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?"