Chapter XII: Taking Counsel

"It was not her time to love; beside
Her life had many a hope and aim."
R. BROWNING.

CAPTAIN LUCAS was in the depths of despair next morning. It was always thus, after these disappointing failures; but never more thus than now. The breakdown had been so unexpected. After a year and more of continuous victory, he had felt himself secure; it seemed almost absurd to fear that he ever could be overcome again. And in a moment, the shock of temptation had come—the opportunity, the craving, the powerlessness to resist.

Scarcely an hour before Sir Cyril's call, he had been helped, staggering, home by a policeman; and thereafter, Mrs. Lucas would not leave his side. Emmie had no chance of a talk with her that evening; and next morning was no better. It was well that she had not promised an immediate reply.

Captain Lucas was himself again after a night's sleep; but in an abyss of conscious degradation and hopelessness, ready to weep like a child. Nothing was of any use, he moaned. No good to try any longer. It could not be overcome. He had better give in, once for all, and let things go. He would get away somewhere out of everybody's reach. He was only spoiling their lives—his wife's and Emmie's—and the sooner they parted the better.

His wife smiled faintly. She might have told him that her life was pretty well spoilt already, viewed from the ordinary standpoint—but that she loved her husband, and had the great joy to look forward to, of having helped to save him from his terrible foe. So she only spoke helpful and bracing words. He had kept on so bravely the past year, never once yielding. Was not that an encouragement for the future? He would not falter now, after so long a battle. Impossible that he should do aught so cowardly. He had to retrieve his honour, to cheer up, to fight all the harder because of his fall. More prayer and firmer trust were needed; and victory in the end was sure. God would help him, she knew—would bring him safely through. No man ever needed to be beaten.

All the morning this went on, and much of the afternoon. Emmie could be of little use. In his brighter moods, her sunny sweetness was invaluable, but in his despair, he needed a more practised hand.

Mrs. Lucas was not without help, however. The sad tale reached Jem's ears by mid-day; and he came at once, to be a tower of strength to the sorrowful wife, and to put fresh courage into the heart of the broken-down man. He promised to look in again next day; and he spoke kind words to Emmie, who had wandered about the house, wondering what she really felt, and whether such an upheaval were actually to take place in her life, as would be implied by her engagement to Sir Cyril Devereux.

"He is so very nice," sighed Emmie again and again. "But I wish—I wish—if only I were a little older!"

In the afternoon, towards tea-time, Captain Lucas fell sound asleep in the study, worn out with remorse. He had been plied with coffee at intervals, and would not need tea. For the first time, Emmie saw her opportunity. She know that the sleep might probably last some time; so she coaxed her mother into a comfortable chair by the drawing-room fire, ordered up the tea-tray earlier than usual, and waited on her assiduously, unaware how closely she was herself watched, for she hardly dared to lift her dropped eyelids.

There came presently a soft, "My poor little Emmie!"

"O mother!"

Emmie knelt down on the rug with an arm round Mrs. Lucas.

"I have always feared it might happen again, some day . . . It is so like a disease. One can hardly expect no recurrence . . . Yet some would tell me that is a want of trust. And I know he can be kept from it! . . . Still—time after time—this has come."

"Mr. Trevelyan was so nice, wasn't he?"

"I think he will be an immense help. He promises me to well look after your father. He is just the man for it—kind and thoughtful, and a thorough gentleman. And so very good."

"Mother—"

Something in the voice made Mrs. Lucas look into her daughter's face.

"Mother—Sir Cyril came yesterday—when you were busy, you know. And—"

"He did not see your father?"

"No. I knew you were both in the morning-room. I did offer to call you, but he said there was no need. And I knew you could not well come. But, mother—he—"

The crimsoning face drooped, and Mrs. Lucas' heart beat fast. She drew Emmie closer.

"Yes. He—?"

"He said—something. Something that I must tell you . . . I always tell you everything . . . He asked—He wants me—to be his wife."

Mrs. Lucas could hardly control her thrill of astonishment. She had feared some trembling avowal of Emmie's feelings towards Sir Cyril; but she had not looked for this. It had been a settled matter in her imagination that Sir Cyril was in love with Jean Trevelyan.

"Tell me all, darling."

"I didn't know it was coming—of course. I couldn't think what he meant at first—and I was so full of—that, you know—but I found he was really in earnest. He says—says—he loves me!"—in a whisper. "And he wants me to marry him."

"And you said—?"

"I couldn't answer him at once. How could I—before I had spoken to you? I didn't know what to say; and it seemed so funny. Why, I'm only a child. I asked him to let me have till to-morrow; and he said he supposed I wanted to get used to the idea. And he told me to pity his suspense. But it does seem odd that he should care for me—for little Emmie Lucas! He is so clever and handsome, and everybody likes him."

"Including Emmie?"

"Yes. O yes—I like him." Emmie looked frankly up. "He is so nice and kind to poor father. I don't see how I could help liking him. I like him very much indeed. I should hate to do anything to give him pain."

