Suspense

doing wonderful work out in the East since the beginning of the insurrection. We have a set of men out there such as no nation in the world could produce except England⁠—fellows who go about with their lives literally in their hands, for they’re virtually unprotected⁠—men who are soldiers, statesmen, critics, writers and explorers all in one. They run a soldier’s risk without the recompense of a soldier’s grave. A statesman’s craft must be theirs, while they are forced to keep two diplomatic requirements ever before their eyes. England must have news; the army authorities (whose word is law) must be conciliated. Travelling by day and night alike, never resting for many consecutive hours, never laying aside the responsibility that is on their shoulders, they are expected to write amidst the din of battle, on a gun-carriage perhaps, often in the saddle, and usually at night when the wearied army is asleep; they are expected, moreover, to write well, so that men sitting by their firesides in London, with books of reference at hand, may criticise and seek in vain for slip or error. They are expected to criticise the stratagem of the greatest military heads around them without the knowledge possessed by the officers who dictate their coming and their going, throwing them a piece of stale news here and there as they would throw a bone to a dog. All this, and more, is done by our war-correspondents; and amidst these wonderful fellows Theodore Trist stands quite alone, immeasurably superior to them all.”

The vehement sailor was interrupted by the sound of the first dinner-bell, and a general stir on deck. At sea, mealtimes are hailed with a more visible joy than is considered decorous on land, and no time is lost in answering the glad summons.

Mrs. Huston rose languidly from her seat and moved forward towards the spacious saloon staircase.

“Yes,” she answered thoughtfully; “Theo must be very clever. It is difficult to realize that one’s friends are celebrated, is it not?”

The captain walked by her side, suiting his crisp, firm step to her languid gait, which was, nevertheless, very graceful in its rhythmic ease. Her voice was clear, gentle, and somewhat indifferent. On her face there was no other expression than the customary suggestion of pathetic apathy.

“I suppose,” she continued in a conventional manner, “that he will not be home for some time.”

“No. There will be a big war before this question is settled, and Trist will be in the thick of it.”

With a slight inclination of the head she passed away from him and disappeared down the saloon stairs. The captain turned away and mounted the little brass ladder leading to the bridge with sailor-like deliberation.

“And, young woman,” he muttered to himself, “you had better go down to your cabin and thank your God on your bended knees that Theodore Trist is not in England, nor likely to cross your path for many months to come.”

He looked round him with his habitual cheery keenness, and said a few words to the second officer who was on duty. Could he have seen Theodore Trist standing at that moment on the deck of a quick despatch-boat, racing through the Bosphorus and bound for England, he would not, perhaps, have laughed so heartily at a very mild joke made by his subordinate a few moments later.

“And yet,” he reflected as he made his way below in answer to the second dinner-bell⁠—“and yet she does not seem to me to be the sort of woman for Trist⁠—not good enough! Perhaps the gossips are wrong after all, and he does not care for her!”

II

Sisters

More than one idler in Plymouth Station, one morning in October, turned his head to look again at two women walking side by side on the platform near to the London train. One, the taller of the two, was exceptionally beautiful, of a fair delicate type, with an almost perfect figure and a face fit for a model of the Madonna, so pure in outline was it, so innocent in its meaning. The younger woman was slightly shorter. She was clad in mourning, which contrasted somewhat crudely with the brighter costume of her companion. It was evident that these two were sisters; they walked in the same easy way, and especially notable was a certain intrepid carriage of the head, which I venture to believe is essentially peculiar to highborn Englishwomen.

By the side of her sister, Brenda Gilholme might easily pass unnoticed. Mrs. Huston was, in the usual sense of the word, a beautiful woman, and such women live in an atmosphere of notoriety. Wherever they go they are worshipped at a distance by those beneath them in station, patronized by those above them, respected by their equals, because, forsooth, face and form are moulded with delicacy and precision. The mind of such a woman is of little importance; the person is pleasing, and more is not demanded. Only her husband will someday awaken to the fact that worship from a distance might have been more satisfactory. The effect of personal beauty is a lamentable factor which cannot be denied. All men, good and bad alike, come under its influence. A lovely woman can twist most of us round her dainty finger with a wanton disregard for the powers of intellect or physical energy.

Brenda was not beautiful; she was only pretty, with a dainty refinement of heart which was visible in her delicate face. But her prettiness was in no way tainted with weakness, as was her sister’s beauty. She was strong and thoughtful, with a true woman’s faculty for hiding these unwelcome qualities from the eyes of inferior men. She had grown up in the shadow of this beautiful sister, and men had not cared to seek for intellect where they saw only a reflected beauty. She had passed through a social notoriety, but eager eyes had only glanced at her in passing. She had merely been Alice Gilholme’s sister, and