ON THE ROCKS.
"It is done! I have told her I love her!
• • • • •
"Some power grown tyrannous holding me fast,
Blotting alike the Future and Past."
L. MORRIS.
AFTER the evening call, witnessed by Mrs. Kennedy, Cyril did not go
again for three whole days. He really was unable, being prevented by a
close run of engagements: but none the less he was much gratified with
his own self-control in staying away.
Emmie's little face haunted him incessantly, and after three days, he
could wait no longer. The Dulveriford world was a wilderness without
her smile. Friends came to lunch, and more friends were expected to
afternoon tea; and Sybella always liked to air her nephew's manners on
these occasions. But Cyril, pleading business, slipped away soon after
three o'clock.
"Of course it is business," he told himself laughingly. "Much more
business than sitting indoors to talk chit-chat with a lot of old
maids. The most important business of life, perhaps."
He had not so plainly allowed the possibility to himself before; but
under the pull of three days' starvation of Emmie, it sprang up and
took clear shape.
Nobody was in the drawing-room of the red house when he entered, and
the fire had sunk into a mere heap of red embers—an unusual state of
things there at four o'clock. Cyril wondered what could have happened
to banish the three. They walked earlier, as a rule, these wintry days;
and engagements out to tea were rare.
Cyril endeavoured to warm his hands before the dull coals, and
considered whether he might count himself enough at home to make up the
fire, but did not do it. Then he strolled about, criticised one or two
of the old pictures, and finally was rewarded by Emmie's appearance.
She did not see him at first. Her eyes were downcast, the dark lashes
almost resting on the rounded cheeks, and as she came slowly in with a
lagging step, she said, "O dear me!" half aloud.
"How do you do?" asked Cyril.
Emmie's movement might have been the result of an electric shock, and
the dark eyes opened wide.
"Oh—I didn't see," she said in an embarrassed voice. "I—I beg your
pardon. Won't you sit down? I'll call my mother—if—if she can come—"
"No, no, don't disturb her on any account. Pray don't. I dare say she
has lots of things to do."
"She has—she is—rather busy," faltered Emmie, and a look of sorrowful
trouble came to the sweet lips. "Oh, it is only—she would come, if—"
"I dare say she will look in presently; but don't call her. I only want
to know how you are all getting on. The last three days have been so
full, I couldn't find a minute. How is your father?"
"He—" Emmie shivered.
"Will you let me make up the fire? You are cold."
"Oh, no—I—"
Emmie knelt down on the rug, and poked vaguely at the red embers;
whereupon Cyril bent over her, took the poker out of her hand which
he found to be trembling, arranged the fading coals in a scientific
fashion, and placed a few fresh pieces lightly one upon another. A
flame sprang up as by magic. Then he laid hold upon those trembling
little hands, lifted Emmie up, and placed her in the big arm-chair.
She submitted as a child might have done, and sat where he put her,
not crying as she would have cried for some minor matter, but with
her mouth set in a sorrowful curve, and her eyes gazing into some
unknown grief. The colour in her cheeks was much deeper than usual—a
rich crimson-velvet tint—and the brow looked whiter, the eyes darker
by contrast. Cyril had never seen her thus. His feelings were greatly
stirred.
"I'm afraid you have been worried by something," he said sympathizingly.
Emmie gave him a pathetic smile. "I suppose one has to be worried
sometimes," she said.
"And it's nothing I can help you in?"
"O no—thanks—"
"I would if I could. I would, really. You believe that—don't you,
Emmie?"
This was going on fast, much faster than he had meant to go. The
pathos and tender sorrow of her face were too much for him, and wise
resolutions were forgotten. He had never called her "Emmie" before; and
she scarcely seemed to notice it, she was so full of her trouble. There
was the sound of a quivering sigh, and Cyril again took her hand.