"Sometimes to give a passing pain is the truest kindness. Emmie, the question really is not whether you like Sir Cyril, but whether you love him."

Emmie's face flushed all over again.

"But—"

"But what?"

"People don't always begin with that, do they? I mean—doesn't it come after they are married, sometimes?"

"Sometimes; but the risk is serious."

Emmie sighed.

"He is so nice," she said, "so very very nice and pleasant. And I do look up to him really, because he is so clever. I like him—oh, ever so much. It's almost a little like loving. Not like the sort of love I have for you, of course; because I don't think anything ever could be the same as that—but still—I do like to see him come in, and it would be very dull if he never came. Don't you think it would?"

"The question is not what I think, my dear."

"Well—I think it would—really. Do you know, mother, he didn't seem afraid about my answer!"

"No? He did not seem very eager or anxious, you mean?"

"No—not exactly—only so kind and pleasant. He saw I was in trouble, mother. And I do think it grieved him. And if he cares so much for me—And if I like him so much—"

"No true man could be satisfied with no more."

"Couldn't he?" with a look of childish sweetness. "But—" tears filling her eyes—"I'm afraid it does look rather tempting. Everything would be so different. Different for you and father. You would have plenty of friends."

"No, my darling; don't deceive yourself. Lady Lucas might give up Sir Cyril for marrying you. She would not accept us because you married Sir Cyril."

"Wouldn't she? I thought—perhaps—"

"Don't think of us at all. Or, if you do, think what it would be to us to lose our one sunbeam. That should not stand in your way, if it were a question of your real happiness. But—"

"Oh!" in a startled tone. "You could not get on without me, of course. I never thought of that. There would be nobody to walk with my father. You can't go any distance—and fancy him wandering about alone . . . But then I should be so near! I could run in every day, and look after him almost the same as now."

"If you were Sir Cyril's wife, your duty would be to him, not to us. He is a man of leisure, and his wife will have her time well filled. Dear Emmie, you must put the thought of us quite aside, and think only of yourself and him. Only you and him! Could you promise to love him all your life—first and best? To love him?"

"Not so much as I love you, of course, mother! How could I possibly?"—with a look of infantine sweetness. "And I should be miserable if I couldn't see you every day, and tell you every single thing as I do now. But I don't like to make him unhappy."

"You must do what is right, and leave his unhappiness to take care of itself. I am not sure that it will be very deep. There may be a touch of self-deception in this sudden fancy . . . Did it never occur to you that he thinks a great deal of Jean Trevelyan?"

Emmie laughed. "Yes, indeed he does. He is always talking of her. It is the funniest thing—but whatever we happen to be speaking about, he always twists the subject round, so as to bring in her name. I really do think it is that, that has kept me from seeing how much he cared for me . . . It's funny, mother . . . And, of course, a man can't care for two girls at once—in that way, I mean . . . And, of course, if he did care for her, he wouldn't ask me to marry him."

"If he knew that he cared for her most. People do not always fully know their own minds. It has been a life-long affection, and perhaps he does not measure the strength of it. His perpetual reference to her ideas and opinions has a suspicious look. No doubt he has been captivated for the moment by this dear little face—" kissing it. "But suppose there were a mistake—and suppose he found out by-and-by—"

"Yes: I see! And you think I had better say 'No' at once?"

"I think you must decide for yourself; but I am very much afraid of a hasty 'Yes,'—for your sake, and for his. I am afraid you might both regret it."

"Yes; I understand. O no; it wouldn't do! Mother, I really am glad. Perhaps I'm a little sorry too, because the Brow and everything would be so nice—except Miss Devereux and Lady Lucas! I should like it so much for you and my father . . . But, of course, that isn't enough. I mean it wouldn't be right to marry him for the sake of anybody else! . . . And somehow, I can't think of Sir Cyril as—as—a husband!"—blushing furiously. "I like him very much indeed, just coming in and out. But I almost think—I'm afraid I should get just a little tired of him, if it were always and always going on."

"And suppose poor Sir Cyril—after losing friends and offending relatives by marrying—suppose he should find the wife, for whom he had given up so much, getting only a little tired of him? Only a little bored with his talk—and impatient of his companionship—and careless about pleasing him—perhaps even pettish and fractious, in return for—?"

"Mother, you needn't go on! I see now quite quite plainly! I didn't understand before. It would be horrid and cruel of me to marry him, feeling as I do. O no—because I don't really love him, and I don't believe I ever could! I'll write a note this minute; and don't you think we might send it—not keep him another whole night in suspense? I suppose he is in a little suspense just now, you know—though I dare say he will get over it soon."

It had indeed been a day of suspense for Cyril, though not precisely that fashion of suspense which Emmeline innocently pictured to herself. How to live through the dragging hours was a problem not easily solved. Most young men in his condition would at least have had the help of enforced occupation, but Cyril had abundant leisure to suffer his worst.

