Suspense, Volume 3 (of 3)

Theodore Trist did not attempt to blind himself as to the difficulties attending his strange undertaking, but he was prepared to face them courageously.

'If,' he said to himself, 'I can only find him ... sober ... I will manage the rest.'

Without doubt this silent man was ready to speak at last--to tear aside the veil of reserve, behind which he was wont to take refuge. And this to the eyes of Alice Huston's husband. His was a nature capable of immense self-sacrifice, and to this capability had been added an almost exaggerated sense of discipline. That which he thought right he would probably do--not on the spur of the moment, but with deliberate purpose, and without fear of subsequent regret.

As has been mentioned, he was never under the influence of sudden enthusiasm; and, as a rule, his errors arose more from too great conscientiousness in setting both sides of a question equally before his own judgment than from rash partisanship.

Even as he passed down the broad staircase, against a stream of gaily-dressed guests, he was mentally apologizing to Hicks for having harboured a vague feeling of dislike against him. If there had been any distinct motive for this dislike, he would never have withdrawn it, but he recognised that it was without ground. Hicks was not a man after his own heart; he was neither a sportsman nor a soldier--in fact, he was what is euphoniously called a 'muff'; but these charges were merely negative in their bearing. Mrs. Wylie might have told him that he had come into closer familiarity with Hicks at a propitious moment, when the young artist was finding his own level and laying aside unconsciously his small affectations one by one, but of this Trist had no suspicion.

He called a hansom, and drove to the club of which the books showed a subscription as due from Captain Huston. In return for this privilege its doors were still thrown open to the disgraced soldier. Careful inquiries at the door elicited the information that Huston had been there.

'He was took ... he went away with a friend a good half-hour ago, sir,' the porter added, with a curious smile.

The smile did not escape the questioner's glance, and, in consequence of it, Trist went upstairs to the smoking-room. He was not a member of the club, but his name was a power in military circles.

The information he gathered from friends upstairs was not of an encouraging nature. One young blade, with downy lip and weak, dissipated eyes, volunteered the statement that Huston had gone home to his diggings as tight as a drum. This news was apparently of an hilarious drift, because the youthful speaker finished with a roar of throaty laughter. An older man looked up over his evening paper, and nodded a grave acquiescence in reply to Trist's raised eyebrows.

'Does anybody know his address?' inquired the correspondent.

Nobody did.

Upon inquiry at the door, Trist made the discovery that the porter had fortunately been asked to give the direction to the driver of the cab in which Huston had been taken away. The address was one hardly known to the war-correspondent--a small street, leading out of another small street, near the Strand.

In his calm way he suddenly determined to follow Huston. He lighted a cigar at the spirit-lamp affixed to the door-post, and then called a cab.

'I am not,' he reflected with some truth as he descended the steps, 'I am not an imaginative person, nor very highly strung; but .... I feel .... somehow .... as if something were going to happen.'

There was a considerable delay in the Strand, where the traffic was much congested owing to the out-pouring theatres. A fog was hovering round the lamps already, and would soon envelop everything. The first keen frost of the season was at hand, with its usual disastrous effects to London lungs. Amidst the confusion, the roar of traffic, the deafening shouts of drivers, policemen, and runners with latest editions of evening papers, Trist sat forward, with his arms upon the closed door of the hansom, and enjoyed his cigar. All this rush of life and confusion of humanity thrilled him. He almost felt as if he were at work again, making his way to the front through the wild mêlée of a disorganized and retreating army; cavalry and infantry, baggage and artillery, all hopelessly inter-mingled. As he progressed he noted with admiration the cool skill of the policemen, each man alone acting on his own responsibility, and yet connected by the invisible links of discipline.

At length the driver escaped into a narrow street, and, turning sharply to the right, drew up before a tall narrow house, bearing, on a dingy lamp above the door, the legend 'No. 32, Private Hotel.' A hopeless waiter, with shuffling shoes and a shirt-front of uncertain antecedents, answered the summons of a melancholy bell, which seemed to tinkle under strong protest, and as briefly as possible.

'Captain Huston living here?' inquired Trist.

'Yess'r. Er you the doctor?'

The war-correspondent hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped into the narrow hall.

'Yes,' he said.

''E's got it bad this time, sir,' volunteered the waiter, with melancholy effusion.

'What?'

'D. T., sir.'

Trist nodded his head shortly, and laid aside his hat.

'Take me to his room, please,' he said.

The waiter shuffled on in front, and the young fellow followed him up the dingy stairs, walking lightly where the polished knots of pinewood peeped through the clammy oilcloth.