"Emmie, don't you think you could let me help you? Couldn't you
manage to look on me as something more than a mere friend . . . Yes,
I mean it," as she turned wondering eyes upon him; eyes so soft and
sad that he was carried away by their glance into a rush of pity and
affectionate concern. He had no time to analyse his own feelings, to
dissect the make of his sensations. Before he knew what would come
next, he was saying with pleading earnestness—
"Emmie, I love you! I love you, darling! Can you love me? Will you
promise to be my wife?"
"It is so kind of you," said Emmie wistfully. Then she sat up, and drew
her hand away from his with an instinctive movement, yet she repeated,
"It is so very kind of you."
"Not 'kind,' Emmie. This is not 'kindness.' It is something so much
more. I don't think you understand."
"Yes—O I think I do. But I didn't know what you were going to say. It
seems so—so strange! And—my mother—"
"Would your mother object? Would she mind?"
"I don't know. O she couldn't—couldn't mind!" with a gasp. "She would
only—She would wish—She likes you so much—"
"And you—you like me just a little too?"
"Yes. I like you—very much indeed," declared Emmie, her face crimson
and her breath quick. "Of course I do. Yes—Only—But Miss Devereux—"
"Miss Devereux has no real control over me. It all rests with you! If
you can say 'Yes'—"
"Oh, I don't know!" Some fresh thought seemed to come up, and she
shivered, though her cheeks were on fire. "I don't know! Oh, I don't
know."
Did she not know how much she cared for him?—Or whether she loved him?
Was that it? The poor little hands tried to cover the burning face. "I
don't know! I don't know!" was all she seemed able to utter.
"You mean—perhaps—Is it because of your own home troubles, Emmie? But
if I am willing—? Darling, if I want to give you a happy home—?"
"I must go to my mother!" and Emmie started up. "Please, please don't
say any more now. Please let me! . . . Yes, I know—it is so good of
you—"
She had almost said childishly, "So good of you to think of it!" but
checked herself in time. "Only, please, I must tell my mother. I want
to tell her first. Don't ask me to say any more to-day, please!"
"To-morrow—then—"
"The day after to-morrow—please. I'll write."
"You want to get used to the idea!" Cyril smiled down on her, having
little doubt how things would end. He knew himself to be an attractive
young fellow, good-looking and gentlemanly; and he knew Emmie liked
him; and he could not but be aware of the social advantages which
he was offering. "Well—just two days! But you will have pity on my
suspense."
"Oh—yes!"
Emmie fled; and Cyril stood alone, a consciousness already creeping
over him that he had run on faster than he had intended. For some time
past, he had seen this lying ahead, not as a thing certain, but as a
thing probable. Still, he had not meant to bind himself so soon.
And now the deed was done!
Cyril tried to believe that it was best so—that decisive action was
better than hesitancy and delay. After all, he would no doubt have
reached the same goal in the end! Why not in the beginning? Now he
knew what lay before him. Emmie had not yet accepted his offer, it was
true; but who could doubt what her answer would be? Not Cyril at all
events. He smiled over the recollection of her face; and then he smiled
again to think how happy he would make her at the Brow. Sweet dark-eyed
Emmie! Dear little rosy-checked Emmie! She should have a life as free
from care as a devoted husband could render it.
There was "aunt Sybella!" But, of course, aunt Sybella would conform
to his wishes. Aunt Sybella was not mistress of his house, whatever
she might think. When Emmie was mistress, aunt Sybella would have
to abdicate. Moreover, he was not going to have his gentle Emmie's
life embittered by domestic broils. Aunt Sybella would have to make
herself agreeable to Sir Cyril's wife, or she would have to find a home
elsewhere.
His Emmie! His wife! It had come to that!
He almost thought Mrs. Lucas would walk in directly, to tell him how
delighted she was, and how gladly she would accept him as her son. But
she did not; and after waiting a good ten minutes, Cyril decided to
leave. After all, Emmie had given him his congé for the moment; and the
mother and daughter would want a quiet hour together.
