He was merely a strong, thoughtful man, who could think and reason quickly enough when such speed was necessary, but as a rule he preferred a slower and surer method. He was ready enough to proffer an opinion when such was really in demand, and once spoken, this would change in no way. It was the result of thought, and he forbore to uphold a conviction by argument. Argument and thought have little in common. One is froth drifting before the wind, the other a deep stream running always. Trist held fixed opinions about most things, but it was part of his self-reliant and self-sufficing nature to take no pleasure whatever in convincing others that the opinion was valuable. If men chose to think otherwise, he tacitly recognised their right to do so, and left them in peace. Although he held certain doctrines upon the better or worse ways of getting through the span of a human life creditably, he was singularly averse to airing them in any manner.
Now, Mrs. Wylie, in her keen womanliness, knew very well how to deal with this man. She was quite aware that there was, behind his silent laisser-aller, a clearly-defined plan of campaign, a cut-and-dried theory or doctrine upon which his most trifling action was based. There was an object aimed at, and perhaps gained, in his every word. If Theodore Trist was a born strategist (of which I am firmly convinced), and carried his principles of warfare into the bitter strife of everyday existence, he had in Mrs. Wylie an ally or a foe, as the case might be, whose manoeuvres were worthy of his regard.
She possessed a woman’s intuitive judgment, brightened, as it were, and rendered keener, by the friction of a busy lifetime; and added to this, she was in the habit of acting more spontaneously, and perhaps with a greater recklessness, than came within Trist’s mental compass. These were her more womanly qualities, but her character had been influenced through many years by the manly, upright nature of her husband, and it was from him that she had acquired her rare doctrine of noninterference. In woman’s weaker nature there is a lamentable failing to which can be attributed a large portion of the sorrows to which the sex is liable. This is an utter inability to refrain from adding a spoke to every wheel that may roll by. Interference—silly, unjustifiable interference—in the affairs of others is woman’s vice. She can no more keep her fingers out of other people’s savoury pies than a cat can keep away from the succulent products of Yarmouth. It has been said by cynical people that a woman cannot keep a secret, but that is a mistake. If it be her own, she can keep it remarkably well; but if it be the property of someone else, she appears to consider it as a loan which must not be allowed to accrue interest. I have tried the effect of imparting to a woman whom it affected but slightly, and to a man whose life would be altered in some degree by it, a piece of news under the bond of secrecy—a bond which expired at a given date. The man held his peace and went on his way through life unaffected, untroubled by the knowledge he possessed. I studied him at moments when a glance or a word might have betrayed to observant eyes the fact that he was in possession of certain information. He looked at me calmly, and with no dangerous glance of intelligence, subsequently talking in a manly, honest way which was in no degree a connivance at criminal suppression. The date given had not yet arrived, but the knowledge was fresh in his mind, and he treated the matter in an honourable, businesslike way. I knew that my secret was buried in that man’s brain as in a sepulchre.
The woman was uneasy. I could see that the secret oppressed her. She chafed at the thought that the date mentioned was still a long way ahead. She longed to talk of the matter to me, with a view, no doubt, of craving permission to tell one person, who would certainly not repeat it. By glance or significant silence she courted betrayal; and at one time she even urged me to impart the news to a mutual friend, in order, I take it, to form a channel or an outlet for her cooped-up volume of thought. Finally, I discovered that she had forestalled the date, by writing to friends at a distance, who actually received the letters before the day, but were unable to reissue the news in time to incriminate her.
It would appear that the same characteristic defect applies to the retention of a secret as to the restraint from interference. Perhaps it is a weakness, not a vice. Mrs. Wylie never sought confidences, as women, by nature unable to retain secrets, are prone to do. Her doctrine of noninterference went so far as to embrace the small matter of passing details. She placed entire reliance in Theodore Trist, and although his behaviour puzzled her, she refrained from asking an explanation of even the smallest act. She was content that his leading motive could only be good, and therefore felt no great thirst to know the meaning of his minor actions.
The cynical-minded may opine that I am describing an impossible woman. The fault is due to this halting pen. I once drew a woman who herself recognised the portrait—a critic said that the character was impossible and unnatural.
Mrs. Wylie was very natural and very womanly, after all. She had almost forced Theo Trist to invite himself to lunch, and her anxiety respecting Alice and Brenda had been made clear to him at once. She would not interfere; but she could not surely have been expected to refrain from suggesting to him that the world and the world’s opinion, if of no value to him, could
