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withdrawn, had left a blank behind it.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.