DARK-EYED EMMIE.
"But who could have expected this,
When we two drew together first,
Just for the obvious human bliss,
To satisfy life's daily thirst?"
R. BROWNING.
THE "queer little red house near the Post-Office," owned by Captain
Lucas, had been for three years empty. It was not an easy house to let:
standing just too far out of the main track for business purposes, yet
too much buried in a region of shops to be attractive. Perhaps Captain
Lucas asked too high a rent. One way or another, it had remained long
in the hands of an aged caretaker; and the Lucases had troubled their
heads little about the matter, till sudden curtailment of income
came. Then, since nobody else was content to live there, and to pay a
reasonable rent, Captain Lucas decided to make it his home.
The decision cost him a good deal; and he would hardly have reached
it without necessity. He was not anxious to put himself in the way
of relatives, who would look him in the face, and pass him by as
a stranger. Captain Lucas was a man who naturally loved society,
naturally delighted in pleasant companionship; and to cut himself off
from intercourse with his fellow-men was like cutting off his right
hand or foot; yet to a large extent, he had done and would do this.
Not for a limited time only, but year after year; sustained by his
courageous wife, and surely upheld by Divine power: he and she knowing,
alas, too well, that only by such means could he hope to keep in check
the terrible tendency which all his life had dragged him downward.
The heroism of such a strife, and of the self-denial which it entailed,
could only be appreciated by those who knew him best.
But to refuse himself certain perilous indulgences, such as hotels,
clubs, dinner-parties, nay, even such as taking lunch or supper with
a friend, as a matter of manly self-control, was one thing; and to be
treated as an outcast by those to whom he was bound by natural ties,
was another thing. The first, however trying, brought a certain sense
of satisfaction in his own victory over weakness. The second could
bring only smarting and pain.
Moreover, he know that Dutton would be dull for his wife and child; and
Captain Lucas, with all his faults—perhaps it would be more forcible to
say, with his one great fault—was an affectionate man. He dearly loved
his gentle wife, and his sunny Emmeline. They were all that he had to
make life bright. He would have sacrificed much to bring brightness to
them; but there seemed to be no choice. He could no longer afford to
travel, or to pay rent elsewhere.
There was a charm of manner still about Captain Lucas: a charm which
Cyril had felt at once. He was not in the least heroic-looking; not
tall, and rather stout; while the face, which had once been handsome,
was marred by early years of self-indulgence. Still he had retained the
manners of a gentleman; and he had by nature an unusual power of making
himself agreeable.
His wife and daughter loved him dearly despite all they had endured
through him—despite the shame he had made them suffer. And for more
than a year he had not once given way. Emmeline's tender little heart
was sure—quite sure—he never would again. The poor wife would fain have
felt equally sure. She better understood the power of sudden temptation.
As Cyril had told Jean, the house was furnished, albeit in an old
fashioned style. Dark pictures in heavy frames half covered the walls;
thick curtains shut out much of Heaven's light; chairs of ponderous
make stood solemnly about the small rooms; and huge centre-tables left
little space around.
Emmeline did what she could to improve matters. She arranged and
re-arranged the uncompromising furniture; she draped the curtains anew;
she dragged centre-tables into corners; above all, she shed the light
of her own smiling presence through the little house, and in a measure
transformed it—for others, rather than for herself. The shining of a
star flows outward, not inward; and a blazing body like the sun may
conceivably have a dark interior.
Emmeline's mental "interior" was not dark; she was too brave-spirited
to be often a victim of depression. Still, when a week in the new
home had gone by, she was conscious of a dreary aspect to things
generally—more conscious than on their first arrival. She had worked
desperately hard; and now she was tired, and little remained to be done.
Moreover, she was labouring under a sense of disappointment, which
means a worse kind of tiredness than mere weariness of back or limbs.
Through the whole week Sir Cyril Devereux had never once been near the
house. Nobody had been. Nobody had called. Nobody had spoken a word or
left a message of welcome. The three seemed to be stranded on a barren
shore, where none cared to greet them. Emmeline had known much of such
isolation in her short life; yet somehow she never grew used to it, for
she always saw how different life was to other people. There are some
kinds of mental, as of bodily pain, to which the sufferer never does or
can grow really used.
Like most girls, she had her girlish love of friends and companions,
her girlish enjoyment of chatter and fun, her girlish longings and
dreams. She had built a good deal—much more than she was aware—on the
prospect of Sir Cyril's friendship; not so much for herself as for her
parents. She was hardly more than a child yet; but she knew how much
her father liked Sir Cyril, and how good it was for him to have outside
interests—so long as no danger was involved—and how it cheered her
mother to have her father in good spirits.