Opening the door, he was arrested by an unexpected sight—a sight no
less terrible than unexpected. Captain Lucas, with vacant eyes and
deeply-flushed face, was staggering across the hall, swaying heavily
from side to side, while his wife, pale as death, endeavoured to hold
him up, and to guide his uncertain steps.
Overcome again!
Cyril understood in a moment. He knew now what Emmie's trouble had
been; and a throb of anger passed through him. Why had she not told all
before he spoke? He did not step forward or show himself. Better to
leave the poor wife to manage her hard task alone, than to appear as
spectator of her shame.
Happily, the drawing-room door had made no noise as it opened, and
Cyril was well in the shade. He stood perfectly still, and the two
disappeared within the study—Captain Lucas giving another great lurch,
then breaking into a rollicking fragment of song. They did not see
Cyril. But the sense of sick disgust which swept over him can hardly be
described. That his future father-in-law!
Cyril fled from the house, as Emmie had fled from him. His rapid escape
can be told in no other words. He felt that he could not breathe till
he was outside in the street. Then, dark and dull and wintry as it was,
he started off at a furious pace through Dutton, along the nearest
country road, and away to the marshlands, where as a boy he had loved
to wander with Jean.
The marshes were hardly what anybody in his sober senses would have
chosen for a January stroll after sundown; but Cyril could scarcely
be termed in his sober senses just then. From quiet satisfaction and
complacent pleasure in himself and Emmie, he had leaped at one bound,
by an instantaneous transition, into a very tumult of disordered
feeling and tempestuous thought.
He had done it now!—And done it himself! Nobody else had brought him
into this coil. Nobody could get him out of it!
Why needed he to be so startled by the sight? Had he not known
the whole before? Had he not pitied the man's weakness, heartily
sympathising with the wife and child? Had not his first wish been, in
asking Emmie, to save her from the pressure of that family sorrow?
All the while, he had known that this might happen again—that any day
Captain Lucas might be vanquished.
He had known, but he had not realised. Kind friendliness and sympathy
from him to them had been pleasant to give. But—he, Sir Cyril Devereux,
to have for father-in-law a man who might at any time drown his senses
in drink from sheer infirmity of purpose! His father-in-law to be seen
perhaps rolling helplessly through Dutton, the finger of scorn pointed
at him from every side! Cyril's benevolence snapped under the pull of
this test.
If he loved Emmie—there lay the balancing-pull. Like a half drowned
man catching at a straw, as he strode over the muddy marshland, Cyril
turned to the thought of Emmie's little face, soft and dark, rosy and
childlike, as it had haunted him of late.
Strange! He could not so much as see it! Emmie's face refused to rise
at his bidding. Instead, Jean's pale and even features came between,
the calm eyes looking at him reproachfully.
Cyril stopped short in his wild walk. The soft ground yielded under
his boots, and the wet fog wrapped him round in a damp embrace; but
he heeded neither. That moment was to him as a "soul's awakening;" an
awakening full of pain, and into darkness. For he knew that it had come
too late.
He had proposed to Emmie Lucas. Emmie would accept him. He had cut
himself off for life from Jean.
For life!
Like a stab from a spear this thought came, rending away all disguises,
showing him his own state, his own true self . . . Emmie Lucas! What
was Emmie Lucas to him compared with Jean . . . A dear little girl;
sweet and charming! . . . But Jean!—He had grown-up into a close union
with Jean. His whole being was twined in and out with Jean's being. To
be cut off from Jean! How could he endure it?
Had he been mad? Was his seeming love for Emmie all a delusion? It
wavered, flickered, went out, this hour, in the rush of his old
passionate devotion to Jean. He felt that he could live for Jean, could
die for Jean, could wait any number of years for Jean—if only he might
hope to win her in the end. But to be cut off from her utterly—! And by
his own action—!
And all these weeks past he had honestly counted himself in love with
Emmie Lucas.
