Suspense

To the truest gentleman I have met,
my father,
this book is dedicated.

Some there are who laugh and sing
While compassed round by sorrow;
To this ev’ning’s gloom they bring
The sunshine of tomorrow.

Volume I

I

On Board the Hermione

“Brenda, what are you thinking about?”

It was hardly a question. The intonation of Mrs. Wylie’s voice was by no means interrogative, and she returned placidly to the perusal of her novel without awaiting a reply. The ladies had been reading silently for at least an hour, until the younger of the two allowed her book to lie unheeded on her knee, while the pages fluttered in the breeze.

The remark called forth by this action was accepted literally and as a question.

“I was thinking of Theo Trist,” replied the girl gravely. She did not meet her companion’s gaze, but looked wistfully across the fjord towards the bleak dismal cliffs.

Mrs. Wylie closed her novel on one white plump finger and drummed idly upon the back of it with the other hand. In movement and repose alike this lady was essentially comfortable. Her presence suggested contentment and prosperity amidst the most unpropitious environments. The Hermione, her temporary home, a broad, slow-sailing schooner-yacht, was, below decks, conducted on the principles of a luxurious, roomy house. She had a wonderful way with her, this plump and smiling lady, of diffusing into the very atmosphere a sense of readiness to meet all emergencies. The elements, even, seemed to bow to her. Overhead the winds might roar and moan aloud through stay and rigging—all around the waves might leap and throw themselves against the staunch low bulwarks of the yacht—but in the cabin was warm comfort; and with it, dainty womanly ways. Mrs. Wylie proved most effectually that at sea, in fair weather and in foul, a woman can be a woman still.

She now reopened her book, but instead of reading, sat gazing thoughtfully at the young girl. Presently she laughed musically and turned resolutely to the open page.

“Yes,” she murmured—confessing, as it were, that her thoughts had on former occasions been drawn in the same direction. “Yes. But, Brenda—I—should not advise you—to—think—of Theo Trist.”

There are in the lives of most of us passing moments which leave a distinct impression upon the mind. Of all the million words we hear there are some trivial remarks which hold fast to the inner sinews of the great machine we call memory—a machine which rests not by night or day, in health or sickness, in prosperity or woe. Often it is a jest, or some weighty saying spoken in jest. There is no apparent reason why some words should be so distinctly remembered while others pass away from recollection; and yet small observations, interesting only in the passing moment, catch as it were in the mental wheel, and, adhering to the spokes, spin round with them, just as a mere muddy piece of paper may cling to the wheel of an emperor’s carriage and flutter through the cheering crowd, calling for universal attention.

Brenda Gilholme listened to Mrs. Wylie’s laughing caution in a vague way, and there seemed to come into her mind an indefinite recollection. Certain it was that she had never heard the words before, but yet they were forebodingly familiar. The semi-bantering ring of the lady’s voice, the soft hum of the breeze through the rigging overhead, the ripple of the awning stretched tautly, and the regular plash of tiny wavelets beneath and all around, formed an entire harmony of sound which was instantaneously graved on her memory, never to leave it from that day forth.

Mrs. Wylie, having married happily herself, was of the firm opinion that marriages are made in heaven. (We of course know better. The manufactory is situated, my brothers, in another quarter where fuel is cheap and steam-power readily obtainable.) She was too kindhearted and too merciful to the human race to think of interfering in the work. Perhaps she felt that if heaven turned out such poor work, hers could not well be satisfactory. Be that, however, as it may, Mrs. Wylie was no matchmaker. She held strange views—alas! too rarely fostered—that if a man be worthy of a woman and love her truly, he should be able to win her for himself; and that if he cannot do this unaided he is better without her. A bold theory most assuredly, and one worthy of consideration.

Of course she knew that Theo Trist and Brenda were great friends. She was well aware that in some future time the friendship might turn to something else. With most young men and maidens the word “would” could well be substituted for “might.” But these two were not of that human material which is woven upon a common web. Brenda Gilholme was not one of the crowd—she had the misfortune of an intellect. As existence is managed in these days, a woman with a mind must not expect too much happiness. It is lamentable, but true, that the brain has little to do with earthly joy. In these aesthetic days we talk a great quantity of nonsense about “soul,” and inner consciousness, and feeling. In fact, we are getting too clever, and our minds are running away from our bodies. Our existence is material, talk as we may about abstract idealisms; and our joys are material. Eating, drinking, working, sleeping—this is human life, and those among us who perform those functions well are undoubtedly the happiest.