When Captain Lucas had written to tell Sir Cyril of their plans, he
had replied that he "would be sure to look in directly they came." And
Emmeline had set her little heart on the fulfilment of this promise.
It had not been fulfilled, and Emmeline was sorely disappointed,
because she felt that it was a disappointment to her father and mother.
She liked Sir Cyril herself, with a frank girlish liking; but it was
honestly for their sake that she grieved. It did seem hard that nobody
could be depended on.
"Only a week, of course!" commented Emmeline. "One week is not long.
But he said directly—and if I were a man, I would do what I had said,
if it were ever so hard."
Persistent rain had fallen all the morning and was falling still,
making the Dutton pavements wet, making the Dutton world muddy. To
keep up one's spirits on such a day is always more difficult than in
sunshine.
Emmeline stood at the window of the crooked little drawing-room,
looking across at a second-rate grocer's shop, in the open doorway of
which stood a woman, contemplating the weather. There was not much else
to be contemplated. A cart jogged slowly by, between the two gazers;
but not many vehicles came this way. The red house stood out of the
main line of traffic.
Emmeline was seventeen years old, and a pretty girl. She had childishly
rounded cheeks, the bright colouring of which did not fade under
fatigue; only the soft dark eyes, usually dancing with fun, had grown a
trifle heavy. Her dainty little hands held a duster, for she had just
finished arranging the last shelves of unpacked books.
"And now I really don't think there is anything more to be done,"
sighed Emmeline.
"Talking to yourself, Em?" asked a gentle voice.
Emmeline's face flashed into immediate brightness, as she turned
towards a pale-faced lady, fragile and sweet-looking.
"O mother! I didn't hear you come in. Yes, I believe I was doing what
that maid called 'siloloquising.' Isn't it a horrid day? Come and
look-out."
"Should we not be better repaid if we studied the fire instead?"
"Then you'll sit down in this arm-chair—" running to pull it forward.
"And here is a stool—and here is a cushion. I'll tuck my duster
away—and then we can be cosy. So my father has gone out?"
"He wanted to take you; but I thought it best not, as you have a cold,
and he meant to go some distance."
"Oh, my cold is nothing. I wish you had told me." Emmeline knelt on
the rug looking thoughtfully at a purple flame. "Mother, Sir Cyril has
never been—after all!"
"No."
"Do you think he will come?"
"I can't tell. He meant to do so, I am sure. But he has his aunt to
consider; and she is a friend of Lady Lucas."
"Only he wrote and promised. I don't think he is very fond of his aunt."
"She brought him up. I suppose he owes her some submission."
"But he said the Trevelyans would call."
"I dare say they will drop their cards some day."
"Mother—" and a pause.
Mrs. Lucas put back the short dark hair which clustered round the
girl's brow.
"What is your mind so busy about to-day, dear?"
"I'm thinking just now about that old lady—about Lady Lucas—"
resentfully. "I'm glad you don't think I need speak of her as 'aunt,'
because she doesn't certainly behave like an aunt."
"She would no doubt prefer that you should not."
"Mother, do you suppose she is a good woman?"
"I always suppose every one to be good until I know the contrary."
"But—" with a half laugh, yet still resentfully—"don't we know it? If
she were good—Mother, she knows all about my father!" the girl burst
out in choked tones.
The mother and daughter did not often allow themselves to talk of the
family skeleton which haunted them. They would speak in vague terms of
the ever-present necessity to "amuse" and "take care of" the household
head; their work in life being to strengthen his resolution, to ward
off peril, to aid and abet him in the daily fight. But the dread,
always more or less pressing on them, was seldom specifically alluded
to. Once in a way, however, the subject would come up; and Mrs. Lucas
would not check her child's confidence. She could see now that Emmie's
heart was full to overflowing.
"Yes, dear."
"She knows all that so well. Shouldn't you think, if she were a really
good woman, she would want to do something to help? She would not leave
him alone, to feel dull and miserable, and perhaps to—Mother, she must
know how bad that is for him—how much harder it makes it for him to
keep on."
"I don't suppose she thinks of the question from his side at all, but
only from her own."
"But then it isn't goodness—it's all selfishness."
