HICKS' SECRET.
When Mrs. Wylie returned home about five o'clock she found the
drawing-room still in darkness. The maid had offered to light the
gas, but Brenda told her to leave it. In the pleasant glow of the
firelight the widow found her young friend sitting in her favourite
chair with interlocked fingers in her lap.
Mrs. Wylie closed the door before she spoke.
'This is bad,' she said.
'What is bad?'
'I believe,' replied Mrs. Wylie in her semi-serious, semi-cheerful
way, 'that I have warned you already against the evil practice of
sitting staring into the fire.'
Brenda laughed softly, and met the kind gaze of the gray eyes that
were searching her face.
'It has always seemed to me,' she said, 'that your philosophy is
wanting in courage. It is the philosophy of a moral coward. It is
braver and better to think out all thoughts--good and bad, sad and
gay--as they come.'
Mrs. Wylie loosened her bonnet-strings, unhooked her sealskin jacket,
and sat down.
'No,' she answered argumentatively. 'It is not the creed of a
coward, no more than it is cowardly to avoid temptation. A practical
man, however brave he may be, will do well to avoid temptation. A
sensible woman will avoid thought.'
'I was thinking,' replied the girl diplomatically, 'of tea!'
From the expression of the widow's face it would seem that she
accepted this statement with reservations. She made, however, no
remark.
After a little pause she looked across at Brenda in a speculative
way, and no doubt appreciated the grace and beauty of that fire-lit
picture.
'Willie Hicks,' she said, 'has been here?'
'Yes. How did you know?' inquired Brenda rather sharply.
'Emma told me.'
'Ah!'
'Brenda,' said the widow in a softer tone, after a pause of some
duration.
'Yes!'
'I have constructed a little fable for myself, in some part founded
upon fact. Would you like to hear it?'
'Yes,' replied the girl with a slightly exaggerated moue of
indifference; 'tell me.'
'Shortly after I arrived at the Hicks', Willie went out. I happened
to know this, because I was near the window in the drawing-room and
saw him. I also noticed that his gait was slightly furtive. I
thought, "That young man does not want me to know that he has gone
out." On my way home I met him going in the contrary direction. He
avoided seeing me, and did it remarkably well, as might have been
expected. But there was a change in his gait, and even in his
attitude. The strange thought came into my head that he had been
here to see you. Then I began to wonder what had caused the change I
detected. It seemed as if William Hicks had passed through some
experience--had received a lesson. The final flight of my
imagination was this: that you, Brenda, had given him that lesson.'
Mrs. Wylie ceased speaking and leant back comfortably. Brenda was
sitting forward now with her two hands clasped around her knees. She
was looking towards her companion, and her eyes glowed in the ruddy
light.
'I think,' she said, 'we should respect his secret. Naturally he
would prefer that we were silent.'
'We are neither of us talkative.... Then ... then my fable was true?'
Brenda nodded her head.
'I am glad,' murmured the widow after a short silence, 'that he has
brought matters to an understanding at last. It is probable that he
will turn out a fine fellow when he has found his level. He is
finding it now. His walk was different as he returned home. All
young men are objectionable until they have failed signally in
something or other. Then they begin to settle down into manhood.'
'He misrepresents himself,' said Brenda gently. 'When he lays aside
his artistic affectation he is very nice.'
'But,' added Mrs. Wylie with conviction, 'he is not half good enough
for you.'
Brenda smiled a little wistfully and rose to preside at the tea-tray,
which the maid brought in at that moment.
And so William Hicks was tacitly laid aside. People who live
together--husband and wife, brother and sister, woman and woman--soon
learn the art of deferring a subject which can gain nothing by
discussion. There are perforce many such topics in our daily
life--subjects which are best ignored, explanations which are best
withheld, details best suppressed.
During their simple tea and the evening that followed there were
other things to talk of, and it was only after dinner, when they were
left alone with their work and their books, that Mrs. Wylie made
reference to the afternoon's proceedings.
'On my way back from the Hicks',' she said conversationally, 'I met
Sir Edward.'
'Ah! Indeed!
Brenda looked up from the heavy volume on her lap and waited with
some interest. Mrs. Wylie paused some time before continuing. She
leant to one side and took up a large work-basket, in which she
searched busily for something.
'Yes,' she murmured at length, with her face literally in the basket;
'and ... Theo is in St. Petersburg!'
'St. Petersburg!' repeated Brenda slowly. 'In the winter. I rather
envy him!'
'I do not imagine,' said Mrs. Wylie, still occupied with the
dishevelled contents of her work-basket, 'that he is there on
pleasure.'
Brenda laughed lightly.
'Theo,' she observed in a casual way, 'is not much given to pleasure
in an undiluted state.'
