'Oh yes,' replied the widow calmly. 'It can!'
She set her empty cup on the tray, and sat with her two hands clasped together on her lap. She had not come through fifty years of life, this placid lady, without learning something of the world's ways, and she recognised instantly what Alice Huston's position was. It was the old story which is told every day in all parts of the world, more especially, perhaps, in India—the wearisome tale of a mistaken marriage between a man of small intellect and a woman of less. If both husband and wife be busy, the one with his bread-winning, the other with her babies, such unions may be a near approach to animal happiness—no more can be hoped for. The very instincts of it are animal, and as such it is safe. But if one or both be idle, the result is simply 'hell.' No other expression can come near it.
Captain Huston's military duties were not such as occupied more than a few hours of the week, and during the rest of his existence he was actively idle. His mind was fallow; he was totally without resource, without occupation, without interest. There is no man on earth to beat the ordinary British military officer in downright futile idleness. The Spanish Custom-house official runs a close race with the Italian inn-keeper in this matter, but both enjoy their laziness, and are never bored. When our commissioned defender is naturally of an idle turn of mind, he is intensely bored; his existence is one long yawn, and the faculty of enjoyment dies a natural death within his soul. I can think of no more despicable sample of humanity than a man who cannot find himself something to do under all circumstances, and in all places; and surely no one can blame his Satanic majesty for a proverbial readiness to supply the deficiency from his own store of easy tasks.
If Alice Gilholme had searched through the entire army-list, she could scarcely have found a man less suitable to be her husband than Captain Huston. Petty, short-sighted jealousy on his part, vapid coquetry on hers, soon led to the inevitable end, and the result was thrown upon the hands of Brenda and Mrs. Wylie with easy nonchalance by the spoilt child of society.
It was no sudden disillusionment for Brenda, but merely one more wretched curtain torn aside to display the hideous reality of human existence and human selfishness. No thought of complaint entered the girl's head. With a pathetic silence she simply applied herself to the task set before her, with no great hope of reaching a satisfactory solution.
Before the three ladies had spoken further upon the subject chiefly occupying their thoughts, the drawing-room door was thrown open, and with studied grace William Hicks crossed the threshold.
The hat that he carried daintily in his left hand was not quite the same in contour as those worn by his contemporaries. To ensure this peculiarity, the artist was forced to send to Paris for his head-gear, where he paid a higher price and received an inferior article. But the distinction conferred by a unique hat is practically immeasurable and without price. Mr. Hicks' gloves were also out of the common; likewise his strangely-cut coat and misshapen continuations.
The tout ensemble was undoubtedly pleasing. It must have been so, because he was obviously satisfied, and the artistic eye is the acknowledged arbitrator in matters of outward adornment, whether it be of mantelshelves or human forms divine.
The three ladies turned to greet him with that ready feminine smile which is ever there to lubricate matters when the social wheel may squeak or grate.
'Oh, bother!' whispered Brenda to herself, as she held out her hand.