CHAPTER VII.

A LESSON.

In Suffolk Mansions the absence of Alice Huston left a less perceptible vacuum than that lady would have imagined. Mrs. Wylie was intensely relieved that the young widow had, so to speak, struck out a line of her own--wherever that line might tend to lead her. Brenda was less philosophical. She tried to persuade herself that her sister's presence had been a pleasure, and, like all pleasures withdrawn, had left a blank behind it. But the pretence was at its best a sorry one. It is a lamentable fact that propinquity is the most powerful factor in human loves, hatreds, and friendships. The best of friends, the most affectionate sisters, cannot live apart for a few years without fostering the growth of an intangible, silent barrier which forces its way up between them, and which we lightly call a lack of mutual interest. What is love but 'mutual interest'?

Brenda, who was herself the soul of loyalty, stood mentally aghast over the ruins of her great unselfish love. She imagined it dead, but this was not the case. In a heart like that of Brenda Gilholme, love never dies. It is only in our hearts, my brothers, and in those of a very few women that this takes place. The sisterly love was living still, but it was little else than the mere tie of blood or the result of a few mutual friendships in the past. The two women had drifted apart upon the broad waters of life.

In the meantime Mrs. Wylie was watching events. This good lady was (is still, heaven bless her!) an optimist. She is one of those brave persons who really in their hearts believe that human life is worth living for its own sake. She actually had the effrontery to maintain that happiness is attainable. There are some women like this in the world. They are not what is called intellectual--they write no books, speak no speeches, and propound no theories--but ... I would to God there were more of them!

The daily life of these two ladies soon assumed its normal routine. Brenda studied political economy, Shakespeare, and the latest biography by turns in her unproductive, resultless way. Her mind craved for food and refused nothing; while, on the other hand, it possessed no decided tastes. Before January had run out its days she heard from Alice, who had moved southwards to Monte Carlo with her friends the Martyns.

One afternoon in February Brenda was sitting alone in the drawing-room in Suffolk Mansions when a visitor arrived. It was no other than William Hicks. His _entrée_ was executed with the usual faultless grace and _savoir-faire_. He carried a soft hat, for it was foggy, and his long black cloak was thrown carelessly back to the full advantage of a broad astrakhan collar.

This was the first visit he had paid since the death of Captain Huston; consequently he and Brenda had not met since the ball to which Trist had conceived the bold idea of bringing his enemy. With this fact in view William Hicks smiled in a sympathetic way as he advanced with outstretched hand, but said no word. They shook hands gravely, and Brenda resumed her seat.

'Mrs. Wylie has just gone to your mother's,' she said, in some surprise.

Hick's laid aside his hat, and slowly drew off his slate-coloured gloves. The action was just a trifle stagy. He might well have been the hero of a play about to begin a difficult scene.

'Yes,' he answered meaningly; 'I know.'

Brenda turned her small, proud head, and looked at him in silence. Her attitude was hardly one of surprise, and yet it betrayed her knowledge of his possible meaning. Altogether it was scarcely sympathetic.

Hicks allowed her a few moments in which to make some sort of reply or inquiry as to his meaning, but she failed to take the cue.

'I found out by accident,' he continued, 'that Mrs. Wylie was upstairs with my mother, and had just arrived. It struck me that you might be alone here--the opportunity was one which I have waited for--so I came.'

Brenda's eyes were much steadier than his, and he was forced to turn his gaze elsewhere.

'It was very good of you,' she said with strange simplicity, 'to think of my solitude.'

Hicks caressed his matchless moustache complacently, although he was in reality not quite at ease.

'I wanted to speak to you,' he said, in a tone which deprecated the thought of a purely unselfish motive in the meritorious action.

'About ... what?' inquired the girl, without enthusiasm.

'About myself--a dull topic, I am afraid.'

It is to be hoped that William Hicks did not expect an indignant denial; for such was not forthcoming. Brenda leant back in her chair in the manner of one composing herself to the consideration of a long and, probably, dull story. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, but she betrayed no signs of agitation or suspense.

Hicks slipped his cloak from his shoulders and rose. He stood on the hearthrug before her, looking down upon her as she reclined gracefully in the deep chair.

'Brenda,' he said, in a carefully modulated tone, 'I am only a poor painter--that is to say, I am not making much money out of art. I am, however, making a name which will no doubt be valuable some day. In the meantime I am fortunately in a position to disregard the baser uses of art, and to seek her only for herself. I have a certain position already, and I am content even with _it_. I intend to do better--to make a greater name. And in that aim--you can help me!'

He was quite sincere, but the habit of posing was so strong upon him that the magnificence of his offer perhaps lost a little weight by the sense of study, of forethought, of preparation, as it were, in the manner of delivering it.

There was a singular suggestion of Theodore Trist's school of life in the manner in which Brenda looked up now and spoke--a deliberate ignorance, almost, of the smoother social methods.

'Are you,' she inquired, 'asking me to be your wife?'

Hicks stared at her vacantly. He was wondering what sequence of thought brought Theodore Trist into his mind at that moment. The question remained unanswered for some time.

'Yes,' he said at length weakly.