"Emmie!" he laughed aloud, out on the dreary marshland. "O Jean! What
an utter fool I have been!"
He could not yet turn homeward. To meet Miss Devereux's shallow
curiosity and shallower solicitude, at the dinner-table, would be
insupportable. He knew that he had not control of his own face. She
would guess something to have happened out of the common, and would
pester him with looks and questions. So he went on and on, thinking
hard while trying not to think, going over the past, reckoning up the
innumerable points at which his life had been interlaced with Jean's,
finding out how necessary to him she always had been, always would be!
And to have discovered this, just too late!
If only he had not spoken that day! But then, would the awakening love
have come?
He tried again and again to think of Emmie, to picture her confiding
ways, to imagine the sweet little face at the head of his table, always
by his side! In vain! Every fresh effort was a failure. Jean's face
persistently rose instead, blotting out Emmie's.
Without any clear aim before his mind's eye—which indeed was fully
occupied—he presently turned aside from the marshes, and made his way
towards Dulveriford Rectory. He had no idea of going in or of speaking
to Jean. He only went because he could not help it.
The drawing-room blinds were not drawn when he entered the garden; and
he stole near, cautiously as a thief might have stolen. He was veiled
in the outside darkness; while a lamp and a bright fire burnt within.
Jean stood by the table, reading a letter—pale and quiet. She looked up
carelessly towards the window, little thinking that Cyril was so near.
Then she read a few more lines, and again looked up, as if with an
uneasy consciousness of being watched. She might well feel the intense
gaze which Cyril brought to bear upon her. He was conscious of power to
make her feel it; and the consciousness caused a gleam of delight.
Jean stepped forward, and drew down the blind. That was at an end; and
Cyril's momentary delight faded into wretchedness.
He dared not go in. He could not trust himself. She would see his
trouble in his face; and there was no knowing what he might be drawn on
to say. Cyril had force of will to resist the loadstone pulling, and to
walk away.
Miss Devereux was offended that her nephew had not come home in time
for dinner; and when he did appear, she greeted him with reproaches.
It was of no consequence, of course—at least, of course she was of no
consequence—but she thought he might have the civility to tell her
beforehand when he meant to stay away—even though he was master of the
Brow, and poor she was nobody—still she did think she had a right to be
treated with at least a little proper respect.
When a man is stretched on the rack, an additional turn of the screws
becomes sometimes just too much for endurance. He may have borne in
silence thus far; but there is a point where silence breaks down. Cyril
was on the rack, and his powers of endurance had reached their limit.
One turn more became too much.
This evening's experience had changed him greatly, working in him
such a revolution of thought and feeling as years are commonly needed
to work. He had gone out after three o'clock, a pleasant boyish
young fellow, drifting easily on life's current, well content with
himself and the world in general. He had come back at eight o'clock a
full-grown man; a sufferer through his own blundering haste; sharply
awakened from placid satisfaction to a new knowledge of himself, a
fresh understanding of life.
Had Miss Devereux been on the look-out, she must have noticed the
change in his face, the tense misery of every feature; but as usual she
was occupied with herself. The falling of a thunderbolt could hardly
have startled her more than did his rough reply, putting down her
querulous complaints with a disdain which he had never shown to her
yet. She stared, protested, then collapsed into tears; and Cyril flung
himself into an easy-chair.
"There! I didn't mean to put you out," he said moodily. "But what's the
use of bothering one?"
"You'll take—take—some din—dinner?" sobbed Sybella.
"No, thanks. I only want a glass of wine and some biscuits . . . And I
am tired, so I shall go to bed early—after a cigar."
"I'm sure somebody must have done something, or else you are in some
dreadful scrape and won't confess it," wept Sybella. "You are not in
the least like yourself."
Cyril made his escape. He could stand no questioning. The night which
followed was one long torture of waking and sleeping dreams—Jean's face
always prominent.