'I have met one or two great men,' she said meditatively, 'and I invariably found them very much like ordinary beings, rather less immersed in 'shop,' perhaps, and quite as interesting—not to say polite.'
Brenda winced.
'Was Theo not polite?'
'Hardly, my dear.'
As Mrs. Huston delivered herself of this opinion, with a faint tinge of bitterness in her manner, she turned and looked towards her sister, as if challenging her to attempt a palliation of Trist's conduct.
Brenda neither moved nor spoke. The moonlight, flooding through the diamond panes of the window, made her face look pale and wan. There were deep shadows about her lips. Without, upon the shingle, the sea boomed continuously with a low, dreamlike hopelessness.
I wish I were a great artist, to be able to paint a picture of that small parlour in an east coast village inn. But there would be a greater skill required than the mere technicalities of art. These would be needed to deal successfully with the cross-lights of utterly different hues—the cold, green-tinted moonlight, the ruddy glow of burning driftwood washed from the deck of some Baltic trader; and the reflection of each in turn upon quaint old bureaux, bright with the polish of half a dozen generations; gleaming upon Indian curio, and shimmering over the glass of dim engravings. All this would require infinite skill; but no brush or pencil could convey the old-day mournfulness that seemed to hang in the atmosphere. Perhaps it found birth in the murmuring rise and fall of restless waves, or in the flicker of the fire, in the quick crackle of the sodden wood. My picture should be called 'The Contrast,' and in the gloom of the low ceiling I should bring out with loving care two graceful forms—two lovely faces.
The one—the more beautiful—in all the rosiness of young life, glowing in the firelight. The other, pale and wan, with an exquisite beauty, delicate and yet strong, resolute and yet refined. Of two working in the field, one is taken, the other remaineth. Around us are many workers, and of every two we look upon, one seems to have the preference. One has greater joy, the other greater sorrow; and, strive as we will, think as we will, argue as we will, we can never tell 'why.' We can never satisfy that great question of the human mind. Life has been called many things: I can express it in less than a word—in a mere symbol—?—a note of interrogation, the largest at the compositor's command.
In this great field of ours, where we all work blindly, many are taken, and many left. Moreover, those who would wish to go remain, and those who cling to work are taken. She who grindeth best passeth first.
Brenda never answered her sister's challenge. She turned her eyes away, facing the cold moonlight, staring at the silver sea with eyes that saw no beauty there.