In all his private rehearsals of this scene, he had never conceived the possibility of having to answer such a query. It was hard to do with dignity; and for the first time, perhaps, in his life he was not quite content with his own method. After a momentary silence he recovered his usual _aplomb_. Brenda was, he argued, after all but a girl, and all girls are alike. Flattery reaches them every one.

'I have,' he said eagerly, giving her no opportunity of interrupting him, 'known many people--moved in many circles. I am not an inexperienced schoolboy, and therefore my conviction should carry some weight with it. I am certain, Brenda, that I could find no more suitable wife if I searched all the world over. Your influence upon my art cannot fail to be beneficial--you are eminently fitted to take a high place in the social world; such a place as my wife will find awaiting her. I have made no secret of my financial position; and as to my place in the art world of this century, you know as much as I could tell you.'

He paused with a graceful wave of his white hand, and intimated his readiness to receive her answer. He even moved a step nearer to her, in order that he might with grace lean over her chair and take her hand when the proper moment arrived.

There was no emotion on either side. Neither forgot for a second that they were children of a self-suppressing generation, which considers all outward warmth of joy or sorrow to be 'bad form.' William Hicks had delivered his words with faultless intonation--perfect pitch--allowing himself (as an artist) a graceful gesture here and there. Brenda took her cue from him.

'It is very good of you to make me such an advantageous offer,' she said, in an even and gentle voice, in which no ring of sarcasm could have been detected by much finer ears than those of William Hicks, which organs were partially paralyzed by self-conceit; 'but I am afraid I must refuse.'

The artist was too much surprised to say anything at all. A refusal--to _him_! One of the most popular men in London. A great, though unappreciated painter--a perfect dancer--a social lion. He had been run after, I admit that, for most men are who take the trouble to be universally and impartially polite; but he had never taken the trouble of investigating the desirability or otherwise of those who ran after him. He had not quite realized that there was not a woman among them worthy to button Brenda's glove.

'Will you not,' he stammered, with blanched face, 'reconsider your ... determination?'

The girl shook her head gravely.

'No!' she replied. 'There is not the slightest chance of my ever doing that, and I am very, very sorry if from anything I have said or done you have been led to believe that my answer could possibly have been otherwise.'

To this Hicks made no direct reply. He could not with truth have accused her of the conduct she suggested. The fact merely was that he had not excepted Brenda from the rest of womankind, and it had always been his honest conviction that he had only to ask any woman in the world to be his wife to make that woman the happiest of her sex as well as the proudest. There is nothing extraordinary in this mild self-deception. We all practise it with marvellous success. It is a fallacy I myself cherished for many years, until the moment came (a happy moment for my near relatives, no doubt!) when I made the lamentable discovery that I was not in such demand after all.

Hicks had never been refused before, for the simple reason that he had never hitherto thought fit to place his heart at any maiden's feet.

'But why,' he pleaded, 'will you not marry me?'

Her answer was ready.

'Because I do not love you.'

'But that will come,' he murmured. 'I will teach you to love me!'

She raised her eyes to his face and looked calmly at him. Even in such a moment as this the habit of studying and dissecting human minds was not laid aside. It seemed as if she were pondering over his words, not in connection with herself at all, but in a general sense. She was wondering, no doubt, if there were women who could be coerced into loving this man. As for herself she had no doubts whatever. William Hicks possessed absolutely no influence over her, but she felt at that moment as if it were possible that a man _could_ make her love him even against her will if he were possessed of the necessary strength of purpose. In a vague, indefinite way she was realizing that woman is weaker than man--is, in fact, a weaker man, with smaller capabilities of joy and sorrow, of love, hatred, devotion, or remorse; and, in a way, William Hicks profited by this thought. She respected him--not individually, but generally--because he was a man, and because she felt that some women could look up to him and admire him for his mere manhood, if she herself was unable to do so because he fell short of her standard.

In the meantime Hicks had realized the emptiness of his boast. From her calm glance he had read that her will was stronger than his own--that she did not love him, and never would. We, my brothers, who have passed through the mill can sympathize with this young fellow, despite his follies, his vanity, his conceit, his affectation; for I verily believe that Brenda cured him of them all in those few moments. Most of us can, I think, look back to the time when we were severally foolish, vain, conceited, and affected--many of us have been cured by the glance of some girl's eyes.

The artist dropped his argument at once. He turned away and walked to the window, where he stood with his back towards her, looking out into the dismal misty twilight. Thus the girl allowed him to stand for some time, and then she rose and went to his side.

'Willy,' she said, 'I am very, very sorry!'

She was beginning to think now that he really loved her in his way, although by some curious oversight he had omitted to mention the fact.

He turned his head in her direction, and his hand caressed his moustache with its habitual grace.

'I don't quite understand it,' he murmured. 'Of course ... it is a bitter disappointment to me. I have been mistaken.'

She made no attempt to alleviate his evident melancholy--expressed no regret that he should have been mistaken. The time for sympathy was past, and she allowed him to fight out his bitter fight alone. Presently he went towards the chair where he had thrown his cloak and hat. These he took up, and returned to her with his hand outstretched.

'Good-bye, Brenda!' he said, for once without affectation.

'Good-bye,' she replied simply, and long after William Hicks had left the room she stood there with her white hands hanging down at either side like some delicate flower resting on the soft black material in which she was clad.