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
