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.
“Goodbye, Brenda!” he said, for once without affectation.
“Goodbye,” 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.
VIII
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
