“Well … ?” she inquired.
“Well … ?” he reiterated.
“How long are you going to stay?”
“Till Monday.”
“This being Friday …”
He signified assent and turned away again.
“Why have you come?” asked Mrs. Wylie abruptly, after a short pause.
This time he avoided meeting her eyes by the simple expedient of staring out of the window.
“I do not know …” he replied, with some hesitation.
“Yes … you do!”
He wheeled round upon his heels and looked down at her with an aggravatingly gentle smile.
“Yes, Theo, you do! Why have you come?”
“May I not be allowed,” he asked lightly, “a certain desire to see you and … Brenda?”
“You may,” she replied; “but that is not the reason of your coming.”
She settled herself more comfortably on the window-seat, laid aside her muff, loosened her jacket, and composed herself to a long wait with a cheery determination eminently characteristic.
“In the spring …” he began, in a patient voice which seemed to contain the promise of a long story.
“The young man’s fancy …” continued Mrs. Wylie.
“Lightly turns,” he said gravely, taking up the thread, “to thoughts of … war.”
At the last word he lowered his voice suddenly, and turned upon her as if to see its effect. She merely raised her eyebrows and looked at him speculatively. At last she gave a little nod of the head, signifying comprehension.
“Then you have come to say—goodbye?”
Here her voice failed a little. With care she could have prevented such an occurrence; but perhaps she spoke a trifle recklessly—perhaps she did not care to conceal the feeling which was betrayed by that passing break in her mellow sympathetic tones. When it was too late, she closed her lips with a small snap of determination, and looked up at him smiling defiantly.
“Not necessarily,” he replied coolly. “It may mean that; or, at least, it may mean that I am summoned away at such short notice that there will be no opportunity of coming again. Personally, I should prefer it to be so. The pastime of saying goodbye may possess a certain sentimental value, but it is a weakness which is best avoided.”
Mrs. Wylie continued to watch the young man’s face with speculative criticism. It is just possible that she suspected him of talking nonsense, as it were, against time or against himself.
“Is your information of a general description, or have you certain advice that war is imminent?”
Trist smiled almost apologetically as he replied, with caution:
“I have reason to believe that there will be a big war before the summer.”
“Turkey and Russia, of course?”
“Yes.”
“And you go with Turkey, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“The losing side again?” inquired Mrs. Wylie diplomatically.
“Probably; but not without a good fight for it. It will not be such an easy matter as the Russians imagine.”
“Where will you be?” asked the persistent lady. “At Constantinople or …”
“At the front!” said Trist.
The widow turned aside and looked out of the window. Across the moor, on the edge of the cliff, a coastguardsman was pacing backwards and forwards with a measured tread acquired at sea, and from the window they watched him in a mechanical, semi-interested way.
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Wylie at length, in a half-shamefaced way, “I believe I am beginning to lose my nerve. Is it a foretaste of approaching old age? I really believe I am going to be anxious about you.”
Her semi-bantering tone justified Trist’s easy laugh. He took it for granted that Mrs. Wylie was not speaking seriously.
“You must not allow yourself,” he expostulated, “to get into bad habits of that sort.”
“Still,” argued the widow in the same tone, “I do not see why you should be free from the restraining and salutary feeling that there is someone waiting for you at home.”
It was hard to tell whether Mrs. Wylie meant more than the mere words conveyed or no. Trist seemed to hesitate before replying.
“I am never free from that—but it is not necessary; my foolhardy days are over.”
“And this is to be the last time?” said Mrs. Wylie, consoling herself.
“Yes. The last time!”
There was a strange, hard ring in the young wanderer’s tone as he echoed the foreboding words and turned gravely away. The sound seemed to strike some sympathetic chord in the good lady’s heart, for she, too, looked almost mournful.
“I would give a good deal to have you safe back again,” murmured Mrs. Wylie in an undertone. The remark was hardly addressed to him, and he allowed it to pass unnoticed. Presently, however, he turned and looked into her face with some anxiety depicted on his calm features. Then he took a step or two nearer to her.
“This will never do,” he said gravely, standing in front of her with his strong hands clenched.
She gave rather a lame little laugh, and looked up with a deprecating glance.
“Theo, I am afraid I am not so plucky as I used to be. My nerve is gone. I think I left it … at Fjaerholm.”
He made no reply, but merely stood by her in his silent manliness, and from his presence she somehow gathered comfort, as women do—from your presence and mine sometimes. Although we be of coarser fibre, failing to grasp the hidden pathos of everyday life—the little trials, the petty sorrows; failing often to divine the motives that grow out of a finer, truer, nobler nature than ours, and always failing to appreciate the unselfishness of woman’s love—despite all these, our presence is at times a comfort because of the greater strength that does or should lie within us.
No reference had hitherto been made between Mrs. Wylie and Trist to the events attending the last voyage of the Hermione. A year had not yet elapsed, and the Admiral’s name was still avoided. Trist was of a singularly sympathetic nature, although he evinced some contempt for death itself, which was a mere matter of familiarity; and it was his creed that things and names which cause a pang of sorrow are best left in oblivion. Mrs. Wylie was outwardly little changed,
