He turned his head hastily, as if about to begin some lengthy explanation or to assign a reason for his promptitude, but seemed to change his mind, for he stood looking at her vaguely for a moment, and then turned his eyes away.
At this moment the steward came towards them with his gliding, noiseless steps. He was carrying two mugs of coffee—not the thin cups used in the cabin, but rough stout mugs intended for deck use. Moreover, he brought them in the lid of the biscuit-box, with some biscuits lying round them, as he brought early coffee every morning to whosoever might be keeping the last watch.
He stood silently in front of Brenda, and made no attempt to apologize for the seaman-like roughness of the repast, while she took her mug and biscuit.
Even when the steward had left them, Trist made no remark respecting this tacit treatment of Brenda as an officer of the ship; and she it was who broke the silence, speaking slowly and suggestively, as if waiting for him to approve or propose an amendment. It was absurdly like the report of a junior departmental commander to his senior.
'Oh, Theo,' she said, 'I have moved most of my things into the large stateroom, as I think it will be better for me to sleep with Mrs. Wylie. You can go into my cabin as soon as you like now—the steward and I have put it all right for you.'
'Thank you!' he said, sipping his coffee.
'Will you not go and change now? It cannot be good to keep on those clothes.'
'Not yet,' he answered, with a smile. 'They are quite dry now, and the sun is shining, so I am warm. Besides, there are one or two things I want to ask your opinion about, and we may not have the chance later on.'
He moved a little, and she, falling into his step, walked by his side. Thus they paced backwards and forwards slowly in the early morning splendour—she neat, trim, and lightsome; he weary, worn, untidy, but strong and restful—until they had consulted mutually upon certain points requiring immediate decision. When they had finished their coffee and biscuit, each swung the empty mug idly, one finger curled through the handle, with unconscious youthfulness of gesture.
'The nearest village,' he began in his meek way, 'is Fjaerholm; we shall be there by this time to-morrow with a fair breeze. There is a church there and a churchyard, although the village itself is a tiny place, almost surrounded by glaciers, and rarely visited. It will hardly do, perhaps, to approach the question yet, but if we can find out before we leave the Heimdalfjord what Mrs. Wylie's opinion is, it will simplify matters. Whether, I mean, we are to make for Fjaerholm, with the view of burying him there, or to go down the Sognfjord, catch a steamer to Bergen, and so home.'