And now, reader mine, on the threshold of the drunkard's room let us understand each other. I am not going to take you across the boundary. The door will, with your permission, remain closed. There are certain things in life which are better left unstudied--certain dirty corners where the dust lies thickly. It is better to let it accumulate. Some of us have seen these things; some foot has been across the threshold; but this is no realistic novel; and in life, as in a story, there are details which (however powerful in themselves) in no way help forward the narrative or beautify the narration. There is assuredly nothing to be gained by dredging human nature. As a man, the present writer is influenced by a strong esprit de corps. It is not his wish to trample upon fallen human nature. We are not what we ought to be, but there is nothing to be gained by flaunting the seamy side before the world. This volume may fall into the hands of some young woman, or some youth to whom man is still something of an ideal. God forbid that any word of mine should dispel illusions which, though they be but hollow, are at least joyous.

Therefore we will let Theodore Trist enter that room alone. His walk in life had not been in the flowery part of the garden, but through the rougher growths, where good is sometimes hidden beneath a hideous exterior, and he knew already how slight a division there is between man and brute. Any battle-field would have taught him that.

The doctor came, and stayed longer than he could conscientiously spare out of his busy life. It was half-past one o'clock in the morning before he went away, leaving Trist alone with Huston, to whom sleep had come at last. Before leaving he promised, however, to send an experienced nurse.

The war-correspondent sat in a deep leather-covered arm-chair before the smouldering fire, contemplating his own shoes. A man of many resources, he had found himself in many strange situations during his short thirty years. He had made the best of more than one awkward dilemma by going straight ahead in his patient, steady way. He listened to the stertorous breathing of the sick man, and never thought of his own fatigue. There was no suggestion of complaint in his mind that his evening of pleasure should have had such an unpleasant finish. He did not even look at his own dress-clothes contrasting with the dingy surroundings, and appreciate the dramatic force of it all as Hicks might have done. It was merely an incident in his life, another opportunity to exercise for his own satisfaction that power of adaptability to environment which was in reality his chief aid to success in the peculiar surroundings of his varied life.

The nurse could scarcely be expected for half an hour or so, and there was nothing else to do but keep faithfully the watch that was his in the meantime. It was rather strange that Trist should have saved twice within a month the worthless life of this man who had done his best to throw it away. As has already been stated, this student of Death had his own views upon the worth of human life--a semi-Oriental philosophy which would not bear setting forth here in black and white to sensitive Western minds. There is no doubt that familiarity with death breeds a contempt for life. I cannot explain this, but it is so. Doctors and soldiers have a different view of human life from that held by the rest of mankind; but there is something in us which is stronger than the strongest views--namely, the instinct of preserving life. Theodore Trist knew that the miserable existence to which was attached the name Alfred Huston was in every way valueless. To its possessor it was a source of wretchedness, a constant struggle against the overpowering odds of evil. To others his death would be a mercy. He knew this; he valued his life lightly--and yet he staved off this death twice.

As he sat and thought over these things, the fire-light flickered rosily upon his face; it gleamed in his womanly eyes, glowed upon his broad high forehead. He was quite absorbed in his reflections, and never glanced towards the bed which was within the deep crimson shadow. He judged from the heavy respiration that Huston was asleep; in this, however, he was mistaken. The ex-soldier lay on his back, but his face was turned towards the fire, and his bloodshot eyes were wide open. His lips moved restlessly, but no sound came from them beyond the strong indrawing of the sodden air. His wavering glance wandered from Trist's head to his feet, restless and full of an insatiable hatred. Upon the dirty white coverlet his fingers moved convulsively, as if clutching and losing hold of something by turns.

It was a terrible picture, and one that could not fail to arouse in thoughtful minds a hopeless sense of despair. No one could look on it and say that human life is a success. We may paint the good points as brilliantly as we like, slur over the misery as quickly as we can, but, my brothers and sisters, the fact remains that we, as a race, are an utter failure.

Presently there was a soft knock at the front-door, and Trist rose from his chair. His watch was over; the hospital nurse had arrived, with her soft brave eyes, her quick, fearless fingers. As he left the room, Trist turned and glanced towards the bed. Huston lay there with closed eyes, unnaturally still.

Then the war-correspondent left the room on tiptoe. No sooner had the door closed than the sick man's eyes opened. There was a peculiar shifty light in the expanded pupils, and the man's horrible lips moved continuously. He sat up in bed.

'Ah!' he mumbled thickly; 'I know him. That's the man ... that's the man who's in love with my wife.'