'I like a man who takes life and his life's work seriously.'
'So do I,' assented Brenda indifferently.
She knew that Mrs. Wylie was studying her face with kindly keenness,
and so she smiled in a friendly way at the fire, which seemed to
dance and laugh in reply.
'Is it generally known that he is in St. Petersburg?' she asked with
some interest.
'Oh no! Sir Edward told me in confidence. He says that it does not
matter much, but that he and Theo would prefer it not being talked
about.'
'Why has he gone?' asked the girl.
Mrs. Wylie laid aside the basket and looked across at her companion
with a curious, baffled smile.
'I don't know,' she answered. 'I had not the ... the...'
'Cheek?'
'Cheek to ask.'
Brenda returned to her book.
'I suppose,' she said presently, as she turned a page, 'that it means
war.'
The widow shrugged her shoulders.
'We must not get into the habit,' she suggested, 'of taking it for
granted that every action of Theo's means that.'
'He lives for war,' said the girl wearily as she bent over her book
with decision.
Mrs. Wylie worked on in silence. She had no desire to press the
subject, and Brenda's statement was undeniable.
They now returned to their respective occupations, but Brenda knew
that at times her companion's eyes wandered from the work towards her
own face. Mrs. Wylie was evidently thinking actively--not passively,
as was her wont. The result was not long in forthcoming.
'My dear,' she said energetically, 'I have been thinking. Let us go
down to Wyl's Hall.'
Brenda pondered for a few seconds before replying. It was the first
time that there had been any mention of the old Suffolk house since
its master's sudden death. Mrs. Wylie had never crossed the
threshold of this, the birthplace of many Wylies (all good sailors
and true men), since she returned in the _Hermione_ to Wyvenwich a
childless widow. All this Brenda knew, and consequently attached
some importance to the suggestion. During the last six months they
had lived on in an unsettled way from day to day. Both had, perhaps,
been a little restless. There was a want of homeliness about the
chambers in Suffolk Mansions; not so much, perhaps, in the rooms
themselves as in the stairs, the common door with its civil porter,
and the general air of joint proprietorship. What we call vaguely
'home' is nothing but a combination of small things with their
individual associations. The milkman with his familiar cry, the
well-known bang of the front door, the creaking of the wooden stairs;
such trifles as these make up our home, form the frame in which our
life is placed, and each little change is noted. The present writer
first realized the true meaning of death by noting the absence of a
small vase from the nursery mantelpiece. It was a trifling little
thing of brown ware, shaped quaintly, and round the bowl of it was a
little procession of Egyptian figures following each other in stately
angularity. One day it was broken, and I have never forgotten the
feeling with which I first looked at the mantelpiece and sought in
vain the familiar little jar.
To women these small associations are, perhaps, dearer than they are
to us men. No doubt they love to be known and greeted by their
neighbours, rich or poor, while we are often indifferent. The want
of human sympathy, of human interest and mutual aid is the most
prominent feature in town life. Men live and die, rejoice and
grieve, laugh and weep almost under the same roof, and never share
their laughter or mingle their tears. Faces may grow familiar, but
hearts remain estranged, because perforce each man must fight for
himself on the pavement, and there is no time to turn aside and lend
a helping hand.
Brenda did not lose sight of the possibility that Mrs. Wylie might be
longing for the familiar faces and pleasant voices of the humble
dwellers in Wyvenwich; but the proposal to return to Wyl's Hall was
apparently unpremeditated, and therefore the girl doubted its
sincerity.
'Not on my account?' she inquired doubtfully, without looking up.
'No. On my own. I am longing for the old place, Brenda. This fog
and gloom makes one think of the brightness of Wyvenwich and the sea,
which is always lovely in a frost. Let us go at once--to-morrow or
the next day. The winter is by no means over yet, and London is
detestable. Even if we are snowed up at Wyl's Hall, it does not
matter much, for it is always bright and cheery despite its
loneliness. We will take plenty of books and work.'
The girl made no further demur, and presently caught the infection of
her companion's cheerful enthusiasm. Mrs. Wylie possessed the
pleasant art of making life a comfortable thing under most
circumstances, and for such as her a sudden move has no fears. While
Trist adapted himself to circumstances, Mrs. Wylie seemed to adapt
circumstances to herself, which is, perhaps, the more difficult art.
The good lady seemed somewhat relieved when the move was finally
decided upon and arranged; nevertheless, there was a look of anxiety
on her round face when she sought her room that night.
'I wish,' she observed to her own reflection in the looking-glass,
'that I knew what to do. I must be a terrible coward. It would be
so very easy to ask Brenda outright ... though ... I know what the
answer would be ... poor child! And I might just as well have spoken
out boldly when I went to see him that night. It is a difficult
predicament, because--they are both so strong!'