"There's a good deal of selfishness among people—yes, even people who
are more or less 'good.' And most people's 'goodness' is very much
alloyed—not pure gold—not even 18-carat gold. Only a little gold, mixed
with very inferior metals. I suppose one ought to be glad to find any
gold at all, in anybody."
"I don't believe there is a speck of gold in Lady Lucas."
"Ah, that is just what you and I can't judge. We can't see with her
eyes, you know, or understand exactly how things look to her. She may
be acting most conscientiously even in keeping away from us. I believe
she really is extremely kind and benevolent—to other people."
"People who don't need it."
"People who do need it."
"Oh—the poor. But then, of course, that is quite easy. People are
praised for being kind to the poor," said Emmeline shrewdly.
"Yes; and she would not be praised for kindness to us. Her friends
would even say—'How odd!'"
"I would not stop for such a reason."
"It is not at all impossible that Sir Cyril may."
"But it isn't as if my father—It isn't as if all that were not over—"
"Or rather, as if he were not fighting a brave battle! Even if it
should not just yet be complete victory, I do think he ought to have
help and sympathy . . . But that is not the way some people judge."
Emmie sighed deeply. "It seems so very very hard," she said. "When he
does try so!"
"Men have to pay the penalty for past wrongdoing," Mrs. Lucas went on
patiently, as if dissecting the question. "We have to pay it—we with
him. Even you, dear. It may seem hard—suffering for what one has not
done. Yet that has to be. All wrong that is done, brings evil upon
others. It is one of the great mysteries of life. By-and-by, we shall
understand better—the reasons, I mean—the why and the wherefore.
Perhaps not in this life. We can only see now that it is one of the
laws of our being—inevitable, I suppose. If a mother is careless, her
child pays the penalty . . . Your father suffers for what his father
was.
"He said that once to me. Last year—" in smothered accents. "It
frightened me. He said he had inherited the craving. He said it was
born in him. Must one inherit such things?"
"One person may, and another may not. And if one does inherit the
taste, there is no must be about using it. We have it in our choice
whether to use or not to use the things we are born with. It is the
same all round. You have inherited two eyes; but whether you use those
eyes is at your own option. If you like to bandage them up all your
life, you will slay them by disuse."
"Mother, I think that's a lovely idea."
"I have had to work these questions out by myself. If a little child
uses his legs, they grow large and strong with exercise; but if you
pack them in cotton-wool and never let him stand, they will wither and
become useless . . . It is the same with evil things. Suppose you did
inherit a taste—that taste—still it could never grow into a craving,
except through indulgence . . . I think, perhaps, your father did
inherit the inclination—he always says so. But, after all, it might
have been nothing. If he had been guarded as a child, and brought up to
shun the danger, instead of being incessantly tempted, he might have
grown in time as strong as other men to resist. The weakness of will
came through long yielding. That has made the struggle so hard."
Emmeline drew another long breath, "Then nobody need be conquered," she
said. "Nobody need go down—hopelessly."
"Nobody, Emmie! Never! There is always help to be had—if only one is
willing."
Emmeline dashed away one or two tears. "A carriage at the door," she
said softly. "And—I do think it is Sir Cyril."
Emmeline's flush and brightness sent a pain to the mother's heart. She
could not analyse the causes of her child's pleasure, and it made her
fear for the future. Yet what could be said or done? For her husband's
sake, she might not check the friendship.
Sir Cyril came in slowly, pale but smiling, his right arm bound across
his chest.
"Oh, you have had an accident?" exclaimed Emmie, in distressed tones.
"Yes. Did you think me very long in making my appearance?" with a warm
left-handed greeting to each.
He held Emmie's fingers a trifle longer than was quite necessary. The
past talk had deepened to a lovely crimson the colour in her cheeks;
and the soft dark eyes showed traces of tears, for which Cyril thought
the little face looked all the sweeter. It was a sweet little face, and
the very antipodes of Jean's! Two girls more unlike one another could
hardly have been found. Emmie was dark and rosy, tender and plump,
clinging and kitten-like. Jean was straight, slender and pale, reserved
and independent.
But as for which of the two Sir Cyril admired the most? Since he
himself was unable to answer that question, it is unlikely that any one
else should be able to answer it for him. He only knew that he liked
best for the moment whichever he happened to be with.
"We hoped to see you soon," Mrs. Lucas made answer, for Emmie was dumb.
"I should have come days ago, if I hadn't been hors de combat."
Cyril lowered himself carefully into the offered arm-chair. He was
unable to bear the jar of a quick movement.
