There are times in our lives when we have cause to feel ashamed of human passions, and even of human nature. Even if we be optimists, we can scarcely pass through existence without finding that human nature is a sorry business after all. It is only right that we should experience a sense of shame when brought face to face with such passions as jealousy or hatred, but God forbid that we should ever be ashamed of love! There is not too much dignity in our daily lives, and therefore let us hold one factor of it sacred. Let us leave untouched the dignity of love. If there be one seed of shame in the flower, the disease will grow and flourish until the bloom dies away entirely. From the cradle to the grave we have but one pure and holy thing in life. We are never free from it—no spot is beyond its reach—no place is too sacred, and no hovel is too miserable for it to enter there. On the battle-field, and in church, while laughing, while weeping, while singing, while sighing, we think of love. And you, my young brother, my gentle sister, who have such thoughts as these, cherish them and keep them holy; fence them round with noble efforts; keep away the canker-worm of shame. In all truth these thoughts are better than great wealth, more profitable than fame, higher than exceeding great gifts. We, also, who are farther on the road, have known what such thoughts are, and in looking back now over the trodden path we see one sunny spot—one golden field where no great trees, no gaudy flowers grow, but where a holy peace has reigned; where Ambition found no resting-place and Covetousness no root. To have passed through that meadow was sufficient reason for the creation of a life. Its pathway was very pleasant, and the scent of its modest flowers reaches us now. Those who have once loved truly have not lived in vain, even though they pass quite away and leave no trace behind.
Theodore Trist was by nature a remarkably self-contained man, and his life of late years had brought this characteristic to an exceptional pitch. He had acquired the habit of thinking, of writing, of working with a sublime disregard to the chance of his environments. On the battle-field, and amidst the roar of artillery, it had been necessary for him to write details of a successful march through fertile valleys, where the very atmosphere breathed of peace alone. In the gorgeous apartment of an Emperor's palace, seated in his rough, worn clothes, hat on head, booted, spurred, and armed, he had penned such a description of a battle, fought two days before, as will ever stand out unrivalled in the annals of warfare.
And now in the heart of gay Paris, in this neglected little room, he sat down before the glowing stove, while beneath his feet, like the pulse of an ocean steamer, the mighty press throbbed continuously, beating out its news, speaking great things and powerful words to all mankind. But these sounds he heeded not. He was thinking of other things. For half an hour he remained thus absorbed, and the result of those thirty minutes of thought went with him through life. At last he rose and looked at his watch.
'It will never do,' he said to himself, 'to funk it. I must put a stop to this. If she makes it so plain to me, the inference is that Mrs. Wylie and Brenda know something about it, or, at the least, suspect. Whatever comes in the future, I want to save Brenda that.'
At seven o'clock that evening Theodore Trist presented himself at the Hôtel Bristol, and inquired for the private salon occupied by Colonel Martyn. A small boy led the way upstairs without a word, and after a hurried tap, ushered the war-correspondent into a dimly-lighted apartment. A single lamp burnt upon a small table in the centre of the room, casting a faint pink glow all round. Mrs. Huston rose from a low chair near the table, and laid aside a copy of the French newspaper by which Trist's sole services were retained. She was alone, and there was in her graceful movements a scarcely perceptible self-consciousness, from which Trist conceived the passing notion that, although no mention had been made of it in the note received by him, he was not likely to see either Mrs. Martyn or her hen-pecked husband that evening.
The young widow was of course dressed in black, which, moreover, was relieved by no ornament; but although there was crape on the skirt, that unbecoming material was sparingly worn. The dress was opened slightly on the whitest throat imaginable, and the sleeves were loose below the elbow. Trist acknowledged inwardly that this woman had never looked so lovely as she did at that moment, with the glow of the lamp on her white throat and hands, a faint conscious blush upon her cheek, her golden hair gleaming softly.
He advanced to meet her with his impenetrable friendliness. Ah! it is those grave faces which we can never read.
'I was afraid,' said Mrs. Huston, 'that you were not in Paris ... or that even if you were you would not come.'
Trist took a chair which she had indicated with a wave of the hand.
'I have been hanging on,' he said, 'from day to day....'