Brenda fully recognised that the fact of his being less lighthearted, less cheerful than of old, might easily be accounted for by the horrors through which he had passed during the late months; but there was something else. There was another change which had come over him since his return.
While she was still watching and wondering, Theo Trist suddenly vanished, and soon afterwards there broke out a small war in the Far East. Like a vulture he had scented blood, and was on the spot by the time that the news of hostilities had reached England. He never wrote private letters, but his work in the new field of battle was closely watched by the small circle of friends at home. As usual, his letters attracted attention, and people talked vaguely of this wonderful war-correspondent—vaguely because he was personally unknown. His individuality was nothing to the warlike host of men who follow events quietly at home with a half-defined thrill of envy in their hearts—for every Englishman has a secret love of war, a well-concealed longing to be fighting something or someone.
When he returned, Alice Gilholme was married, and Brenda had to tell him of it. No surprise, no signs of discomfiture were visible in the man’s incongruous face, where strength and weakness were strangely mixed. He inquired keenly and practically about settlements, expressed a gentle hope that Alice would be happy, and changed the subject.
III
A Problem
Trist approached Mrs. Wylie with slow and almost timid steps, yet there was nothing apologetic in his demeanour, for he was perfectly self-possessed, and even reposeful, with that quiet assurance which only comes with innate good-breeding.
In his two hands he carried a fine stout salmon with a sharp snout. Its dark lips curled upwards with an evil twist, and even in death its eyes were full of fight.
The lady dropped her book upon her lap, and looked up with a smile. In her eyes there was a kindly and yet scrutinizing look which was almost motherly in its discernment. This young man was evidently more to her than the rest of his kind. She knew his impassive face so well that she could read where others saw an unwritten page.
“Ah,” she said, with some interest (for she was a sportsman’s wife), “that is a good fish, Theo!”
“Yes,” he acquiesced in a soft and rather monotonous voice, harmonizing with his eyes. “He is a fine fellow. We had a desperate fight!”
As if to prove the severity of the struggle, he looked down at his knees, which were muddy, and then held out his right hand, which was streaked with blood.
“Ah, how nasty!” exclaimed Mrs. Wylie pleasantly. “Is it yours or his?”
“Mine, I think. Yes, it must be mine.”
Brenda had approached slowly, and was standing close to him. She stooped a little to examine the fish, which he held towards her with his left hand, and even deigned to poke it critically on the shoulder with her straight white finger.
“Are you hurt?” she inquired casually, without looking up.
A slow gleam of humour lighted up Trist’s soft and melancholy eyes as he looked down at her.
“He cannot answer for himself,” he said suggestively. “But I think I can volunteer the information that he is not hurt now. He died the death of a plucky fish, and did not flinch.”
“I meant you.”
“I? Oh no, I am not hurt, thank you. Only very dirty, very sanguinary, and quite happy.”
At this moment the steward, a dapper and noiseless man with no appearance of a sailor, came up and took the fish from Trist’s hands. Mrs. Wylie returned to her book, and the two young people stood silently in front of her. Presently they moved away as if with one accord, farther aft, beside the wheel. Here Brenda seated herself sideways with one arm round the white awning-stanchion.
She looked up, and, as he happened to be gazing gently down at her, their eyes met. There was no instant withdrawal, no change of expression. These two were evidently very old friends, because a young man and a maiden rarely look into each other’s eyes for any appreciable space of time without some slight change of expression supervening.
Theo Trist smiled at length, and looked away for a moment. Then he glanced down at her face again.
“Well?” he said interrogatively. “You are going to make one of those deep remarks which would take away the breath of some people.”
She smiled, but did not turn away in maidenly reserve. Indeed, she continued to watch his face, wonderingly and absently.
“What a peculiar man you are, Theo!”
He bowed politely, and slipping the ends of his fingers into either trouser-pocket, he stood defiantly before her, with his unshod feet set well apart.
“And you, Brenda … I have never met anyone in any way like you.”
But she had no intention—this independent little person—of being led away thus from the original question.
“Sometimes I almost dislike you … and at other moments I admire your character very much.”
She was quite grave, and looked up at him anxiously, as if the character of some third person very near and dear to them both were under discussion.
“When do you dislike me?” he asked in his monotonous, gentle way.
To this she made no answer for some moments, but sat looking thoughtfully across the deep-bosomed water, which was now almost glassy, for the breeze had dropped with the setting sun. She was frowning slightly, and leant her chin upon her hand, which action gave additional thoughtfulness to her well-read face. She might have been solving some great problem. Indeed, she was attempting to find an explanation to the greatest problem we have to solve. This foolish little maiden, with all her great and mistaken learning, her small experience and deep, searching mind, was trying to explain human
