SUSPENSE
BY
HENRY SETON MERRIMAN
AUTHOR OF 'YOUNG MISTLEY,' 'THE PHANTOM FUTURE'
ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I.
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1890
[_All rights reserved_]
Some there are who laugh and sing
While compassed round by sorrow;
To this ev'ning's gloom they bring
The sunshine of to-morrow.
_TO THE
TRUEST GENTLEMAN I HAVE MET,
MY FATHER,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED._
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER
I. ON BOARD THE 'HERMIONE'
II. THE EXCEPTION
III. A PROBLEM
IV. A STORM
V. THE COMPACT
VI. A SHADOW
VII. A SPORTSMAN'S DEATH
VIII. A JOINT COMMAND
IX. A DIVIDED RESPONSIBILITY
X. FJAERHOLM
XI. A COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION
XII. BAD NEWS
XIII. OFF!
SUSPENSE
CHAPTER 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 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.
'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 time-server 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 ball-room.
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 every-day
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 to-day. 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.
Presently she stopped walking, and stood beside the low rail,
grasping an awning-stanchion with one hand. The wistful,
discontented look left her eyes, which were clear and blue, with long
dark lashes, and in its place came an interested, keen expression.
'I think,' she said aloud, 'I see him coming. There is a small sail
away down the fjord.'
Mrs. Wylie looked up vaguely.
'Yes,' she answered absently; 'I dare say you are right!'