Chapter XI: 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.