Captain Barrow glanced beneath his shaggy eyebrows at Trist, and saw on his face—nothing: absolutely nothing. The man was simply impenetrable.
Brenda came towards them with a smile. She leant over the rail, for Trist was now in the boat, and held out her small hand steadily.
“Goodbye, Theo.”
“Goodbye … Brenda.”
And with his own hands he shoved off.
So the Hermione never dropped anchor at Gudvangen. Before the boat reached the pier there was a man waiting for her. In Norway, persons connected in any way with the hire of horses or carriols do not appear to sleep at all. Even in this peaceful land the spirit of competition disturbs men’s rest.
Brenda, standing on the deck of the Hermione, saw Trist shake hands with the boat’s crew and climb on to the wooden pier. Then he turned, and evidently directed the men to return to the yacht. The wind was fair, so Captain Barrow set sail as soon as the boat came alongside; and before the sails were fairly filled, Brenda saw Trist mount his carriol and drive away at a smart trot into the narrow, darksome gorge of the Nerodal. To her ears came the sound of his horse’s feet upon the hard road, and she turned away with dull anguish in her eyes.
On the evening of the third day Theo Trist was seated in a train that glided smoothly into King’s Cross Station. It was five o’clock, and in three hours the war-correspondent intended to leave London again. As time goes and new things grow up around us, our constitutions become more adaptable. The human frame endures today fatigues and hardships of a description undreamt of three hundred years ago. I believe that it would have been hard to find in the reign of Queen Bess a man ready to undertake an unbroken journey by carriol, steamer, train, steamer, train, and train again from a Norwegian station to the pretty little town of Belgrade on the Danube. To Theo Trist this undertaking was of no great matter, and there are plenty of men around who would smile at the hardship.
Whatever speed may be attained by our fastest express the human brain can outvie. During the first hour or so our thoughts lag behind, we are still living the life that is left there, thinking of the people who dwell there, feeling the emotions experienced there. But presently our thoughts come racing along and overtake the material body. An interest is taken in passing stations; the scenery acquires beauty, and for a time mind and body travel together. After another space our thoughts start away again, in front this time, and the coming alteration in daily routine becomes a reality. We anticipate the change that is approaching, and thus the shock of it is broken. Anyone who has made a long and rapid journey will understand me, and those who have left behind them something dear, some bright period of their existence, will, with me, bless this wise provision.
To Theo Trist nothing seemed more natural than to find himself amidst an excited crowd of porters on the platform. To be hustled on all sides by human forms, to have to push his way through an overcrowded humanity, brought to his mind no thought of contrast. Three days before he had lived in a world almost devoid of life. Here he forced his way through life in a world too small for it.
All around him greetings were being exchanged—hands pressed hands, and lips touched lips. In and out, the porters forced their hurried passage. Cabmen shouted, and porters called. Everyone was smiling at or abusing someone else. Only Trist was alone. No one sought his face amidst the new ones on the platform—no one smiled at him. Here, as at the edge of the Norwegian river, he was alone, in a studied, cultivated solitude. In three hours he would leave Charing Cross, still alone, still unheeded. Amidst this noise and confusion he sought his light baggage, and his was the first cab to leave the station.
Through the dusty streets he drove, looking calmly on the well-known sights, listening vaguely to the well-known sounds and cries. His life had been a kaleidoscope, and in all places, all situations, and all circumstances, he unconsciously made a place for himself.
In late July London is supposed to be empty, but as Trist drove through the narrow thoroughfares down towards Oxford Street, the pavement was crowded. Oxford Street was gay, dusty, noisy. Seven Dials, in those days, innocent of model-lodging houses, reeked of fever. Through all these the war-correspondent drove indifferently; but when the cab rattled down Wellington Street he sat forward. In the Strand he was at home, recognised of many, recognising some. The cab drew up before a large stone house, labelled by a single diminutive brass-plate on the door—and waited. A minute later Trist entered a small room at the back of the building. A gray-haired man of square build with an enormous head rose to greet him.
“At last!” said this man. “If you remember, Trist, I did not want you to go so far away while this Eastern Question was unsettled.”
“I remember perfectly,” said Trist almost inaudibly, as he laid aside his hat and looked up towards a clock suspended on the wall, with the air of a man knowing his surroundings well.
“And still you went—you ruffian!” said the other, courteously indicating a chair and reseating himself.
Trist smiled sweetly and said nothing.
“I suppose,” continued the large-headed man jovially, “that there was a distinct and irresistible attraction.”
“There was!” said Trist, with impenetrable gravity.
“And how did you leave that jolly old boy, the Admiral?”
“Dead!”
“Ah! Dead?”
The editor leant forward and pressed a small white button at the side of his desk. Simultaneously the door opened, and a man in livery stood silently