A superior intellect, more especially in woman, is not conducive to happiness. Indeed, it is directly opposed to that impossible state. It was this possession that made Brenda Gilholme somewhat different from her fellows.

Theo Trist, again, had his peculiarities, but these must perforce be allowed to transpire hereafter; and besides such individual matters there were several facts known to Mrs. Wylie which raised doubts as to what the end of this friendship might be. Trist was twenty-eight and Brenda was nineteen, while both were in manner and appearance older than their years could warrant. Also was there another matter of some weight. Brenda had a sister, a lovely unscrupulous coquette, two years older than herself.

Alice Gilholme had been pleased to change her name and state in St. George’s, Hanover Square, earlier in the year, while the Hermione was yet in dry dock. Three weeks after the wedding, Theo Trist returned from abroad with his bland broad forehead tanned and brown. He expressed no surprise. In fact, he vouchsafed no opinion whatever. Had he met Captain Huston, the happy bridegroom? Oh yes! They had met in South Africa. That was all! He never related details of that part of a difficult campaign which they had passed together. The laconic praise contained in the two words “good soldier,” such as had been applied to many of his acquaintances, was not forthcoming.

From a lady’s point of view, Alfred Woodruff Charles Huston was the beau-ideal of a soldier. Tall, straight and square shouldered, he carried his small head erect. His clear brown eyes were quick enough, his brown clean-cut face almost perfect in its outline. Indefatigable at Sandown, Hurlingham, Goodwood, Ascot—in the Grand Stand bien entendu—he had a pleasant way of appearing to know something about everyone and everything. But Theo Trist had not met him at any of these places or in fashionable London drawing-rooms later in the day. They had come together in South Africa in the course of a campaign, when both had laid aside the accessories of pleasure and were hard at work, each in his chosen groove. It was somewhat strange that he should never offer to discuss Captain Huston as a military man.

“That fellow Huston,” a general officer had once said in an unguarded moment—“that fellow Huston, Trist, is the biggest duffer in the British Army!”

And Trist’s answer, given after careful consideration, was laconically severe: “Yes, I am afraid so.”

But Alice Gilholme omitted to consult the general officer; and after all, if Captain Huston was no soldier, he was at least a gentleman, with elegant high-bred ways, and an empty high-bred head, containing just enough brain to find out the enjoyment of existence. The happy couple were now in India, where we will leave them.

Whether the marriage of Alice Gilholme had been a severe blow to Theo Trist or no, it were hard to say. Mrs. Wylie even could give no opinion on the subject, and Brenda never mentioned it. There was no perceptible change in the man’s strange incongruous face when the news was broken to him without premonition in a crowded room. His life was essentially ruled by chance; good or bad tidings were therefore no new things to him.

The Hermione rose and fell slightly, almost imperceptibly, to the waves, and backwards and forwards across the spotless deck Brenda Gilholme walked pensively. She was motherless, and her father was entirely absorbed in political strife, being an English Home Ruler. This thoughtful girl had grown up in the shade of her sister’s beauty, and, like many a fair young flower, had perhaps suffered from the contiguity. She was pleased to consider herself a plain uninteresting girl, which was a mistake. Her face, small and proud, was in profile almost perfect; but her eyes were set too close together, which caused a peculiar disappointment to those meeting her face to face.

Perhaps she was a discontented little person. Her expression certainly warranted such a belief. Undoubtedly she thought too little of herself. In personal charms she compared unfavourably with her sister Alice, and in that small fact lay the secret of it all. Glory of any description unfortunately casts a reflection which is sure to be unpleasant either to the reflector or to the friends of that person. The sister of a celebrated man, his cousins, and also his aunts, are usually disagreeable people; or, if by chance they be coloured with the same brush and possess in a slight degree his talent, they are discontented and unhappy. The second fiddler will be found less companionable than the eager timeserver who plays the triangle in the dark corner near the stage-box.

Had Brenda Gilholme been launched upon the troubled waters of society alone, she would probably have made a better place for herself there than her sister Alice ever reached; but unfortunately she started the world as Alice Gilholme’s sister. In a thousand ways clumsy and well-meaning men allowed her to define her own situation. With that sweet charity which warms the fair bosoms of our sisters and female cousins, girls took every opportunity of lamenting Alice’s backslidings and social sins in the hearing of her sister. There are some who will say that these lamentations were the fruit of jealousy and petty female spite, but this assuredly could not be, because these same guileless maidens were never tired of praising and upholding their dear friend’s beauty. Now, would they do that if they were jealous? Oh no!

