He glanced up at her in a curious, laughing way.
“No—I am afraid not. War in these semi-barbaric countries is like an illness in a young person. It is only half healed beneath a deceptive surface, and breaks out in a fresh place.”
Again she took up the telegrams. It seemed as if there were a fascination in the flimsy papers which she could not resist.
“This man seems to look upon it as rather a good joke. He takes the matter jovially.”
“Yes! He takes most things in that way. It is a good thing for him, you see. Brings up the circulation of his paper.”
“That,” she said quietly, “is a very practical way of looking at war.”
Trist appeared to ignore, purposely, the slight reproach conveyed by her remark.
“War is a practical thing,” he replied. “This is a splendid chance for me, and one I should be sorry to miss. It is not a surprise, Brenda. We all knew that it might come at any time, but I did not mention it, because the knowledge would only have been unsettling, and I did not think … then … that my sudden departure would have made much difference.”
She looked at him calmly and thoughtfully before replying, with an indifference which was not quite complimentary:
“You must not allow this … this calamity to make any difference. I quite understand the position you are in. Of course you are pledged to this man? …”
Trist nodded a brief acquiescence.
“Then you must go. I can manage quite well alone. Mrs. Wylie is much better this morning, though she is still dull and horribly apathetic. We will go home as quickly as we can.”
There was something in her voice, a slight catch, which he could not understand, and of course he misread it. The last few words were spoken in a peculiar monotone, with feverish haste.
“I feel horribly selfish,” he said, “thinking of my own affairs at this time. No, Brenda. I cannot go and leave you in such a fix—alone.”
“I want you to go, Theo; I do really. It would never do for you to miss this chance. You are pledged to this man (who sits comfortably at home), and I would never forgive myself if I thought that you stayed here on my account. Besides, you are a sort of public servant; it is your duty to go.”
“Yes,” he said, catching at the phrase uneasily; “it is certainly my duty. It is my duty … to go.”
She stood beside him quite still. Then she moved a step nearer to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Theo,” she pleaded, “you must go. To please me, pack up and go.”
He smiled suddenly, but did not look up into her face, which was very pale, while her lips remained red. There was a slight quiver of her chin whenever her mouth remained for a second unclenched. It needed an effort on her part to prevent his hearing the chattering of her teeth. Involuntarily he shrunk a little away from her light touch, and glanced furtively at the white fingers on his shoulder.
Thus they remained for some moments while the yacht heaved gently onwards. The lamps swayed a little, but beyond that there was no motion in the pretty cabin. At last Trist reached out his hand and took the envelope from which he had torn one of the telegrams. He bent it over and smoothed it very carefully, while she watched the movements of his fingers.
“When is there a steamer to England?” she asked suddenly.
“The day after tomorrow, from Bergen, at nine o’clock in the evening.”
His answer was laconic and concise as Bradshaw.
Brenda knew then that he had expected war all along, and war was his element; she could not forget that, despite the wild incongruity of it.
“How can you manage it?” she asked simply and practically.
It would appear that he had foreseen everything, provided for every possible contingency. While she moved away from him and sat down near a small table, he answered her without a moment’s thought.
“If we have the funeral tomorrow morning, I can start immediately afterwards in a small boat, and row or sail to Gudvangen, reaching there early next morning. Drive to Vossevangen, and catch the afternoon train down to Bergen.”
“It sounds very simple, but it means thirty hours without sleep.”
“I can sleep all the way across the North Sea. Don’t think of me, Brenda; I’m outside the question altogether.”
He stopped, with a worried look upon his face, but did not raise his eyes. Had he done so he would inevitably have noticed a heightened colour in her cheeks, although she turned aside and gazed at nothing in particular.
“What bothers me,” he continued, “is you and Mrs. Wylie and the Hermione. What will you do?”
“I will take the Hermione home,” she said with gentle confidence. “You can safely leave Mrs. Wylie to me.”
“I know I can, but I do not want to leave you to Mrs. Wylie. It is putting too much on your shoulders.”
She shrugged the graceful members in question, and gave a little short laugh.
“They are strong,” she answered carelessly. “Besides, there is no choice in the matter. I simply must be left in charge because there is no one else. It seems to me that the matter in question is …” she glanced towards the closed door of Trist’s late stateroom, where Admiral Wylie kept his silent watch—“is whether Mrs. Wylie will consent to Fjaerholm or not.”
“Can I see her?”
“No … no, Theo. I think it is better not. She is so strange and natural that I am afraid the sight of you might have some serious effect. Even in her dreams she is constantly recalling the sight of you … coming down the little path … with him in your arms. You remember—just beside the big rock where it was too narrow for you both to carry him.”
“Yes,” he replied in a voice that might well have been rendered purposely careless. “Yes, I remember.”
“I have not dared,” the girl continued, “to say anything about … about Fjaerholm. I
