Though Mrs Lucas's parents had bestowed the name of Emmeline on her, it
was not to be wondered at that she was always known among the more
intimate of her subjects as Lucia, pronounced, of course, in the
Italian mode--La Lucia, the wife of Lucas; and it was as "Lucia mia"
that her husband hailed her as he met her at the door of The Hurst.
He had been watching for her arrival from the panes of the parlour
while he meditated upon one of the little prose poems which formed so
delectable a contribution to the culture of Riseholme, for though, as
had been hinted, he had in practical life a firm grasp of the obvious,
there were windows in his soul which looked out onto vague and ethereal
prospects which so far from being obvious were only dimly intelligible.
In form these odes were cast in the loose rhythms of Walt Whitman, but
their smooth suavity and their contents bore no resemblance whatever to
the productions of that barbaric bard, whose works were quite unknown
in Riseholme. Already a couple of volumes of these prose-poems had been
published, not of course in the hard business-like establishment of
London, but at "Ye Sign of ye Daffodil," on the village green, where
type was set up by hand, and very little, but that of the best, was
printed. The press had only been recently started at Mr Lucas's
expense, but it had put forth a reprint of Shakespeare's sonnets
already, as well as his own poems.
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