"This is the first time I have been out of the house. I am afraid
my aunt will be rather scandalised; but she is gone to a kettledrum
somewhere—"
Cyril did not feel obliged to state that the kettledrum was at Lady
Lucas; the more since his unfortunate word "scandalised" had brought a
faint flush to Mrs. Lucas' cheek.
"So I privately ordered the carriage to be ready to bring me here,
after taking her there. I mustn't stay long—but—"
"I am afraid you are in pain," said Mrs. Lucas, as he broke off,
pressing his lips together.
"Thanks, it can't be helped. We had a dinner-party last week—the day
you came—and the large mirror over the fireplace came down with a
crash. No warning at all. I was underneath, and the frame just caught
me—broke my collar-bone, and damaged the arm a good deal. I shall be
all right in a few weeks."
"And nobody else was hurt?"
"Luckily not, Jean Trevelyan stepped back just in time. I should have
escaped too, but I stupidly started forward—heard her father shout, and
didn't know what it meant."
"You thought she wanted help?" suggested Emmeline, with bright eyes.
"I suppose it was a feeling of that sort. I don't know. There wasn't
time to think. One does the sort of thing instinctively."
"Is that the Miss Trevelyan you want us to know?" asked Emmie timidly.
"Yes, you will see her soon. She hasn't been yet, I am afraid, for her
father has been ill. I fancy he was unwell before, and the shock upset
him. After he got home, he had a sort of unconscious attack—not exactly
fainting. Dr. Ingram says he is overworked, and orders—"
Cyril broke off anew, clutching the arm of the chair with his left hand.
"Emmie, ring for some tea. Sir Cyril looks as if he needed it."
"I ought not to let you—but—" apologised Cyril, with a glance at the
bell.
He began to feel that he had done a foolish thing in coming out before
leave was granted. The jolting of the carriage had brought on a fit of
pain in the injured arm and shoulder, momentarily waxing more severe;
and Cyril was never good at enduring pain. It turned him yellow-white;
and he dared not move.
"Don't stir, or try to talk," said Mrs. Lucas. "I am afraid you ought
to have stayed at home. Emmie, dear, that bottle of strong salts—no,
I cannot tell you exactly where it is. I shall find it more quickly
myself."
Mrs. Lucas vanished, and Cyril rested his head against the chair-back.
Emmie stood watching him, with a gaze full of distressful pity. She
was always easily stirred by the sight of suffering. For some seconds,
Cyril was too much occupied with himself to notice her. Then a fresh
stab in the arm brought an uncontrollable start, a change of posture,
and a sharp drawing in of his breath, as if he hardly knew how to bear
it. A faint sob from Emmie made him look up, to see a pair of dark eyes
overflowing, a pair of sweet lips quivering. He tried to smile and to
reassure her.
"It doesn't matter. I shall be all right presently."
"Oh, but I am so sorry. It is so bad now."
Tea came in, and Emmie could hardly wait for the tray to be put down.
She poured out, and brought the cup to his side, forgetting to cry in
her eagerness.
"Let me hold it, please," she entreated. "You must keep still."
Cyril obeyed, by no means unwillingly. The dark rosy little face, with
its mingled tears and smiles, looked wondrously attractive, bending so
near his own; and as he lifted his left hand to steady the cup, it came
in contact with her small soft fingers. She had such a tiny round plump
hand, the very antipodes of Jean's long slender one. The touch sent
a curious sensation through Cyril. He began to wonder—to feel almost
sure—and yet he was not quite sure. He had to lean back and to close
his eyes, till the fit of pain should lessen; and Mrs. Lucas returned
with the salts; and Cyril tried to analyse his own state of mind,
feeling the pulse of his mental being. But it would not do. He could
come to no conclusion, and thinking made his head ache; so he gave in,
and left matters to settle themselves.
Miss Devereux found out about her nephew's escapade, although he was
safely at home before the carriage went for her; and she gave it to him
hot and strong for his imprudence. No wickeder word existed for Miss
Devereux in the British vocabulary than that dire word "Imprudence."
Remonstrances and warnings floated over him, however, almost unnoticed.
All the evening, between sharp twinges in the arm, and dull throbs in
the shoulder, he saw Emmie's soft eyes, dark and tender and overflowing.
Jean's calm light-coloured eyes never looked thus. Dear old Jean! There
was nobody exactly like her in the world—but she could not vie with
Emmie Lucas in bewitching sweetness.