Captain Barrow’s simple words, and now they looked at each other in a strangely wondering way. Neither had thought of the Hand whose work this was until that moment.
VIII
A Joint Command
So the joint command of the Hermione lapsed into new hands—the man’s command above decks, and the woman’s rule below.
In both regions the new director stepped into the vacant place quietly, unostentatiously and confidently. Old Captain Barrow was as the potter’s clay in Trist’s gentle yet firm hands. The young fellow’s strange subtle influence soon made itself felt upon the men. The Admiral had ruled by genial heartiness, coupled with the force of past experience implied by his title; the young journalist (who did not pretend to be a sailor) enforced obedience by the magnetic attraction of his implacable will.
Mrs. Wylie uttered no complaint, sued for no sympathy—she was simply stunned—and, in her imperious little way, Brenda took over all the smaller household duties, assumed all minor responsibilities, and gave the widow no rest.
She forced her to take an interest in smaller things, and allowed no time for thought. She herself literally put her to bed by the light of the morning sun, and calmly announced her intention of sharing the stateroom. The Admiral was carried below, and laid on Trist’s bed, and the latter moved, next day, into the room vacated by Brenda.
For him there was no rest that night. He did not even change the clothes in which he had been swimming a few hours before, while bringing ashore the dead man. By seven o’clock in the morning the Hermione was ready for sea—awning furled, stanchions stowed away, and the great sails shaken out.
About this time Brenda came on deck. She looked round for a moment in utter surprise at the changed appearance of the ship; then she walked aft, to where Trist was standing near the rail talking in a low voice to Nielsen, who, hurriedly summoned, had come on board to pilot the yacht down the Heimdalfjord.
The Englishman’s back was turned towards her, and he did not hear her light tread upon the deck, but his companion raised his rough sable hat respectfully, and Trist turned round at once. Brenda saw that he noticed her black dress, and involuntarily glanced down at his own shabby tweed suit, which was discoloured and wrinkled.
“Have you had any rest?” were his first words.
“Yes; thank you. I slept for at least two hours.” She smiled a little as she looked at him, and his glance rested on her faultlessly-dressed head, her dainty form, and proud little face.
“And Mrs. Wylie?” he inquired softly.
“She is sleeping now.”
He nodded his head, and they both turned, standing side by side, looking forward to where the men were at work with the anchor. Nielsen had left them, and was talking to Captain Barrow on the forecastle.
“Captain Barrow,” he explained, in a tone which in some way implied a joint-control, “has got all ready for sea. The tide begins to run down at half-past seven, when we will get in the anchor and go.”
She nodded her head wisely and gravely, like a field-officer receiving a brother-commander’s report—receiving it, moreover, with satisfaction.
“You have been very prompt,” she murmured frankly, as she looked round and mentally noted the work that had been done.
He turned his head hastily, as if about to begin some lengthy explanation or to assign a reason for his promptitude, but seemed to change his mind, for he stood looking at her vaguely for a moment, and then turned his eyes away.
At this moment the steward came towards them with his gliding, noiseless steps. He was carrying two mugs of coffee—not the thin cups used in the cabin, but rough stout mugs intended for deck use. Moreover, he brought them in the lid of the biscuit-box, with some biscuits lying round them, as he brought early coffee every morning to whosoever might be keeping the last watch.
He stood silently in front of Brenda, and made no attempt to apologize for the seamanlike roughness of the repast, while she took her mug and biscuit.
Even when the steward had left them, Trist made no remark respecting this tacit treatment of Brenda as an officer of the ship; and she it was who broke the silence, speaking slowly and suggestively, as if waiting for him to approve or propose an amendment. It was absurdly like the report of a junior departmental commander to his senior.
“Oh, Theo,” she said, “I have moved most of my things into the large stateroom, as I think it will be better for me to sleep with Mrs. Wylie. You can go into my cabin as soon as you like now—the steward and I have put it all right for you.”
“Thank you!” he said, sipping his coffee.
“Will you not go and change now? It cannot be good to keep on those clothes.”
“Not yet,” he answered, with a smile. “They are quite dry now, and the sun is shining, so I am warm. Besides, there are one or two things I want to ask your opinion about, and we may not have the chance later on.”
He moved a little, and she, falling into his step, walked by his side. Thus they paced backwards and forwards slowly in the early morning splendour—she neat, trim, and lightsome; he weary, worn, untidy, but strong and restful—until they had consulted mutually upon certain points requiring immediate decision. When they had finished their coffee and biscuit, each swung the empty mug idly, one finger curled through the handle, with unconscious youthfulness of gesture.
“The nearest village,” he