Sybella's was not a soothing companionship. She fretted him with questions and surmises, was annoyed when he told her nothing, and defended herself with her usual verbosity from charges which nobody had made, turning everything into an argument.

To escape from home-friction, Cyril walked from breakfast until lunch, after which he vanished into his smoking-den for an hour, and then went off for a four hours' ride, barely returning in time for dinner, which indeed had to wait ten minutes while he dressed.

"You never used to be unpunctual, Cyril!"

"I dare say not," Cyril answered.

"It is a very bad habit. It grows upon people."

"It will grow upon me, of course."

"My dear aunt always trained me to be scrupulously punctual. She never allowed slipshod ways. But your dear father was different. He never could be in time for things. I hope you do not mean to take after him."

"Might do worse!" muttered the chafed Cyril. He had tender recollections of his father, and could ill endure to hear him discussed by Sybella.

"What do you say? I really cannot hear when you mumble so, Cyril . . . Is there anything wrong with the soup? You are not taking any . . . Lady Lucas has been here to-day, calling. And she told me a most dreadful thing. About that miserable nephew of hers—"

"Lady Lucas is an awful old gossip."

"Really, Cyril—"

"There's no need, at all events, to retail her scandal in public."

Something in the suppressed voice warned even Sybella to desist for a while.

When dessert was on the table, and the man had vanished, she began anew—

"I must tell you now! It is not a matter of choice, but of duty—a positive necessity, for your own sake. As for Pearce hearing—everybody will know, so I do not see that it makes much difference. That wretched man, Captain Lucas—No, I cannot be interrupted, Cyril! I really must for once speak out! That wretched man, Captain Lucas, was actually—absolutely—carried home yesterday evening by two policemen—dead drunk! Yes, it is a fact! There can be no possible mistake. It is a most fearful disgrace. Everybody is talking about it, and pitying Lady Lucas. He was seen reeling about in the streets, like any common creature out of a public-house."

"I don't see how he could manage to reel about, if he were dead drunk!"

"Really, Cyril! To take it in such a way! To make a joke of it, almost! And such a dreadful thing! . . . And you can actually stoop to call that man your friend! Captain Lucas—a drunkard—the friend of Sir Cyril Devereux!" Sybella spoke with more force of expression than she usually had at command.

The arrow went home: only Cyril's brain substituted the word "father-in-law" for "friend." He had grown white, and his brows were drawn sternly together. He cracked half-a-dozen nuts in quick succession, tossing each aside, and asked only—

"Have you done?"

"I suppose you don't believe me, but it is true. Perfectly true. As you will find to your cost. Some day," asserted Sybella, with agitated breaks.

"The main fact is true. Lady Lucas has only improved upon it a little—not more than one might reasonably expect! He was not 'dead drunk,' and he did not require to be carried, I believe—but unhappily, he did take too much."

"As he does constantly—every other day."

"You are misinformed. He has not failed once in the last year and more—till now."

"My dear Cyril! If I did not know it on the best authority—"

Cyril's mutter was unintelligible.

"I assure you, I know it for a fact. He is constantly in that state. Of course, nobody sees him so, because his wife generally contrives to hush it up, and not to let him go out. I suppose, he escaped for once from her control . . . If you were only not so easily imposed upon, my dear Cyril! . . . Lady Lucas tells me his wife is a most designing person. She says there can be no doubt whatever that they are hoping to make a catch of you! That the young lady is deliberately setting her cap—to use an expression which—"

Cyril could endure no more. He was in a sick tumult of wrath and wretchedness—of wrath with himself, and of wretchedness about his own action, far more than with or about Sybella. She was only the gadfly, adding to his misery; but when one is already strung to intense endurance, a gadfly in addition becomes unbearable.

He stood up abruptly. "Aunt, will you excuse me, please. We need not discuss the question."

"Is anything the matter? Are you ill?" startled by his look. "I will send for Dr. Ingram."

"If you would be so good as to attend to your own business, and not to mine, that is all I ask!" Cyril hardly knew what he said.

The tension had become too great, and the whole room went round dizzily. He could not have stood alone, or walked slowly, but he was able to dash across the hall and into the study, where he flung himself on the sofa, in an overpowering whirl of brain and mind, physical giddiness predominating for the moment over all else.

He had not had a touch of the sensation for years. It brought back vividly, by the more force of association, his earliest meeting with Jean. He saw again the square block-like stones, the rushing water, the swirl of the whole landscape, the little crouching boy; then he heard Jean's clear voice and light footsteps, and felt her small resolute hand clasping his. He had loved Jean from that day onward.

Another scene mixed itself up with the last; again a stepping-stone scene; only this time Jem, not Jean, came to the rescue.

Cyril heard his own infantine voice asserting positively, "I mean to marry Jean some day!"

And Jem's manlier tones advising delay—advising him to become a man before he spoke; for Jean would never marry one to whom she could not look up.

"Ten years! Twenty years!" groaned Cyril. "And to have cut myself off from her—by—this!"