“Brenda,” Admiral Wylie used to say, with a loving twinkle of his intensely blue eyes, “Brenda is a brick.” She was true and loyal; a devoted sister, and a staunch friend. Had she loved her sister less, she would have carried a lighter heart through many a gay ballroom. She would have suffered less from—let us call it the mistaken kindness of her sister’s friends. She would have thought more of herself and less of Alice. And yet there was in this little maiden a strange touch of pride. She carried her neat little head very high, although she failed to recognise the rare beauty of the brown soft hair nestling there. As she walked up and down the deck she trod firmly, with a certain smooth strength, although she was pleased to ignore the possession of the daintiest little feet ever shod by Pinet. Her small and beautiful person was adorned with a simple severity which was almost defiant. It seemed to throw the glove down before the face of human weakness—to defy opinion. Alice had always been the beauty; to her had been relegated the fine dresses and fascinating hats, and Brenda had played second fiddle. Now that Alice had left her life, the little maiden went on her way with apparent serenity; but beneath the quietly thoughtful exterior, behind the sad, questioning eyes, there was that curse, the bitter sorrow of a superior intellect placed within a woman’s brain.

Brenda Gilholme knew too much. Her estimate of human existence at the age of nineteen was truer and deeper than that of her grandmother at the age of ninety. And around us, my brothers, there are many Brendas—many women and young maidens who know us too well. Human nature has been scraped, and probed, and stripped until the gilt and glamour are quite lost. Moreover, the fault is chiefly ours. We have probed and analyzed with our pens most foolishly. Urged on by the spirit of competition, we have searched deeper into man’s heart and woman’s motive, each trying to get nearer to the core, until at last the subject has become almost repulsive.

The analyst soon discovers that many substances are the mere outcome of a few components variously mingled. Men and women can no more bear analysis with dignity than can the common ruck of everyday food. There are certain component parts capable of nourishing the human frame, but we mix them up into many dishes. He who dissects his meat will have small appetite, and those who study their fellow men and women too closely will learn to despise their own parents.

Women are, in this respect, worse off than men. Their greater insight and quicker divination enable them to judge mercilessly and with unfortunate accuracy. Since they have joined us in the great work of analysis (with but poor results from a literary point of view, but mighty profits to the printer), the seamy side has been held up to inquiring eyes with the veriest shamelessness. Surely we know the worst of human nature now, and most certainly those who are running behind us in the race, those little children and soft-eyed maidens, can read even as they run.

Brenda Gilholme was a living protest against mental cultivation as it is understood today. Her exceptionally capable mind was the victim of over-education and a cheap literature. Beneath that soft brown hair was a fund of classical knowledge sufficient for the requirements of an Oxford professor, theology enough for a deacon, geometry mixed up with political economy, geography and algebra, general knowledge, and no arithmetic worth speaking of. All this, forsooth, added to a taste for music, and an innate power of making it very sweetly. And all for what? To be wisely forgotten as soon as possible—let us hope. The best woman and the truest lady I know has never seen an examination paper in her life. At least, I believe she has not. Filial respect withholds my question.

It is rather disappointing to come freshly into a world of men and women and find it sorely wanting. This Brenda had done. The women appeared to her affected and ignorant, because with her they were not quite at ease by reason of her deep education. The men were trivial or narrow. This one knew more geometry than she did, but of classics and theology he knew nothing. Another was well versed in theology, while of political economy he could speak but haltingly, and so on. Each was in his narrow sphere; she knew too much for all, and could apply it to nothing because she was a woman. She had been taught that knowledge was power—that the whole world passed the Cambridge examinations—that women were born to muddle their sweet inconsistent brains over deep questions relative to semi-preserved languages, to weary their young eyes over imperfectly printed algebraical problems, and to learn many things which they are best without.

But with it all Brenda Gilholme was a woman. Instead of puzzling her daring brains over questions which have never yet been approached with safety, she would have done better had she knelt down and thanked God for that same womanliness. And being a woman, she weakly thought that all men are not alike. She fondly imagined that an exception had been especially created and placed within her own sphere.