Death, however sudden, could not in those days endow with many virtues, many charms, and great personal comeliness, as it endows us now. I sometimes think of those old Egyptian spirits with a gentle sympathy. How disappointed some of them will be when they stand face to face with the true likeness of the body in which they played out their brief innings three thousand years ago! When, too, they read the uncompromising hieroglyphs, there will be unpleasant awakenings and perhaps a little scoffing from those who have drawn cleaner sarcophagi.
So Trist slept peacefully, with a philosophic reflection that Huston would never have done much good in the world. The present writer once heard a man, in all sincerity and all faith, console himself with the thought that if he was not fit to die, the probabilities were that he never would be fitter. This philosopher was a godless sailor, and he made the remark in answer to a chaffing observation advanced by a more fortunate mate that he would certainly be drowned because he possessed no life-belt. The ship was sinking, the boats were smashed, and there were other things to do just then than weigh this philosophy in the scales of reason; but having more leisure at a later period, I came to think over it, and have come to the conclusion that there was much within that reflection that is worth consideration. Let us, however, avoid the quicksands of a theological controversy.
It has not hitherto been mentioned that Mrs. Wylie possessed one or two vices of a comparatively harmless description. The most prominent of these was unpunctuality at the breakfast-table. This is a most comfortable vice, and quite in keeping with the placid and easygoing nature of the lady. The best woman I have ever known is invariably late for breakfast; her hair is white now, but long may she continue arriving after time! There is someone else who is most lamentably unpunctual any time before ten o’clock antemeridian. She is not a woman yet, but she has begun well. I may mention that I do not at all object to pouring out my own coffee.
Brenda, being of a more active nature, was usually down first, and the fact of having been out to a ball the night before rarely acted as a deterrent. It thus came about that she was alone at the breakfast-table when Trist was announced. It was a dainty, womanly little meal set out on the snowy cloth, and as yet untouched. Brenda was in the act of opening the newspaper when Trist entered the room. She did not remember until afterwards that, as he shook hands, he took the journal from her and laid it aside. Perhaps she noted the action at the time, but he was never in the habit of acting just like other men, and the peculiarity of this little movement did not strike her sufficiently to remain upon her memory as a distinct incident.
“Ah!” she said gaily; “you think it prudent to strike while the iron is hot -I being the iron. I am not red-hot, but quite warm enough to be unpleasant, and just too hard to be struck. Please explain why you never claimed the three dances you asked me to keep?”
Trist smiled in his gravest way—a mere reflection of her bright gaiety.
“That is what I came to explain,” he said.
He passed her standing at the table, and went towards the fire. There he drew off his gloves in a peculiarly thoughtful manner.
“Theo,” said Brenda, “have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, thanks!”
His manner was habitually misleading, and it was quite impossible for her to see that he had bad news to impart. His strong, purposeful hands were always steady, which is somewhat exceptional; for the fingers betray emotion when the eyes are dumb.
“Rather,” she continued lightly, “than break my faith to you, I planted myself, so to speak, among the wallflowers, where I was content to bloom in solitude.”
“Through the whole dance?” he asked meaningly.
“Well … not quite. When I was satisfied that you were not there, I danced with someone else.”
He smiled, and said nothing.
Brenda moved one or two things upon the breakfast-table—things which in no way required moving. For the first time in her life she was beginning to feel ill at ease with this man. For the first time she dreaded vaguely to hear him speak, because she was not sure that he was at ease himself.
At last he began, and there was a strained thrill in his voice as if it were an effort to open his lips.
“It has been my … fate … Brenda, to be with you or near you during most of the incidents in your life …” here he paused.
“Yes,” she murmured unsteadily.
“I have,” he continued, “perhaps, been of some small use to you. I have been happy enough at times to tell you good news, and … and once or twice I have been the messenger of evil. … Now …”
“Now,” interrupted Brenda suddenly, as she came towards him, for a light had broken upon
