Theo Trist held his peace sympathetically and yet without encouragement. Mrs. Wylie no doubt understood his motive, for they possessed in common that desire of concealing the seamy side which Brenda had characterized as cowardly. In her strong young courage (self-assertive as all young virtues are) she seemed to take a pride in facing untoward things—indeed, she sought them; while these two, in their greater experience, slurred them over as a clever painter slurs over certain accessories in his picture, in order that the brighter objects may stand more firmly on the face of the canvas.
“Nevertheless,” he said more cheerily, returning to the original question, “you are the pluckiest woman I have ever met! You must not give way to this habit of anxiety, for it is nothing but a habit—a sort of moral cowardice. It serves no purpose. An overanxious man misses his opportunities by moving too soon; an overanxious woman has no peace in life, because she can do nothing but watch.”
Mrs. Wylie laughed pleasantly.
“No!” she exclaimed, with determination. “It is all right, Theo; I will not give way to it. My anxiety is only anticipatory; when the moment comes I am generally up to the mark.”
With a brave smile she nodded to him and moved towards the door, carrying her gloves and muff. He followed in order to open the door, for he had some strange, old-fashioned notions of politeness which promise to become fossilized before the end of the century.
“Will it be a long war?” she asked, before passing out of the room.
He answered without deliberation, as if he had already pondered over the question at leisure with a decisive result.
“I think so. It will go on all through the summer and autumn. As things get worse, Turkey will probably pull herself together. It is a way she has. It may even continue actively right on into the winter. The Turks will be on the defensive, which suits them exactly. Put a Turk into a trench with a packet of cigarettes, a little food, a rifle, and a sackful of cartridges, and it will take a considerable number of Russians to get him out.”
“I hope it will not extend into the winter,” said Mrs. Wylie, as she left the room.
“So do I.”
He closed the door and walked slowly back towards the bow-window. There he stood staring out with eyes that saw but understood not, for many minutes.
“I am not quite sure,” he muttered at last, “that I have done a wise thing in coming to Wyl’s Hall!”
XI
Goodbye!
In the course of a few hours Theodore Trist was quite at home at Wyl’s Hall. These three people had lived together before, and knew each other’s little ways. Mrs. Wylie, the personification of comfort—Theo Trist, possessing no real comprehension of the word—Brenda, midway between them, with a youthful faculty for adapting herself to either. The narrow limits of a ship soon break down the smaller social barriers, and the memory of life on board the Hermione knitted the inmates of Wyl’s Hall in a close and pleasant familiarity. At times, indeed, the union of the three around the fireside or at table seemed to emphasize the absence of the fourth, to suggest the vacancy caused by the stillness of a pleasant voice, the absence of a fine old face. But this slight shadow was not unpleasant, because it had no great contrast to show it up. None of the three was hilarious, but there was a pleasant sociability, which for everyday use is superior to the most brilliant flashes of wit.
Very soon the old, semi-serious style of conversation found place again. Brenda fell into her former habit of listening (too silently, perhaps) to Mrs. Wylie and Theo, accusing them at times of cynicism and worldliness. Old questions came to life again—unfinished discussions were renewed. Everything seemed to suggest the Hermione.
Again and again Mrs. Wylie found herself watching the two young people thus thrown together, and on each occasion she remembered how she had watched them before to no purpose. Since the pleasant summer days spent in the Heimdalfjord many incidents had come with their petty influences, and yet these two were in no way altered towards each other. One great difference was ever before her eyes, and yet she could not detect its result. Alice Huston was now a free woman, and if Trist loved her, there was no reason why he should not win her in the end; indeed, there was great cause to suppose that the matter should be easy to him. And yet there was no change in his manner towards the girl who, in all human probability, was destined to be his sister-in-law. The old half-chivalrous, half-brotherly way of addressing her and listening to her reply was still noticeable; and it puzzled the widow greatly. But Brenda seemed to take it as a matter of course. This man was different to all other men in her estimation; it was only natural that his manner towards her should be
