She now re-opened 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 kind-hearted 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 match-maker. 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 æsthetic 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.